Alaska P.I. Sidney Reed is haunted by the memory of his late wife Molly, even as his doubts about her alleged suicide grow. Smarting from the loss of his beloved Subaru to a huge moose, Sidney is lured away from his dingy apartment by his friend, renowned Alaska attorney Eddie Baker, who persuades Sid to help him defend a drug-addicted snowplow operator accused of the hit-and-run death of Willie Olson, the son of a prominent indigenous community leader. With the trial dominating the headlines and the Alaska Native community on edge, tensions are running sky-high, but Eddie assures Sid that he is only there for "routine trial support." But as the road-weary P.I. delves into the case, he begins to doubt his client's guilt. His suspicions are reinforced when a key witness surfaces whose testimony could blow the case wide open. Suddenly Sid and his witness are in the crosshairs of malevolent forces hell-bent on seeing Baker's client convicted. With the lives of his client and witness hanging in the balance, Sidney is determined to make things right, and nothing - not drug dealers, dirty cops, or the bitter Alaska cold - is going to stop him.
Alaska P.I. Sidney Reed is haunted by the memory of his late wife Molly, even as his doubts about her alleged suicide grow. Smarting from the loss of his beloved Subaru to a huge moose, Sidney is lured away from his dingy apartment by his friend, renowned Alaska attorney Eddie Baker, who persuades Sid to help him defend a drug-addicted snowplow operator accused of the hit-and-run death of Willie Olson, the son of a prominent indigenous community leader. With the trial dominating the headlines and the Alaska Native community on edge, tensions are running sky-high, but Eddie assures Sid that he is only there for "routine trial support." But as the road-weary P.I. delves into the case, he begins to doubt his client's guilt. His suspicions are reinforced when a key witness surfaces whose testimony could blow the case wide open. Suddenly Sid and his witness are in the crosshairs of malevolent forces hell-bent on seeing Baker's client convicted. With the lives of his client and witness hanging in the balance, Sidney is determined to make things right, and nothing - not drug dealers, dirty cops, or the bitter Alaska cold - is going to stop him.
Snowflakes danced across the bleak and barren highway to the frightful howl of the wind. Willie Olson tugged at the lapels of his tattered wool coat and turned his gaze toward the slate gray building barely visible fifty yards away. The hammering beat of âHighway to Hellâ bled from a ground-floor window. He poked gingerly at the bruise on his cheek, cursed under his breath, and kicked angrily at the loose powder swirling around his feet.
A truck thundered past, engulfing him in a roiling white cloud. He spat and crossed over to the westbound lane where, on wobbly legs, he began the long trek toward downtown Anchorage and the comfort of the Brother Francis Shelter.
With an ear-splitting headache and the taste of vomit ringing his mouth, Willie struggled to recall the events of that Friday evening: dinner at the Beanâs CafeĚ homeless shelter, then smokes and a drink out back with some friends. One of them, Donnie, mentioned a party somewhere on OâMalley Road and a hint of free liquor and pot. Wil- lie had hesitated leaving the familiar surroundings of downtown, but Donnie had assured himÂ
everyone was invited, so heâd hopped a cab, using what little remained of his Alaska Native corporation dividend money.
The party house was right where Donnie had said it would be. Rock music thumped inside, beckoning him to enter. His spirits lifted. He pressed the doorbell, anticipating a good time.
Willie was unprepared for the sight that greeted him as the door swung open: A dozen white college boys glaring menacingly, as ifthe Grim Reaper had come calling. Heâd seen those same staresâso searing in their condescensionâhis entire life.
A big man with a fat moustache, muscled arms folded across an expansive chest, spoke first. âYou wandered into the wrong party, friend.â
Willie silently acknowledged the truth of that statement. He was turning to go when a tall slim guy wearing a wife beater and a crewcutcame up to him and, beneath a thin veneer of sarcasm, said, âDonât mind him. We love our Alaska Native friends, donât we, fellas?â
âSure do,â a voice chimed in. Another asked him his name. He mumbled, âWillie.â
There were chuckles. Crewcut wrapped a muscular arm around Willieâs shoulders and led him to a white plastic chair set against one wall and handed him a drink that had the rusty color of whiskey. He smiled and thanked the man.
Maybe this wonât be so bad after all, he thought.
Willie scanned the faces of the young college men as they laughed and talked. Sipping whiskey contentedly, he had begun to mellow. The acrid aroma of weed hung in the air as a blunt made its way from one partygoer to the next. When it was Willieâs turn, he took a long dragand dutifully passed it along. It was good, strong weed. One of the group said it was Matanuska Thunderfuck, a local favorite producedin the Mat-Su Valley.
Sweet home Alabama . . .
The white-boy rock music was deafening, but after ten or fifteen minutes heâd managed to tune it out. Everyone was acting like he was one of them, except for the dude with the fat moustache, whose unrelenting stare made him uncomfortable.
He was well into his second cupful of whiskey when the big manâs voice boomed above the din of the music. âHey you! Eskimo Boy!â
Willieâs head jerked in the manâs direction.
The murmur of voices ceased.
âHavenât you drunk enough of our liquor yet?â
Bleary-eyed, Willie studied the man. Heâd taken shit from white
assholes his entire life, but he was too mellow from the weed and whiskey to take offense. The music sucked but, hey, at least he wasnât huddling beneath a wooden pallet in a patch of woods in Mountain View. Life was good. He lifted his cup, as if offering a toast, and smiled impishly.
The big manâs scowl deepened. âI asked you a question, Cochise.â
All eyes were now on Willie, who reached over to set his half-filled cup near the edge of the low glass table in front of him. His aim waspoor and the cup spilled its contents on the pale white carpet. Someone chuckled boozily. Someone else cranked up the stereo.
The boys are back in town, the boys are back in town . . .
Crewcut guy sprang from his seat, glaring at Willie. âWhat the fuck?â
Willie snatched up a napkin from the table and dropped to one knee to clean up the spill, but, before he could, he felt his body beingyanked backwards. Meaty hands spun him around until he stood facing a solid wall of angry muscleâthe big man from the divan.
âWhat are you doing here?â the man screamed over the music. âYou donât belong here!â
Willie opened his mouth to speak, but the man cut him off. âI donât want to hear a goddam word, capiche?â
Muscled arms spun him in the opposite direction, and he found himself facing Crewcut, who grabbed Willie by the lapels and shookhim. âYou ruined my fucking carpet, asshole!â
Though the guy was easily a head taller than Willie, a nauseat- ing blend of whiskey and weed assaulted Willieâs nostrils as the man spoke. Willieâs stomach churned like a washing machine. Without warning, he vomited on Crewcutâs gray sleeveless SEAWOLVES t-shirt, hitting the green team logo like a bullseye.
Afterwards, he remembered only flashes: a fist slamming into the left side of his face, rough hands dragging him out into the snow. Heâdasked someone to call him a cab. The question had elicited laughter. He was told to call his own fucking cab. He remembered, too, the sight of his own blood in the snow, black as ink under the dim porch light. He staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the highway.
The wind howled with a force that seemed to penetrate deep into his bones. He squinted into the darkness for a glimpse of the Seward Highway intersectionâhe thought he must be close by nowâbut saw only a white wall of snow.
A sudden gust of arctic air struck him like a giant fist and he pitched forward into the icy pavement. He rose shivering to his knees, anger boiling up inside him. They wouldnât dare treat him like this in his village, not when his father was a big muckety-muck in the native corporation. In Anchorage he may be just another Street Indian, but in the village, he was somebody.
Fuck âem, he thought. Fuck âem all.
Willie rose to his full height, spat, and kicked at the snow. He thought about turning around and going back there and kicking allthose white boysâ asses, and in his rage and the howling wind he didnât hear the truck roaring up behind him until, with a twist of his head, a flash of light caught his eye. He turned and they were almost on top of himâtwo orbs of blinding white light, racing toward him likecraven monsters. He opened his mouth to scream, but his desperate cry was swept away by the wailing wind.
Road Kill, the second book in R.J. Norgardâs stunning new Sidney Reed Mystery series, is full of action and suspense. Once again, Sidney conducts a realistic investigation, going step-by-step through the information the defense team has on hand. And even though it initially looks straightforward and routine, I enjoyed how things suddenly went from 0 to 60 due to a simple, innocuous notice in the local newspaper.
Norgardâs dialogue consistently shines. Sidney is a wisecracker and his deadpan delivery had me laughing. However, some of his inner commentaries cracked me up just as much. Yet, the witty banter doesnât all fall to Sidney; even the bad guys get some truly stellar lines. Speaking as a father, Rance Cooley pulls no punches about one of his good-for-nothing sons, Ray, and his observation is hilarious.
Still, Sidney is hanging in there. Heâs a vulnerable and tortured man still trying to get his life back on track after the suicide of his wife earlier in the year. You canât help but feel for the man as he works his way through his pain and sadness. I was glad to see he's starting to direct some of his anguish toward a different direction rather than self-recrimination, and that he's questioning the suicide.
I was happy that we got better acquainted with the Anchorage newspaper reporter, Maria Maldonado; my inner matchmaker appreciates the possibilities there. But Iâm even more satisfied that she is portrayed as an independent, strong, capable person and not just a convenient love interest.
Even more so than the first book in the series, the Alaskan setting plays an essential role as Sidneyâs case progresses. The glimpses of Anchorage, its history, and actual locations, even the mentions of streets and the views of the Alaskan terrain, gave the story something extra, and I so enjoyed it.
With its intriguing who-done-it mystery, heart-pounding action, and great characters, I recommend ROAD KILL (and this series) to mystery readers who enjoy private-eye-led cases and stories set in Alaska. I'm already looking forward to the next book, Winter Kill, which was teased at the end of this one.