Find below: An excerpt from Darkness in the Redwoods, a just-released detective novel from local writer Neil Tarpey.

Darkness in the Redwoods is available for purchase at: Booklegger and Eureka Books in Old Town; Pacific Paper in Henderson Center; Blake’s Books in McKinleyville; and online at Lulu.com.

Tarpey and fellow crime author David Lee — a Lit Bit alumnus — will read from their work at the Morris Graves Museum on Sunday, July 26, from 1-3 p.m.

Are you a Humboldt County writer who has written a book? Or a writer who has written a book about Humboldt County? You should share an excerpt with LoCO Lit Bit! Hit us up at news@lostcoastoutpost.com, and put “Lit Bit” in the subject line. 

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Detective Naomi Marren

Dark, swift-moving clouds dump rain as I drive us from Coleman Road to Valley West in north Arcata to interview Dennis Rigazzi. Greg Mayfield called him a real dick and Fran Anderson said he’s mean. Our dispatcher confirms the name and address of his business, Mueller’s German Auto Repairs.

After we park by the curb on Franklin Lane in front of Mueller’s, we walk past two BMW’s, a Mercedes-Benz and an old gray Volkswagen van in a small parking lot and into the open side-by-side bays. A black Porsche is parked in one bay. In the other, a white Audi with its engine idling rests eight-feet off the ground on a lift rack. Two men in dirty blue coveralls stand beneath the Audi, looking up at its undercarriage.

Kevin and I stop about six feet away so we didn’t intrude in their work space. I flip the hood of my rain jacket back down.

“Which one of you is Dennis Rigazzi?” I ask.

The taller man turns to us. “Who wants to know?”

He has angular cheekbones, a face that hasn’t seen a razor for several days, and a red scorpion tattooed on half his neck. He’s wearing a Raiders cap and holding a long flashlight in his right hand whose knuckles have a purple-gray bruise.

“North Valley PD. I’m Detective Naomi Marren and this is Inspector Kevin Valken.”

“Got some ID?”

We show our badges but he barely glances at them.

“You’re Dennis Rigazzi?” I ask.

“That’d be me.”

“We need to ask you some questions, sir.”

“Can we do this another time? I’m kinda busy.”

“No, we can’t. Why don’t we step into your office?”

“Shit. What is it this time? Unpaid parking tickets? A broken taillight?”

Rigazzi exhales and glares at me. He spits on the oil-stained concrete floor. I keep my eyes on the long flashlight in his right hand as he slowly taps it on his left palm.

“Your stupidity killed my only brother. You harassed him for spousal abuse. Spousal abuse? Tina was the one throwing shit around the kitchen. That bitch gets a restraining order because isn’t the woman always right? Leo got jail time. Lost his job and the kids. Then Tina married the lonely hearts neighbor who played the banjo. Leo got depressed and hung himself. All because of your fucking incompetence.”

He spits on the floor again and scowls at Kevin.

“Don’t you have something better to do, like chasing some real bad boys?”

Rigazzi’s starting to piss me off. Maybe it’s all the rain we’ve been having. Maybe I just don’t like his red scorpion tattoo. Or maybe because he’s acting like an asshole.

He passes the flashlight to the shorter man with a brown ponytail and black glasses.

“See if you can find the damn rattle while I deal with these so-called public servants.”

Rigazzi leads Kevin and myself into his office. Overhead tube lights illuminate the room. A gray metal desk stands in the middle, a swivel chair behind it. A stack of paperwork overflows a two-tier in-box. Auto parts, repair manuals and three empty pizza boxes clutter the desk. The air stinks of stale sweat. A yellow plastic chair is off to the side. A wall calendar shows a big-breasted woman in a string bikini sitting on the hood of a Mercedes Benz. Rigazzi plops down behind the desk and motions toward the yellow plastic chair.

“Make yourself comfy, Ma’am.”

“It’s Detective Marren, Mr. Rigazzi. Drop the fucking attitude.”

I decide to stay standing near the office door.

Kevin sits in the plastic chair and stares at Rigazzi. The mechanic glances at Kevin, smirks, and folds his arms.

“If you own this place, how come it’s called Mueller’s and not Rigazzi’s?” I ask.

“Because when Old Man Mueller retired he agreed to sell it to me, provided I kept the same name. I think it’s good for business.”

“That’s right,” I say. “If you gave it your name you’d probably lose business.”

Rigazzi’s face flashes red, but he doesn’t reply.

I point at the blue-yellow swelling on his right hand.

“How’d you get that bruise?”

“A wrench slipped while I was working on an engine. Shit like that happens round here.”

He burps loudly and grins.

“Where were you Tuesday night from 10 o’clock until about 1 am?” I ask.

Rigazzi looks out at the rain peppering the rectangular office window and yawns.

“You’re talking what, two nights ago? Let me think.”

He leans back in the swivel chair and stares at me.

“Tuesday, yeah, I was here by myself until about seven, working on my car brakes. Then I drove home, had a few whiskeys and crashed.”

“Can anyone vouch for you?”

“Nope. I was here by myself. Went home by myself. Live by myself. Drank by myself. So, no, nobody can vouch for me.”

“And home is the yellow house where Coleman Road runs into Brookfield?”

He frowns, maybe wondering why I’m interested in where he lives.

“Tell me, Mr. Rigazzi, how well do you know your other neighbors?”

“I’m in the auto repair business so I notice what cars they drive. But no, we don’t exchange Christmas presents.”

“Speaking of vehicles, a Nissan Sentra went over the embankment on the other side of Brookfield near your house the other day. Do you know anything about that?”

“Nope. But I noticed the yellow-and-black crime scene tape so I figured there must have been an accident.”

He starts drumming his fingers on the desk.

“And one of your neighbors told us you threatened her when she was walking her dog.”

“Ah, shit, is that what this is all about? That old biddy Anderson? You’re here because I told her not to let her little yapping dog take a dump on my property?”

He frowns at Kevin and says, “Cat got your tongue? You’re gonna sit there and let her ask all the questions?”

Kevin can tell I’m getting on Rigazzi’s nerves, so at first he says nothing. Then he says, “Yes I am, and I suggest you answer all of Detective Marren’s questions.”

Rigazzi folds his arms across his chest and grimaces.

“How well do you know Judge O’Malley down at the end of Coleman?”

“Santa Claus? What about him?”

“You had any problems, or court dealings, with the judge?”

“Nope, but Leo did.”

The clatter of a tool hitting concrete interrupts the conversation. Rigazzi stands up and looks towards the bay where the mechanic is working on the Audi.

“Say, are we about done? I’ve got work to do.”

“A few more questions and we’ll let you get back to work,” I tell him.

Rigazzi glowers at me and sits back down.

“Do you own any handguns?” I ask.

“Sure. So do lots of people,” he sneers. “The Second amendment gives us that right.”

“What kind of handguns?”

“I’ve got three. A Glock 9mm, a .44 Magnum, and a Ruger Bearcat .22.”

“Where do you keep them?”

“In a safe at home.” His eyes narrow. “Say, what the hell’s going on?”

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Neil Tarpey, a New York native, has lived in Humboldt County for coming up on 50 years. A former sports writer for the Times-Standard, Neil has previously published a collection of flash fiction. Learn more about him at his website.