Bonereapers

by Jeanne Matthews

  “Show me a search warrant. In English.”

  “I don’t need a warrant. There was an attack on a Norwegian government official and the officer who interviewed you at the airport thought you might be in Norway under false pretenses.”

  “What?”

  “Will you please come back inside and answer my questions?”

  Furious, she swept back into the room. “Let me see that ID again.”

  He held it out to her. The photo matched. She was apparently dealing with Detective Inspektor Thor Ramberg.

  He put the ID back in his inside jacket pocket and took out an American passport. Hers. “Your passport indicates that you’ve traveled recently in the Philippines.”

  “What of it? I’m an American citizen. And while it’s none of your business, I was in the Philippines two years ago with an anthropological expedition, studying the customs of the indigenous tribes on Mindanao. All of whom are more polite and considerate than the Norwegians I’ve met so far, by the way. Now give me back my passport.”

  He handed it her back to her without a glimmer of apology. “I assure you, this is a routine inquiry, Ms. Pelerin. I will be questioning both diplomats and non-diplomats who arrived with you. Are you an employee of Tillcorp?”

  “No. I’m in your country at the behest of Senator Frye.”

  “Do you work for Senator Frye?”

  “No. I work for the University of Hawaii. I’m here as Senator Frye’s temporary assistant.” She felt a spurt of generalized resentment. “And the only compensation I get for freezing my buns off is a round trip ticket, a coat and boots that feel like they’re made out of paper, and two nights lodging in a hotel where apparently anyone can waltz into my room whenever they please. Just what is it you’re looking for?”

  “A laser pointer.”

  “Like the one that protester shot at Herr Dybdahl?”

  “The same one. It wasn’t on Herr Eftevang when we searched him, nor has it been found at the airport. Either he passed it to an accomplice or someone picked it up and walked off with it in the confusion.”

  “Well, I didn’t swipe it. I haven’t the foggiest who this Herr Efte…what?”

  “Eftevang. Fritjoe Eftevang.”

  “I’ve never heard of him and I haven’t a clue what he did with the laser.”

  “He claims he didn’t do anything with it. He claims it was someone else in the crowd who fired the beam. Think back. What did you see?”

  Dinah sank into the armchair and tried to recall. What was it that Aagaard had called the protester? Angriper. It must mean somebody with a gripe, an aggressor or assailant. Whatever. The angriper had made so much fuss that, like everyone else, she’d assumed he was the source of the beam. But it could have come from the man who shouted “he has a gun.” The people around him would either have ducked or turned to look at the protester, perhaps giving him time to whip out the laser, fire at the minister, and pocket it again before anyone saw. “It all happened in an instant, or seemed to. A man shouted ‘gun,’ the guards tackled the protester, I saw a spot of red light flash in the window behind the stage. It bounced around willy-nilly until it landed on the minister’s face.” She spread her hands, palms up, like what do you think?

  His face was impassive. “Did you look back to see where the light was coming from?”

  “I tried, but I couldn’t tell. Senator Frye was looking back at the protester and he blocked my view. I suppose if he didn’t see the laser, and the people on the stage didn’t see it, then it must have come from the side. I didn’t realize what it was until Herr Dybdahl cried out and collapsed.”

  “Did you observe Brander Aagaard’s reaction at any time? Did he give any indication that he anticipated the attack?”

  She stared in surprise. “No. I mean, I can’t say. Do you think he knew…?”

  “I’m investigating every possibility. Longyearbyen has attracted a group of forførers…”

  “What?”

  “People who think they can mock the police. They will find themselves much mistaken.”

  She wasn’t sure if he lumped her in with the forførers or not, but his arrogance irked her. What kind of investigative experience could the guy have acquired way up here in the boondocks where polar bears outnumbered people? And what’s more, she didn’t believe for one second that he had the right to enter anyone’s room without a warrant. If he tried prowling through the senators’ rooms, they’d raise holy hell. This was probably the crime of the century in Longyearbyen and Thor Ramberg was looking to make a name for himself and maybe get promoted to a more temperate, cosmopolitan byen down south. She said, “Your investigation can’t benefit from anything I have to say. If you suspect Herr Aagaard, I suggest you question him directly.”

  “I have and will again. During your flight from the States, did you observe anyone in possession of a laser?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Did you see or hear anyone on the plane contact another person here in Norge, in Norway?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” Erika had texted somebody, but Dinah didn’t know whether the somebody was in Norway or the U.S. or right there on the airplane with them. She definitely hadn’t fired the laser.

  “From where you were sitting in the airport lounge, could you see either of Mr. Mahler’s bodyguards?”

  “No. And aren’t you going a bit overboard with your investigation? That laser may be more powerful than’s legal, but it’s probably no bigger than a ballpoint pen. The protester could’ve dropped it into a furnace grate or a waste bin before the police got ahold of him. Why do you believe his story? He was angry, ranting. He thinks Tillcorp wants to destroy God’s creations. Valerie Ives says he’s been stalking Jake Mahler.”

  Ramberg’s eyes glinted. “The laser wasn’t fired at Jake Mahler.”

  “Do you think Senator Sheridan was the target?”

  “No. I think the beam reached its intended target. And I believe Mr. Eftevang when he says he didn’t shoot it. He seemed to me an idealistic sort of man.”

  “But what conceivable reason would anyone else have to assault a member of the Norwegian government? Mr. Mahler and the senators could have no earthly reason. They’re here to curry favor with the Norwegians.”

  “If you are unfamiliar with the animosity between Mr. Mahler and Herr Dybdahl, I suggest that you question Mr. Mahler directly.”

  So she had irritated him. Good. He was a blister of the first order. “It seems obvious that Herr Eftevang was the culprit. He’s probably part of some radical green movement and his anger was stoked by Internet rumors about the Norwegian government facilitating access to corporate breeders or some such. I’m sure if you start over again and grill him more thoroughly, you’ll get a confession.”

  “I have no witnesses and no evidence and Eftevang had the right to speak his opinion freely. It was an open forum and likening Americans to the Romans cannot be deemed as hate speech. I was forced to release him.”

  “How irksome that must be for you. But seeing as how you’ve found no evidence in my room, I’d appreciate it if you’d take your Gestapo tactics someplace else.”

  He gave her a sardonic look. “Norway was invaded and occupied by the Germans in nineteen-forty. We know something about the Gestapo. You may find me lacking in delicacy, but do not compare my tactics to the Gestapo.”

  He started for the door and she got up and followed him.

  His hand was on the knob, but he turned back to her with a frosty half-smile. “You’ll be here longer than two nights.”

  “And why is that? Do you intend to arrest me?”

  “Blizzard’s blowing in. No planes in or out until it clears.”

  She shut the door behind him with a bang, rechained it, and boosted the thermostat as high as it would go. Thor Ramberg gave off more chill than a
n iceberg.

  Chapter Six

  What kind of a name was Thor anyway? Had his parents christened him with the name of the Norse god of thunder or had he, in his overweening arrogance, adopted the moniker? She undressed, nestled under the duvet with her book of Norse myths, and scanned the index for references to Thor.

  Thor, it seemed, was the greatest of the Norse gods, the most revered and the most beloved. His father, Odin, had created the earth, which would give anyone a big head. But Thor was different. Whereas Odin championed warriors and the nobility, Thor stood up for the little people, the farmers and peasants. Odin strutted about with a raven on each shoulder and amused himself by inciting wars and deciding on a whim who should win them and who should lose. By contrast, Thor liked law and order and stability. Thor came across as a reasonable sort of god. Dinah wasn’t so sure about the reasonableness of his namesake. She thought about him snooping around her room. Had he pawed through her suitcase, too? He must have.

  There was a knock on the door. “Hallo. Service for the turndown, behage.”

  “No need,” called Dinah.

  “And extra towels and tomato juice, as you requested.”

  Dinah dog-eared the page about Thor and let the maid in. Blond, blue-eyed, and petite, she could have doubled for Reese Witherspoon. While she changed the towels and restocked the mini-bar, Dinah reflected on an article she’d read somewhere about eye color. Apparently, ten thousand years ago, everybody had brown eyes and blue eyes were the result of a mutant gene. She wondered how Thor Ramberg had dodged this mutant gene that seemed to have colonized most of Norway. He must have mixed ancestry.

  “Will there be anything else?” Reese asked.

  “Nothing you can help me with. Thank you.”

  When she had gone, Dinah refastened the door chain and went back to reading about the original Thor.

  His wife Sif was another blonde. One night while her husband was off making thunder and she was sleeping, the mischievous trickster Loki sneaked into her bedroom and lopped off her shining tresses. The lady woke up to a very bad hair day. She was distraught and Thor was royally pissed. He would have murdered Loki, but Loki promised to replace every golden strand. And he did. He conned a pair of dwarf goldsmiths into spinning Sif a brand new head of hair so fine that the slightest puff of air would ruffle it. While their bellows was hot, the dwarfs forged other marvelous gifts for the gods—a magic spear for Odin, a magic boat for Frey. Somewhere during the description of Thor’s magic hammer, Dinah dropped off to sleep.

  ***

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Once again, the sound of raised voices coming from the room next door awakened her. Overheated and thirsty, she hauled herself out of bed, turned down the thermostat, and went to the bathroom for a glass of water. Evidently, Erika hadn’t made it home before Colt and he was giving her what for. Had she not warned him that the walls had ears or didn’t she care?

  What time was it anyway? Dinah picked her watch off the counter and was astounded. Six a.m. Had Erika stayed out all night or were they resuming a quarrel they’d begun earlier in the evening? If so, Dinah had slept through it. She walked back into the bedroom and opened the drapes. It was pitch black and in the winking blue lights, snow whirled past her window in a maelstrom. Good God, how did people cope with this climate when they didn’t see a sunrise for months on end?

  “Don’t lie to me, Erika. Did you meet him? Did you tip him off about Jake?”

  Dinah stretched and put on a pot of coffee to brew. The Sheridans’ marriage was fraught with drama. How much of it derived from personal issues and how much from politics she could only guess. But from what Dinah had seen and heard so far, the former songbird of Fata Morgana led her husband a merry chase. She would make a remarkable First Lady.

  Starving, Dinah reviewed the directory of hotel services and amenities. “Frokost” was served from six-thirty until ten-thirty. She dressed in the first few layers she intended to wear on the tour of the seed vault and sat down to drink her coffee and wait until the restaurant opened. If the weather didn’t improve, maybe the tour would be postponed.

  The Sheridans were holding it down this morning or maybe they’d kissed and made up. It was impossible not to speculate about the cause of their conflict. She inferred that the “him” Erika had tipped off was Brander Aagaard. Who else could he have had in mind? Aagaard’s question about Jake Mahler had definitely thrown him off balance. But how would a Montana senator’s wife know a Dagbladet muckraker and why would she feed him information that would embarrass her husband? One thing was certain: whoever tipped off whom, Iceberg Ramberg considered everyone who was in the airport lounge yesterday a suspect in the assault on Herr Dybdahl.

  At six-thirty on the dot, she tucked her passport in her purse for safekeeping and sallied out the door to breakfast, riding her clogs with growing proficiency. As she entered the dining room, she saw Senator Keyes and Jake Mahler already seated at the table where the lovers had sat last night. Engaged in what appeared to be a troubling conversation, they didn’t look up. Before sitting down, she scoped out the buffet table. It was laden with smoked fish, pickled herring, boiled eggs, cheese, and bread. There were also individual boxes of muesli and a pitcher of milk. She’d hoped for a few slices of fruit, but after all, it was December at the North Pole. She would have to make do.

  The long table set up for last night’s fete had been dismantled and she took a small, out-of-the-way table and sat facing the entrance with her back to Keyes and Mahler. If Senator Sheridan came down and joined his two friends, perhaps Erika would sit with Dinah and dish. A winsome young woman with blue eyes, deep dimples, and a lilting accent asked if she would prefer kaffe or te.

  “Kaffe, please.”

  She poured a cup and gestured toward the buffet. “Frokost. What you say in English, breakfast. Please help yourself at the koldtbord.”

  “Thank you.” Suddenly, Dinah felt guilty that she hadn’t bothered to learn the words for please and thank you. “How do you say thank you in Norwegian?”

  “Takk.”

  “Takk. And thank you very much?”

  “Tusen takk.”

  Dinah read her nametag. “Tusen takk, Greta.”

  The girl smiled and breezed off to the next table.

  Dinah sipped her coffee and thought about what she would do to entertain herself today if the Svalbard tour had to be nixed due to the blizzard. Bitterly cold as it was, she supposed she ought to take at least one short walk through the town just to say she’d done it. She’d never be in this neighborhood again, that much was sure. She returned to the koldtbord and loaded her plate with enough protein to insulate her against the elements and was on her way back to her table when the Sheridans rolled in, smiling and holding hands like newlyweds. Or actors in a play.

  Erika acknowledged Dinah with a suggestion of a smile, but walked past her without a word. Colt led her straight to the Keyes-Mahler table. The men stood up and there was a chorus of commentary about the blizzard before they all sat down. Erika expressed disappointment that the weather prevented them from seeing the aurora borealis.

  Dinah sat down and devoted herself to her frokost. She chalked up Erika’s aloofness to the fact that she’d revealed too much about her husband and his entourage for comfort.

  Valerie Ives, Norris Frye, and the two non-Secret Service bozos trooped into the dining room next, talking a blue streak. They filed past Dinah and seated themselves at a table adjacent to the Sheridans. An animated buzz of conversation ensued. Dinah listened for a mention of Thor Ramberg and his invasive and possibly illegal search, but the only words she picked up were “change of plans” and “delayed departure.”

  Dinah finished her muesli and was about to slink away unseen when Tipton Teilhard III appeared in the doorway looking like a little lost boy. He had wet down his hair, but the cowlick o
n top of his head remained stubbornly perpendicular and his Brooks Brothers suit looked ridiculous when everyone else was decked out in ski outfits. He chewed his lower lip and hesitated, as if debating whether it would be okay to interrupt the grown-ups. Dinah flashed him a big smile and motioned him to her table.

  “Oh, hi.” He looked stressed. “Everything’s a total shambles. Senator Sheridan is supposed to be in Iowa the day after tomorrow to get ready for the caucus and now our whole agenda is up in smoke.”

  “It’s not your fault if the weather won’t cooperate, Tipton. The blizzard probably won’t last long. The tour of the seed vault can be put off until tomorrow and the senator will make it to Iowa with time to spare. Sit down, why don’t you? Have something to eat.”

  Tipton drooped into the chair across from Dinah. “I’ve left a dozen messages for our campaign chairman back in D.C, but he’s not answering. Whitney will be livid, not that he’d ever let anyone see. Oh…my…God. His strategy was brilliant. Sheridan’s speech to the Club for Growth last week positioned him squarely between the wingnuts crying foul about overregulation of business and the wingnuts whining for a business czar to implement still more burdensome rules. The trip to Longyearbyen was the frosting on the cake for Colt, the perfect setting to highlight his pro-industry, pro-conservation, pro-science and technology views. And then that Norwegian crackpot showed up. My mother won’t believe it.”

  The pretty girl with the coffee traipsed by and Dinah held out an empty cup for Tipton. The girl poured him a cup and refilled Dinah’s.

  “Tusen takk.”

  “You are welcome.” She smiled and sailed on to the next table.

  Tipton tried to finger-comb the cowlick into place, but succeeded only in making it worse. “I don’t drink coffee.”

  Dinah was about to ask him if he would rather have a glass of milk when he pulled a bottle of Pepto-Bismol out of his jacket pocket and poured himself a capful.

  She said, “You’re overly concerned. The senators all seem to be in good spirits this morning in spite of the ruckus. Frankly, I’d have thought they’d be outraged that the police barged in here last night and questioned them and their Tillcorp friends. At the very least, I’d have expected Ms. Ives to insist on seeing a warrant before their rooms were searched.” She backed up. “Were their rooms searched?”