Spoils of the dead

by Dana Stabenow

  Liam rifled through the mental card index labeled “Blewestown” and came up empty. “Which is…”

  “The local affiliate of the University of Alaska. About five hundred students, including distance students from across the Bay.”

  He spared yet another moment to marvel at the comprehensiveness of Ms. Petroff’s knowledge of her community. Well, theirs, now. “Was Berglund married?”

  A shadow passed so fleetingly across her face that he could not identify the emotion behind it. “Not to my knowledge.”

  “A steady girlfriend?”

  A ghost of a smile. “If the rumors are true, he did not lack for female companionship.”

  “Terrific,” Liam said beneath his breath. He foresaw a lot of interviews with ex-girlfriends and those never went well and were almost invariably unproductive.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Ms. Petroff?”

  “You are referring to Mr. Berglund in the past tense.”

  He looked up to find her watching him, her face blank of any expression, even curiosity. “Do you know where he lived, Ms. Petroff?”

  Another almost imperceptible pause. “I believe he rented a dry cabin somewhere out East Bay Road.”

  “No address?”

  She shook her head. “Dry cabins seldom have their own street addresses. People out that way throw up a lot of cabins for short-term rental purposes. They would rather not attract the attention of the borough tax assessor.”

  “What is a dry cabin, exactly?”

  “No water. He had to haul it in.”

  “Ugh.”

  “It’s not uncommon in Blewestown, sir, given the lack of housing. Many rental property owners rent out by way of Airbnb during the summer. Short-term vacation rentals are much more remunerative—” he could only admire how she didn’t stumble over the word “—than long-term rentals.”

  Newenham had been the same, except replace tourists with the fishermen and the processing plant workers who flooded in from Outside every summer.

  He thought it over. His first stop should have been Erik’s office, but he hadn’t had one. His second stop would have been Erik’s home, but he didn’t want to waste his entire day stumbling around the back of beyond trying to find it. “Do you by any chance have Gabe McGuire’s phone number?”

  “Of course, sir.” A brief clack of keys and she read it off to him.

  To his surprise, McGuire answered his own phone. “Mr. McGuire, this is Sergeant Campbell.”

  “Hey, Liam,” McGuire said. He didn’t sound happy. “I suppose this is about Erik.”

  “You’ve heard?”

  A snort. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  Neither are you, Liam thought. “I need to talk to you about your party on Monday. In particular it would be helpful if you could prepare a list of everyone who was invited, who was there, and who didn’t show.”

  “I suppose this is official?”

  “Yes.”

  A heavy sigh. “I’m not a law enforcement officer but I’ve played one in the movies. Come on out.”

  “Thanks. Be there in twenty.” Liam clicked off. “Thank you, Ms. Petroff. Excellent staff work.”

  She inclined her head and said gravely, “Thank you, Sergeant Campbell.”

  He paused at the door to look back at her. She was still looking at him with that preternaturally blank expression. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. He wasn’t sure she actually saw him.

  Thirteen

  Wednesday, September 4

  BY THIS TIME HIS TRUCK COULD HAVE driven itself to its destination, but for the black bear and three cubs who charged out in front of it with suicidal intent. He slammed on the brakes and got honked at by the pickup in back of him for his pains. The bears, unconcerned, disappeared into the brush. They were as adept at the vanishing act as the moose.

  The gate had been left open. He parked and knocked at the door. McGuire opened it almost immediately. “Coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  McGuire pointed at the kitchen and Liam helped himself. They sat down on opposite couches in the living room, McGuire facing the view as was only due the homeowner.

  “Do you live here alone?”

  McGuire looked around. “What, too much room for one guy?” He sounded defensive.

  Liam shook his head. “You’re an actor. And you’re a box office star. Where’s the entourage?”

  McGuire grimaced, and Liam admitted that it was very odd indeed to watch a face he’d seen often on his own television screen make human expressions sitting right across from him. Liam was generally good at spotting liars and their tells but this guy was a professional actor, the first and only of Liam’s acquaintance. How to know what was real?

  McGuire looked back at Liam, and something of his thoughts must have shown because—was it an expression of disgust—flashed across his face. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a cabin out back. Len lives there. A housekeeper comes once a week. The rest of the time it’s just me.”

  “Was Len at the party?” A nod. “I’d like to talk to him, too.”

  “Want me to call him over?”

  “No, I’ll pay a visit afterward.” He wanted to talk to the witnesses individually if at all possible.

  “Right,” McGuire said. He picked up a sheet of paper from the coffee table. “I printed it out. Easier to read than my handwriting.” He fidgeted with it. “I don’t mean to intrude on your investigation but these people were my guests, in my home by my invitation. I don’t want to hang them out to dry.” He looked up to meet Liam’s eyes.

  “I appreciate your feelings,” Liam said. “My on-the-scene estimate indicates that Erik Berglund was killed late Monday or early Tuesday morning. That estimate is not official and may be contradicted by the findings of the medical examiner, but if it’s close then you and your party guests will have been the last to see him alive.”

  “Other than the murderer,” McGuire said. “Who wasn’t necessarily here.”

  Liam nodded his totally deniable agreement. You never got the best out of a witness by antagonizing them right out of the chute. “Did everyone you invited come?”

  “Yes.” McGuire handed over the sheet of paper. Erik Berglund’s name was at the top of the list. Next were Allan and Cynthia Reese and Grace and Greg Kinnison. “Kyle and Logan’s parents?”

  McGuire nodded.

  Aiden and Shirley Donohoe. Domenica Garland. Hilary Houten. Blue Jay Jefferson. Jeff and Marcy Ninkasi. Allison Levy. Jake and Lily Hansen. Paula Pederson. Alexei and Kimberley Petroff.

  “Do Alexei and Kimberley Petroff have a daughter named Sally?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was your friend Len present?”

  McGuire nodded.

  “What’s his full name?”

  “Leonard Needham.”

  Liam counted the names. “And you makes twenty. Just a holiday get-together? Any excuse to barbecue?”

  McGuire looked uncomfortable, but Liam couldn’t tell if he actually felt that way or just wanted Liam to think he felt that way. “Some of them are neighbors. Jeff and Erik are friends. The rest are local people. I invited them over for a kind of home premiere of Last Flight Out.” If Liam couldn’t read his expression he could read Liam’s, and he added, “The producer sent me an answer print.”

  He might as well have been speaking in tongues but Liam did manage to gather that McGuire had invited everyone over to watch his next film.

  A reluctant smile spread across McGuire’s face. “Not a fan?”

  “More of a reader.”

  A rough laugh made both of them look at the kitchen where a man was filling a mug with coffee. He brought it to the living room and sat down next to McGuire. “Leonard Needham. You’d be the trooper.” Liam nodded, and the man jerked his head at McGuire. “Kid told me you’d be coming. Thought I should come on over to make sure you don’t get out the rubber hose.” He waggled his considerable eyebrows and his cheeks crease
d in a close-mouthed smile. White, five seven-eight with a kind of muscular thinness that defied an estimate of weight. His eyes were brown with startlingly long lashes and his hair was a wiry gray cut to a drill instructor’s specifications. His hands were enormous and large-knuckled, dwarfing the mug he held. He was dressed like McGuire, in a worn white T-shirt advertising nothing and jeans faded at the knees and seams. He was also twice McGuire’s age, and although the two men looked nothing alike there was a certain similarity in the way they held themselves, a quality of awareness, Liam thought. Perhaps the consciousness that there was always someone watching, which would be endemic in people employed in the on-camera end of filmmaking. He recognized it because nowadays if you were in law enforcement you were always aware that someone was watching, usually with their camera phone up and running.

  “Generally speaking, we don’t break out the rubber hose until the second interview,” he said. Needham bent his head, acknowledging the unspoken reproof. Both men wore almost identically bland expressions and Liam said, “Are you an actor like Mr. McGuire, Mr. Needham?”

  “It’s Len, and call him Gabe,” Needham said. “And no, I’m not an actor, I work for a living.”

  McGuire might have rolled his eyes a little.

  Liam reminded himself that this was an official interview regarding a murder committed very likely not a thousand feet from where he sat and managed not to smile. “What do you do, Len?”

  “I’m a stunt man. Or I was.”

  “Nowadays he’s my pilot,” McGuire said.

  “And this punk’s uncle, for my sins.”

  Liam gave up and let himself be distracted. “How did you get into that?”

  Len correctly identified which part of his life Liam was asking about and said, “I’m a pilot. I was two tours in the Air Force, did time in the Sandbox, got out when the hypocrisy got to be a little too much. A friend already in the business was working on a film that needed a stunt pilot right now and the money was good.” He shrugged.

  “Ten years later he owned his own company, and then he recruited me out of high school.”

  “Kid played every sport. Coulda gone pro.”

  “Boring,” McGuire said.

  “And then…”

  McGuire gave a shrug identical to the one Needham had just given and the similarity between the two shifted into a sudden focus that was so startling that Liam was amazed he hadn’t seen it before. “A director gave me a line, and in his next film a couple more, and then a supporting role in a film that got some traction at Sundance, and then, and then.” He drank coffee. “It’s all luck, really. Plenty of actors better than me didn’t get the breaks.” He looked at his uncle. “Didn’t have Len.”

  “Stop it, kid, you’re making me blush.” He pointed at Liam with his mug. “And it’s not what you came here to talk to us about.”

  “Erik.” Gabe sat back with a sigh. “Damn it.”

  “Why damn it?” Liam said.

  Gabe met Liam’s eyes squarely. “He was a friend.”

  Len snorted again. “He wasn’t always.” When Gabe glared at him Len glared right back. “Tell him. Tell him right now, tell him all of it. Otherwise he’ll find out from someone else and he’ll be back here all pissed off and suspicious because you didn’t. It’s not like you haven’t made that picture, kid.”

  Gabe dropped his head. “Fuck.” He looked up at Liam. “Fine. This house is in a subdivision called Bay View. Yeah, I know, original as hell. The trail to Erik’s dig has been public for a long time, people driving down to park at the roundabout and rappel down to walk on the beach. It isn’t officially a public right of way but it’s been used as one. The neighbors tell me it’s an historic make-out spot for the local teens and lately it’s been a problem area for raves.”

  “Define ‘problem.’”

  “Drug deals. Underage drinking. Accidents originating therefrom—you’ve experienced the grade. Imagine you’re a dumb kid and high or drunk besides. ODs and even a few deaths back in the day.” Gabe rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “And then along comes Gabe McGuire, the rich and famous Outsider, who buys the house right next door and, worse, moves in. Word gets around, rubbernecker traffic increases, the neighbors are unhappy.”

  “Made even more so when Erik Berglund sets up an archeological dig at the foot of the trail,” Len said, with a glance at Gabe. “Because Erik is bent on establishing a traditional Alaska Native trail leading from the beach up the hill and all the way over the bluff, that he is going to prove has been used ever since there have been Alaska Natives living in the Bay. Which would be, give or take, ten thousand years. You’ll have noticed the rocky spur that runs out of the cliff and down the beach. Makes kind of a natural harbor.”

  “He gave me the tour,” Liam said.

  “In the meantime,” Gabe said, looking a little clenched around the jaw, “the rich and famous Outsider has approached the Borough to vacate the trail right of way in exchange for putting in another, more accessible trail, at his own expense, on the right of way between this subdivision and the next one south of here, Mountain View. Another exemplar of originality in binomial nomenclature.”

  This time Len rolled his eyes. “Forgive the kid. Every now and then he reads a book and wants to make sure everybody knows it.”

  Liam’s eyes raised involuntarily to the bookshelf that covered the entirety of one wall, floor to ceiling. There were no empty spaces, and all the covers were worn. “So you were trying to vacate the right of way to the beach.”

  “This one, yeah.” Gabe shifted uncomfortably. “There have been some incidents.”

  “What the kid means and is too embarrassed to say is that fans today have no boundaries, women fans in particular.”

  “What about the gate? Don’t you close it?”

  “They climb over it. One of them took the trail down to the beach, walked down it a ways, climbed back up to the edge of the cliff—” Len nodded at the yard which ended at the cliff’s edge “—and came over the top, herself in the altogether. If she’d managed to pack a platter with her I reckon she would have served herself up on it.”

  “You mean she was naked?”

  “Yep. I’ll never understand why she didn’t leave her clothes on for the climb and just strip after she got to the top. She sure was scratched up in some interesting places. I have no objection to naked women, mind you, but that was not a sight you want to see over your first cup of coffee in the morning.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah.”

  Liam digested this in silence for a moment. “So your plan was to vacate the right of way—”

  “There is no right of way, not officially.”

  “Hard to make that stick with umpteen generations of people who have been using it for whatever,” Len said.

  “And then,” Liam said slowly, “along comes Erik Berglund, who says the trail might go back millennia for the Sugpiaq.”

  Gabe nodded glumly. “And if he’s right, there will be zero chance of me gaining title to that trail.”

  “And now he’s dead.”

  It was his turn to be glared at. “I can always buy another house.”

  “Yeah, but you like this one,” Len said.

  Gabe transferred his glare. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

  Len patted the air. “Relax, kid. Better the trooper knows it all upfront.”

  Gabe crossed his arms and glared out the window instead. “I liked Erik, right of way or no right of goddamn way. If he’d proved his point we could have come up with a workaround, and if not I would have learned to live with it. Maybe buy out the property on the other side of mine and put in access that way, and then close off the existing driveway altogether.”

  “Maybe build a moat while you were at it.”

  “Maybe,” Gabe said with emphasis. He looked back at Liam. “I’m a full-time resident now, except when I’m off on a shoot. I’m here for the duration, registered to vote in Alaska and everything. No w
ay I wanted to start out in the Bay with something like this.” He sighed and let his arms fall. “Erik was a good person, and a scholar. I only knew him a couple of months but I think… I think we were on our way to being friends. I don’t know that many people who don’t give a shit who I am.” He looked back at Liam. “And now we are all deprived of whatever future discoveries he might make, whatever they were and however they impacted me. Whoever killed him robbed us all. I hope you find him and throw him in prison for the rest of his life.”

  Liam looked down at the list. “When did the party start?”

  “I told everyone six o’clock for food and drink. We ran the film at eight p.m. It ended at nine-thirty. There was dessert, more drinks, and everyone left between ten-thirty and eleven.”

  “No wait staff? No caterer?”

  A shake of the head. “It was just beer and wine and burgers and dogs and ice cream.”

  “Who was the last to leave?”

  “Erik,” Gabe said glumly. “We had another beer and shot the breeze for another half an hour after everyone else left. You’re right, Len and I are probably the last people to see him alive.”

  “After which,” Len said, “the two of us cleaned up—” He caught Liam’s look and grinned. “Well, okay, we didn’t actually clean up. We bagged the trash and stacked the dirty dishes. The housekeeper came the next morning and cleaned up.”

  “After that?”

  “I went to bed.”

  “In your cabin?” Len nodded. Liam looked at Gabe. “And you?”

  “I read for a while, then same.”

  “Do either of you know where Erik’s cabin is?”

  Both men shook their heads.

  “I saw a fold-up bed in the tent. He spend the night there often?”

  “I don’t know about often. Sometimes he worked late.”

  Liam thought about taking that trail up in the dark and shuddered inwardly. “You think he slept there Monday night?”

  Gabe’s expression was bleak. “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t see Erik’s body in the cave when you went down to help Kyle?”