Aaron Elkins - Gideon Oliver 06 - Icy Clutches

by Icy Clutches

  Appletree took a couple of sips from his mug and set it on the coffee table. “Now, the thing is, there's some confusion over just who's going to handle the case."

  "How come? Doesn't the Park Service have, what do you call it, proprietary jurisdiction?"

  "Well, yes, technically, but the chief ranger's asked the bureau to come in and run things. It's federal land, so it's a legitimate request. The guy's really shorthanded because all his seasonal help are gone. And, frankly, I don't think he's too keen on running a homicide investigation."

  "Okay, so what's the problem? There's an FBI office in Juneau, isn't there?"

  "Yes, but there's only one resident agent, and he's close to filing on a big drug case. He just can't spare the time. Anchorage says they can't either. Even the state police say they don't have people to help out."

  "I'm getting the impression nobody's too anxious to take this on."

  "Well, think about it. Corpus delicti consists of some rags and a few old bones dug out from under an avalanche along with a broken ice ax. Hotshot professor comes along and alleges it adds up to murder. But he can't say who's been murdered. Case file not opened—not even thought about—until almost thirty years after the fact. Talk about cold leads. It's no wonder they don't want to waste any manpower on it. How'd you like to have a case like that dumped in your lap?"

  "No, thanks."

  Appletree's lipless but disarmingly youthful grin suddenly split his face. “Well, you've got it.” He rubbed the top of his head again, looking pleased with himself.

  "Me? What the hell do I have to do with Alaska?"

  "Actually, it's very logical. In the first place, in 1960, at the time this happened—if it happened—the Juneau office reported to Seattle, so it would have legitimately been our baby from the start. If anyone had known about it."

  "Oh, yeah, that's really logical."

  "Second, this was a U-Dub expedition. Whoever those bones belong to, he was from here, not from there. So's the number-one suspect."

  "We've actually got a suspect? Terrific. What is he, ninety years old now?"

  "I'll tell you about that later. Third, you've worked with Oliver before. You're the one who got him involved."

  "Now we're getting down to it. This is a disciplinary assignment, right, boss?"

  Appletree laughed. “You're working on the Tackney Mutual file, aren't you? Why don't you turn that over to Mintner and get on this instead? Glacier Bay's only three hours by air. You could start tomorrow morning. Well, couldn't you?"

  "Yes, sir, I guess so."

  "Good. Give it a shot, see what you can do. If you're not getting anywhere at all by, say, Friday, we can quietly drop it.” His expression sobered. “Look, John, if you'd really rather not—"

  John shook his head, smiling. “I'll take it."

  He was, in fact, pleased, as he was sure Appletree knew. Tackney Mutual was a fire-insurance underwriting firm involved in a massive, complex case of interstate insurance fraud. John had spent the last three days at his desk, analyzing endless columns of mind-numbing claim-report breakdowns. Just the kind of case that made him grind his teeth. A straightforward homicide was a lot more down his alley. Not that “straightforward” seemed to be the word here.

  "I thought you would,” Appletree said. He tore a slip of paper from a pad and gave it to John. “The chief park ranger's name is Owen Parker. Give him a call at this number and let him know you're coming."

  "Will do."

  "And we've started a case file on it. They're making copies of the serials for you downstairs. Probably ready by now."

  "Okay, I'll check with clerical as soon as we're done."

  "Clerical! Good heavens, man, we don't have clerks. We have,” he said solemnly, “support staff."

  "Right, I keep forgetting. Do I report to Anchorage on this or what?"

  "No, we treat this as if we're the OO."

  "The OO?"

  Appletree shook his head in amiable wonder. “John, you're amazing. How do you manage to function so effectively in this bureaucratic maze? Do you really not know what ‘OO’ means?"

  John ran a finger around the inside of his shirt collar. “Well—"

  "The OO is the originating office,” Appletree said, picking up a small pitcher of real cream that Melva had deposited on the table, “the office with the primary responsibility for a case."

  "I'll try to remember."

  "Do. For one thing it saves time; two syllables instead of whatever. And, of course,” he added with a smile, “if we went around saying things like ‘originating office,’ everybody would know what we were talking about. And we certainly wouldn't want that, would we?"

  He poised the creamer over John's mug. “Let's see, if I remember right, you like it heavy on the cream."

  * * * *

  Why was it, Gideon had sometimes wondered, that his students got so possessive about their chairs? Even when seating at the first class meeting was random or arbitrary, they headed right for the same places the next time and forever after. Try to rearrange things and there were groans of frustration and despair.

  The phenomenon, he now noted, was not limited to the classroom. By this, the third predinner cocktail hour since their arrival, the seating arrangement in the Icebreaker Lounge was fixed and apparently immutable. There were Tremaine and his admirers in possession of the bar. There were Anna Henckel, Walter Judd, and Gerald Pratt at their corner window table. There were the customary groupings of trainees. When Julie and Gideon had come in at five-thirty, half an hour into things, their table, directly before the fireplace with its newly laid log fire, was waiting for them as if it had been reserved.

  They downed hot apple ciders while Gideon brought her up to date. He had just come back from the bar with seconds when Owen Parker came in, got a 7-Up, and headed their way. It was the first time they'd seen him in the cocktail lounge. He was in uniform, the only ranger who was. But then he was the only one on duty.

  He pulled over a chair from the next table and dropped solidly into it. “So. I just got off the phone with the FBI. The guy who's going to be running things gave me a call."

  "And?” Gideon asked.

  "And he'll be out here tomorrow morning."

  "Fast work,” Julie said.

  "These guys don't mess around,” said Owen. He slowly poured 7-Up from the can into his ice-filled glass. “Oh, he had a message for you,” he said to Gideon. “He said: ‘Tell Doc the next time he comes up with something, would he please make it Arizona, not Alaska?’”

  "Doc?” Gideon looked at Julie, then back at Owen. Only one person called him “Doc.” He put down his glass mug. “You're kidding me. John Lau?"

  "That's right,” Owen said doubtfully. “What's the matter, is there a problem with the guy?"

  Gideon laughed. “No, John's terrific, first-rate. He's an old friend."

  "What's he got against Alaska?"

  "He just likes it hot,” Julie said.

  "And dry,” Gideon put in. “The world's only Hawaiian who can't stand humid weather."

  "Hot and dry,” Owen said. “He must love it in Seattle."

  "Can't stand it,” Gideon said. He stirred his cider with the rolled strip of cinnamon bark in it and licked the end of the bark. “But what's a Seattle agent doing in this? Isn't there a field office in Juneau?"

  "It's a long story,” Owen said. “Listen, you want to drive out to the airport with me to pick him up tomorrow morning? You can explain about the bones better than I can."

  "Sure, what time?"

  "I'll pick you up at twenty to eight. I arranged for a charter flight to meet his plane in Juneau at seven-thirty. He'll be here about eight."

  "Can I come too?” Julie asked. “It'll be fun to see John."

  "I thought you were heading out to the glaciers again tomorrow morning,” Gideon said.

  "Oh,” Julie said, “that's right. Rats. I keep thinking I'm on vacation too."

  "I beg your pardon." The voice was imperious
, arresting, and unmistakable.

  M. Audley Tremaine looked down upon them, erect and lordly. One hand was in the side pocket of his jacket. Gideon noticed that he had changed from the brown houndstooth-check sport coat he'd been wearing earlier to a bottle-green velvet jacket. If there were still such things as smoking jackets, this had to be one. The ascot had been tastefully changed to match it.

  "I would like you to know,” he said coldly, addressing Owen, “that I do not appreciate the way matters have been handled thus far, and I have every intention of informing your superiors."

  Owen bristled. “Matters?"

  "The hole in the skull. The ice ax. The whole damned thing.” He had had that Rob Roy, Gideon realized, maybe two. He wasn't sloppy—far from it—but there was a telltale, sullen glitter in his eyes.

  "Exactly what is it that you don't appreciate, sir?” Owen asked evenly.

  "I don't appreciate being the last one to know. I don't appreciate being the subject of innuendo and the object of macabre curiosity to every damned park ranger in the place. I don't appreciate this...gentleman"—a frigid glance at Gideon—"coming in to us and lying. Through his teeth. And all the while bathing us in that wide-eyed sincerity and compassion."

  Gideon began to say something, but checked himself. What Tremaine had said was true. All right, he hadn't exactly lied to them, but he'd sure omitted a few things, and he wasn't too happy with it either.

  "It was my decision,” Owen said shortly. “I did what I thought was appropriate."

  "Your decision,” Tremaine repeated, the rich voice oozing contempt. “And your next decision? Am I to be arrested for murder?” He held his slim hands out, as if for handcuffing. “Don't shoot, officer."

  "Professor Tremaine,” Owen said, his copper-brown face stony, “nobody's arresting you. The FBI will be—"

  "The FBI. Dear me, is it as important as that? Do you suppose I'll make the ten-most-wanted list?"

  "Look, Professor, nobody's accusing anyone, and nobody's arresting anyone. Why don't you just enjoy your dinner tonight and we'll worry about sorting things out tomorrow."

  "Oh, we'll sort things out tomorrow, all right,” Tremaine said hotly. “You'll be lucky to have a job as a janitor by the end of tomorrow.” He glared at Owen for another moment, then turned abruptly, literally on his heel, and strode from the room.

  "Whew,” Julie said. “How did he find all that out?"

  "I'd guess,” Gideon said, “that someone overheard us on the boat and came back and passed the word around.” He shrugged. “You can't blame them. It's pretty exciting stuff."

  Owen turned to look over his shoulder toward the knot of young rangers who had been surrounding Tremaine earlier. Under his gaze they shifted and glanced sheepishly away. The hum of conversation picked up. Gideon realized belatedly that it had died down while people had listened in on Tremaine's tirade.

  "Yeah, I'd say you were right,” Owen said, turning back. “There weren't any doors on the galley, and we weren't thinking about being quiet. At least I sure wasn't.” He leaned his elbows on the table and hunched over his glass. “What the hell. Your friend John's going to love this."

  "Don't worry,” Julie said. “John's a sweetie."

  "I'm happy to hear it.” Owen drained his 7-Up, crunched an ice cube between his teeth, and smiled. “I'm a sweetie too."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 9

  * * * *

  John tossed his shoulder bag into the back seat of the green Park Service car, ducked to get through the door, and slid in. “But what are you saying did happen, Doc? That Tremaine killed this guy with this ice ax, and a few minutes later this avalanche just happened to come along and conveniently bury everything?” He pulled the door closed after him.

  "And conveniently kill the only two witnesses?” Owen put in, turning the key in the ignition.

  "And conveniently not kill Tremaine?” added John. “Just bury him up to his eyeballs in the ice for two days?"

  Gideon pulled his own door closed and settled himself in the front passenger seat. “What are you ganging up on me for? You're the ones who're supposed to figure all the hard stuff out. What do I know? I'm just a simple bone man."

  John muttered something, finished off the last of his candy bar, licked his fingers, and stuck the wrapper in the pocket of his denim jacket.

  His plane, a single-engine two-seater with “Kwakiutl Airlines” stenciled on the doors, had been early. When Owen and Gideon had arrived at the lonely cedar-board longhouse that was the Gustavus/Glacier Bay Airport terminal building, the big FBI agent had been sprawled on a wooden bench, sipping from a cardboard cup of coffee from one vending machine and munching a Butterfinger bar from the other.

  "No breakfast,” had been his wistful greeting.

  "I figured you wouldn't get a chance to eat,” Owen had said. “I asked them to have something for us at the lodge when we get there."

  John had brightened immediately, but it hadn't stopped him from getting another cup of coffee and a second Butterfinger. Gideon and Owen had gotten coffee too, and for fifteen minutes they had sat in the otherwise deserted waiting room talking over the case, trying and rejecting one murder scenario after another.

  The only thing they'd agreed on was that the murder was probably unpremeditated. Why would Tremaine or anybody else have planned to kill someone out on Tirku Glacier, with the others right there and nobody else within fifty miles? Why not wait until they were all back in Gustavus, where there'd be a couple of hundred other people to serve as potential suspects too? As it turned out, the avalanche did just happen to come along and bury everything, but there had been no way to foresee that.

  No, it had been unpremeditated, spur of the moment, a crime of passion; perhaps the outcome of a fight. The logic of the situation pointed to that. And—more important, in Gideon's mind—so did the damaged mandible.

  Now Owen twisted the steering wheel, backed away from the terminal, and swung out of the parking lot. The airport in Gustavus was only eleven miles from the lodge, but it seemed as if it were on another continent. Southeastern Alaska, as Owen had told Gideon on the way out, was a land of microclimates. There were no towering hemlocks or spruce around Gustavus, no pleasant green hummocks of mossy undergrowth. Here there was just a drab, level, tundra-like plain, windswept and gloomy, alongside the gray waters of Icy Strait. No wonder they had put the airport here. No mountains to fly in over, no trees to get tangled up in, and not much in the way of bulldozing to get the place flat in the first place.

  Owen edged the car onto the gravel road and turned right, toward the lodge. It was the only direction the road went. They drove past two rustic A-frames, the only structures in sight besides the terminal. The one on the left housed a smoked-salmon business, the other an arts-and-crafts shop. Both were closed. Between them a brave, brightly colored wooden sign announced “Puffin Mall. Hours 5-6 P.M. every day, June—September.” That was when the daily Alaska Airlines flight from Juneau made its turnaround stop.

  "All right, try this on,” John said. “What if we jumped on the idea that Tremaine's the killer a little too fast? What makes us so sure it's him?"

  "Well, he's the only one who came out of it alive,” Gideon said. “And he sure was in a hurry to get off the subject of that ice ax yesterday."

  "That doesn't mean he killed anyone."

  "I don't know. Even if he didn't, he must have seen what happened. He was right there."

  "So?"

  "So why didn't he ever say anything about it? It's been thirty years. He's talked about the avalanche in public hundreds of times."

  "Maybe he was protecting somebody."

  "Protecting somebody's memory?"

  "Sure, why not? Or maybe he was saving it for this book he's writing, waiting until he could cash it in for big bucks."

  "It's possible,” Gideon said. He doubted it, but John was right to keep his mind open.

  "What the hell,” John said, “I'll be talking to
him soon enough, see what he has to say. To the others too. Look, I think it'll work a lot better if we keep this whole business about the hole in the skull to ourselves for another day or so, okay?"

  Gideon and Owen exchanged a look.

  Owen spoke. “Uh, I'm afraid we have a small problem there."

  John leaned back resignedly. “Oh, boy,” he said, “don't tell me."

  "Sorry, my fault,” Gideon said, and went on quickly. “I don't suppose you've had a chance to put together any kind of a file on the case yet? Newspaper articles...?"

  "There isn't much,” John said, leaning across the back seat to slide open a zippered pouch in his bag, “but I brought out copies of what I have.” He held up a thin sheaf of papers with a buff-colored cardboard cover and an Acco fastener at the side.

  Gideon took it and turned to the first page. "Skagway Herald, July 27, 1960” was written in longhand across the top. The headline beneath was “Avalanche Near Glacier Bay. Scientific Research Team Feared Lost.’ He read on with interest.

  "About this breakfast,” John said to Owen. “I hope we're talking real food here—eggs, bacon, that kind of thing?"

  "Whatever you want,” Owen said over his shoulder. “We'll be there in ten minutes; 8:45 at the latest."

  "Good, I just might make it,” John said, leaning comfortably back. Then, abruptly, he sat up straight, swiveling his head to stare at a rapidly receding dark shape in the roadside foliage. “What the hell was that?"

  "Bear,” Owen said casually. “Brown, I think. Maybe black. Hard to tell the difference this time of year."

  "Jesus Christ,” John muttered, settling back and closing his eyes, “where did they send me?"

  * * * *

  Shirley Yount banged her coffee cup into its saucer. “It's twenty minutes after eight. Maybe somebody ought to go knock on his door."

  This was said with more relish than impatience. Like the others, she was eager to get at Tremaine, who had been on the run from them since the electrifying news of thirty-year-old foul play on Tirku had buzzed so excitedly around the bar the night before. Tremaine had not appeared for dinner, and now here he was, going on half an hour late for their daily breakfast meeting.