Cold Smoked

by K. K. Beck

  They arranged to meet in the Georgian Room at his hotel, the Four Seasons Olympic, that evening. She spent the day wondering if there was some way she could get screwed in this deal, and with a sense of suspense about just what he wanted her to do.

  With a sinking heart she realized that this very likely had something to do with fish. Unless, of course, they wanted to plant her as a lounge singer somewhere. This conjured up a more amusing picture. She saw herself in a low dive in Rangoon or Tangiers or maybe somewhere in the South Seas, spying on the customers while she belted out torch songs below a lazy ceiling fan. All filmed in glossy black and white, of course. She had already begun to plan her wardrobe for this adventure—bias-cut satin and tarty shoes—when she brought herself up short. A sentimental attraction to the clichés of yesteryear was what had messed up her life and gotten her into becoming a saloon singer in the first place. A saloon singer pushing forty, she reminded herself grimly, overly dependent on the kindness of strangers.

  Just for the heck of it, she called the Seattle Public Library quick information service and asked them to check on Gunther Kessler’s firm. They transferred her to Business and Technology, which leafed through some directory and told her it was a legitimate, privately held company with branch offices in Paris, Milan, London and Brussels. They even provided her with a phone number of the head office in Zurich.

  It was still early enough to call them at the end of their business day. When she asked for Gunther Kessler, they put her on hold for a while, then said they would take a message. She said she’d call back and hung up. It sounded as if Kessler was legit—assuming that was his real name. She wondered how his bosses would like his pawing through innocent people’s luggage. It seemed pretty sleazy for such an apparently classy firm. If he gave her any more trouble, she’d figure out a way to make trouble for him.

  The Four Seasons Olympic was one of her favorite places in Seattle—a big, old-fashioned ornate hotel with soaring ceilings, large potted palms and nice thick carpets. Native Seattleites still called it the Olympic, while newcomers and travel agents called it the Four Seasons.

  Kessler was already in the restaurant when she arrived. He rose, touching his lapel in the gesture of a maître d’, and nodded with a grave expression. The idea that she was sitting down to share a good meal and a bottle of wine with him, after having kicked him in the knee when they’d last met, struck her as quite ridiculous. It was his old-world formality that allowed her to carry it off.

  He handed her the menu like someone on a festive date. “There are a couple of things I’d like to ask you before we go any further,” Jane said.

  She put the menu to one side, the gesture meant to imply that she would stalk out then and there if she didn’t like the answers. Actually she was afraid that if she saw the menu, her resolve would be weakened. The food at the Olympic was sensational.

  “First, what makes you think I am some sort of an investigator?” she demanded, staring at him aggressively.

  He looked away, narrowing his eyes. After a pause he said, “I learned this from someone in the Norwegian security apparatus. I can’t reveal who.”

  “I see,” she said, not really seeing at all. “Okay, now I want a full explanation of why you were searching my room in Bergen.”

  He sighed, as if they had been over this all before. “I am investigating a case of industrial sabotage. It has taken place in many countries. Your passport shows you haven’t traveled to the countries in question. Further investigation showed your connection with the fish business is very recent. In fact, I interviewed a couple of people in Norway who said it was clear you didn’t know the first thing about fish.” He gave her a little smirk. “Finally, I learned today from the Norwegians just what you were up to.”

  Presumably this would keep him from spying on her anymore. “You did?”

  Kessler nodded once. “Yes. Mr. Knutsen received a call from the Seattle police and learned that you had discovered he was the victim of some kind of terrorist plot. He immediately informed his superiors. The Norwegian government takes any illegal actions of antiwhaling and antifur groups very seriously. Their economy is being threatened by the activities of these groups, and there has also been direct sabotage—a whaling vessel was sunk last year by some California-based group.

  “Knutsen told his story, and it became clear what your interest in his movements was. You apparently represented that dead girl’s family in some way. The story checked out.” He cleared his throat and moved a knife a millimeter to the left. “But in developing your cover, you’ve put yourself in a position to help us.” He leaned forward. “We need you to get close to someone. Someone whom we suspect of being behind a campaign of sabotage.

  “We want you to find out if there is a connection between the sabotage and this person. We will pay you very well to ask the questions we want asked. There will be a bonus of twenty thousand dollars if you can get this person to tell you on tape that he is responsible for this sabotage. We will take care of the technical aspects. A simple microphone taped under your clothes.”

  A waiter came by, and Kessler said, “I wonder if you would be at all interested in the chateaubriand for two.”

  “Yes, I would be,” she said, looking forward to the béarnaise sauce. “Medium rare.” They decided to start with hearts of palm salad, and Kessler ran a finger along the wine list and ordered something by number.

  “Who is the client?” she asked him.

  “The International Salmon Exporters.”

  “And what makes you think I’ll agree?”

  “To be blunt, I think you’d like the money,” he said. “You are a widow, making your way in the world. It has not always been easy.”

  “So you’ve checked up on me?”

  He shrugged. “It wasn’t too difficult, as I’m sure you can appreciate. Once I learned who your husband was, it was much easier. Bernardo da Silva was quite famous. The Formula One driver. I remember him well.”

  Yes, thought Jane, and he would have made short work of you, too, going through my suitcase.

  Kessler went on, “The Norwegians were interested, too, because of what you found out here in Seattle. They shared information with me. We also know you’ve been involved in other kinds of investigations—something to do with your family. This part is a little unclear, but not particularly important from our point of view. Anyway, you yourself would check out someone you considered doing business with, wouldn’t you? After all, we’re both in the business of collecting information.”

  That’s right, thought Jane, except you are professionals with computers and expertise and contacts, and I am a blundering amateur. She dismissed his smarmy, flattering, “we’re colleagues” routine with a slight sneer, so he wouldn’t think she’d bought into it. “So who is this person you’re interested in?” she said.

  “Your gallant rescuer. Mr. Robert Putnam.”

  Jane was astounded. “What? After he rescued me from you, you think I’d turn on him like that?”

  “You might.” Kessler shrugged. “You don’t really know him that well.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked sharply, irritated by his air of omniscience.

  “I watched him speak to you at that presentation in Bergen. When he had no idea he was being observed. He was clearly a man who wanted to get to know you better. I can’t imagine him faking that. Also his manner when he came to your rescue. That was very telling. I also checked with the hotel and discovered that the fact he was in the room across from yours was pure coincidence. I eliminated the idea you were in some collaboration, although until I spoke with the Norwegian, it did occur to me.”

  “What’s he suppose to have done?” said Jane.

  “Someone has been interfering with farmed salmon all over the world.”

  “What have they been doing to it?” said Jane.

  “Never mind the specifics,” Kessler said. “It will be more credible if you don’t already know. It will take some time for you to de
velop a rapport with him. We will pay you a per diem rate, and I’ll stay in touch. We will liaise closely.”

  “What makes you think I won’t tell him immediately that you suspect him?”

  Kessler smiled. “I think you would rather have twenty thousand dollars. But if you feel loyalty to him, go right ahead. Tell him. If he is guilty, he will stop the sabotage. That in itself will be telling, and will help solve my client’s problem. I am not a policeman, trying to bring him to trial. I am someone who works to limit damage to my clients.”

  “Mr. Kessler,” Jane said very firmly, “let’s spell it out here. You think I’ll sleep with him for twenty thousand dollars, don’t you?”

  He looked very slightly taken aback. “I don’t know what you’d do. But I think he finds you charming, and I think you can probably be very persuasive with any man who feels that way.”

  Great. He hadn’t decided if she were a slut or a tease.

  “I don’t know yet if I will accept,” she said. This was a big fat lie. Twenty thousand would definitely buy her a lot of time away from the Fountain Room or its equivalent. It would also make her less dependent on the board of querulous old men who held her fate in their gnarled, worm-veined hands. Too bad the price she had to pay was dealing with the odious Kessler, who evidently realized only too well that she had her price. Still, the food and beverage manager at the Fountain Room hadn’t been much better, and he’d paid a lot less.

  “So you will think about it?” Kessler said.

  Instead of answering, Jane asked a question of her own. “In your investigation have you come across any connection between your case and the death of Marcia St. Francis?”

  “If there is a connection, I’m not sure what it is,” he said.

  “Is the sabotage related to animal rights?” asked Jane. “Are they letting salmon free?”

  Kessler smiled. “Even fanatics would hesitate to do that. One of the ecologists’ fears about salmon farming is that escaped fish, bred by man, will create some kind of genetic havoc with wild strains. In Alaska, for instance, where salmon farming is—”

  “A hanging offense,” said Jane. “That’s what Mr. Putnam says.” All in all, she thought the other brother, Don, was a better candidate for sabotage. He would clearly have seen interfering with fish farms as a mission from God.

  The salad arrived, and Kessler looked it over with the slightly worried air of a man who feared a bad meal more than anything else. He seemed satisfied, and his face relaxed, especially after he took his first bite. She wondered how much Kessler knew about Marcia and how much the Norwegian security apparatus, whatever that might be, had checked into it. If she could pump Kessler while he was paying her to pump Bob Putnam, she might make herself some money and firm up her case for the board at the same time.

  Which was why, halfway through their chateaubriand, Jane agreed to accompany him to the opera the following night. “I have tickets to La Bohème,” he said with his usual bossy stiffness. “You can give me your answer then.” He then looked, for the very first time, just ever so slightly shy. “I don’t know how good your opera is here, but Puccini is fairly indestructible, and I’m very fond of him.”

  “So am I,” said Jane.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The next evening Jane was disquieted to discover that she was feeling defensive in a provincial, hometown way. She often found herself comparing Seattle to Europe, where she had spent so many years. Tonight she was seeing everything through Gunther Kessler’s cold, cosmopolitan eyes and hoping (rather pathetically, she felt) that it would all meet with his approval.

  Was this because she lived here now and wanted to believe that coming home hadn’t been some sort of retreat? Or was it because Gunther Kessler had always been so damned patronizing on a personal level?

  She hoped Gunther wouldn’t be put off by the newness and the scale of the opera house. Built in the sixties, it was simple and streamlined. The carpeted lobby, with an open staircase leading up one flight to the row of doors that led to the orchestra seats, had the look of a pleasant airport waiting area. There was, she decided, something very Seattle about it all. No vulgar fountains or chandeliers, no pretending to be more than it actually was.

  The audience, too, had a low-key look, quietly underdressed and with a relaxed manner that some visitors found bland, others refreshingly self-contained.

  Jane had pegged old Gunther for a Wagnerian. This wasn’t just cultural stereotyping, she told herself; there was definitely something Teutonic about him that went beyond his bearing and his accent. His fondness for Puccini had been more than a surprise, it had given her hope. Perhaps they could develop enough fellow feeling that she could worm out of him whatever he had learned about Marcia’s death.

  He didn’t seem to blanch at the English supratitles, projected above the proscenium arch—Jane felt sure a lot of Europeans would have sneered at that, and the orchestra sounded solid to her ears, which cheered her up. Sitting next to him, she sensed him relax along with her as soon as it became clear the singers had good voices.

  As act one unfolded, she forgot about Gunther Kessler entirely and became involved in the opera, listening to Mimi and Rodolfo get to know each other in the dark and the cold, fumbling charmingly, suspensefully, with candles, key and Mimi’s frozen little hand. When Rodolfo opened the window, stage snow falling gently outside the casement and stage moonlight rushing in illuminating Mimi, and then began to sing “O soave fanciulla,” Jane became aware of her companion again. There was a sense of heightened tension coming from the body just a few inches away from her side.

  After Mimi’s voice had joined Rodolfo’s in mutual, newfound, impassioned love, and the audience, with the usual Seattle enthusiasm, had produced thunderous applause and a chorus of bravos, Jane found herself casting a sideways glance at Gunther. She was amazed and touched to see that his eyes, like hers, were glazed with tears.

  Oh, hell! she thought. He’s as big a sap as I am. By the time Mimi coughs her last, we’ll probably fall into each other’s arms, weeping. Jane knew that Italian opera could have an aphrodisiac effect on her, and even someone as unlikely as Gunther Kessler, if he were similarly afflicted and went ahead and lunged, could benefit from her weakness.

  By the time the curtain fell on Rodolfo’s despairing cries of “Mimi! Mimi!” Jane had managed to pull herself together. Those bohemians should have found themselves day jobs, she told herself, trying to overlook the fact that their plight reminded her unsettlingly of her own on the many occasions she had reached the financial edge. Of course, she reasoned, if it happened today, Mimi probably could have cleared up those lungs with modern antibiotics. But there was no cure for love. She left the opera house in a haze of melodious passion and heightened emotional intensity. Gunther, silent at her side, seemed equally moved.

  What she saw as they left the building, however, changed her mood entirely. An antifur demonstration was going on. A group of outrageously costumed people with big signs were haranguing elderly ladies in old-fashioned mink jackets and a few younger women in more stylishly cut furs. The demonstrators were wearing ratty old thrift store fur coats daubed with crusty red paint, a street theater look that was meant to horrify. Presumably it was all right to wear fur if it prevented others from doing so.

  A big, soft-faced woman swathed in distressed weasel snapped, “Killer!” at a frail, white-haired lady in a tailored Persian lamb jacket that looked as if it had been in the family for generations. Jane was alarmed to see the old lady startle and step back a pace, tottering a little on her patent-leather high heels. Gunther looked alarmed and sprang forward, but she regained her footing.

  When Jane passed, the weasel woman smiled sweetly and said, “Thank you for not wearing fur.”

  Jane hissed back, “What I choose to wear is none of your damn business,” and walked on.

  Then she spotted the creature she’d encountered in her house, wearing the same ratty gray squirrel number, now smeared with red paint. But this t
ime there wasn’t a knobby head covered with a ski mask—just the sallow, fanatic face of Curtis Jeffers. He had a big stick with him, with smaller horizontal sticks attached to the top, like something from a religious procession. From the crosspieces hung a nasty-looking animal trap with sharp steel teeth from which dangled a grisly, red-streaked antique fur scarf made of the heads and tails of some kind of ferrety creature. Another exhibit was hanging there: a red-streaked sealskin slipper, just like the one Jane had seen on one of Trygve Knutsen’s feet the night he was questioned by the police.

  She stopped and stared. Curtis hadn’t noticed her and was now jumping up and down, chanting, “You’re wearing carcasses. You have blood on your hands.” Why hadn’t the police arrested him after she’d given them that ransom tape? Instead he was still carrying on bullying people. No doubt he thought anything he did for the cause, from rudeness to abducting people, was perfectly justified.

  And how the hell had he gotten his hands on that slipper? Jane decided to tell the police about that. While she was at it, she could tell them she’d identified the coat belonging to the intruder she’d grappled with.

  She turned to Gunther. “I have to make a phone call,” she said, looking around for a booth.

  He pointed into the outer lobby of the opera house. “There’s one back there,” he said.

  “Keep an eye on the guy in the bloody fur with the stick,” said Jane.

  “No problem,” Gunther said. “He’s not the sort you can easily lose in a crowd.” Curtis was now jumping up and down and keening, perhaps trying to duplicate the cries of a trapped animal.

  Jane called 911. She didn’t think for a minute she’d be able to do anything other than leave a message for Detective Olson.

  Much to her delight, the dispatcher, after clacking audibly on a keyboard, said a patrol car would be by soon and asked Jane to stay where she was and make no attempt to communicate with “the individual in question.”

  Jane also asked if she could leave a specific message for Detective Olson. “Curtis Jeffers has a sealskin slipper that is exactly like one Trygve Knutsen lost the night he was abducted,” she said. “He’s standing in front of the opera house with it.” The dispatcher asked her to spell Trygve Knutsen.