“I’ve made a lot of phone calls. My office is sending me some help, especially while I’m in Seattle following leads.”
A weight settled on her chest. “For how long?”
“A couple days. I could take you with me and drop you off with friends in Seattle, but you’re in no shape to fly anywhere.”
“Absolutely not. You’re the one who should jet out of here to a safer place.” The very act of pointing at him with her good hand sent a lightning bolt of pain down her wounded arm. “Ouch!”
Parker grabbed the back of her desk chair and rolled it next to the bed.
“Don’t sit on that. It’s broken.”
“What?”
“It’s quirky. When I jerk to the left, the chair mechanism releases. I know how to sit on it…you don’t. Come over here.” She pointed to a space on her bed. “Don’t jiggle.”
Parker sat down carefully. “Your mother’s coming over in about an hour to make your breakfast.”
“You woke my mom? She needs her sleep, Parker, I—”
“No protesting allowed. My Dad’s going to take a break from fishing and help keep an eye on you and your mom.”
“But—”
“Chet worked security. He knows what to do. Ivor’s deputizing him and giving him a gun.”
“What?”
“Ivor has a tiny staff, Liv. He’s got a captain and a sergeant, and a few officers, a couple of them part time. He needs Chet.” Parker looked at his watch. “Ivor and I will review the crime scene this morning before I fly to Seattle. You two develop a list of who was in Lito’s Landing last night, then Ivor will figure out who might have followed us down the alley toting a 45.”
A wave of dread overwhelmed Liv. She squeezed Parker’s hand so hard that the effort hurt her damaged arm. “Ow,” she cried. If I let him go, if I let him leave me, I’ll never see him again. Yet, he’ll be safe. That’s something.
“Livy.”
The way he said her name allowed her to breathe again. “What?”
“The pills and the pain are messing with your head. I’ll be fine and you’ll feel a lot better by tomorrow. I promise.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll take a shower and make a few more phone calls. Try to be nice to your mother and Chet, okay?” Out of his pocket, he pulled a tape recorder. “The next time you wake up, you’re going to be upset you can’t type. Use this to compose. And sleep, too. You’re allowed.”
Liv smiled at his thoughtfulness. “Brilliant plan,” she said, repeating his first words of the morning. Her eyelids felt heavy and she sighed, letting the pain pill do its magic. “Par…ker, be full…be care….”
“I know. You’re going to kill me if I don’t.”
****
“Let’s take a drive, Mr. Cameron.” Parker stood at the counter of the Coffee Hüs, his focus on the coffee shop manager, Josh Cameron. “Susanna can hold the fort for a half hour, can’t she? We’ll talk while you give me a tour.”
Josh glanced at Susanna and when he got a shrug from her, he yanked his keys out of his jeans, grabbed an Indian weave jacket off a stool and said, “Jeep’s in back.”
Without another word, Cameron drove north on Nordic Drive and stopped the car at a viewing spot on Hungry Point. He kept the engine and the windshield wipers running to clear Parker’s view of Wrangell Narrows on the left, and Frederick Sound on the right.
“This keeps you in Petersburg.”
“In the summer, I watch the humpbacks summersault on the Sound.” He pointed his thumb to the south. “The entrance to Hungry Point Trail is right behind us. I like Raven’s Roost Trail off the airport, too. But those are appetizers. Awesome ten-hour hike on Kupreanof Island; tougher is the Petersburg Mountain Trail, but the views are worth it. My name is Cameron…I have my camera on at all times.” He tapped on the steering wheel. “I like to make my own trails, walking and climbing places people haven’t trammeled for a century.”
“Too hot for you in California?”
Cameron didn’t blink. “You’d think they’d appreciate a college-educated pothead in California.” He gripped the spokes of the wheel. “I have a couple outstandings in SF.”
“Five years ago. Clean here, the chief says.”
“I don’t sell, Detective. Nobody cares about my private vices in Petersburg. I manage the Coffee Hüs for the hotel, I hike, I have all the weed I want; everybody minds their own business.” He shook his shoulder-length brown dreads, a slow smile finishing his hippy look. “Dude, Alaska is full of people like me.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“I’m smarter than that. But I know why you’re asking. How’s Liv?”
“She’s got some healing to do. Twenty stitches in the arm from a gunshot wound. No clue who the shooter is.”
Cameron shook his head. “First a drowning, now this.”
“Let’s talk about Everett.”
Cameron backed out of the viewpoint area and drove the car south on Sandy Beach Road. “I didn’t know him well. Women were his weed.”
“You and Tilly?”
“No law against screwing. If there were, Everett would be in for life.” He pointed to the left. “This is Sandy Beach Park. Nice petroglyphs right over there, on the beach as well as on those boulders. Some prehistoric fish traps, too, carbon-dated from 2,000 years ago.”
Parker squinted at the site, gave an appreciative nod and gestured for Josh to move on. “Folks in town thought Tilly and Ev would get back together.”
“Not so sure of that. Susanna had plans to suck money out of Ev. Told everyone about her imminent prosperity, to the point I was looking for a replacement for her sour, sorry ass.”
Parker chuckled, watching an Alaska plane buzz overhead as they drove up Haugen Drive. “This airport keeps Petersburg from being a backwater town.”
“Brings in riff-raff like me. But more important,” he said, slowing down, “It provides an easy outlet. When the rain or snow gets to be too much, people can fly places where it’s warm and sunny. Me? I like it here all seasons.” Cameron took a right on 12th street. “This is the Tlingit and Haida Housing. Tribal Reservation. They’ve lived on the Mitkof Peninsula longer than anyone. Deserve it more than me.”
When they drove by the Bethesda Fellowship on the corner of 8th and Haugen, Cameron said, “Ten churches in a town of three thousand. Folks like to ask a higher power for abundant fish, calm seas, and healthy children. Lots of reasons to pray. Mine is: keep off my trails and ditch blue tarp. Too much of that damn plastic spoiling the natural look of this country.” He smiled. “Now, I don’t have a rule about women, as in ‘keep away from my girlfriends.’ I might have rules about weed and my trails, but I know better than to be proprietary about the other sex.”
“Thoughts about Tilly?”
“Funny and fun. Profane.”
“Susanna?”
“Entitled. Full of anger. She-bear. Wouldn’t touch her.”
“Liv.” Parker looked straight ahead, but felt Cameron’s gaze.
“A puzzle. I fit in this environment; she’s a mismatch. For one thing, she doesn’t engage, especially with men.”
“Multiple choice: Liv, Tilly, Susanna, Mallen. Which one could have been responsible for Ev’s death?”
“Asking one criminal to tag another, huh?”
Parker shrugged. “If I had to pick a woman, which one?”
“All of the above.”
Chapter Seven
“Tell me more about Norwegians and guns.” Parker placed Liv’s data sheet in front of Ivor. They sat in the airport café, waiting for Parker’s flight to take him to Seattle, the odor of coffee grounds mixing with jet fuel. “While I track each suspect’s trail in Seattle, you’re chasing down guns, right?”
“I’ve already begun.” Ivor let out a breath. “Norwegian parents taught their kids how to handle firearms when they first settled in Alaska, for all the reasons I told you before. Immigrants who came here after World War II were even more prepared, because Norway act
ively opposed the Germans. Every Norwegian was armed and the underground resistance against Hitler was huge. Gun savvy continues today in the home country and here in Alaska, where hunting, big fish, grizzly bears, and drunken fishermen add new dimensions to firearm use.”
Parker pointed to the top of the data sheet. ‘This list: Liv?”
“I taught her how to shoot.”
“Her mother. Harriet.”
“Better shot than Liv. Won a couple of awards. Gun in the store; gun at home.”
“Christ.”
Ivor put his finger on Halley’s name. “Like I said, all fishermen have guns and the skill to use them. Tuck is another for sure.”
“Mallen and Tilly.”
Looking thoughtful, Ivor said. “Mallen probably, though I can’t find a registration for her. Tilly, definitely. Her family likes to hunt moose. They share their kills with us.”
Parker rolled his eyes. “Ev’s present girlfriend, Susanna?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. No registration for her.”
“You’re checking to see if people who own guns fired theirs recently.”
Ivor shrugged.
“But the shooter probably ditched the gun he or she used.”
Nodding, Ivor said. “Who are you thinking?”
Parker pointed to Barber’s name on the chart.
Ivor raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Barber and Olson had an odd friendship that bears examining, and recently I’ve pissed the guy off by rescuing Liv from his clutches. Maybe he killed Olson; maybe he shot at me to stop the investigation.”
“The shooting sort of cinches the idea Everett’s death was no accident, doesn’t it?”
As Parker nodded, a roar from the runway had them turning to look out the window at the Alaska jet skimming the asphalt. His gut hollowed out at the thought of leaving Petersburg with so much up in the air. His investigation had barely begun, a shooter was on the loose and Liv was suffering from a gunshot probably meant for him. Then there was the tricky issue Ivor probably didn’t want to face. “Mallen.”
Ivor’s eyebrow went up. “What about her?”
“Anything I should know about you and Mallen that might impact our case?”
A flash of resentment, then, “We are friends, that’s all. She uses the workout equipment in my garage a couple times a week.” Ivor looked down. “I feel sorry for Mallen, trapped in this town.”
“You knew she had something going with Ev.”
He exhaled, his expression sad. “First I’d heard about them was the other night when my mom and Liv spilled the information. I never thought she’d fall for Ev, but trapped people do strange things.”
“Does that describe you, Ivor. Trapped?”
Ivor stared at Parker for the longest time. “That’s a misread you’ve made, but I can understand why.” He shook his head. “I want to keep this job. The cornered vibe you’re picking up comes from worry that if we can’t find who killed Ev, I’ll lose the one career, hell, the only profession I like.” Ivor spread his hands on the table. “You’re accusing me of bias. Of course I’m biased. I know everyone in this town and I like most of them. No objectivity there. But that doesn’t mean I have to recuse myself, for Christ’s sake!”
Parker held up a palm, regretting the conversation at the same time he was sure he had to ask the question. “Mallen has feelings for you that go beyond friendship. You know that.”
Giving a sad smile to accept the apology and the information, he stood, all business. “You’re checking out everyone’s movements in Seattle.”
“After which I fly to Fresno to follow the money for each person on my list.”
“If you find Ev’s killer, you might discover the person who shot at you and Liv.”
“Right.” Parker toyed with his coffee handle. “I should have explained to Liv I’m flying to Fresno from Seattle.”
“Time to tell her you’re a special agent, then?”
“Probably.”
“I’ll let her know the Feds are involved because of the across-state nature of the case. No need to tell her you’re from Treasury.”
“Best we’re aboveboard with Liv. Let her know I’m Treasury, but have her keep that detail to herself.” Parker got up and grabbed his carry-on bag. “Tell her I’m sorry about the pretense.” He gazed at the plane, with a heart-clutching thought that it might take him away from Petersburg forever. The Fresno office could pull him off the case because it was a colossal clusterfuck. He wondered: Did the career mean as much to him as the job meant to Ivor? Was it important to succeed as a boots-on-the-ground investigator?
They idly watched the passengers from Parker’s plane disembark, when Parker spotted a familiar face. “Jesus!”
“What?” Ivor asked.
“They sent Nilson.” Shaking his head, Parker pointed to a tall blond figure pushing through the crowd, looking irritated at the slow-moving crowd.
“My boss sent Special Agent Anton Nilson.”
“A Swede,” Ivor said, chuckling. “You know what Norwegians consider ‘diversity,’ don’t you?”
Parker shook his head,
“Allowing Swedes in town.”
Parker laughed as he raised his hand and shouted, “Nilson. Over here.” To Ivor he said, “The good thing is I can connect up the two of you before I leave.” He shook hands with Nilson and introduced Ivor. “Excellent timing, Nilson. I thought they’d send someone tomorrow or the next day.”
The man threw back his shoulders. “You’ve got a shooter and a dozen suspects, says Oldshack.”
Parker turned to Ivor. “Our boss is SAC Bertrand Newcastle; our nickname for him is Oldshack.”
Nodding, Ivor said, “I’ll be happy to take you to town, Special Agent Nilson.”
“While SA Browne pokes around in Seattle and Fresno, I’ll sort out this mess.” Nilson pointed to Parker. “You send me the money trails on all the suspects along with the alibi info from Seattle and I’ll have this solved before you step back on a plane.”
Parker struggled not to protest. Nilson had been a street agent for as many years as Parker had desk duty. His reputation was legend as a no-nonsense, hard-working investigator. He’d hit Petersburg like a steamroller.
When Ivor rolled his eyes, Parker grinned, relieved. But his pleasure was short-lived. Maybe if Parker had done a better job, Liv wouldn’t have been shot. How much of the Petersburg fiasco was Parker’s fault?
As if he’d read Parker’s mind, Ivor stuck out his hand. “You’ll be back as soon as you can, Special Agent Browne. I’ll tell her.”
As he headed for the tarmac, Parker’s worries whirled in his head. Even if Nilson was on the job, it felt wrong for Parker to leave Liv and his father in a town with a killer.
Add to that the bigger question: Once he left Petersburg would he ever get back?
****
Petersburg, 1932
The Investigation Stalls
(The Murder of Sing Lee: A Retrospective
by Liv Hanson)
Gus learned he’d become addicted to Petersburg two weeks into his investigation, on the day he denied himself a morning visit to the bakery for a dose of caffeine, a cinnamon roll, and Greta Bjornson. Stunned by the intensity of his withdrawal symptoms, he scratched one more routine off his schedule: his daily constitutional down Nordic Drive, always interrupted by pleasant conversations with dozens of men and women he’d interviewed. Next he’d have to eliminate the couple hours of coffee and conversation with scores of people who came and went at the Country Store. No quick chat with Greta on her second bakery delivery of the day, the sight of her sweet face recharging him for a busy afternoon. No interesting talks with Alf Forden, the Country Store manager. He couldn’t watch children sneaking into the back rooms of the store to explore Sing Lee’s rabbit warren of storage spaces, reminding Gus that everyone in town had access to Sing Lee. He wouldn’t observe boys rushing into the store, holding up the grouse they’d shot with their 22’s, expecting Alf to giv
e them two bits per bird and a piece of candy.
The townspeople had taken to sitting down with Gus in the Country Store, trotting out theories about Sing Lee’s death and listening respectfully to his responses. They praised him for his persistence, then invited him to the town bar or to their homes to talk more about the case. Not once had he gone to the Bucket of Blood for a respite beer. Politely, he’d refused every invitation, until the plea came from Greta. How could he say no to the chance to meet her sister, for the opportunity to leave his cold hotel room in favor of hours of time with Greta in a family home? So he went. Twice.
The realization Petersburg had entranced him came the night before as he sat down at his hotel desk to write his daily report, when thoughts about Greta’s smile and bakery smells seemed more important to capture into words than how his investigation had hit a dead end. When he finished the couple pages of interviews and observations, he looked back at what he had written in the early days of his investigation and what he wrote yesterday. Repetition. Nothing new on the case. No fresh observations, except the investigator suffering a case of withdrawal. He paced in his room, sweating, feeling shame and ineptness, but most of all his heart ached when he couldn’t be with the people of Petersburg. Greta. Alf. The children. The earnest, supportive citizens of the town.
He was finished. He had no new leads.
And now he had to tell his boss and all of Petersburg, that someone else, someone more objective than he, would have to take over the case.
****
Liv shut off the tape-recorder and lowered her head to the back of her couch, trying not to wiggle. Despite the pain pills, her shoulder burned. Hell, even when she blinked, the movement fired up the wound. Damn thing.
Gus and I are in pain while the Petersburg murders remain unsolved. I may never see Parker again and poor Gus is denying himself access to Greta. With a sigh, she put down the tape recorder. I shouldn’t be writing under the influence of drugs.
She glanced at the get-well cards standing open on her wardrobe and four vases of flowers lined up on the window ledge, all from people who’d dropped by the store, leaving their well-wishes with her mother. Turned out I didn’t need to write the Sing Lee articles to be noticed in Petersburg. Getting shot did the trick.
Lie Catchers Page 9