Degrees of Separation

by Sue Henry

  “It’s down there in the brush,” said a tall man. “I had pulled over to wait until the shaking stopped and saw it leave the road during the last of the quake. Seemed to just lose his sense of direction with everything moving like it was. Instead of following the curve around, he drove straight off, flew through the air, hit a tree, and dropped like a stone. I saw him go.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Just a few minutes.”

  Well, Alex thought, unless he stopped somewhere to wait for me to go by, it can’t be Malone. He left Sutton half an hour ago.

  When he and the tall man had climbed carefully down to reach the site where the motorcycle had come to rest, his prediction proved accurate.

  The rider was, as expected, not Jeff Malone, though the motorcycle was painted like his and the rider, now clearly deceased from the face-first impact with the tree, wore the patch of a Road Pirate on the left shoulder of a similar black leather coat. But when Alex removed what was left of the battered helmet, a cascade of blond hair that had been tucked up under it fell down over the shoulders of a woman.

  Nowhere on her body or the motorcycle did he find any kind of identification, but he knew the license plate number would lead him to its owner as soon as he could get back to town and look it up. He didn’t even try to call his office for backup, knowing the switchboard would, as usual, after even a minor earthquake, be jammed with incoming calls, and this one had not been small. Also, there would be little help available for assessing the scene at which the woman had died, for every officer, trooper or policeman, would be occupied indefinitely in assisting victims of the quake.

  With the help of the tall man, it took the better part of an hour to implement the retrieval of the woman’s body, wrap it in a blanket from someone’s car, and drag up the damaged motorcycle using the winch mounted on the front bumper of Jensen’s truck. Both secured in the bed of the pickup, he continued his drive into Palmer, where he would take them to the state troopers office for transport to the morgue and, possibly, the crime lab in Anchorage.

  The description of the motorcycle going off the road at enough speed to launch it into the air made him wonder why the driver had seemingly made no effort to slow or stop. Most riders were quick in handling their bikes, which were more responsive than automobiles, and he would have expected at least an attempt to avoid the deadly flight. The woman had evidently made none. Could something have been wrong with the brakes, the steering?

  Or was the cause simply the earthquake? It would be worth examining.

  Reaching the top of the long hill toward Palmer’s most heavily trafficked intersection, where the Glenn Highway crossed the road out of Palmer all the way to Wasilla, Jensen could see chaos ahead and traffic backed up in all four directions with fender benders, the result of several cars and trucks having collided there. Making a quick left turn, he made his way down Arctic Avenue, weaving his way through a lesser but similar confusion of traffic, and turned right on Alaska Street, which ran parallel to the railroad tracks. Reaching Evergreen, which crossed the tracks to South Valley Way and the state troopers office, he was forced to swing wide around a wreck in the intersection, where a police officer was now directing traffic.

  “Hey, Jensen,” he yelled, recognizing fellow law enforcement, and holding back a line of slow-moving cars to create a space for a left turn. “Pull through here.”

  As he made the turn, Alex saw Hank Peterson trotting toward him and waving a hand to attract his attention. He hesitated just long enough for Hank to open the passenger door and hop in, and was already in motion as Hank closed it.

  “Hey,” Hank said. “What a pain this—”

  “Hold that thought,” Jensen requested. “Let me get through this turmoil first, okay?”

  With that, he continued on over the tracks, watching carefully for erratic drivers and negotiating a route between several other vehicles before making the turn onto South Valley Way, pulling up in front of the office and turning off the engine of the pickup. Leaning back in the seat, he took off the Western hat he was wearing and fanned himself with it.

  “What a mess. Was anyone badly hurt?”

  “Couple of people that I know of were sent off to the hospital,” Hank told him. “One broke an arm when she fell off a curb into the street, and the owner of the bookstore has a nasty head injury. Otherwise just scrapes and bruises—at least in or near this intersection. I haven’t been anywhere else, but I hear the Fred Meyer store is a real mess and some people got hit with stuff falling off the shelves up there. Where you coming from?”

  “In from Sutton. There’s a place or two where the road caved in between here and there. I’m carrying the body of a female biker who sailed off the road six or seven miles out. She hit a tree on the way down and it killed her.”

  “Who?”

  “No identification on her.”

  Hank nodded slowly, frowning. “Well, if she rides a bike I might know who she is. There aren’t that many women who do.”

  Jensen stared at him for a long minute in silence, then shook his head and said, “Two degrees. Jessie’s right, I think.”

  “Degrees?”

  “Of separation. She says that if you ask one or two people around here you’ll find someone who knows the person you’re interested in. You are one degree in answering my question. If you can identify the woman, that makes two.”

  “Oh, that old six degrees of separation thing. Yeah, Jessie’s got it figured. Around here it wouldn’t take six. Two or three is about right.” He hesitated thoughtfully for a moment or two.

  “You have something I need to know?” Jensen asked finally.

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said slowly. “I think maybe you should know that I was talking with Jeff Malone at the Other Place last night. He’d come out from town looking for his girlfriend, Robin. Seems no one’s seen her the last couple of days. He said she isn’t at her place out on the loop near the butte, she doesn’t answer her cell phone, and wasn’t at work yesterday.”

  Jensen frowned, his mind racing back to the wreck of the woman on the motorcycle.

  “She a blonde?” he asked.

  “No,” Hank answered, shaking his head. “Brunette.”

  “Well, this one’s blond—but dyed, I think.”

  “Then it’s not her. But before he started dating Robin, he was tight with Sharon Parker, and she’s a bottle blonde.”

  “Does she ride a bike like Malone’s, black with green pinstriping?”

  Hank nodded.

  “Wear black leather with a Road Pirate patch?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Jensen interrupted with another question. “Where will I find Malone this morning?”

  Hank shook his head and waved a hand toward the confusion across the railroad tracks caused by the earthquake.

  “In this? I have no idea. You might try his place here in town. He might be home. I haven’t seen him this morning and he wasn’t at the Aces.”

  “Well, until we know for sure who this woman is, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself. No sense making mistakes in identification if it isn’t who you think it might be. Okay?”

  “Okay.” He opened the door to climb out of Jensen’s truck. “For now, there’s a lot of upset people in town. So I’m going back over to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “Good idea. Be careful.”

  “You bet.”

  Hank climbed out of the truck and headed back across the railroad tracks toward the historic station that stood alongside them, raising a hand in a farewell salute.

  In the yard on Knik Road over an hour earlier, Jessie had known another earthquake was probably on the way when the dogs began to howl, whine, and move about uneasily, as they usually did just before one occurred.

  She went down the porch stairs and walked across to Tank, who was howling with the rest, but stopped when she reached him, gave him a pat, and unclipped the line that restrained him.

  “Too bad Bi
lly isn’t here to hear you guys sing,” she told him as the shaking began.

  Expecting another minor event, she waited, then frowned as it grew worse and with a rumble under her feet began to move in waves across the ground. All around her both the dogs and their boxes rose and fell as the earth rolled and rocked them. Most of the howling stopped and the sound of earth moving and grinding was all that could be heard, except for a whimper or two. Several vanished into their boxes, but most remained outside staggering and bracing themselves to keep their footing, as did Jessie, who moved to hold on to the roof of Tank’s, which was nearest.

  Looking across at the trees that formed the woods beyond the yard, she watched them whip back and forth, coming close to sweeping the ground with their top branches. With sharp cracks, two or three broke off or had their trunks split vertically.

  A car on the road screeched to a halt. The driver leaped out and ran away from it into her driveway, apparently leaving the engine running, though she could hear nothing but the roaring, breaking, tearing sounds that were coming from the woods and yard around her—up from the ground itself as it moved violently under her feet. As she watched, he tripped and sprawled full length on the rough ground.

  As the quake continued she dropped to her knees and, hugging Tank close, turned to look at her house. Four or five feet off the ground on its basement foundation, it was moving. She could see that the supporting concrete had developed more than one crack, though it seemed to be holding together due to the required earthquake reinforcement the builder had used. She could imagine that the jars of fruit, jelly, and jam she had canned during the summer and stored in the basement were probably falling from their shelves to shatter on the cement floor. It would be a sticky, glass-filled mess to clean up later.

  Glad she was not inside, she wondered what was happening in her house, knowing there would be similar clutter to clean up in the kitchen as well when a quake this size finally stopped. She hoped the gas lines wouldn’t break and was relieved that the fire in the potbellied stove had burned itself out earlier and she had neglected to start another. Glad also that she had quakeproofed the kitchen cupboards with latches so they wouldn’t fly open and dump out the dishes, pots and pans, and canned goods, she hung on and waited as the shaking continued. The refrigerator, she thought, was another thing, and most of what it held would without a doubt be emptied onto the kitchen floor—milk, juice, yogurt, cottage cheese, fresh rhubarb jam, and other things—to make a colorful coating on the tile.

  Where was Alex? she wondered. He had gone early to visit Becker in the hospital and see what he could do about finding the biker who had run his partner off the road.

  She had left her cell phone in the house and was not about to go back in after it until things calmed down. Probably wouldn’t be able to get through anyway, she decided, and best just to take care of what she could where she was.

  He would be in contact soon enough.

  Finally everything stopped shaking and it was very still, except for the engine of the car left on the road, which had bounced almost onto the shoulder. Not a bird flew or made a sound for a few moments. Then a raven came soaring out of the woods with a squawk of protest at the treatment it had suffered as it clung to some branch, making her smile.

  “You okay?” the man who had abandoned his car called to her, then went back to it and drove away when she assured him she was.

  Taking Tank with her, she went to check the gas lines, see what the inside of the house had to offer in damage, and find out if she could get any information on the radio, or get through to Alex on the cell phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IT WAS ALMOST FIVE O’CLOCK BEFORE JENSEN FOUND TIME TO consider what Hank Peterson had told him concerning Malone’s search for his missing girlfriend. He now knew, from a check of the license plate on the motorcycle on which she had crashed off the highway, that the dead women was indeed Sharon Parker. Her body rested at the troopers’ office until transport to the crime lab in Anchorage could be made available, along with her damaged motorcycle. Jensen went off to see where he could be of help in Palmer.

  Midway through an afternoon of helping to rescue people stuck or injured in the quake, clearing traffic-snarling vehicles from the roads and intersections, contacting the military to establish guards at banks and other businesses to halt looters, checking to make sure schoolchildren got home safely, and generally making himself useful wherever he was needed, after several tries he finally got a call through to Jessie’s cell phone and they spoke briefly.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, you?”

  “Yeah. Damage report?”

  “Not much, actually. Gas lines held. Kitchen and pantry are a mess, but I’m working on it. The dogs are fine. I am fine. Would have called, but couldn’t get through and knew you’d be incredibly busy anyway.”

  “That and more. Have no idea when I’ll be able to get home tonight, so don’t expect me till you see me. Don’t light fires or use the gas. If you’ve got power—”

  “Amazingly, I do.”

  “Then use a couple of space heaters.”

  “Already got ’em running. We’ll be okay for the time being.”

  “Good. I’ll be home when I can.”

  “Becker?”

  “Okay. I called. They were flooded with people hurt in the quake so they couldn’t do surgery on his arm today, but will try tomorrow. He said to tell you hi and be safe.”

  “You take care.”

  “You too, love. Gotta go. Bye.”

  And he was gone.

  It was full dark when he could finally take a few minutes to turn his attention from quake-related business to that of tracking down Jeff Malone to tell him of his prior girlfriend’s death and obtain any information he might be able to provide.

  Rather than try to find where he lived, on a hunch he went to the Aces Wild and was successful on that first try. Several members of the Road Pirates, including Malone, were helping Mike, the substitute bartender, finish cleaning the place.

  Taking him outside, away from the listening ears of those in the bar, Alex first demanded to know where he had been for the last couple of days.

  “Around,” Malone told him with a shrug and a frown. “What’s the problem?”

  “I understand you’ve been looking for Robin Fenneli all over town and not finding her—that she hasn’t been home for a day or two, or anywhere else you’ve looked. What’s that all about?”

  “What business is it of yours?” The question carried a decided tone of resentment.

  “I’m making it my business in the investigation of Donny Thompson’s death, among other things, that’s what. And I suggest you give me answers and get a better attitude while you do.”

  “What the hell could Robin’s whereabouts have to do with Donny’s death? I told you she went home from the bar that night and I know because she was home when I got there not too long after seeing her at Oscar’s in Wasilla.”

  “Anyone else know that?”

  “I don’t know. I may have mentioned it to someone. Maybe she did.”

  “Not too long, you say. But you didn’t go out to her place that night until almost midnight.”

  “So? It was less than two hours.”

  “You been out to Sutton today?”

  “Why?”

  The stress of the last two days, Becker’s accident, the problems in Sutton and Palmer, the results of the earthquake, the death on the road—everything mixed together and finally caught up with Jensen as he had all he was willing to take of Malone’s evasion.

  “Look,” he said sharply. “If necessary, I can provide you with a night in lockup for obstruction if it helps remind you how to cooperate with law enforcement. You will answer my questions, one way or another, but I don’t have any responsibility or reason to answer yours. Got it?

  “Now, get in my truck. We’ll finish this interview at the office. On the record.”

  “All right,” Alex said, when they were
seated across from each other at a table in an interview room, with Commander Swift sitting in at one end to listen in and with a recorder running. “First I want to know if you were out at Sutton today.”

  “No, I was not,” Malone snapped back. “But I was there last night at the bar with Lee.”

  “And what was that about?”

  “He called and asked me to come out, so I went. He wanted to know where we were on Friday night and when Donny left Oscar’s place, which I told him, just like I told you—between nine thirty and ten, headed for home.”

  “You say you spent that night with Robin Fenneli. Have you seen her in the last two days? Do you know where she is?”

  Malone sank back in his chair, resentment fading from his face to be replaced by an expression of concern.

  “No,” he said slowly. “I left her place Saturday morning and talked to her on the phone that afternoon. Asked her to meet me for dinner, but she said she was busy. Haven’t seen or talked to her since and can’t find anybody else who has.”

  Frowning, he shook his head and leaned forward to put both elbows on the table and address Jensen seriously. “Okay. Here’s the thing. I went out there yesterday—mid-afternoon, about three thirty—when I tried to reach her at work and they said she hadn’t been in all day. But she wasn’t home either. The house was locked. Her car was there, but not her bike, and there were a couple of things in the mailbox, so I assumed she hadn’t been there all day.”

  “Bike?” Jensen questioned. “She rides a motorcycle? With the Road Pirates? Black jacket, green patch?”

  “Yeah, sometimes, with me and the guys. There are several women who ride with us. She drives her car to work, but at times, if the weather’s good, she rides the bike by herself. I thought she’d put it away for the winter when it snowed the other day. But I looked in her shed and it was gone. So she evidently took it somewhere. And what worries me is that nobody’s seen her since Saturday, possibly Sunday—two whole days.”

  “What time did you come back to town and on which road?”

  Malone sat up straight with a jerk and narrowed his eyes, catching the sharper tone in Jensen’s voice. “Why?” he asked cautiously.