A Dangerous Breed

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  Claybeck shook her head. “A custody dispute between exes might make sense if these were embryos. If they were created by both—Gorlick, you said?—by him and by Aura together. Then he might have a case. But unfertilized eggs should be her property alone.”

  “Should be. But Gorlick had them hidden. And Aura had to go to extreme measures to get them back.” I rose and walked over to the sink at the wall to turn on the left tap. The flow might have run straight off an iceberg. I splashed the icy drops over my face and the back of my neck. The drips off my skin tasted like sweat and something more sour.

  “Bilal deals in information,” I said. “High-level hacking. If Gorlick somehow arranged to keep his ex-wife’s eggs, out of spite or whatever reason, Bilal could figure out where they had been moved. And he would know how to hire somebody like me to steal them.”

  “Maybe that was the attraction,” Hollis said dryly. “Aura’s a lot younger and prettier than Bilal.”

  “He’s dying. She can’t have kids, except with the eggs. No wonder they’re in a hurry.”

  “So what will you do with them?” Claybeck said, replacing the delicate vial into the thermoslike tube.

  “Her eggs are irreplaceable,” I said. “Bilal and Aura want them far more than they want me dead. We can cut a deal. Fast, before Bilal tries to grab anyone I know off the street to trade.”

  Hollis folded his arms. “Who’s to say Bilal won’t have you killed the second you hand the eggs over?”

  I looked at Dr. Claybeck’s dogs, gnawing on their bones.

  “We’ll enlist some help of our own,” I said. “A bigger animal.”

  Bilal had tried to reach me, of course. Yanking desperately on the electronic leash. The log on the phone he’d given me showed unanswered calls starting two hours ago. He’d dialed the number every sixty seconds, then every five minutes, until about half an hour ago when he’d given up. I called him back on a burner phone from the speedboat.

  “Where are you?” he said.

  “Somewhere you can’t trace the call.”

  “Return immediately. Or I will—”

  “Aura’s eggs look healthy,” I interrupted. “So far as I can tell. I could let them sit on the counter for a while, see if they twitch a little after they thaw out.”

  He was silent.

  “Right,” I said. “Now you listen. No more threats. You want Aura’s eggs, I want you gone. We’re going to make a different agreement, with insurance to make sure you hold up your end.”

  “Please.” Aura’s voice. Not on speaker. She’d taken the phone from Bilal. “They won’t last forever in the container—”

  “I’m aware,” I said. “Just like I know these are the only eggs like them on earth.”

  “We can pay you. Whatever you want.”

  “The things you love will stay safe, so long as everything I love stays safe. You get me?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I understand.”

  “I’ll call and tell you where to meet.”

  I turned the phone off. Pocketed it. Walked back to Claybeck’s house while I tried to quell the churning in my gut.

  I was the aggrieved party here. No question. Bilal and Aura had fired the first shots. And they would be merciless if it got them what they wanted.

  That didn’t make me feel much better about holding a cancer survivor’s only hope for children over her head.

  Back in the basement clinic, I took the cryo tube from Claybeck. “Thanks,” I said.

  “Normally I would bill you, but I’d rather be free of this entire situation immediately.” She turned off the microscope and went to sit on the floor with her dogs, who shifted themselves to lean against her before slipping back into their postsnack dozes. “With a guarantee of no more midnight visits.”

  “I’ll lose your number,” I said.

  “Would you mind if I didn’t, Paula?” Hollis said. “So long as I promise to call at a more civilized hour?”

  Dr. Claybeck looked at him. “And for a more civilized reason.”

  “Of course.”

  She nodded fractionally. Hollis’s smile could have woken the dogs, it was so bright.

  Twenty-Six

  I slept on the settee in the cabin of the Francesca, waking at midmorning. Much later than I’d intended. My eyes felt nearly as gritty as my mouth. The action of the previous two days had wrung me dry.

  Hollis’s snores from the main stateroom below almost made the plates in the cupboards rattle. He’d left a note on the galley counter in his large loopy scrawl. License plate Richard Martens, ATF.

  Rick the Fed was ATF. Not the FBI after all.

  I knew enough about the ATF to know that the modern bureau focused primarily on the last two components of its complete name: firearms and explosives. I also knew the ATF was tiny compared to other branches of federal law, with only about fifty active agents for every state, on average. A victim of the U.S.’s tortuous gun laws—no politician who wanted to keep their job could argue for more funding for a bureau that half the country considered a sworn enemy to their civil rights.

  So what was Sean Burke into that could be worth Special Agent Rick Martens’s time, given the severe manpower constraints of the Seattle field office?

  I showered and brewed a pot of coffee, downing two large mugs and an equal amount of water before I approached feeling human. Raiding Hollis’s dresser, I found a T-shirt advertising Baja California Sur that was relatively stain-free.

  I texted Guerin that I was headed for 13 Coins. He would know without asking that I meant the one near Union Station.

  Growing up, I’d taken full advantage of the twenty-four-hour restaurant in its old location on Boren, where it had been since before my grandfather had come to town as a young man. At fifteen years old I was as likely to get kicked out of the place for making a nuisance as be allowed to order a Monte Cristo at three in the morning.

  The new location retained a few familiar touches, just like Bully Betty’s had when the bar was moved. Swivel chairs at the counter, and the absurdly tall booths with quilted leather backs. But it lacked the amiable seediness of the old place. Too wholesome.

  On the holiday, between the breakfast and lunch hours, I had my pick of seats. I chose the swivel chair at the farthest end, where the counter curved and I could watch for Guerin to come in.

  I checked the news while I waited. The break-in at Ceres Biotech had earned a few lines from most of the local outlets, most of them quoting the SPD spokesperson that police were confident suspects would be apprehended before long. Ceres had officially stated that nothing in the facility had been taken or damaged during the attempt.

  Which was a lie. But did the people at Ceres know it was a lie? Had Timothy Gorlick, MD, etc., hidden his ex-wife’s eggs in Ceres’s cryo chamber without anyone at the company being aware?

  The top story on most webpages was the tightening race in the recall election for governor. It was the Democratic candidate whom I’d seen at the state patrol station, giving hell to ATF agent Martens and Detective Podraski. U.S. Attorney Palmer Stratton.

  I looked up Stratton’s specifics. Seattle native, son of a long-term congressman and grandson of a female state senator. A graduate of Whitaker Academy, one of Seattle’s toniest prep schools, followed by Cornell for undergrad and law. Photos from a quarter century ago showed Stratton at college wrestling tournaments and standing proud in an NROTC uniform. Stratton served five years with Naval JAG, which seemed to be a family tradition after his father and grandpappy. Then back to Washington State to fight for good and right.

  The Strattons went back a long way. From the looks of it they’d been rich and connected every step. Boards of directors, charity funds, hosting events for the Seattle archdiocese. I found numerous photos showing Margaret Stratton, the candidate’s mother and wife of the late congressman, as the regular guest of honor at an annual sailing regatta named for the family.

  The scion Palmer had gone the public service route in becoming a federal
prosecutor, but that was plainly just a stepping-stone to the family business of politics. In another few weeks he might be governor. Onward and upward.

  Guerin walked in at half past ten, surveying the room with the almost arrogant confidence I associated with cops. Some of them lost that swagger when they stopped wearing the badge. I suspected Guerin had it before he’d even entered the academy.

  “Lieutenant,” I said, as he took the chair next to me.

  “Let’s keep this tight,” he said. “I spent enough time yesterday fielding phone calls about you.”

  “Phone calls from whom?”

  He flagged down the server and ordered coffee and a plate of egg whites and wheat toast. I ordered the Italian scramble, just to balance out the level of cholesterol in our party.

  “You first,” he said. “Bitter Lake: Why were you there?”

  “Sean Burke,” I said.

  He very nearly blinked. Enough of a reaction that I knew the direct approach had surprised him. But I wasn’t done yet.

  I showed Guerin the letter from Jo Mixon about the reunion. “This got me following a trail. About Moira—my mother—and maybe my father, too.”

  Guerin stared. It took a lot to throw the veteran cop, but I might have managed it.

  “Burke is your father?” he said.

  I waited until the waitress had placed our mugs of coffee in front of us. Neither of us moved to pick them up.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Dono had dealings with Sean Burke’s father, Fergus, around that time. I know through a school friend of Moira’s that she knew Sean. They seem to have had a relationship of some kind, enough that Moira wrote him letters. Beyond that . . .” I shrugged.

  “Good Lord Almighty,” Guerin said. We both sat for a moment.

  “Dealings,” he said at last, “with Gut Burke. You happen to know what kind?”

  “Whatever they were, the statute of limitations is gone in the rearview. Plus the fact that they’re both dead. Makes a conviction tough.”

  I tried the coffee. It was hot enough to kill any taste buds that dared to take a whack at it. “If you know Gut Burke’s name, you must be up to speed on Sean. Your turn, Lieutenant.”

  “Not so fast,” he said. “Let’s go back to why you were around Burke’s house.”

  “Learning what I could,” I said.

  “From the view standing on the sidewalk, I’m sure.”

  “Anything else would be trespassing.”

  Guerin shot me a flat look. “I don’t like cute.”

  “Then don’t ask when you already know how I’ll answer. If you’re just going to stonewall me, I’ll get my breakfast to go and save us both some fucking time.”

  My attitude didn’t piss Guerin off. Like any cop who worked for a living, he took abuse almost every day. The smart ones learned how to let it wash off their backs while they continued to look for an angle.

  And Guerin must have had some idea of the emotions fueling my outburst.

  “You’re going to keep looking into Burke,” he said.

  I was waiting with the fork in my hand when the server put the plates down. Ravenous. I took a bite of the scramble and washed it down.

  “All right,” Guerin said. “I can tell you a limited amount. Maybe you already know what I know, thanks to those two hauling you in yesterday. But it’s all you’ll get.”

  I nodded.

  “Burke has eyes on him,” Guerin said. “High enough that there’s a special joint task force. It’s small and very contained. Podraski is state. There’s federal involvement, too.”

  “ATF,” I said.

  He fixed me with a look. “However the hell you found that out, I can neither confirm nor deny it. SPD is out of the loop. But that doesn’t mean I’m free to conjecture. Right?”

  “Go on.”

  “Do you know who Gut Burke worked for, a few years after he made the move west?”

  “Some mob. That’s all people remember from thirty years ago.”

  “If you dug deeper into Seattle history and arrest records and bought some old print journalists a few beers, somebody might connect Burke to the name Liashko. Ever heard it?”

  “Nuh-uh,” I said around a mouthful. My hand and mouth managing the food while my mind was completely focused on Guerin.

  “Anatoly Liashko,” he said. “Ukrainian, originally, but raised mostly in western Russia. The eldest son of a homegrown mobster who started making inroads here in the Northwest just before the Wall came down, when things were going to shit for the Soviets.”

  “Running what?”

  “Human trafficking to start, then drugs on a limited scale, whatever the slime could dredge up. After the collapse, young Anatoly expanded. Eventually into weapons during the Chechen wars. His eventual arms concession—legitimized thanks to the Russian oligarchs—made him a hundred times richer, with political influence to match. A lot of that money and clout evaporated when Putin started consolidating power. Maybe Liashko didn’t bribe the right people at the right time.”

  “Did he still have connections over here? If he couldn’t sell his goods at home . . .”

  Guerin touched his nose. I’d hit the mark. The server came over and asked Guerin if there was anything wrong with his plate, which he hadn’t touched. He shook his head and picked up his fork.

  “Liashko doesn’t come to the States often,” he said. “He’ll visit Vancouver, where most of his—‘dealings,’ you called them—seem to be centralized. But he’s wary. You sure you don’t know what business your grandfather was into with Gut Burke?”

  “Dono didn’t work for crime families.”

  “So you say. At any rate, Liashko still has American citizens on his payroll, too.”

  “Doing what? Arms smuggling?”

  He ignored the question. “Podraski and his partner hauled you in yesterday to try and figure out who you work for. Liashko, or one of his enemies. They thought they could squeeze you.”

  From Guerin, that was almost a compliment.

  “When it became clear that you wouldn’t bend, they had a choice,” he said. “They could book you for suspected B&E at Burke’s house. You’d hide behind a lawyer and sooner or later they would have to explain to a judge why they are watching Burke. That could risk their whole operation, and one burglar just isn’t worth it. So you walked. But if you cross their paths again, they will go back to Door Number One and stick you in a box for as long as they can twist the system to keep you there. They are motivated.”

  Guerin finally took a bite of his egg whites. “We’ve reached the end of story time. The point, in case you missed it, is that you would be all kinds of smart to stay the hell away from Sean Burke. For reasons both legal and familial.” He raised his eyebrows. “If you really are related, the less you let this scum into your life, the better.”

  I still had a third of my meal left. I didn’t want it.

  “One last question,” I said. “The doors in the patrol station aren’t as thick as they could be. I caught the name Santora when Podraski and the ATF guy were arguing. Something about winding up like Santora.”

  The lieutenant stopped chewing. “I told you the department was out of the loop.”

  “Doesn’t mean you don’t recognize the name.”

  “Which you might also find background on, if you dug hard enough. Which you would. Damn it.” He scowled. “Marcus Santora. An ATF agent. He’s been missing and presumed dead for the past two years. No funeral yet, because the family is still holding out hope. His bureau isn’t. When an agent disappears while on undercover assignment, there aren’t a lot of alternative theories to the obvious one. We can only hope to find his body someday and give the family some peace. That’s another reason why I don’t want you kicking up dust.”

  “Santora was undercover on Liashko?” I stopped myself. “Forget it; I know. Neither confirm nor deny. I can piece it together.”

  “Not quite.” He tapped a fingertip on the counter. “Liashko was the target. But it
was Sean Burke who’s the prime suspect in killing Agent Santora. Burke also looks good for the murders of at least two more people we know of, on Liashko’s orders. The Feds may not have evidence to prove it—not yet—but they’ll get there soon enough.”

  Guerin pushed his plate away. Maybe his appetite had vanished as quickly as mine had.

  “Burke is an assassin, Shaw. He’s Liashko’s gun in the United States and maybe elsewhere, and he will absolutely end anyone who gets too close. Anyone at all. You’d best keep that reality front and center in your head.”

  I couldn’t think of one damn thing to say to that.

  Junior Year, Part Four

  Broadway was home ground for street kids. The permanent homeless had Pioneer Square and the tent cities along I-5, but teenagers had gravitated to the Hill since before I was born, Dono once told me. They still did. Something about the compactness of the neighborhood, lots of people, lots of little shops, combined with the length of the street itself. Nearly a mile on the main drag left a lot of space if somebody ordered them to move along.

  Prime panhandling was wherever foot traffic was thickest, off the bus stops and by the main intersections. The parking lot of the B of A was popular. Good foot traffic, easy to see cops coming. A couple of kids about my age had parked themselves there, mumbling the litany of “spare change” to every passerby. They weren’t so high that I couldn’t get a response out of them. I asked if they’d seen Candace tonight. The space cases didn’t recognize her name right off, but after a quick description they knew what girl I meant.

  Candace was what my granddad would call a do-gooder. He didn’t mean it as a compliment, though I was never sure why not. If Candace wanted to spend her spare time talking with street kids, who gave a fuck? At least they could trust her not to rip them off.