by Mike Doogan
Alma burst into tears. A couple of passengers looked her way, but Kane’s stare sent them back to their own business. He waited as the woman’s tears became sobs, then labored breathing.
“Look,” he said, “I’m not here to do anything to you. I just need information.”
Alma looked at him with skepticism in her face.
“How did you…,” she said. “How did you find me?”
“Gossip and connections,” he said. “Gossip in the Capitol put you on the ferry, and the connections gave me your license plate so I knew for sure.”
Alma nodded, dug around in her purse, pulled out a wad of tissues, dried her eyes and blew her nose.
“I didn’t know anything was going to happen to you,” she said. “He just said…he just said he wanted to get you someplace private to talk.”
“Who said?” Kane asked.
Alma looked around again, as if expecting that some way out would magically appear.
“I can’t—I can’t tell you that,” she said. “He said that if I ever told anyone, something bad would happen to me.”
Kane nodded and sat silent for a moment.
“Let me explain how things sit,” he said. “You set me up for a kidnapping. I can make a citizen’s arrest and haul you back to Juneau, where you’ll have to talk and you’ll probably go to jail. Or you can tell me what I want to know and go on your way. You decide.”
They sat for a pair of minutes. Rain began hitting the observation room windows, then turned to hail that rapped the windows like BBs. The vibration of the ship remained unchanged as it raced ahead. Kane could feel the weariness in him try to assert itself and fought it back. He didn’t have time to rest.
“It was George Bezhdetny,” Alma said.
Kane nodded.
“Tell me the whole story,” he said.
Alma dabbed at her nose, took a deep breath, and began.
“George has been hanging around the legislature now five or six years,” she said. “The gossip is that he came over from the Ukraine, where he did stuff for the Communists before the…you know, the change over there. He started out working in the lounge, of all things, like busing tables or something. He got to know some of the legislators, since most of them go in there to hide out from time to time. You know, nobody but legislators and people who work there can go in. Anyway, from there he got a staff job for one of the House members, then, after a couple of years, set up as a lobbyist.
“As a lobbyist, he was kind of a joke. He had weird clients and didn’t make much money, just hung around doing errands for legislators and more powerful lobbyists. But at the end of last session, I don’t know, he started dressing better and taking people out to fancy meals and just acting more like a player. Everybody thought he’d gotten some hot new client, but I checked his disclosure report and nothing showed up. So we all figured he was getting paid under the table. The law requires lobbyists to declare all their clients, but there’s lots of ways besides lobbying fees to pass money around.”
She stopped to dab at her nose.
“What’s all this got to do with what happened?” Kane asked.
Alma gave him an offended look.
“You said you wanted the whole story,” she said. “That’s what I’m giving you.”
She reached down and rummaged in her purse, came up with a water bottle, and took a drink.
“Then, just before session, our receptionist quit and the senator hired Jennifer,” she said. “He told me that George had recommended her.”
Alma’s voice dropped.
“You probably heard that Senator Grantham and I were…well, we were an item,” she said. “But we weren’t here two weeks and I was out and Jennifer was in. When I asked the senator about it, he acted like it was just some sort of change in staff assignments. The bastard.”
She paused to cry a little more. Kane let her. When she stopped, he said, “Why did you do it, Alma? Why did you get involved with him in the first place?”
Alma shrugged.
“I was young,” she said. “What did I know? At first, I thought maybe he’d leave his wife for me. Then, by the time I knew that wasn’t going to happen, it was just…just the way things were. He had power, and I had power over him, and we just seemed to be kind of…kind of a team.”
The look she gave him was so forlorn that Kane decided to drop it.
“Okay,” he said, “back to you and George.”
She nodded and continued.
“George knew I was unhappy,” she said. “How could he not? Everyone did. I should have left, but I couldn’t afford it. These staff jobs don’t really pay all that well, and there’s the expense of moving back and forth and, if you are a woman, looking good. So I didn’t have any money in the bank and I was miserable.
“Then all this stuff started happening. George seemed really happy that Senator Hope was in trouble, although he tried to keep it to himself. When you showed up, he sort of asked me to keep an eye on you. Said he’d pay me for it. Then, a few days ago, he says he has to talk to you and could I get you alone so he could.”
She shook her head, drew a deep breath, and continued.
“I said I wouldn’t,” she said. “He just sort of smiled and took a fat envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me. We were in my office, the day after I got so drunk, I remember. I opened the envelope and it was full of money. It turned out to be ten thousand dollars. ‘Drop dead money,’ he called it. And…and the chance to walk away from it all, to just leave that bastard Grantham and this awful situation, just overwhelmed me and I said yes. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”
Alma started sobbing again. Kane sat quietly until she finished, then said, “So George Bezhdetny paid you to help him get me out of the way? Why did he do that?”
Alma shrugged.
“I don’t know,” she said, “except that he didn’t want Senator Hope to get out of his trouble, at least not soon.”
“How about his client?” Kane asked. “Any idea who that is?”
Alma just shook her head.
“How about Jennifer?” he asked “Why did she quit?”
“Maybe she just saw through that bastard Grantham a lot faster than I did,” she said. “Maybe she was really outraged by his vote on oil taxes. I know I was.”
“Alma,” Kane said, “that vote wasn’t why you did anything. I looked at your car. You must have been already packed by the time the vote happened.”
Alma sighed and nodded.
“You’re right,” she said. “It was just a pretext to get the hell out of Juneau. But it was still the wrong thing for him to do. And I just don’t understand why he did it.”
She was silent and, when it didn’t seem like Kane was going to speak again, she said softly, “What happens now?”
Kane understood that she was really asking what would happen to her.
“I suppose that, as a good staffer, you’ve got a pen and some paper in that storage locker you call a purse,” he said. “I want you to write down just what you told me, sign it, and date it. Every page. Then, when the ferry docks, you can go wherever you want. I’ll try to not use your statement unless I have to. But don’t kid yourself. There’s nowhere you can go that you can’t be found.”
Alma nodded, took a pen and steno pad from her purse, and began writing. Kane watched the other passengers watch the scenery. They’d passed through the rain, and the sun was playing tag with the ferry through the clouds. The throbbing of the ship’s engines and the sunshine and the warmth of the woman next to him conspired to put him to sleep, but he drank his coffee and fought against his weariness until Alma finished. She handed him the statement, prepared just as he’d said.
She was probably a very good staffer, he thought.
He read the statement, tore it from the pad, folded it, and put it into a pocket. On the port side of the observation deck, people pointed over the side and talked excitedly.
“Orcas,” one of them called acros
s the deck. “A pod of orcas.”
The other passengers hurried over to look, leaving Kane and Alma isolated in their chairs.
“I’m really sorry, Nik,” Alma said. “I never meant for anything bad to happen to you. I…I like you. A lot. It’s just, I had to get out and this seemed like the only way.”
“That’s okay, Alma, I understand,” Kane said as he got to his feet. “It was just politics.”
27
As they say around the [Texas] Legislature, if you can’t drink their whiskey, screw their women, take their money, and vote against ’em anyway, you don’t belong in office.
MOLLY IVINS
Kane watched Alma Atwood’s car roll off the ferry in Haines, drive up the road and out of sight. He knew he probably should have kept his hands on her, but couldn’t see himself dragging her back to a place she wanted to escape so much.
You’re getting soft in your old age, he thought. He patted the pocket that held her signed statement, then walked back to the observation deck to sit. He took out his cell phone and was surprised to find he had a signal. He dialed Cocoa’s number, talked for a few minutes, returned the phone to his pocket, and leaned back.
Kane was nearly asleep when the ferry vibrated and started moving again, making the short run to Skagway, where it would turn right around for the return trip. He could have saved time by getting off in Haines and seeing if one of the little commercial planes that served the town was flying to Juneau, maybe chartered one if he had to. But he wasn’t in that much of a hurry, and he didn’t like flying in small planes anyway.
At Skagway, he got off the ship and grabbed a quick sandwich, then hustled back aboard as the ferry was making ready to get under way. Haines had looked like a real town, at least from the ship. Skagway—what he’d seen of it, anyway—was all Gold Rush–era Alaska, a few buildings that had survived for more than a century amid a bunch of faux structures, almost all of them closed. No need to open them, really, until the cruise ships started delivering their thousands.
When he was back aboard, Kane put his ticket in his breast pocket so it was visible to anyone who cared, closed his eyes, and went to sleep. He awakened as the ferry was making its slow way to the dock in Auke Bay in the fading light of late afternoon. He took out his cell phone and called Cocoa, only to find that the cabbie was waiting for him at the dock.
“Who’s watching our friend?” he asked as he got into the cab.
“My cousin Ralph,” Cocoa said, “and my cousin Cecil.”
“They know he might be dangerous?” Kane asked.
“They do,” Cocoa said, “but they don’t care. They think they might be dangerous, too.”
Cocoa put the cab in gear and began navigating the road back to downtown Juneau.
“Where we going?” he asked.
“I think we’ll go see if Winthrop wants to join us,” Kane said, “while we talk to Mr. Bezhdetny.”
“Good idea,” Cocoa said. “That’s one big white man. Might be smart to have a big Eskimo on our side. How’d you know to tell me to find that guy before you left, anyway?”
“Just a hunch,” Kane said. “I knew he’d been hanging around Grantham and that Grantham had done something odd. I thought he might be mixed up in what’s been happening.”
“You think he killed that woman, that White Rose?” Cocoa asked.
“We’ll see,” Kane said, then closed his eyes and leaned back against the doorjamb.
Cocoa shook him awake when they reached the hotel.
“You sure you’re up for this?” he asked. “You seem a little worn out.”
“It’s got to be the drugs,” Kane said. “I’ve had plenty of sleep. Let’s go talk to some people.”
They got out of the cab.
“I’m leaving my bus out there for a few minutes, Bobby,” Cocoa said to the bellman as they headed for the elevators.
“No sweat, Cocoa,” the bellman said.
They rode up in the elevator with a couple of dazed-looking guys in suits.
“That Senator Dean,” one of them said. “She really is the queen of mean.”
“Got that right,” the other one said.
Cocoa and Kane got out on the top floor. Cocoa led the way to a door and knocked. Winthrop opened the door and ushered them into a suite that was, for the Baranof anyway, surprisingly swank. Mrs. Richard Foster and Oil Can Doyle sat on a big sofa under another massive Sydney Laurence painting.
“Good to see you back, Sergeant Kane,” the woman said. “Did you get what you needed?”
Kane took an armchair and said, “I did. I have the woman’s signed statement implicating George Bezhdetny in kidnapping. And if I’m not mistaken, he’s been engaged in a little extortion, too. I need to talk to Senator Grantham first, though, to be sure about that.”
“What about the murder?” Oil Can Doyle squeaked. “That’s all I care about. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re supposed to be helping Senator Hope defend himself against a murder charge. Two now.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Kane said. “I figure it’s logical that one bad guy may have done all the bad things.” To the woman, he said, “Did you invite Grantham up here?”
“I did,” she said, “right after your friend there”—she nodded toward Cocoa—“relayed your instructions. He should be here anytime.”
She’d just gotten the words out when they heard the sound of knuckles rapping on the door.
“Make sure he doesn’t rabbit,” Kane said to Winthrop.
“Teach your grandma to suck eggs,” Winthrop replied, opening the door to allow Grantham to step in. The senator looked around the room and turned toward the door again, only to find it closed, with Winthrop leaning against it.
“You can leave if you want, Senator,” Kane said to his back, “but that just means you’ll be talking to the people who work for the governor instead of us. He’d like that, wouldn’t he, your old friend Hiram Putnam?”
Kane watched Grantham’s shoulders sag. The senator turned toward the room and said, “I don’t know what it is you think I have to say. I’m here at Mrs. Foster’s invitation to talk politics.”
“Oh, I think we’ll be talking politics,” Kane said, “as well as some other things. Have a seat.”
Winthrop took the senator’s coat and pointed to a chair, being careful to keep between Grantham and the door. Grantham walked slowly to the chair and sat. He crossed his legs, tried to smile, and said, “What is it you want?”
“Well,” Kane said, “I guess we could start with an explanation for why you changed your vote on oil taxes.”
Grantham looked from one face to another before replying.
“I don’t know why I should explain myself to you,” he said, smiling, “but there are several sound economic reasons not to increase taxation on the oil industry. The state depends on oil for most of its income, after all.”
He looked around the room again, but not an expression had changed.
“Let’s try this again, Senator, shall we?” Kane said. “I have a signed statement from Alma Atwood that you two were involved in an affair of long standing that ended only because you took up with a younger employee who George Bezhdetny introduced you to.”
Grantham’s smile faded as Kane spoke.
“Are you attempting to blackmail me?” he asked, trying to sound offended. “In front of witnesses?”
“Nice try, Senator,” Kane said, “but there’s no blackmail here. Your career is over no matter what you do or say. The only real question is whether you go from the Senate to private life or from the Senate to prison. What you say in this room will go a long way toward deciding that.”
“Prison?” Grantham said. “Why should I go to prison?”
It was Kane’s turn to smile. His smile wasn’t pretty.
“If Bezhdetny bribed you to change your vote, then it’ll be prison,” Kane said, “but if you changed for some other reason—blackmail, perhaps—then you’ll only have to retire.”
; “And if that’s the case,” Mrs. Richard Foster said, “I’m sure we could find some suitable employment for you somewhere. No one wants to punish a victim.”
That was well said, Kane thought. This woman is no dummy.
Grantham sat silently for a few minutes.
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Foster privately,” he said at last.
“Uh-uh,” Kane said. “That’s not going to happen. But I’m sure Winthrop, Cocoa, and Mr. Doyle wouldn’t mind retiring to the kitchen for a little while.”
Oil Can squeaked at that, but the three men left the room to Kane, Grantham, and Mrs. Foster.
“Now, Senator,” Kane said, “you must see that it is in your best interest to be candid with us.”
The look Grantham gave Kane was full of venom, but when he turned to Mrs. Foster he was all smiles.
“I’m sure we can work something out to make this all go away,” he said. “After all, there’s a reconsideration vote coming up, and I could be persuaded to change my vote for the right inducements.”
The woman gave the smile back to Grantham and said, “You’re finished, Senator. Now act your age and do the best you can for yourself. If you don’t, I’ll make sure that everyone hears about your behavior.”
“Bitch,” Grantham said.
Kane was on his feet and, before he knew what he was doing, he’d slapped Grantham hard enough to send him sliding out of his chair. Kane grabbed the senator by the lapels and hoisted him back into the chair. He put his nose against Grantham and said, “This is your last chance, scumbag. Start talking or you’re going to find yourself in a cell married to the guy with the most cigarettes.”
Grantham took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blotted some blood from the lip Kane had split. Her looked like he wanted to cry, but pulled himself upright and said, “I’m in a difficult position. George had some tapes that could cause me a great deal of embarrassment.”
Kane returned to his chair and sat.
“About what I thought,” he said calmly, “but why don’t you tell us what happened.”
Grantham looked at the woman once more, but what he saw in her face didn’t make him happy. He cleared his throat and began.