Nik Kane Alaska Mystery - 02 - Capitol Offense (22 page)

K
ane awoke fighting for his life. He thrashed and kicked and bellowed and tried to get to his feet. A pair of powerful hands held his shoulders until, exhausted, he lay back and opened his eyes.

The room was small, its gleaming surfaces all white. Winthrop’s broad brown face stood out like a bear crossing a snowfield. He took his hands off of Kane’s shoulders and stepped back, leaving behind a faint undertone of expensive cologne that was immediately masked by the smell of disinfectant and body odor.

That must be me, Kane thought. I don’t smell too good.

He was lying in a hospital bed cranked halfway up, a needle sticking into his forearm and monitors clipped here and there. A plastic bag hung from a metal pole. Clear liquid dripped from it down a plastic tube, through the needle, and into Kane’s arm.

Hospital, Kane thought. I’m in a hospital.

He felt like he should be in a hospital, like he’d been beaten by an angry mob of small boys with sticks. Some of his muscles hurt. The rest ached. His head felt like it had been inflated to twice its size. And his arm hurt like it had been stabbed several times with a hot poker.

“How are you feeling, Sergeant Kane?” Mrs. Richard Foster trilled.

Kane couldn’t see her, so he tried to sit up. The minute he tensed his muscles, he thought better of that. Instead, he tried to say hello, but all that emerged was a croak. Winthrop took a plastic glass from a bedside table and held its straw to Kane’s lips. He sucked in a little water.

His stomach tried to turn itself inside out. Kane clamped his throat closed until the wave passed, then said, “I’ve felt better, Mrs. Foster. What are you doing here?”

“Why, when you disappeared,” the woman’s voice said, “I felt we had to come. I thought my presence might stir the authorities to greater effort, and Winthrop is very handy.”

About halfway through, the woman’s answer stopped making sense to Kane. The world began slipping away. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Slowly, reality stabilized.

“Could you crank me up?” he asked Winthrop.

Winthrop hit a button, the back of the bed began to rise, and Mrs. Foster came into view. The black veil was gone.

“You, I can see your face,” he said.

The woman smiled.

“Yes, you can,” she said. “My year of mourning has ended. Do you recognize me?”

He’d known her the minute he saw her.

“Amber Dawn,” he said.

The woman’s smile lit up the room like a searchlight.

“Why, Sergeant Kane,” she said, “how nice of you to remember. We didn’t see that much of each other before your…mishap.”

“Once,” Kane said. “I saw you once. But you were pretty unforgettable.”

The woman bowed her head and something like a blush crept up her neck.

“You’re too kind,” she said.

Kane remembered the only time he’d seen Amber Dawn, hanging stark naked except for a G-string from a pole in a topless-bottomless place called the Beaver Trap. It was maybe three weeks before he shot Enfield Jessup and began his journey to prison. He’d been in the Trap with a bunch of other cops, celebrating somebody’s birthday, when she’d come out to dance. Thirty seconds into her routine, all the bullshit and horseplay in his group had stopped and every man at the table was staring at her like she was his chance at heaven. Every other man in the place was doing the same, even the bartender and the bouncer, who had seen it all. She didn’t move so much as she flowed, her eyes closed, arms above her head, dancing for all the world like she was alone somewhere, somewhere much nicer than the seedy bar with its sketchy patrons. As the music went on, Kane could see a line of sweat run out from under her honey-colored hair and trace a line down the curve of her neck, then run up and over one perfect breast. He’d never said anything to anyone, but that one memory, that image, had helped him through a lot after the shooting and during his long stretch in prison.

The body, that nearly perfect body, had belonged to someone far too young to be dancing in such a place. When her dance ended and she’d harvested the bills that littered the stage floor, he’d gone up to her, shown his badge, and demanded to see her ID, telling himself he was only doing his duty. She’d led him backstage and produced it, standing there as he examined it, making no effort to cover her nakedness. The ID was very professional and absolutely phony. But as he handed it back to her, Kane realized that he couldn’t stand for another second so close to her without doing something he would regret. So he’d mumbled his thanks and fled, barely pausing to tell the others he was going. And he hadn’t gone back to the Beaver Trap since.

“I know why I remember you,” he said, “but why do you remember me?”

The woman looked up. Her smile was fond.

“You were very nice, the way you dealt with me,” she said. “Other cops weren’t nearly so nice. And you were polite. It was almost like you were afraid of me.”

“I
was
afraid of you,” Kane said. “I still am, although I’m older now so I hide it better.”

The woman’s smile changed, and as they looked at each other, Kane felt something like an electrical current pass between them.

Easy now, he thought.

“How did you become…how did you end up…,” he said, then laughed. “See? I told you I was afraid. I can’t even finish a sentence.”

The woman looked at him for what seemed like an hour, then shook her head as if breaking a spell.

“How did I end up as a rich widow?” she asked. “Richard came into that place I was dancing with a big group. He was celebrating some business coup and, if I remember correctly, had a woman on each arm. The next thing I knew, Winthrop was backstage with an armload of flowers and an invitation to dinner in a private room at the top of a hotel downtown. Six weeks later, Richard Foster and I were married.”

“And lived happily ever after,” Kane said. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded full of innuendo.

The woman gave him a sharp look.

“Lots of people said lots of mean things about us getting together,” she said, “but we were happy. I know it seems odd, me marrying someone old enough to be my grandfather, but Richard was so kind and so full of life and I felt safe with him. Safe and appreciated for who I was. He never judged me.”

“I’m sorry,” Kane said. “I wasn’t really judging, either. More like envying the old goat.”

That brought a smile from the woman.

“There was a lot to envy about him besides marrying me,” she said. “He had a life. I remember once, just before we got married, I got my courage up to tell him all the things I’d done—I’d had to do—to stay alive. And he just put a finger on my lips and said, ‘I don’t want to hear it. If you tell me the bad things you’ve done, then I’ll have to tell you the bad things I’ve done. And we’ll be here for a month.’”

She shook her head.

“I miss him,” she said. “I don’t mean sometimes, I mean all the time. I mean right now.”

Kane let the silence lengthen, then asked, “You said before that you came down here when you learned that I was missing. What did you mean?”

“I guess you had arranged to meet Mr. Doyle after he came back from Anchorage Sunday night,” she said. “When you didn’t turn up, he tried your hotel room. He let it go until the next day, then he called me. We persuaded the hotel to let us look in your room and when we didn’t find anything and you didn’t turn up, we called the police. They grumbled about how you are a full-grown adult, but they at least went through the motions. We were starting to get really worried, when your cabdriver friend called and told Mr. Doyle he’d found you.”

Kane had a hard time following the woman’s story. She made it sound like he’d been gone a long time.

“What day is today?” he asked.

“Wednesday,” the woman said. “It’s very early Wednesday.”

Adrenaline shot through Kane’s body.

“Wednesday,” he said. “What’s happened while I’ve been gone?”

“What’s happened?” the woman said. “For one thing, the authorities have rearrested Senator Hope. They say that woman, that Melinda Foxx, was pregnant and that DNA evidence proves he was, is, whatever, the father. And they also say that there is evidence that the other staff member was pushed off the fire escape. They’re trying to say Senator Hope did that, too. So they argued that he is a flight risk and a danger to the community and, on Monday a judge named Ritter let them put him back in jail.”

Kane closed his eyes. Four days. He’d been out of commission for four days. He opened his eyes again. It didn’t sound like he had much time to lie around.

“I need a telephone,” he said to Winthrop, “and a directory of legislative phone numbers.”

Winthrop and Mrs. Foster looked at him oddly.

“It’s two a.m.,” she said. “No one will be at the office.”

“Two a.m.?” Kane said. “What are you two doing here?”

Mrs. Foster smiled at him.

“Winthrop is spending the night in case anything happens,” she said. “I’m here because I couldn’t sleep.”

Kane was silent for a moment.

“What else has happened?” he asked. “Anything in the Capitol?”

Winthrop and Mrs. Foster exchanged looks.

“Well, with Senator Hope in jail, they sent the oil tax bill to the Senate floor this morning and Senator Grantham switched his vote without telling anybody,” the woman said. “The tax failed. And both his aides quit. At least, that’s the rumor in the Capitol.”

“Better give me that phone anyway,” he said.

When he had it, he punched in a number and waited. He closed it again without saying anything.

“She’s not home,” he said. “Or she’s not answering.”

He punched in another number and waited. After some time, he said, “Laurie? It’s Nik.” He listened. “Yes, I know what time it is. I wouldn’t be calling unless it was necessary. I need Dylan’s home telephone number in Juneau.” He listened some more. “No, it’s business. I wouldn’t bother him, either, if it wasn’t.” He listened again. “Why don’t you let me worry about how he’ll react. Please. Okay, thanks.” He listened some more. “Yes, I told you. I’ll come and get that stuff as soon as I’m done here. I haven’t forgotten. ’Bye.”

He closed the phone, opened it again, and punched in another number.

“Dylan,” he said. “No? I need Dylan Kane. This is his father.” While he waited, he said to Winthrop, “I’ll need clothes. I’m getting out of here.”

“The doctor said you should have at least a couple of days’ rest, to let the drugs work their way out of your system,” the woman said.

Kane grimaced at her.

“Hello, Dylan,” he said. “This is your father.” He listened. “Yes, I know what time it is. I need some information.” He listened again. “I don’t really have time to listen to you tell me what a son of a bitch I am, Dylan. What do you know about Alma Atwood? Has anything happened to her?” He listened some more. “Dylan, this is important,” he said sharply. “Stop being childish and answer me.” He listened. “What?” he said. He listened some more. “Thank you, Dylan. We’ll deal with your issues before I leave.” He snapped the cell phone shut and handed it to Winthrop.

“Thank God for the Juneau rumor mill,” he said. “The woman I need to talk to quit, and she’s ticketed on the ferry that leaves Auke Bay at eight a.m.”

He looked at the clock.

“That means I’ve got time to shower, thank God,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me on a cattle boat the way I smell. Winthrop, I thought I asked for clothes.”

Wordlessly, the big Native opened the door to the closet section of the all-in-one piece of furniture that shared the room with the hospital bed. Kane’s clean clothes hung there. The detective reached over, peeled the surgical tape from his forearm, and slid the needle out of his flesh. Then he began disconnecting monitors.

“Nurses will come running,” he said to the woman. “Would you mind dealing with them? If nothing else, it will get you out of this room before seeing a sight no decent woman should see when I climb out of this bed.”

The woman laughed and got to her feet.

“I like the decent woman part,” she said and left the room.

“You’re not so lucky, big boy,” Kane said. “Give me a hand.”

Winthrop took Kane by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet like he was a baby.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to look,” Winthrop said as he was doing so. “I value my eyesight.”

T
he MV
Fairweather
is 235 feet of aluminum twin-hulled ferry, designed to carry 35 cars and 250 passengers at 32 knots. It was set to scoot up the Inside Passage from Juneau to Skagway and Haines in just two hours’ time. Once on the road system, the passengers could go wherever their desires and credit cards took them.

Kane walked aboard as the crew was securing for departure, carrying a big cup of coffee. He’d had to talk both Winthrop and Cocoa out of coming with him.

“You keep a close eye on your employer,” he said to Winthrop. “These people are idiots, but they’re violent idiots.” To Cocoa, he said, “Here’s what I want you to do,” then gave him instructions.

“What if your bad friends are on the ferry?” Cocoa asked.

Kane patted his side, where the automatic hung from his belt in its holster.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

He walked through the car deck as the ferry left the dock, sipping coffee and looking for Alma Atwood’s license plate. He found it on a battered Subaru crammed with boxes.

“Hey,” a crewman called to him, “nobody’s allowed on the car deck while we’re under way. You’ve got to go up to the passenger deck.”

Kane nodded and waved, found a companionway, and climbed to the passenger deck. The ferry seemed to be about half full. He worked his way from the stern to the bow and found Alma sitting in the observation lounge, ignoring the attempts of a hairy young fisherman to chat her up.

“Ah, there you are,” he said to Alma.

She looked up, gave a little squeal, and swiveled her head around as if looking for an escape route. Kane stepped closer to keep her from getting to her feet.

“Thanks for keeping my daughter company,” he said to the fisherman.

The young man looked at Kane, at Alma, at Kane again. He opened his mouth to say something, stopped, shrugged, rose, and walked away. Kane sat in his abandoned chair and rested his hand lightly on Alma’s arm. She was trembling.

“We’ve got to talk,” he said.

Alma burst into tears. A couple of passengers looked her way, but Kane’s stare sent them back to their own business. He waited as the woman’s tears became sobs, then labored breathing.

“Look,” he said, “I’m not here to do anything to you. I just need information.”

Alma looked at him with skepticism in her face.

“How did you…,” she said. “How did you find me?”

“Gossip and connections,” he said. “Gossip in the Capitol put you on the ferry, and the connections gave me your license plate so I knew for sure.”

Alma nodded, dug around in her purse, pulled out a wad of tissues, dried her eyes and blew her nose.

“I didn’t know anything was going to happen to you,” she said. “He just said…he just said he wanted to get you someplace private to talk.”

“Who said?” Kane asked.

Alma looked around again, as if expecting that some way out would magically appear.

“I can’t—I can’t tell you that,” she said. “He said that if I ever told anyone, something bad would happen to me.”

Kane nodded and sat silent for a moment.

“Let me explain how things sit,” he said. “You set me up for a kidnapping. I can make a citizen’s arrest and haul you back to Juneau, where you’ll have to talk and you’ll probably go to jail. Or you can tell me what I want to know and go on your way. You decide.”

They sat for a pair of minutes. Rain began hitting the observation room windows, then turned to hail that rapped the windows like BBs. The vibration of the ship remained unchanged as it raced ahead. Kane could feel the weariness in him try to assert itself and fought it back. He didn’t have time to rest.

“It was George Bezhdetny,” Alma said.

Kane nodded.

“Tell me the whole story,” he said.

Alma dabbed at her nose, took a deep breath, and began.

“George has been hanging around the legislature now five or six years,” she said. “The gossip is that he came over from the Ukraine, where he did stuff for the Communists before the…you know, the change over there. He started out working in the lounge, of all things, like busing tables or something. He got to know some of the legislators, since most of them go in there to hide out from time to time. You know, nobody but legislators and people who work there can go in. Anyway, from there he got a staff job for one of the House members, then, after a couple of years, set up as a lobbyist.

“As a lobbyist, he was kind of a joke. He had weird clients and didn’t make much money, just hung around doing errands for legislators and more powerful lobbyists. But at the end of last session, I don’t know, he started dressing better and taking people out to fancy meals and just acting more like a player. Everybody thought he’d gotten some hot new client, but I checked his disclosure report and nothing showed up. So we all figured he was getting paid under the table. The law requires lobbyists to declare all their clients, but there’s lots of ways besides lobbying fees to pass money around.”

She stopped to dab at her nose.

“What’s all this got to do with what happened?” Kane asked.

Alma gave him an offended look.

“You said you wanted the whole story,” she said. “That’s what I’m giving you.”

She reached down and rummaged in her purse, came up with a water bottle, and took a drink.

“Then, just before session, our receptionist quit and the senator hired Jennifer,” she said. “He told me that George had recommended her.”

Alma’s voice dropped.

“You probably heard that Senator Grantham and I were…well, we were an item,” she said. “But we weren’t here two weeks and I was out and Jennifer was in. When I asked the senator about it, he acted like it was just some sort of change in staff assignments. The bastard.”

She paused to cry a little more. Kane let her. When she stopped, he said, “Why did you do it, Alma? Why did you get involved with him in the first place?”

Alma shrugged.

“I was young,” she said. “What did I know? At first, I thought maybe he’d leave his wife for me. Then, by the time I knew that wasn’t going to happen, it was just…just the way things were. He had power, and I had power over him, and we just seemed to be kind of…kind of a team.”

The look she gave him was so forlorn that Kane decided to drop it.

“Okay,” he said, “back to you and George.”

She nodded and continued.

“George knew I was unhappy,” she said. “How could he not? Everyone did. I should have left, but I couldn’t afford it. These staff jobs don’t really pay all that well, and there’s the expense of moving back and forth and, if you are a woman, looking good. So I didn’t have any money in the bank and I was miserable.

“Then all this stuff started happening. George seemed really happy that Senator Hope was in trouble, although he tried to keep it to himself. When you showed up, he sort of asked me to keep an eye on you. Said he’d pay me for it. Then, a few days ago, he says he has to talk to you and could I get you alone so he could.”

She shook her head, drew a deep breath, and continued.

“I said I wouldn’t,” she said. “He just sort of smiled and took a fat envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me. We were in my office, the day after I got so drunk, I remember. I opened the envelope and it was full of money. It turned out to be ten thousand dollars. ‘Drop dead money,’ he called it. And…and the chance to walk away from it all, to just leave that bastard Grantham and this awful situation, just overwhelmed me and I said yes. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

Alma started sobbing again. Kane sat quietly until she finished, then said, “So George Bezhdetny paid you to help him get me out of the way? Why did he do that?”

Alma shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she said, “except that he didn’t want Senator Hope to get out of his trouble, at least not soon.”

“How about his client?” Kane asked. “Any idea who that is?”

Alma just shook her head.

“How about Jennifer?” he asked “Why did she quit?”

“Maybe she just saw through that bastard Grantham a lot faster than I did,” she said. “Maybe she was really outraged by his vote on oil taxes. I know I was.”

“Alma,” Kane said, “that vote wasn’t why you did anything. I looked at your car. You must have been already packed by the time the vote happened.”

Alma sighed and nodded.

“You’re right,” she said. “It was just a pretext to get the hell out of Juneau. But it was still the wrong thing for him to do. And I just don’t understand why he did it.”

She was silent and, when it didn’t seem like Kane was going to speak again, she said softly, “What happens now?”

Kane understood that she was really asking what would happen to her.

“I suppose that, as a good staffer, you’ve got a pen and some paper in that storage locker you call a purse,” he said. “I want you to write down just what you told me, sign it, and date it. Every page. Then, when the ferry docks, you can go wherever you want. I’ll try to not use your statement unless I have to. But don’t kid yourself. There’s nowhere you can go that you can’t be found.”

Alma nodded, took a pen and steno pad from her purse, and began writing. Kane watched the other passengers watch the scenery. They’d passed through the rain, and the sun was playing tag with the ferry through the clouds. The throbbing of the ship’s engines and the sunshine and the warmth of the woman next to him conspired to put him to sleep, but he drank his coffee and fought against his weariness until Alma finished. She handed him the statement, prepared just as he’d said.

She was probably a very good staffer, he thought.

He read the statement, tore it from the pad, folded it, and put it into a pocket. On the port side of the observation deck, people pointed over the side and talked excitedly.

“Orcas,” one of them called across the deck. “A pod of orcas.”

The other passengers hurried over to look, leaving Kane and Alma isolated in their chairs.

“I’m really sorry, Nik,” Alma said. “I never meant for anything bad to happen to you. I…I like you. A lot. It’s just, I had to get out and this seemed like the only way.”

“That’s okay, Alma, I understand,” Kane said as he got to his feet. “It was just politics.”