Grizzly Season Read online

  “Landmines and Grizzlies? Hell Yes.”

  —David Wahlman, Crimespree

  Praise for Bad Citizen Corporation

  “Bad Citizen Corporation pumps fresh blood into the corpse of American mystery. Lauden debuts with the storytelling ease of a veteran author. It’s fun, sun-scorched, and salty as the beaches it hails from.” —Tom Pitts, author of Hustle and Knuckleball

  “Like a punk rock Lew Archer novel, Bad Citizen Corporation challenges you to keep up with the twists and turns. A murder mystery that goes from sun-kissed LA beaches to dirty rock clubs in a story filled with damaged souls and the lasting bonds of friendship.” —Eric Beetner, author of Rumrunners

  and The Devil Doesn’t Want Me

  “Beach noir with some serious punk rock bonafides. Bad Citizen Corporation is a rush of a debut novel that poses timely, thoughtful questions set to a breakneck tempo.” —Rob Hart, author of New Yorked

  “Carrying on in the tradition of musicians turned mystery writers like Jo Nesbo and Bill Moody, S. W. Lauden’s Bad Citizen Corporation pounds out an impressive rock-and-roll thriller. The story comes on strong and never lags behind its neck-breaking beat. Greg Salem, part-time punk rocker, now disgraced cop, plays like the bastard love child of Poly Styrene and James M. Cain. Add to the mix murder and mayhem—the girl who got away, seedy bars, real estate scams, vengeful heiresses, and an oddball assortment of thugs from the old neighborhood—drop it all under the warm California sun, and you’ve got the hit song—and must-read—of the season.” —Joe Clifford, author of Junkie Love and Lamentation

  This is a Genuine Rare Bird Book

  A Rare Bird Book | Rare Bird Books

  453 South Spring Street, Suite 302

  Los Angeles, CA 90013

  rarebirdbooks.com

  Copyright © 2016 by S. W. Lauden

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including but not limited to print, audio, and electronic. For more information, address: A Rare Bird Book | Rare Bird Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 453 South Spring Street, Suite 302,

  Los Angeles, CA 90013.

  This is a work of fiction, all of the characters and events in this story are imagined.

  Set in Minion Pro

  Book Design by Robert Schlofferman

  ePub ISBN: 978-1-945572-19-7

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Names: Lauden, S. W., author.

  Title: Grizzly season / S. W. Lauden.

  Series: Greg Salem Mystery.

  Description: First Trade Paperback Original Edition | A Barnacle Book | New York, NY; Los Angeles, CA: Rare Bird Books, 2016.

  Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-945572-02-9

  Subjects: LCSH Drug traffic—Fiction. | Kidnapping—Fiction. | Organized crime—Fiction. | Marijuana—Fiction. | Angeles National Forest (Calif.)—Fiction. | Mystery and detective stories. | BISAC FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General.

  Classification: LCC PS3612.A9323 G75 2016 | DDC 813.6—dc23

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two Months Later…

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Six Months Later…

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY- THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY- FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY- FIVE

  Acknowledgments

  September 2011—The white van crawled down Hollywood Boulevard. Streetlights and gated storefronts reflected off the tinted windows, like a never-ending silent film. The countless dents and scratches read like battle scars around the vehicle’s battered body. All four hubcaps were missing, but somebody had spray painted the rims a splotchy silver. Faded stickers covered both back doors where the brake lights blinked like the eyes of Satan himself. It looked like any other indie rock tour van at three in the morning, but the only gear inside was some rope and a couple of cameras.

  The driver scanned the street for cops. The passenger was looking for junkies and runaways. It wasn’t easy to pick them out scattered among the homeless and streetwalking whores. Desperation trumped good decisions at this time of night, blurring lines that seemed so clear in the light of day. The two men in the van were counting on it.

  They had almost reached the western end of the strip when they saw her: tall and thin with greasy brown hair that shifted and swung as she scratched at her arm. She was walking fast like there was somewhere to be, but they all knew she was just killing time, burning away the hours while she waited for dealers to come out of their apartments in the morning, keeping herself awake until she could find somewhere safe to sleep when the sun came up. She didn’t seem surprised when the van pulled alongside her and the passenger window came down.

  “You cold?”

  The girl kept walking. The van kept pace.

  “Can we give you a ride? We have party favors.”

  A hand emerged through the window, shaking a small baggie.

  “I’m not working. Try the parking lot behind the library.”

  “Slow down, honey. We aren’t looking for a date. Just want to help a few of you street kids out.”

  She eased her pace a little, considering their offer. Adults always told her to avoid getting into cars with strangers. They also warned her never to get strung out on drugs. But here she was, twenty-one years old and weighing the options between getting well and getting killed. The same decision she was forced to make daily.

  “You two aren’t cops, are you?”

  The passenger laughed. The driver didn’t. The girl was somewhere in between.

  “Axe murderers?”

  “Stop being silly and get in. It’s cold out tonight.”

  She opened the side door, leaning in to take a look. The warm blast of heated air felt good against her face. It almost made her forget about her aching muscles and itchy skin. Never mind the desperate hunger that coursed through her veins.

  There was nobody else in the van that she could see—just a couple of bags of chips on the back seat, and a six-pack of beer.

  “Got anything stronger than that?”

  “Start by smoking this.”

  She climbed in and slammed the door shut, taking the small pipe and lighter in her hand as she sat.

  “What is it?”

  “A little relief.”

  She brought the pipe up to her lips and let the flame dance across the top. The driver turned the blinker on and merged across two lanes. It would be a shame to get pulled over now that they’d found the girl they’d been searching for.

  The passenger turned around to watch her take a deep pull from the pipe. She wouldn’t be awake much longer.

  “What’s your name?”

  She knew to lie, but couldn’t. Her vision began to narrow and pulse.

  “Mary.”

  “Goodnight, Mary.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  The kid in the blue hat was standing in the alley in Virgil Heights. His older brother, Manny, was right there beside
him. They were both bringing their guns up in slow motion. Greg Salem reached for his weapon, but came up empty handed. The shots rang out, reverberating off the brick walls all around them. Greg tried to duck for cover, but there was nowhere to hide. Two bullets struck his chest. The impact sent him backwards onto the pavement. He could hear the brothers laughing as they fired again…and again…

  “Wake up, bro!”

  Marco shook Greg by both shoulders. His stringy blonde hair brushed across Greg’s terror-stricken face. Greg’s fingers dug into the twisted sheets, his teeth gnashing. The murky depths of his rattled mind kept pulling him back under. He clung to the terror and inched himself upward, afraid he might drown if he screamed.

  His eyes shot open. Marco was staring down at him.

  “You’re kinda freaking me out, bro.”

  Greg’s pounding heart brought the real world into sharp focus. He heard birds chirping in the trees outside of the cabin now. He smelled bacon cooking in the kitchen. It was starting to seem like everything might be all right.

  Marco stood up and went for the door.

  “Happy birthday, old man. Breakfast will be ready pronto.”

  Greg sat up and rubbed the wetness from around his eyes. It could have been sweat, or it could have been tears. It was always hard to tell on mornings like these.

  He jumped out of bed like somebody fleeing the scene of a crime. He and Marco weren’t anywhere near the ocean, but Greg always felt better when he wore board shorts. He slipped them on and went into the bathroom.

  Greg checked himself in the mirror, running a hand over his fresh buzz cut. His hair was still more blonde than grey, but not by much. He massaged his sunburned scalp and studied the bags under his eyes. The tattoos on his arms peeked out from under the sleeves of his T-shirt as he stretched and twisted. He splashed a handful of cold water onto his face and headed for the living room. It had only been a few minutes, but so far his fortieth birthday wasn’t agreeing with him.

  Flames were dancing in the fireplace as Greg took a seat at the table. Marco set a plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon down in front of him. He left a syrupy thumbprint behind on the edge of the plate. Marco didn’t seem to notice, but Greg definitely did. It might have killed his appetite if he’d had one to start with.

  “Thanks. Did you make coffee?”

  “Cool your jets, bro. I’m on it.”

  Marco went back to the stove to deal with the boiling water. He’d become a pretty good cook since they started living off the grid in the Angeles National Forest. It gave him something to do with all the manic energy he had after getting sober. His wiry, shirtless body darting around the kitchen was a permanent fixture in the small cabin they’d shared for the last six months.

  Greg was amazed at how tired two people could grow of each other in such a short amount of time. It reminded him of when their punk band, Bad Citizen Corporation, used to tour. Back when Greg still went by the stage name Fred Despair, and Marco played drums. They were just four young beach kids who took off in a van to conquer the world. Fighting over who had to drive and who got to sleep as they hurtled down the highway in the dead of night, bouncing between backwater clubs and living off of less than twenty bucks a day. It surprised him sometimes that his brother Tim was the only one who didn’t make it out alive.

  Greg took a bite of his bacon, letting the grease coat the inside of his mouth. He knew that all this heavy food should be taking a toll on his body, but the constant hiking kept him lean and mean for his age.

  Marco set a steaming mug down on the table in front of him.

  “What the hell were you screaming about in there? You scared the crap out of me.”

  “It was just a nightmare.”

  Just a nightmare. The same one he’d been having a couple times a week, since he’d lost his Virgil Heights Police Department badge last year. Even after months at this remote cabin in the mountains, away from the news coverage and constant reminders of the kid that he shot: the kid in the blue hat.

  Greg was nervous that the nightmares might never go away, but he wasn’t about to admit that to his roommate.

  “Doesn’t take much to scare you these days, Marco.”

  “Sounded like there was a raccoon in there with you.”

  “You afraid of raccoons now too?”

  “Hell yeah. Little bastards are mean.”

  Marco wandered off to do the dishes. Greg pushed his plate away and headed into the living room. Every piece of furniture in the cabin had come up the mountain from Greg’s childhood home in North Bay. There was more hunting and fishing gear in the closets than most sporting good stores kept in stock.

  He glanced at the family photos that lined the paneled walls. His brother and his dad had both been gone for many years now, but Greg still felt their presence whenever he was up here. Breathing the clean air and wandering around the wide-open spaces reminded him of who he really was, and what really mattered. It took his mind off of the murder and mayhem that followed him around these days like an angry black cloud.

  Marco came over to refill his mug. The smell of the fresh coffee brought him back to reality. Greg motioned to the packs leaning against the wall by the front door.

  “You ready to get going soon?”

  “I don’t know, bro. Seems kind of gnarly.”

  “It’s just a week.”

  “And a hundred miles.”

  “It’ll be good to get out of this little cabin for a while. Before I strangle you.”

  Greg punched Marco on the shoulder. Marco returned the favor.

  “Whatever. It’s your birthday.”

  Marco went back to clean up the mess in the kitchen before they left. Greg stepped outside to wait on the porch. The sun was poking up behind the mountains to the east, shafts of light dancing across the hood of his baby blue El Camino in the distance. He studied the dents and dings that covered the body, and the long crack that still split the windshield. They’d brought some gear with them to fix her up, but never got around to it. He was beginning to wonder if they ever would, or if it even mattered any more.

  A woodpecker started hammering out a rhythm nearby. It echoed off the surrounding hills and briefly interrupted the almost constant silence. Greg scanned the pine trees that ringed the cabin on all sides, trying to spot the bird. He was still looking when Marco dragged both packs outside.

  “What was that noise?”

  “A big scary monster coming to eat you.”

  “Hilarious. But seriously—you’re bringing a gun, right?”

  “No guns on the trail, Marco. That’s the rule.”

  “That’s your rule.”

  “And it’s my gun.”

  They shimmied into their straps and headed off side by side. Marco had his pet iguana, Godzilla, tucked under one arm like a football. Greg reached up and adjusted his ear buds. The thin black cords flowed from the sides of his head and came together at the back of his tattooed neck. The cable snaked along the outside of his pack and into a smartphone connected to a solar charger. His eyes were on the dirt road ahead of them, as Black Flag kicked into “Rise Above.”

  ›

  “Dude!”

  A few hours later, Greg was twenty yards ahead of Marco on the Pacific Crest Trail. It wound through a desolate stretch of the San Bernardino Mountains seventy miles north of LA’s foothill communities. He was sure that his partner was just freaking out about his own shadow again.

  There was a steep incline to their right covered in sagebrush and sunbaked rocks. To their left, the trail dropped down to a flat valley floor. A thick stand of pines stood between them and the green fields below. A pungent smell swirled in the air all around them, along with a swarm of annoying little bugs. Greg wiped the sweat from his eyes and was transported back to the cliffs above the tidal pools in The Bay Cities. To the night he saved his best friend Jun
ior and her son Chris from a serial killer.

  He was relieved when Marco pulled him back from this flood of unwanted memories.

  “Dude! BEARS!”

  Greg smelled them before he saw them. A full-grown black bear with two furry cubs tumbling around at her enormous paws. Marco was standing behind the imposing ursine trio, slowly backing up the trail. His eyes were bugging out of his head. Greg tried in vain to get his attention.

  “Marco. Listen to me. They won’t hurt you. Just don’t run—”

  “Run” was the only thing Marco heard. He immediately ditched his pack and took off at a sprint in the opposite direction. The sudden commotion spooked the two cubs, and it looked like momma bear was about to give chase. Greg knew that Marco had plenty of experience outrunning middle-aged cops, but bears were a different story. He screamed at the top of his lungs to save his friend’s life, “Hey, bear! Over here!”

  The bear rose up on its hind legs, casting a twisted shadow several yards long. It was more than seven feet tall, gnashing its teeth and swiping at the air. Greg tried not to panic. He’d spent whole summers in these mountains as a boy, and had heard every piece of advice about how to deal with bear attacks. His father always told him to make a bunch of noise and jump around, so that’s what he did. It didn’t work.

  The bear dropped down to all fours and charged at him. A rippling mass of muscle and fur was on him in a heartbeat. Greg’s only option was to take off toward the valley. The heavy pack helped him keep his balance as he gained momentum, but he couldn’t sustain it. Gravity took his feet out from under him, so he finished the trip down to the tree line by sliding on his back. He bumped and skidded along while brambles and jagged stones tore at his exposed skin. The trees were coming up fast when a gunshot split the air.

  It surprised both Greg and the bears. He sprang to his feet and spun around in time to see the momma and two cubs in full retreat up the slope. Greg appreciated that Marco came back to save him, but thought they had agreed on no guns. A second bullet ricocheted off the boulder right beside him before he could think it through. This definitely wasn’t friendly fire. Greg could still hear the piercing ring as he scrambled into the trees.