Bonereapers

by Jeanne Matthews

  “Oh, yes. Whitney was adamant that we put our best foot forward. He doesn’t like to make waves.” Tipton chugged the Pepto and shuddered. “Now it’s the mother of all waves.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t think how to tell him.”

  “For pity’s sake, tell him what?”

  “That stupid policeman released the protester. Into the streets, for Christ’s sake.” He closed his eyes and shimmied.

  “Jerusalem. What did he do? Did he attack the agriculture minister again?”

  “Murdered.”

  “Herr Dybdahl is dead?”

  “No. The protester. Somebody found his body in an alley this morning. Behind some sleazy pub, stabbed in the chest. Oh, Christ, it’s a publicity nightmare. There’s no way to spin this without the words Tillcorp and genetic engineering cropping up next to Colt’s.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Murdered?” Erika made an ugly, strangling noise and covered her mouth with both hands. Her eyes were riveted on her husband’s face.

  Sheridan glared back at her with what Dinah read as bafflement and fury. Fury, anyway. “A homicide. I must be jinxed. What next?”

  Val reached out and waggled Sheridan’s arm reassuringly. “It’ll be all right, Colt. We’ll handle it.” The look in her eyes portended more rough waters for the Sheridans’ marriage. The manicured hand on the senator’s sleeve was a blatant assertion of ownership.

  Dinah tried to read Erika’s reaction, but almost immediately she lowered her head and her hair covered her face like a veil.

  Senator Keyes’ élan had deserted him and he seemed vacant, unable to comprehend. “How could he have been murdered? What did the police say? Was he involved in a fight? Tipton?”

  “They wouldn’t tell me, sir. The man I spoke with said that Inspector Ramberg would be coming to the hotel later this morning to interview everyone.”

  “Not everyone,” said Valerie. “You won’t have to submit to questioning, Colt. There are protocols about questioning diplomats.”

  “If I may?” Tipton emitted a diffident cough. “Colt Sheridan is perceived as a straight shooter. Not to be, oh, you know, up front would seem…”

  Keyes shook off his bewilderment. “Good thinking, Tip. This isn’t Russia or France. Norway’s got no negatives back home. Not to cooperate with the local authorities investigating a murder wouldn’t play well in the media.”

  “I agree,” said Sheridan. He, too, had regained a semblance of calm and self-control. “You’re not well, Erika. Going to pieces over the death of a stranger. I shouldn’t have let you come with me on such a tiring trip. You need to go and lie down.”

  Mahler hadn’t budged from the breakfast table or shown so much as a flicker of emotion. He held a rye cracker between his front teeth and his cell phone against his ear, on hold for somebody named Tom. He took the cracker out of his mouth and signaled to one of the bodyguards. “Lee, see Mrs. S to her room, make sure she’s comfortable, and stay with her until you hear otherwise. Rod, you go up and fetch Senator Sheraton’s briefcase. He’s probably got the names and numbers for all the spin doctors he’ll have to contact.”

  Dinah caught Erika’s eye as she passed by. She’d gone blank, passive. Off to the Tower, thought Dinah. By royal command.

  Spurred to action, Keyes dispatched Tipton to reserve a meeting room and bring him his laptop. “And Tip, make sure Colt’s press secretary in D.C is up to speed. See if Dybdahl’s people have any background on this Fritjoe Ef…what was it?”

  “Fritjoe Eftevang,” said Tipton. “I’ll do a computer search.” And he was up and away like a retriever after a Frisbee.

  “That kid is gung-ho,” cracked Mahler. “What do you do, put uppers in his Ovaltine?”

  “He’s the best assistant I’ve ever had,” said Keyes. “He has a habit of taking everything I say as crucial to the health and welfare of the republic. And he’s a computer whiz.”

  Valerie seemed to take this as a personal slight. “I was the best assistant you ever had. You like that little kiss-up because he’s constantly telling you what a genius you are and stroking your ego.”

  “We all know that you’d never cater to a man’s ego,” twitted Mahler, looking pointedly at Sheridan.

  She blushed bright red.

  If Sheridan picked up on the allusion or the blush, he pretended not to. He sawed a finger across his chin and paced. “Eftevang. I’ve heard that name somewhere before. What was he? Who’d he work for?”

  “He was a recurring pain in the ass,” said Mahler. “One of those kooks who thinks everything’s a secret plot against humanity. He showed up whenever and wherever I did, beating his breast about the intrinsic value of natural organisms and the risk of creating human allergens. One of those people who can’t see the forest for the trees.”

  Sheridan smacked a fist into his hand. “That prick Aagaard. He’s probably salivating over this. Sheridan Protester Knifed in Alley. He’ll slime us and it’ll spread from Oslo to every other news outlet.”

  “To be accurate,” said Keyes, “he was protesting against Tillcorp.”

  Mahler sneered. “By all means, keep it accurate, senator.” He pointed a cracker at Valerie. “Find out which news outlets are covering our visit and put out a feeler to the friendlies. If anybody’s slimed, let’s make sure it’s Eftevang. Can you handle that, Val?”

  “You know very well she can handle it,” said Keyes, as if to atone for his previous slight. “She’ll craft the story. By the time it crosses the Atlantic, if Colt’s name appears at all, it’ll be a passing mention in the last paragraph.”

  “Let’s hope she can keep the company that pays her salary and funds Colt’s campaign out of the story, too,” said Mahler. He laughed. “If she needs help, I’m sure Tipton will be happy to pitch in.”

  Valerie ignored him. “Are you okay, Colt?”

  “What? Yes, sure.”

  She seemed to waver, as if she didn’t trust Mahler and Keyes to take care of him while she was gone. “Don’t worry, Colt. We’re a long way from Iowa. We’ll be fine.” She gave his arm a consoling little shake and left.

  Senator Frye’s eyes followed the back-and-forth as if he were watching a tennis match. “I don’t get it. Why the fire drill? What does this nutty Norwegian’s murder have to do with us?”

  Sheridan rounded on Norris. He seemed taken aback, as if he’d forgotten the Democrat was there. “It’s got nothing to do with you, Norris. You’re not sticking your neck out to run for the highest office in the land. Your life’s not under a microscope and every word you’ve ever uttered twisted and blown out of proportion. You’re not forced to defend yourself against false insinuations by cheap-shot reporters and Democrat lies. Admit it. The only reason you’re here is to keep an eye on me and report on any mistakes that your man Obama can use against me.”

  Frye’s chin jutted and his chest swelled. “I’m here for the reasons you stated in the press conference. International cooperation and protecting the world’s food supply.”

  “In a pig’s eye, you are.”

  “Easy, Colt.” Senator Keyes laid a hand on Sheridan’s arm. “Norris isn’t your enemy.”

  Mahler snapped his fingers for quiet and growled into his cell phone. “That you, Tom? Well, get him. Tell him we took some verbal abuse from a conspiracy nut at the press conference yesterday and now he’s dead. We need to get out in front of the story, control the message.” He looked up, saw Dinah staring at him, snapped his fingers again, and pointed.

  Senator Keyes responded with the alacrity of a bouncer. “Dinah, Norris. Forgive our rudeness, but you can see that we have a public relations problem here. Senator Sheridan has a lot at stake. You know how twisted stories can get, especially when they involve a major corporation and a presidential candidate. Would you two min
d leaving us to deal with it in private?”

  Norris sniffed. “Your candidate is being paranoid, Whitney. If this is how he reacts to every crime that happens in a town where he shows up for a photo op, pretty soon people will start to believe he’s a serial killer.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Norris. Colt and I hold you in high esteem as both a colleague and a friend.”

  “Now who’s lying?” Norris spun around, snagged Dinah’s arm, and hobbled out of the restaurant with her in tow. When they reached the lobby, he dropped her arm and flopped into one of the leather chairs in front of the fireplace. “Well, well, well. That was interesting. What do you make of Sheridan’s behavior?”

  “He seems exceedingly perturbed. They all do.”

  “If you ask me, Colt and Whitney know something they’re not telling. Did you see the way they looked at Mahler? They’re spooked. This Eftevang had been badgering Mahler for a long time. I wouldn’t put it past that man to order a hit on anyone who interfered with his boy’s procession to the White House.” Norris chuckled, then grimaced and pulled a bottle of Aleve out of his pocket. “Damn big toe is killing me. I’m going to rest here for a few minutes and then go back to my room. Maybe I’ll give the hotel sauna a try. If they reschedule the tour of the seed vault, I want you to go in my place. You can give me a full report.”

  Dinah didn’t doubt that he was in pain, but she suspected that the lovely Ursille and a bottle of Viagra might also figure in his afternoon plans. She would like to believe that her senator wasn’t so petty or spiteful that he would resort to partisan smears in connection with a murder. But he was already reaching for his cell phone. Maybe Sheridan’s paranoia was justified, after all.

  She said, “I’m going to go out for an hour or so.”

  “In this blizzard?”

  “The outside weather can’t be any more blustery than the inside weather.”

  “Suit yourself. What’s your phone number?”

  “My cell isn’t a global phone. It doesn’t work in Europe. I’ll check at the front desk for messages when I get back.”

  She crossed the lobby and started up the stairs. Politics wafted over everything like a bad smell. Norris’ gibe about Mahler ordering a hit was unfounded and totally off-the-wall, not to mention mean-spirited in the extreme. And it didn’t enhance Sheridan’s or Keyes’ stature in her eyes to hear that a man’s death meant no more to them than a public relations problem.

  On her way up, she met Rod carrying Sheridan’s briefcase on the way down. She didn’t fault herself for having mistaken Rod and Lee for Secret Service agents. They fit the stereotype to a T. Medium height, medium build, medium coloring, no distinguishing physical traits, and a Doberman-like alertness. On the flight from D.C., they’d kept to themselves, reading magazines and taking turns catnapping. She studied Rod more closely as he passed. Norris had planted a seed of doubt in her mind. She couldn’t help but wonder if Mahler’s bodyguards doubled as hit men.

  The memory of Erika’s stricken face stirred more doubts. She’d been out last night. Had she witnessed the murder? No. She wouldn’t have sauntered into the restaurant all smiley-faced and fresh after seeing someone stabbed to death. But maybe she’d met with Eftevang before the murder. Could that be why Colt was so wrapped around the axel? Holy moly! Maybe it wasn’t Brander Aagaard he’d accused her of meeting, but Fritjoe Eftevang. But how would Erika know him and, if she did, why in the world would she meet with him? Dinah’s thoughts brimmed over with questions and whatever was eating Erika, she needed somebody to sympathize.

  She hesitated outside Erika’s door. Well, nothing ventured…

  The other guard, Lee, answered her knock. He was a couple of inches taller than Rod, but they could have been brothers. Same thin mouth, same thin nose, same thin hair.

  “I’d like to talk with Erika, please.”

  “Mrs. Sheridan doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “She’s resting.”

  “I won’t stay long.”

  “Look, she doesn’t want to be disturbed, okay?”

  The door was closing when Erika peeped around his shoulder. “What is it, Dinah? Did you bring a message from Colt?”

  “No, Erika.” Did she expect that he would send a gofer to apologize for him? “You looked so shaken when you left the restaurant. I thought I’d come and sit with you for a while.”

  “I guess it would be all right.”

  Lee folded his arms across his chest and widened his stance. “Senator Sheridan said you should rest.”

  Erika skimmed a sideways look at his face. “Colt’s right, of course. I have to take care of myself or I’ll get a migraine.”

  Dinah didn’t believe her. “Exercise is always good for what ails you. I’m going for a walk. Come with me.”

  “In a blizzard?”

  “It’ll be invigorating. Like you said, too much warmth isn’t healthy.”

  “That’s not exactly what I…Wait!” Erika’s eyes brightened. “I want you to take my parka. You’ll freeze to death in that pea jacket you brought.” She went back inside the room.

  Lee stood in the doorway with his arms across his chest. His eyes were as hard and unreflective as slate.

  “Must be a full-time job protecting Mr. Mahler,” said Dinah.

  No comeback.

  “You must have had previous encounters with Mr. Eftevang. Valerie says he’s been a real nuisance.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched.

  Dinah frowned. The hit man hypothesis began to seem less far-fetched.

  “Here you are.” Erika reached past him and handed her the coat. “The hood is lined with mouton and the body’s down-filled. It will keep you warm.”

  “Thanks, Erika. I’ll return it this afternoon.”

  “No hurry,” said Lee, and closed the door in her face.

  Dinah retreated to her room. Outside her window, the blizzard Ramberg had forecast was swirling in the blue lights. Her thoughts swirled as furiously as the snow. What was going on next door? Was Erika being held incommunicado by her husband or was she cutting off communication of her own volition? Dinah slumped into the chair and propped her feet on the window sill.

  Why had Eftevang’s murder rattled the Sheridans? A raft of possible explanations scudded through her head. Maybe Eftevang knew an embarrassing secret about the senator or Erika and had threatened to expose it. Or maybe he knew something damaging about Tillcorp and Sheridan’s dealings with the company and was on the verge of passing whatever it was to WikiLeaks. What had Mahler said? Clamp a lid on it. It can’t go any farther. What had he meant by that? During the press conference, he and Valerie had been seated near the back of the audience. Dinah wished she’d seen their faces when Eftevang charged the podium yelling, “They’ve brought the death gene.”

  She sat up and took another look at the outside world. The snow was coming down so fast and so thick that it covered some of the lights. The heat put out by the little blue bulbs couldn’t melt it fast enough. It was hard to think of a storm of this magnitude as an aggregation of separate, unique snowflakes, but that’s what it was. Perhaps that was the story with the human storm roiling around her. It was an aggregation of unrelated problems that just happened to converge in the same place at the same time.

  With no one to talk to and nothing to do, she was in limbo. She supposed she should call Eleanor with an update, but all she could think about was Eftevang’s murder and Erika’s predicament and she had no idea if these matters had anything whatever to do with the seed vault. She decided to wait and call Eleanor after the tour of the vault, if it ever took place. In the meanwhile, she had told Norris that she was going out and, if she was going to enjoy a taste of this bracing climate, now was the time. She dressed and took her excess of curiosity and nervous energy downst
airs.

  Encased in so many layers she could barely bend, she fitted the chemical toe warmers she’d bought at a sporting goods store in D.C. into her boots, bundled herself into Erika’s parka, pulled the balaclava over her face, pulled up the fur hood, and set out to explore the mean streets of Longyearbyen. Her primary destination was the public library where she hoped she would find a computer. She didn’t want to risk being caught trolling for information about the Sheridans or Jake Mahler on the Radisson’s computer.

  The first breath she drew outside the shelter of the Radisson seared her lungs and the welter of flying snow stung her eyes. She buried her nose in her collar and squinted down the street to her left. The town was lit up as if it were night, which of course it was, even if it was morning. She made binoculars out of her hands to little effect. Through the blur of white, she made out a jumble of yellow and blue and red and green squares, like pixels on a fuzzy screen. More from inference than from vision, she decided that the colors were houses. Boxy houses with peaked roofs arrayed on a hillside overlooking the main street. There were also colored rectangles that looked like railroad flatcars, probably apartments for the coal miners or the scientists and researchers who cruised in and out of town conducting various studies. A red steeple seemed to float atop the torrents of white, an ethereal reminder that the world’s northernmost settlement had not slipped the boundaries of Christendom.

  A snowmobile sped past her, throwing up a cascade of snow in its wake. Leaning into the wind, she trudged after it. Every few steps, she stopped to brush the snow out of her eyes and get her bearings. There were plenty of lighted signs and storefront displays. The denizens of Longyearbyen did not want for goods or services. It hadn’t occurred to her that there would be so many shops and businesses. There was a sports outfitter, a pizza parlor, a pharmacy, a bank, a combination supermarket and department store, more hotels, even an art gallery. If there was a library, she could avail herself of a computer and answer a few of the questions that nagged her. There might be news articles or blogs about the friction between Tillcorp’s CEO and the agriculture minister and the American media was sure to have dug into Colt Sheridan’s relationship with the company. She might even find something about Eftevang if he was as big a troublemaker as Valerie said.