A taint in the blood (41 page)

The computer beeped and a screen popped up. Brendan scrolled down. "Your van is registered to a Paul Cassanovas. And lookie here—it has in fact been reported stolen. Let me pull up the police report." Brendan tapped some keys, another agonizing wait, and a second screen popped up. "Mr. Cassanovas reported it stolen yesterday when he parked it at the Dimond Fred Meyer and forgot the keys in the ignition when he went inside to buy groceries."

"He left the car running in August?" Jim said.

"It happens, only usually it's the driveway, when they run back inside in the morning. But you're right: Usually you run across this kind of thing in the winter, when its cold and they want to come back to a warm car. Hmmm. Let's do a search on Mr. Cassanovas in the corrections database, shall we?"

A minute later, Brendan said, "Bingo. Mr. Cassanovas has served time for B and E, burglary, theft."

"Has he got an address?"

"Yes, but wait." Brendan tapped a few more keys. "Last known address was a boarding house on Ingra. Here." Brendan scribbled the number down. "Call them, see if he's there."

Jim snatched up Brendan's phone and punched in the number.

"Not only does Mr. Cassanovas have an address—" Brendan said.

A sleepy, surly voice swore at Jim but answered his questions before the receiver slammed down. "He checked out last week," Jim said.

"—he has known associates."

"Who? Names, addresses."

Brendan's lips thinned. "The only one who matters is Ralph Patton."

"Son of a bitch," Jim said, "they've got her, goddamn it, they've got her."

"Son of a bitch," Brendan echoed, still looking at the computer screen.

"What?"

"Guess who Mr. Cassanova's counsel was?"

"Son of a bitch," Jim said again.

"Well, yeah," Brendan said, "but he's also known as Oliver Muravieff. Wait a minute. Where are you going?"

"I'm going to talk to Oliver Muravieff about a little matter concerning his billable hours."

Moving faster than anyone had a right to expect of a man of his size, Brendan was up and had his hand around Jim's arm. "Wait a minute," he said. "Let's think about this. And after we've thought, let's call the cops."

The next thing Brendan knew he was slammed up against the wall. "Take it easy, Jesus, Jim," he said. A door cracked open and the frightened face of a neighbor peeped out. "It's okay, Mrs. Hartzberg," he told her. "Everything's fine. Just go on back to bed."

It wasn't easy to be serene with two hundred pounds of pissed-off trooper in his face, not to mention the snarling, snapping half wolf next to the trooper, but, to his credit, Brendan managed it. "Just calm down a minute," he said. Brendan let go of Jim's wrists, where his hands weren't doing much good anyway, and raised both hands, palms out. "Just take a beat here and think this through."

"There's nothing to think about, Brendan. We can't call the cops."

"Why not?"

"Because they're his family's cops," Jim said. "They let Patton go on command. They're not going to help us."

"Come on, Jim, you don't really believe that. Jim. Jim!"

Jim let Brendan go and walked out, Mutt moving like the hunter she was at his side.

He was conscious enough of what he was going to do to stop at the town house to pick up shirt, jacket, and his sidearm, although the latter was too big not to attract too much of the wrong kind of notice. It would have to go in the glove compartment. His backup piece, a .38, he strapped to his ankle.

He looked in the mirror and saw a grim-eyed civilian staring back at him. Whatever happened next, the troopers were going to come in for as little blame as possible. He looked up Oliver Muravieff in the phone book and copied down the number.

He went back downstairs and told the boys, "Pack up your stuff. I'm taking you home."

They were frightened and silent during the ride. As he pulled into their driveway, he said, "Can you get in?"

"We hide a key outside," the older one said as the younger one slid from the Subaru. "Mister?"

"What?"

"Could you . . . could you maybe call us when you find her?"

The forlorn little voice pierced Jim's self-absorption the way nothing else could have, and he looked at the kid, really looked at him for the first time since he'd gotten back from Brendan's. "Yes," he said. "I will. Better, I'll bring her here so you can talk to her yourselves."

"Thanks," the kid said, and trudged after his brother.

Jim watched them for a second, and then he got out of the car. "Hey," he said.

The boys stopped and looked back at him.

"You did good, getting that license plate number," he said. "You're the reason I'm going to find her."

The kids' faces lightened a little, and he climbed back in
the
car and drove downtown, where he found a parking space within walking distance of Oliver's building. He got out to case it. It had an underground parking garage, so he would have to do it the hard way. He went back to the Subaru and waited with hard-won patience for the clock to read 8:00
a.m.

At 8:01 A.M., Oliver Muravieff arrived, his silver Miyata disappearing into the underground parking lot.

At 8:05
a.m.,
Jim dialed Oliver's office number from Kate's cell phone. "Yes," he said in a voice from which any trace of impatience or worry had been completely erased. "I'm an old friend of Mr. Muravieff’s from law school, and I've got an eight-hour layover before I head for Barrow. I just wanted to know if he was in his office. I'd like to drop in and say hello. . . . He'll be there for the next couple of hours? Splendid, I'll see you soon." He dropped his voice to what he'd been told was a sexy baritone. "Listen, do me a favor. Don't tell him I'm coming. I want to surprise him. Thanks."

He disconnected. "Stay," he said to Mutt.

She wasn't having any.

"I mean it, goddamn it," he said. "Get back in that fucking truck!"

A couple of young attorneys who hadn't been practicing long enough to take such scenes in their stride scurried by, not making eye contact.

Jim squatted down on his haunches and took Mutt's head in his hands. She was alternately whining and growling. "She's not here," Jim said, trying to shake some sense into her. "She's not here, damn it, but the guy I'm going to see will know where they've got her, and that's when I'll need you. Mutt, please, get in the truck." He stood up and held the door open. "Get in, and stay," he said.

She eyed him narrowly. It was her choice, and they both knew it. There was no way he was going to bundle 140 pounds of snarling, snapping half husky, half wolf unwilling back in the truck if she didn't want to go there on her own. "I'll need backup, girl," he told her, painfully conscious of seconds ticking away. "Best they don't know I've got it yet. Get in. Please. Get in."

She whined, she snarled some more, she even nipped at his calf on her way by, but she got in. He heaved a sigh of relief, and as a sign of trust, he rolled down the window halfway. "I know you could take this out if you wanted to—hell, you could probably take out the door if you wanted to—but I'm trusting you to
stay
here and wait for me. Stay," he repeated.

She looked at him, ears a little flattened, lips slightly drawn back, teeth gleaming in the morning sun. She did not look friendly.

"Well, for sure no one's going to steal that Subaru," he said.

"Hello, darling," he said to Oliver's receptionist, affecting the slow drawl he had used earlier on the phone. "Which way is that old boy's office?"

The receptionist fluttered her eyelashes and said, "I'm afraid Mr. Muravieff has someone with him just now—oh, no, I believe he's just leaving," and she turned to smile as her boss came through the door behind her desk.

Oliver Muravieff's client barely registered on Jim's peripheral vision. "Ollie!" he said in his biggest, boomiest voice. "How the hell are you!" And he steamed forward, hand extended.

Oliver's hand came up either in greeting or in self-defense. "I'm sorry?" he said, his brow creasing, "I'm not sure I—"

Jim pushed him back into his office before he could finish
the
sentence. He stumbled a little over his cane, and when he got his balance back, he looked at Jim with the beginnings of a scowl. "Who the hell are you?"

"All right, you little motherfucker, where is Kate Shugak?" Jim said.

"Who?" Oliver said. But he took just a little too long to say it.

Jim kicked the cane out of Oliver's hand. "Where is Kate Shugak?"

Oliver fell awkwardly, and Jim heard a sound that might have been the crack of a bone. Oliver yelled.

The door started to open, but Jim slammed it shut and raised his voice. "Ollie, old buddy, you're just as clumsy catching that ball as you were in college. Ifs okay, honey. He's just taken himself a tumble, but we're fine!"

Oliver stared up at him in pain and disbelief. "Who the hell do you think you are," he said, "barging into my office, assaulting me verbally, assaulting me physically? Do you know what a felony is?"

Jim took a step forward. "If I commit one, I'll hire you to get me off. Just like you got Paul Cassanovas off. It's what you do."

"Paul Cassanovas? What's he got to do with anything?"

"He's a client of yours."

"So? I've got a lot of clients."

"This client hangs out with a guy name of Ralph Patton."

Oliver was recovering a little of his sangfroid. He looked at his cane as if to pick it up. Jim took another step forward, and Oliver abandoned the idea for the moment. "Again," he said, "what does any of this have to do with you barging in here and assaulting me?"

"Paul Cassanovas just had his van stolen."

Oliver rolled his eyes. "Look, Mr.—whoever you are—I—"

"Yesterday," Jim said, "about eight hours before somebody coldcocked Kate Shugak and tossed her into the back of it."

There was a moment of silence. Oliver appeared to be thinking deeply. "There's no way you can know that."

"There were two eyewitnesses. How do you think I traced the van?"

"I knew nothing of this," Oliver said. His face had paled and he was breathing a little faster.

"Yeah," Jim said, "you did, and you're going to take me to her."

"Is that so?" a voice said, and Jim looked around to see Fred Gamble of the Federal Bureau of Investigation step into the room.

She woke to a dull, throbbing ache that seemed to take up the whole left side of her head. She couldn't see and she could barely breathe through the covering over her face. For a moment, she panicked, and then she forced herself into deep, shallow respiration, one breath at a time. She tried to move her hands, her feet, couldn't. She could barely feel them.

There was a narrow concave surface beneath her. She tried to roll and hit an edge. She rolled back to the center. A cot perhaps. She could smell wood smoke, or the residue of it. She was in a cabin, maybe?

She was also hearing voices.

Was there pain in heaven? Certainly there were voices. Joan of Arc had heard them; it stood to reason Kate Shugak would hear them, too. Of course, Joan had been given directions. Maybe the Woman Who Keeps the Tides or Calm Waters' Daughter would give Kate a sign.