Chapter 1
Grace checked in to the Peppermill Hotel on Virginia St. The hotel underwent a massive expansion in 2007 which doubled its room count. The expansion occurred right when the recession hit; as a result, room occupancy fell to a 10-year low. In response, the hotel slashed its room rates from Sunday—Thursday, and the Seattle PD was able to get a large room with two king beds for $45/night, the cost of toothpaste and aspirin at the convenience store. The rooms were normally $40, but smokers' rooms had a $5/night premium. There was no way Grace was going to stay in a hotel room in a strange town without being able to smoke.
"Where can I find some Diet Pepsi?" she asked the desk clerk. She drank more than a gallon of the stuff a day.
"We have a small gift shop around the corner."
"Does it sell the 2-liter bottles?"
"No. For that you need to go to a grocery store," the clerk replied. "The nearest one is about a mile down Virginia St."
"Get me a cab, then." Grace wasn't walking any farther than she needed to.
"Yes ma'am." Boy, this woman was sure rude. Hope she didn't gamble and lose—she'll become a real bitch if that happens. Big, too. Not only tall, but large—big bones, big hands, big shoulders. The clerk was a small Filipino woman who had never seen a woman as large as Grace.
"Please step to the entrance and a cab will be waiting for you."
"Ok. Thanks. I'm going up to the room first to stow my gear. Put my guns in the safe for me. I'll get them when I go to work later."
The clerk gathered the two weapons and stepped away from the front desk. Weapons had to be checked by the shift manager. He brought out paperwork for Grace to sign acknowledging that the hotel had no responsibility for the weapons, but was merely storing them for her. She signed the paper, retrieved her copy.
Neither gun was loaded. She checked a Glock 40 caliber and a 38 revolver, her service weapons on her job as detective. She didn't know whether she would need them here, but she figured it would be better to have them and not need them than need them and not have them.
She stepped into the cab. "Take me to the closest grocery store," she said.
"Ok. That's just down the street."
Less than 5 minutes later, the cabbie was outside Raley's.
"Keep the meter going, this will just take a minute."
"Sure thing."
She strode into the store, cruising the aisles looking for her favorite drink. The store had a promotional display just inside the door, a huge pyramid of 2 liter bottles. She grabbed 6, went to the self-checkout, and returned to the cab. It was less than 10 minutes altogether.
"Ready. Back to the hotel."
Later, she set up her iPad on the hotel desk, and pulled up the information about the case of Brad Andrews. Brad was the export-import agent that committed suicide in Seattle, and was linked to the Reno suicide.
Along with the case information, a label showed the name and telephone number for the Reno PD detective in charge of Rick Davis's case, Tim Hedley. She called his cell.
"Hedley here."
"Tim, this is Grace Nowak from Seattle. I just got to town, and wanted to meet with you about the Davis case." She was a no-nonsense cop. No niceties about the weather or anything else—her job was to find out what was happening in Reno and get the hell back to Seattle as soon as possible.
"Hi, Grace. Welcome to Reno. Our forensics team has completed its review of the crime scene and collected all the evidence. Did you rent a car, or should I pick you up?"
"Didn't rent a car. On a tight budget, like everywhere."
"Yep. So are we. Our DNA samples are backed up for 2 years because there's no funding for testing."
"That sucks. Well, our forensic computer guy still hasn't gotten me anything on the computer in the stiff's office, and that case happened 2 weeks ago. Since there wasn't a murder, we couldn't move it to the front of the line."
"Just two weeks? We have to wait 2 months to get this computer analyzed."
"Wow. You're really strapped down here, aren't you?"
"Yeah. It sucks, too. I just wonder what we could do if we had the resources."
Grace noticed a parallel thought process with Tim's. She had said that same thing many times in Paterson, NJ, when she entered law enforcement. There were so few resources, the officers had to use their imaginations to fill in the gaps.
"Well, no matter how much money you have, there's never enough to do what you want."
"You're right about that," Tim replied. "Where are you staying?"
"The Peppermill. Nice place."
"It's twice as big as it used to be. And it started out as a 16 room motel."
"Looks like they've been successful."
"Yeah, I guess." Tim had been called to the homes of some of the owners' children. Like too many privileged offspring, they thought that money suspended the rules. The kids were jerks, condescending to anyone beneath their lofty position in the Reno social pecking order. Rowdy rich kids were a waste of police resources. But their parents paid heavy taxes, so the kids were protected. And when parties happened in the hills overlooking Reno, police stayed away unless they heard gunshots. No one ever seemed to get into trouble up there. Drinking, loud music and racing souped up cars was just the way things were done.
Tim continued. "Listen, let's get together for dinner, and we can discuss the case in private. What's your pleasure?"
"Well, I've been looking for a place that serves decent beer. Are there any brew pubs in town?"
Tim thought a moment. "The Flowing River has a good selection; all their beers are brewed on-site. Decent food, not fancy. How does that sound?"
"Sounds good. What time?"
"I need to get a workout in, so let's say 7 PM, Ok? I'll pick you up in my truck. Don't like to advertise when I'm not on duty."
"Sure. I'll be standing outside the main entrance. Look for a big gal, 6 feet tall."
"Ok. I drive a black Ford F150 pickup. See you then."
Grace decided to take a shower after all. She hadn't planned on it, but this sounded like a date.
