fist came out of nowhere and slammed me hard on the side of the face.
The blow sent me reeling out the door and into a maid’s housekeeping cart. The maid screamed as it fell over into the parking lot with a loud crash. Various cleaning supplies and rolls of toilet paper spilled across the pavement and into a snow bank. I scrambled to my feet while Osterlund eyed me from the doorway, with blood on his mouth and the beginnings of a nice fat lip.
“Go fuck yourself,” he said hoarsely, and spat a stream of bloody saliva in my direction. He slammed the door and I heard him lock the bolt. I stood there, and after a moment I helped the maid pick up her cart, then I drove back to the Lakeside.
9
I lay on my bed for half an hour with an ice pack on my jaw. The adrenaline lump in my stomach had subsided, leaving me with a slight headache. My attempt to get any meaningful information out of Osterlund had backfired miserably, but considering his frame of reference, I couldn’t imagine what would have worked, short of torturing him. I smiled at the thought. If I caught him in his room I could have jolted him with my stun baton, but instead I had hoped to sit around with him, Whitey, and Brad, maybe have a few beers, and if he felt relaxed he might start talking. But he was wound tight as a winch, and now I had lost the element of surprise.
I adjusted the ice pack. The mention of Mandy had come out of left field and caught me off guard—by telling me to stay away from her, was Osterlund insinuating he had plans to win her heart? If so, he could add her to his growing list of problems. But obviously Mandy had told him we’d been together, for what reason I had no idea. I decided I’d talk to Mandy soon. If she was involved with him, she was inviting trouble.
The ice was melting, and cold water began to run off my face and onto the sheet. I pushed myself off the bed, checked the address for the coroner’s office, and saw it was in the same complex as the sheriff’s office. If I moved quickly I could fill my obligation to register my handgun with Marcus Grier before meeting the coroner. If I was skiing and then heading back home today, I would have blown him off. But given the events of the last twenty-four hours, I thought it would be a good idea to comply with his request.
It had warmed up outside and little rivers of water were flowing everywhere, off the icicles that hung from the roofs and eves, across parking lots, around dirt banks and into the street. At night, when the temperature dropped, the runoff would freeze and turn to black ice.
I parked under a grove of immense, old-growth ponderosa that seemed to reach to the boundaries of the sky, and popped my trunk. My gear was stashed in an old suitcase I had secured to one side of the trunk with bungee cords. I opened the suitcase, reached under my bulletproof vest and pulled out the shoulder holster that held my Beretta, then went through the glass doors and into the small lobby of the sheriff’s office.
“Marcus Grier asked to see me about registering my handgun,” I told the receptionist, and set my piece on the counter. We were separated by a thick glass window with a speaker installed in the middle.
“I don’t know any specific form we use for that. I’ll have to call the sheriff.”
A few minutes later Marcus Grier opened the door and motioned for me to follow him.
“I didn’t expect I’d be seeing you, Mr. Reno,” he said as I walked down the hallway behind him. He pronounced my name correctly.
“I’ve been distracted, but I always cooperate with the police, Sheriff.”
We sat in his office. One of the walls was glass, overlooking a dozen or so desks in the main squad room. A few deputies were doing paperwork; among them was the young cop who tried to hassle me at the Midnight Tavern. Fingsten, if I remembered right.
“Yes, South Lake Tahoe can be a distracting town,” Grier said. “Twenty-four-hour drinking and gambling, live titty shows,
The blow sent me reeling out the door and into a maid’s housekeeping cart. The maid screamed as it fell over into the parking lot with a loud crash. Various cleaning supplies and rolls of toilet paper spilled across the pavement and into a snow bank. I scrambled to my feet while Osterlund eyed me from the doorway, with blood on his mouth and the beginnings of a nice fat lip.
“Go fuck yourself,” he said hoarsely, and spat a stream of bloody saliva in my direction. He slammed the door and I heard him lock the bolt. I stood there, and after a moment I helped the maid pick up her cart, then I drove back to the Lakeside.
9
I lay on my bed for half an hour with an ice pack on my jaw. The adrenaline lump in my stomach had subsided, leaving me with a slight headache. My attempt to get any meaningful information out of Osterlund had backfired miserably, but considering his frame of reference, I couldn’t imagine what would have worked, short of torturing him. I smiled at the thought. If I caught him in his room I could have jolted him with my stun baton, but instead I had hoped to sit around with him, Whitey, and Brad, maybe have a few beers, and if he felt relaxed he might start talking. But he was wound tight as a winch, and now I had lost the element of surprise.
I adjusted the ice pack. The mention of Mandy had come out of left field and caught me off guard—by telling me to stay away from her, was Osterlund insinuating he had plans to win her heart? If so, he could add her to his growing list of problems. But obviously Mandy had told him we’d been together, for what reason I had no idea. I decided I’d talk to Mandy soon. If she was involved with him, she was inviting trouble.
The ice was melting, and cold water began to run off my face and onto the sheet. I pushed myself off the bed, checked the address for the coroner’s office, and saw it was in the same complex as the sheriff’s office. If I moved quickly I could fill my obligation to register my handgun with Marcus Grier before meeting the coroner. If I was skiing and then heading back home today, I would have blown him off. But given the events of the last twenty-four hours, I thought it would be a good idea to comply with his request.
It had warmed up outside and little rivers of water were flowing everywhere, off the icicles that hung from the roofs and eves, across parking lots, around dirt banks and into the street. At night, when the temperature dropped, the runoff would freeze and turn to black ice.
I parked under a grove of immense, old-growth ponderosa that seemed to reach to the boundaries of the sky, and popped my trunk. My gear was stashed in an old suitcase I had secured to one side of the trunk with bungee cords. I opened the suitcase, reached under my bulletproof vest and pulled out the shoulder holster that held my Beretta, then went through the glass doors and into the small lobby of the sheriff’s office.
“Marcus Grier asked to see me about registering my handgun,” I told the receptionist, and set my piece on the counter. We were separated by a thick glass window with a speaker installed in the middle.
“I don’t know any specific form we use for that. I’ll have to call the sheriff.”
A few minutes later Marcus Grier opened the door and motioned for me to follow him.
“I didn’t expect I’d be seeing you, Mr. Reno,” he said as I walked down the hallway behind him. He pronounced my name correctly.
“I’ve been distracted, but I always cooperate with the police, Sheriff.”
We sat in his office. One of the walls was glass, overlooking a dozen or so desks in the main squad room. A few deputies were doing paperwork; among them was the young cop who tried to hassle me at the Midnight Tavern. Fingsten, if I remembered right.
“Yes, South Lake Tahoe can be a distracting town,” Grier said. “Twenty-four-hour drinking and gambling, live titty shows,
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