Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

need to know where they live. Then, if they decide to up the ante, we hit back—fast and hard.”
    I sat slumped on the sofa and rubbed a bruise on my thigh. Though I couldn’t argue with Cody’s logic, I wanted to discount the white trash gangbangers who had intruded on the idyllic mountain community where I’d bought my home and settled down. Hopefully, they’d find other targets for their energies, or better yet, go broke and move away. It was a nice thought, but probably one born from laziness. It was also the type of rationalization a man makes when he’s acted out of anger or impatience, and has yet to accept that he has predicated his stake in the events to follow.
    I hauled myself off the couch to get a beer, but instead tossed back a shot of Canadian Club. As usual, my problems were of my own design. A small part of me still clung to the idea I’d eventually become more like my father, a respected district attorney and devoted family man. That dream probably began to die shortly after the old man was murdered, back when I was thirteen years old. The trajectory of my life since then had been pocked with episodes of violence and retribution. My ex-wife once said she was sure I was subconsciously seeking vengeance for my father’s death. That may have been true when I was younger, but I doubted it was behind my actions after all these years. Regardless, it looked like I’d not yet outgrown my inclinations.
    I walked to the television and turned it off. Cody looked at me expectantly.
    “Joe Norton,” I said. “And run the Buick’s license, too.” I handed him a scrap of paper with the number. Cody went back to the computer and began typing.
    • • •
    We drove out of my dark neighborhood in Cody’s truck, the diesel motor rattling softly. It was a quiet night, April being an off-season month for tourists. A mile up the road the glow from the casino lights in Nevada was faint, as if they’d conceded to slow business and dimmed the power.
    Less than five minutes from my house, we turned into a subdivision of newer homes, mostly modern cabins on large lots. The peak-roofed structures looked new, the lawns mowed and free of leaves, the flowerbeds manicured and colorful. A few homes still had Christmas lights on, the bulbs twinkling and flashing against the old-growth pines in their yards.
    “Turn left here,” I said, looking at the map Cody had printed. When we came around the corner, we slowed in front of a large single-story home on a corner lot. It was painted white, in contrast to the natural wood finishes of the other houses on the street. Bright lights mounted on steel poles lit the place up garishly, as if it was an industrial compound of some sort.
    We idled past the house. The backyard was enclosed by plank fencing, but the upper portion of a cinder block building in the back of the lot was visible. Cody drove away from the property, then made a U-turn and parked down the street, where we had a good view of the front.
    “This is the address for John Switton, the registered owner of the Buick,” he said.
    “What else did you find on him?”
    “Fifty-eight years old. No criminal record.” I looked over the sheet Cody had pulled up on Switton. There wasn’t a single blemish, not even a speeding ticket. But the data available was far less than a complete police file.
    We sat looking at the house for a minute.
    “Why would somebody light up their place like that?” Cody said, hunched over his steering wheel.
    “Maybe they’re paranoid about being robbed.”
    “You think Joe Norton’s blue Chevy is in the garage?” Cody stared at the house while he spoke. We had been unable to come up with a local address for Norton.
    I shrugged. “Who knows? Hell, maybe Jason Loohan is living there.”
    “Who?”
    “He’s another bail skip I’m looking for. A friend of Billy Morrison’s.”
    “You want to knock on the door and ask for him?”
    “It’s tempting, but I don’t even know if he’s