A Shooting at Auke Bay

by Parker, Gordon;

  Christopher’s career moved upward quickly after the successful operation the four of them had worked on together in cooperation with the FBI San Francisco office. His captain, Fess Albright, retired. With the arrest and indictment of Deputy Chief Amanda Justice, there was a shakeup in the chief’s office. Lieutenant Billy Mitchum, who should have been in line for Albright’s job was transferred instead to SFPD headquarters. Booth was tapped to jump a grade and take the captain’s chair.

  He felt guilty that he had moved up and Nancy had not. But she wouldn’t stand for that. It wasn’t his fault that her boss was a jerk. Every cop in the Bay area knew him. None respected him. As long as he was between her and the Richmond PD chief, Nancy’s career was going nowhere.

  Nancy and Christopher both were wearing jackets, thinking it would be colder than they were used to. When they discovered it was a relatively warm day, they stripped off their jackets. In doing so, both revealed that they were armed.

  “A Glock 20, right?” Monk asked Christopher. “I carried one of those for several years when I was with the State Troopers. It was their sidearm of choice.”

  “It packs a lot of punch,” Christopher said. “Powerful enough to use for hunting fair sized game.”

  Robert was especially drawn to the nickel-plated revolver with wood grips on Nancy’s hip.

  “Is that a Smith & Wesson Model 19 or Model 66?” he asked. “Has to be one or the other.”

  “Model 19,” Nancy said. “It belonged to my dad. He was a cop, too.”

  The Model 19 was the first handgun built to handle a magnum cartridge. Nancy’s weapon had a four inch barrel. The cylinder held six .357 magnum cartridges. Also a lot of punch for a handgun. The Model 66 was a later version of the same weapon.

  “With my hideaway Glock, Trent’s reproduction LeMat, and the single shot .410 handgun that Darcey’s packing we’re in good shape for a close in gunfight,” Monk observed.

  Booth looked around.

  “But this shooter works at long range,” he reminded them. “Aren’t we pushing our luck out here in the open?”

  “I think we’re ok,” Monk said. “We’re pretty high up in the air here. On this side of the building he would have to fire up at about a fifty degree angle. That would be a difficult shot. It could be made but the shooter would have to know the algorithm necessary to accurately judge the shot. And he would have to be in the open.

  “To reduce the degree of angle and give himself cover, he would have to be on a boat or on the other side of the inlet. If he tries from a boat he would still be in the open. The boat’s movement would make the shot difficult if not impossible. And the other side of the inlet is out of range even for this guy. I think we’re safe here, especially with these iron animals that child-proofed the deck to make it safe for Kelli.”

  “Nobody at the airport gave you any trouble about being armed, Nancy?” Darcey asked.

  “Nope. I said I quit. I didn’t say I turned in my badge and gun. I just walked out. And since we were boarding a private jet at a private hangar, nobody was looking anyway.”

  Darcey laughed. Monk decided he liked these two cops.

  Darcey had already reported to Christopher and Nancy on today’s news regarding Trent. For the next hour and a half Robert briefed them on what little information they had so far. They discussed Robert’s view that this puzzle would lead them well beyond the attempted assassination of Trent Marshall. They listened to his theory that they were faced with a complicated conspiracy extending from Anchorage to Juneau and Southeast Alaska to Seattle and perhaps farther.

  He showed them the picture of Warren Perkins, told them about Caduceous, the bar that Perkins hung out in when he was in port, and noted that someone had to go to Seattle unless they could come up with a contact there to check out the bar.

  He asked them if the names Jim Segal and Cameron McGraw meant anything to them. They did not.

  “But I’ve got a good relationship with the FBI Agent in Charge in San Francisco. He might be able to help us with them,” Booth said.

  At 4:30 Darcey called a halt to the discussion.

  “Y’all know five o’clock is cocktail hour at our house,” Darcey reminded them. “I suggest we take a break now. You two can freshen up and get settled in your bedroom. Then we’ll gather on the deck for peach martinis.”

  There was a bit of melancholy in the smiles. Christopher and Nancy knew that peach martinis were one of Trent’s specialties. They had been served at their wedding at the Pines. Trent had made them for the group in San Francisco many times.

  “But for dinner I suggest we go out,” she continued. “With all the activity today, I haven’t had time to even think about cooking. The hottest place in town is JS Bistro. I took the liberty of making reservations for us this evening if that’s ok with y’all. And just coincidentally,” she added, emphasis on the word coincidentally, “JS Bistro is owned by Jim Segal.”

  “Interesting selection,” Robert said, an amused look on his face. “I’ve always said there’s no such thing as coincidence in crime, corruption, or politics.”

  They all had heard Trent express the same view.

  Now they knew that he learned it from Robert Monk.

  Seated at their table in JS Bistro, Darcey asked their waiter to bring them two orders of albondigas as appetizers. The small Spanish meatballs arrived tasting of garlic and spicy chorizo sausage with a hint of nutmeg. They were accompanied by a tomato sauce for dipping.

  While Darcey and her guests sipped their cocktails, nibbled at the albondigas, and studied the menu, Segal entered the restaurant. He had been there earlier in the day but had gone home to check in with McGraw and Captain Place. Satisfied that all was going well in Southeast, Segal returned to his restaurant to play host to the dinner crowd.

  It was Segal’s favorite part of his day. He played his role of host at a fine dining restaurant to its limit. He even dressed the part, appearing each evening in black tie, aberrant wear for a city known for casual clothing.

  Stopping at the Maitre D’s station, he looked at the list of reservations. Surprisingly he discovered Darcey Anderson’s name on the list. On most nights he would move from table to table greeting his guests. Seeing her reservation for a party of four made him sense danger. He walked quickly to the end of the bar and up the stairs, attempting to keep his face averted without appearing unusually strained.

  Jayne Colombo, as usual was at her desk when he entered.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with me. Why do you ask?”

  “You just look a little shook up is all,” she said. “Not your usual confident, bon vivant style.”

  “Trent Marshall’s wife is here with three friends,” he said. “That seems a little unusual to me.”

  “Oh, relax. They wanted to have dinner. This is a very well known and popular restaurant. You’re making something out of nothing.”

  Segal was trying to decide if Darcey Anderson showing up in his restaurant was significant. Was it something that should concern him? He thought perhaps not. He hoped not. The last thing he wanted was more people dying. That would attract too much attention. The sort of attention he wanted to avoid at all cost.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “Everybody has to eat.”

  From her station in the kitchen, the young woman with the red and black striped hair watched Segal walk quickly through the restaurant. Weird, she thought. He usually made a point to greet everyone in the building when he came in. Something must be up.

  Christopher Booth watched Segal walk the length of the bar. When the restaurateur disappeared upstairs, Booth told his companions to continue studying their menus.

  “Don’t look up or turn around,” he cautioned. “We might have a picture to put on one of our puzzle pieces.”

  “See somebody you recognize?” Monk questioned.

  “Sure did.”

  “Save it for later. Restaurants are the worst
places to talk business,” the old cop said. “You never know who is listening.”

  “Whatever else he might be up to, Jim Segal puts a good meal on the table,” Darcey said.

  They were in the sitting room at the condo, looking out to the east over the lights of the city framed in the shadow box of the Chugach Mountains. While Monk thought they were safe on the west deck, he was not as confident about the east side. There were too many tall buildings the shooter might use for cover and the less severe angle of fire would make it an easier shot.

  “So who is he?” Robert asked. “Someone you know?”

  “Oh yes,” Christopher said. “Before he was Jim Segal, he was Pietro Greco, aka Peter Greco. Don Rossi’s consigliere and underboss. I always thought he was the real brain behind the Rossi Mafia family.”

  “That explains what’s going on,” Darcey said. “Segal, or Greco, is taking revenge for the destruction of the alliance in San Francisco.”

  “I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” Christopher replied. “I’ve wondered what happened to Greco after his boss was murdered. Without Rossi in charge, the leaders of the three other organizations that made up the alliance were all murdered in rapid succession.

  “All four were known to keep large sums of emergency cash in their homes. When we got to each of them, their safes had been opened and were empty. In addition, Rossi’s safe deposit box at his bank, in which he was thought to keep a couple of million, was empty. Only Rossi and Greco were authorized access. Not even Rossi’s wife could get into it but by that time she was back east with her family.

  “Finally, one of the gang leaders had indulged in a very expensive yacht. Cost seven or eight million. It disappeared about the same time as Greco and the money.”

  “Doesn’t sound like simple revenge to me,” Robert chimed in.

  “I think Greco saw Trent and feared he would be recognized,” Christopher said.

  “And that makes me think my theory that we’re onto a large and complicated conspiracy is correct,” Robert said. “If it was only fear of being recognized Segal, or Greco, could have just stayed out of sight. A lot less risky than assassinating a well-known man in broad daylight.”

  Darcey called Kelli every morning and again in the evening before the little girl was put to bed. She visited Trent each evening before she retired for the night herself.

  Nancy went with her this evening. Dr. Shannon told Darcey earlier in the day that, if no complications developed overnight, Trent would be moved out of ICU into a regular room. At least what passed as a regular room at this hospital, which was designed to care for patients whose chances for survival were questionable. Each of the regular rooms was packed with esoteric medical technology. Darcey didn’t know what all the machines did. She only cared that they were keeping Trent alive.

  The two women stood outside the ICU looking in at Trent. His head was now wrapped in a white bandage. He was unmoving. He looked lifeless but he was breathing with the assistance of one of the machines.

  Neither spoke. There was nothing to say.

  Jayne Colombo’s car was parked in a far, darkened corner of the cheap hotel’s lot. She sat behind the wheel. Her face flushed. Her breath came in gasps. Her eyes were closed in sweet memory. She was lost in whatever it was that served as excitement for a psychopath.

  In one of the hotel’s rooms a woman lay in a bed. She had no breath at all. Her face wasn’t flushed but was graying as lividity began its slow work drawing blood from a non-beating heart to the lowest points of the woman’s body. The three holes stitching her torso bled some but had already lost the drainage struggle to gravity. The woman felt nothing. Her eyes were open. Staring at the ceiling. Seeing darkness. Only darkness.

  Colombo struggled to gain control of herself. She started the engine. She had to get out of here before someone noticed. It wouldn’t do for Segal to discover she had returned to satisfying her perverted addiction. She knew he would be furious with her. He had not sent her out on a kill since she arrived. She knew his priority was to attract no negative attention. She was surprised when he made the hit on Marshall himself.

  She tried. She really tried. A year went by. She could stand it no longer. Her need had to be satisfied.

  She let a man pick her up in a bar. It was good. Not as good as it would have been if she could have described it to Segal. But it satisfied her.

  For six months.

  Then she found another man.

  Another six months and then tonight. This time a woman. The sex of her victim didn’t matter to her. Man or woman. Either satisfied her peculiar need. The perverse need to kill. She didn’t understand it. It was, even to her, inexplicable.

  She didn’t care. She didn’t think about it. She only knew that she would again have to satisfy her need.

  She drove slowly to the apartment she rented in midtown Anchorage. She didn’t want to live too close to Segal’s home downtown. She knew there would be more times when she would move quietly through the night seeking relief. She didn’t want him to see that.

  Later, as she lay in bed, she caressed the machine pistol that released her passion as it relieved her unlucky companions of life.

  For the first time in weeks she slept through the night.

  July 13th

  It was going to be another warm, sunny day in Anchorage. Darcey awoke early only to find Robert already up and dressed. He had made coffee. She gratefully accepted a cup.

  “Robert, there are some fresh cobs of corn in the refrigerator,” she said. “Would you mind shucking three of them and cutting the kernels off while I call Kelli?”

  “Will do,” was the quick reply.

  She took her cup back to her bedroom. She felt this stone in her belly as she thought of the separation that she knew would continue for longer than she would like. She hated being apart from her daughter but she couldn’t yet leave. As Dr. Shannon continually told her, one day at a time.

  After the call, she showered and dressed quickly. In the kitchen, she whipped up a batter for corn fritters. She beat an egg white until it was stiff, then gently folded it into the batter which already featured the corn kernels Robert had cut from the cobs, green onion, minced ham, and a little thyme to add savory to the sweet.

  Nancy came in while she was mixing the batter.

  “Looks good. What is it?” the former detective asked. Nancy was not accomplished in the kitchen but had been learning since becoming friends with Darcey and Trent.

  “Corn fritters for breakfast,” Darcey said. “While I’m making the fritters would you put a dipping sauce together?”

  “Sure. Just tell me how.”

  While Darcey dropped the batter by the spoonful into hot oil, Nancy prepared the dipping sauce by melting a stick of butter. At Darcey’s instruction, she added maple syrup and several generous dashes of Tabasco.

  By the time Christopher showed up, the table was set with a mound of tempting fritters and a small bowl of dipping sauce by each plate.

  “What’s our plan for today?” Nancy asked, as she spooned a little of the sweet and spicy sauce over the two fritters on her plate.

  “I would like you to come with me again to the hospital, if you don’t mind,” Darcey said. “If Trent made it through the night with no complications, they’re moving him out of ICU this morning. It’ll be the first time I’ve been allowed in the room with him since we got to Anchorage.”

  “I’ll be right beside you,” Nancy promised.

  “Christopher, the chief of police here is a friend of mine and is committed to working with us,” Robert said. “In return I want to keep him informed on any new leads we turn up. I’d like you to go with me to his office this morning to brief him on what you know about our Jim Segal.”

  “Glad to.”

  “Then I think it’s time for you to call your FBI buddy in San Francisco,” Robert continued. “I remain convinced there’s far more at stake here than Segal’s fear of being recognized. I’m curious to know if the
feds have noticed any uptick on criminal activity of any kind on the west coast.”

  A few blocks away, Segal sat in his condo with the morning’s second cup of coffee. He didn’t often eat breakfast. He was moderate when it came to meals. He considered overindulgence in food as harmful as tobacco, alcohol or drugs.

  He hadn’t heard from his contact in New Orleans the day before. He assumed that meant there was nothing to report. Marshall’s family remained forted up behind their brick wall.

  He was still troubled by Darcey Anderson showing up in his restaurant last night with three others. He wanted to believe Jayne was right. It probably meant nothing other than four people going out to dinner at one of the city’s most popular restaurants.

  What bothered him was her three companions. One of them could be the old man who joined them on the Nanuq just before the hit. If Marshall was alive and had been flown to Anchorage the old man might have accompanied the family. That wouldn‘t be out of the ordinary. It would be alarming but not unusual.

  But who could the other two be? Others who might recognize him, he wondered?

  At best, it was a complication. He didn’t like complications. And that much complication would be deadly.

  Darcey was disappointed to find Trent still in ICU. Dr. Shannon was with him. She came out to meet Darcey.

  “I don’t think he’s ready to be moved yet,” the doctor said. “Maybe by this afternoon. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Darcey thought she might faint. She felt Nancy take her hand. The doctor was talking but Darcey didn’t hear what she was saying. Her world was spinning out of control.

  Dr. Shannon realized Darcey was on the verge of fainting. She helped her into a chair and asked Nancy to find some water. The doctor herself held Darcey’s hands.

  “Trent isn’t responding as quickly as we had hoped, Darcey,” Dr. Shannon spoke quietly. “But it doesn’t mean he’s losing the fight. We can’t rush his recovery. That would be the worst thing we could do for him.”

  Darcey nodded, wordlessly, as she sipped the water Nancy brought her.