Elements of Kill

by Christopher Lane

  Ray displayed his badge. “Looking for the manager.”

  The man turned stiffly and directed them forward with an arm. “Through the lobby. At the end of the reservations desk, just before you reach the concierge’s station.”

  “Thanks.”

  “May I take your things? Your coats, hats …?”

  Ray and Billy Bob slipped off their gear. The man opened a door hidden in the wall behind him and began hanging the apparel on a rack.

  “Boots?” he asked, offering them each a pair of polar-fleece moccasins with leather soles.

  “We can’t keep our boots on?” Ray asked. He wasn’t sure he could manage without the thick, insulated cushion.

  “Well … you can … but—”

  “Great. Then we will.”

  “Enjoy your stay.” The man resumed his position. Ray decided that the guy would have made a great guard at Buckingham Palace.

  The hallway leading to the lobby was impressive. The floor and walls were emerald green. Marble. Probably the real thing, Ray surmised. Pieces of art were displayed on marble pedestals, each illuminated by studio lights inset in the ceiling. Ray admired an original Birdsall that portrayed the northern lights shimmering in the night sky above a field of snow-encrusted tundra. The next work was an elaborate six foot totem: ovoids, lines, and interlocking images skillfully etched in red cedar. The plaque beneath it described the role of the totem in Native culture. Ray didn’t bother to read it. Chances were the explanation was bogus. For some unknown reason, whites had long ago gotten it in their minds that totem poles were objects of worship. In actuality, the poles were works of art intended to memorialize various events in the history of a clan or individual. Something like an historic marker, or a tombstone. And while totems had become the unofficial mascot of the Eskimo, they were only found among the southeastern peoples, the Tlingit and Haida. The Inupiat and Aleut had never carved any such posts. That didn’t seem to phase the souvenir vendors or their patrons. Tourists weren’t exactly sticklers for accuracy.

  “Perty nice, huh?” Billy Bob was grinning.

  “Yeah,” Ray grunted. Somehow, nice didn’t do this place justice. Palatial was more like it: a residence fit for royalty. At the entrance to the lobby the roof fell away revealing a seven-story glass atrium full of trees, tall ferns, fountains, pools, and artificial streams. In Ray’s experience, a lobby was a place where you checked in, picked up a key, bought a Mars bar from a vending machine, and used the telephone. But this: gleaming marble floor … rustic tree-trunk benches scattered throughout an indoor jungle … chairs and couches clustered in alcoves along the outer wall … It was like a taste of Eden served up at the North Pole. Yet all Ray could think of were the logistical challenges of running and maintaining this miniature paradise. How did they keep the plants alive? How did they keep the water from freezing? He glanced down at his bunny boots, then back at the trail of muddy water behind them. How did they keep it so clean?

  “Over there,” the deputy said, aiming a thumb at a door marked Manager.

  They squeaked their way across the expanse, toward the door. Before they reached it, a woman behind the counter chimed, “Welcome to the Bradbury. How may I be of service?” She was about twenty, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a winning smile.

  “We’re looking for the manager,” Ray told her, extending his badge.

  “You must be Officer Attla and Deputy Cleaver,” she said, still smiling. “I’ll let Mr. Henderson know you’re here.” With that she lifted a phone and began punching buttons. A moment later she added, “He’ll be right with you. If you’d like to have a seat …” She waved at a couch hidden at the foot of the closest row of ferns.

  When they were seated, a door opened at the end of the counter. A young man in a khaki uniform pushed out a mop and bucket on wheels and started toward them. Stopping directly in front of the couch, he began sloshing the mop back and forth, erasing their boot tracks.

  “How’d ya like to get stuck in a place like this?” Billy Bob asked.

  “Pretty tough, alright.” Ray watched as a group of suits emerged from the forest half a football field away and gravitated toward a stand nestled under a grove of what appeared to be dwarf palm trees. One by one the men placed their orders, the attendant scurrying to fill them. Two minutes later they retreated into the foliage, caffeine jolts and sugary snacks in hand.

  Ray eyed the espresso stand. Though he couldn’t smell the coffee, the mere sight of it had ignited a craving. He was considering making the trek into the woods when the woman from the counter appeared in front of the couch.

  “Mr. Henderson will see you now,” she said, beaming. “If you’ll follow me.”

  “I’d folla you anywhere,” Billy Bob said stupidly, gawking at the woman’s legs.

  She either didn’t hear him or was disciplined enough to ignore the comment. “Right this way.” She opened the door and ushered them into the manager’s office. “Mr. Henderson will be right with you.”

  Left alone, Ray and Billy Bob stood there, waiting. It was a surprisingly small room, considering the size and scope of the lobby: modest desk, waist-high bookshelf, two filing cabinets, a pair of chairs. A nondescript painting of a bowl of fruit was the only wall decoration. Framed photographs Uttered the desk.

  The side door opened and a short, balding man in a brown suit entered. His chubby cheeks were buoyed by a sanguine expression. “Gentlemen, welcome to the Bradbury.” He shook their hands enthusiastically, as if they were long lost friends. “Please have a seat.” Slipping behind the desk, he asked, “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m Officer Attla and this is …” Ray started to explain.

  Henderson was nodding. “I’ve been expecting you. How can I be of service?”

  “We’re looking for someone.”

  The manager leaned forward in his chair, expectantly. “Yes?”

  “Roger Makintanz.”

  Suddenly his features soured. “The chief?”

  Ray nodded.

  “Might I ask why?”

  “Police business,” Ray told him.

  This seemed to bother Henderson.

  “Could you tell us what room he’s in, please?”

  Now Henderson seemed pained. “I’m not at liberty to give out information about our guests.”

  “Even to the police?”

  He shrugged and lifted his palms, as if the entire matter were out of his hands. “Company policy, gentlemen. I’d really like to help, but—”

  “We just need to know what room he’s stayin’ in,” Billy Bob said.

  “I understand, but I’m not at liberty to provide you with that information.” The grin returned. It was more of a defensive look than a willingness to please.

  Ray studied him. “Do we need a court order just to get a room number?”

  “Possibly,” he answered. “And even then I would need authorization from Anchorage.”

  “Can you just ring the chief and let him know we’re here?”

  Henderson thought this over, sighed, examined the ceiling, pressed the tips of his fingers together. Shaking his head, he muttered, “The chief has asked not to be disturbed—”

  “This is important,” Ray assured him. He paused, caught Henderson’s eyes, then said, “We can get that court order, if you’d like us to, but I’ll bet Anchorage won’t be too happy about that. You know, the publicity and all.”

  “Publicity?” The manager’s face fell. Apparently he hadn’t thought of this.

  “Court orders are public record. If the press got ahold of it … Well, you know the media. There’s no telling what slant they might put on it.”

  “What do you mean? What could they possibly …”

  Ray shrugged, careful not to push the threat any further.

  “Be a shame if this place went under,” Billy Bob added innocently.

  Henderson took a breath, stared at them, and caved. “Okay. I’ll call him, but it’s up to him whether or not he wants to see
you.”

  “Fair enough,” Ray said.

  Henderson picked up the phone and dialed. “Chief Makintanz?” He swallowed hard. “Yes … Uh, sir … This is Mr. Henderson, the manager of the Bradbury … No, sir. There’s no problem. I apologize for disturbing you, sir, but … There are two law enforcement officers here to see you … Yes, sir. No. No, not that I’m aware of.” He covered the phone with a hand. “You don’t have a warrant, do you?” Ray shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “No, sir … Very good, sir … Yes. All right. I’ll send them up.” When he hung up, Henderson was out of breath, his brow glistening with perspiration. “Listen officers, the Chief is one of our biggest clients. We can’t afford to lose him.”

  “Who said anything about losing him?” Ray asked, rising.

  “Please try not to, you know, offend him or anything.”

  “We’ll try not to.”

  Henderson led them through the side door and down the corridor. “The chief is in the Penthouse. It’s only accessible through the express elevator.”

  “How often does the chief stay here?” Ray asked.

  “Once every six weeks or so. Always takes the Penthouse. His room-service bill alone is enough to keep us in business,” Henderson chuckled wryly.

  Henderson stopped at a set of chrome doors and pushed a button. The elevator opened with a whoosh. “You’ll have to pass through security outside the chief’s suite.”

  Ray and Billy Bob got on. Still in the hall, Henderson pushed another button. “Go easy,” he begged as the doors began to shut. “I need this job.”

  The elevator bounced slightly, then rushed upward. “So this chief fella is loaded, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Ray replied. “You could say that. Worth around two billion dollars, last I heard. And he’s got an in with everybody: Davis Oil, several Native corporations, the teamsters … He’s buddies with the governor, liaison to the North West Indians Association, even does consulting for Boeing. He’s a slimeball, but an extremely well connected one. Arguably the most powerful man in Alaska.”

  Billy Bob’s dopey face adopted an expression bordering on deep thought. “So why would this fella murder two people?”

  “Who said he did?”

  “Why else are we talkin’ to Mm?”

  “Just to—”

  “To see what he knows,” the deputy mumbled, frowning. “If you don’t wanna tell me, just say so.”

  “Okay. I don’t want to tell you.”

  “Fine. See if I care. You want to keep secrets …”

  A tone sounded and the doors slid open. As they stepped off, a pair of gargantuan men in three-piece suits rose from their seats in the hallway and trotted to meet them, like half the defensive line of the Seahawks rushing the quarterback.

  Ray was in the process of reaching for his badge when an enormous paw stopped him. The grip was robotic, unmerciful. Before he could react the paw spun him around and he found himself performing an up-close inspection of the wallpaper. Another paw patted down his back, legs, and waist. Beside him, Billy Bob was wide-eyed, his cheek flat against the wall, an arm twisted behind him. The brutes swiftly relieved the deputy of his sidearm and badge, Ray of his ID.

  “Driver’s license says Raymond Attla,” one of them declared, still pressing him against the flower-covered plasterboard. “From Barrow.”

  “At least you can read,” Ray observed. “Some gorillas can’t.”

  “Funny guy, huh?”

  Ray’s arm jerked up between his shoulder blades, his hand scraping against the crucifix on his ponytail. Something in his shoulder cracked. A knee hit him in the kidney sending pain down his leg and up his right side. He felt himself lean backward, then rush at the wall, impacting with a sick thud. “How’s that for funny, funny guy?”

  “Police officer guy,” he offered through a grimace, nose folded in half. “I’m a cop.”

  “A cop?” the man grunted disapprovingly. “No kidding.” He held Ray at bay with an elbow as he rifled the wallet. “Oh … here we go. Officer Attla.”

  “This one’s Deputy Cleaver,” the other beast read. “Cleaver? As in Beaver?”

  Laughing, the security guards backed away, releasing their charges.

  Ray turned around, massaging his shoulder. His nose felt crooked. Before he could check to see if it was broken, a hand dove into his shirt. “No wires, right guys?”

  “No.”

  Another hand checked Billy Bob in the same fashion, fingers feeling around the collar, under the arms, along the sternum.

  “Clean.”

  “What’s your business with the chief?” “It’s private. He’s expecting us.”

  “Is that right?” The man glared at Ray, wide shoulders squared, as if daring him to move past.

  “Yeah. That’s right.”

  The Neanderthal toggled a tiny device in his ear. “Sir, we’ve got an Officer Attla and a Deputy Beaver Cleaver out here. They claim you’re expecting them.” There was a pause. The brute’s face grew even dumber then, “Yes, sir.” He frowned at them. “Go ahead.”

  Both men seemed disappointed. Tossing the ID badges back, they returned to their chairs and newspapers.

  “What about my thirty-eight?” Billy Bob wondered.

  “Antique,” the second strong-arm declared. “Cops are always behind the times.” He pulled back his suit coat and displayed a semi-automatic pistol. “You wouldn’t stand a chance against one of these babies. I pull this, you better start digging your grave.”

  “Thanks for the tip. Can you just give him back his gun?” Ray tried. Though dangerous, no doubt lethal, these clowns were getting on his nerves.

  “On your way out.”

  Ray considered arguing, asserting his authority as a law enforcement officer, but somehow he got the feeling that Jughead and Archie here had little respect for authority, much less the police. He glanced at Billy Bob, shrugged, and started down the hall.

  At a set of double doors, Ray reached for the knob but the doors clunked mechanically and retreated on their own, swinging back to reveal a spacious suite: plush, champagne carpet, striking Native wall hanging, leather couches and chairs, two primitive tables decorated with jade trinkets and fresh flowers, a wet bar framed by racks of glasses, wine, and liquor.

  “Hello?” Ray called, sticking a tentative foot across the threshold “Anybody home?”

  “Gentlemen,” a voice replied, the speaker hidden. “Come right in. I’ve been expecting you.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THEY FOUND CHIEF Makintanz in the dining room, seated at the far end of an ornate oak table, utensils in hand. The china platter in front of him was heaped with food: roast beef, eggs Benedict, strawberries, cinnamon roll, shrimp, baked salmon. An array of chrome serving boats littered the table, their contents steaming.

  “You’re just in time,” Makintanz announced with a smile. The expression caused his beefy cheeks to rise, nearly erasing his eyes. He was wearing a black silk shirt and a shiny black cloak with an elaborate Haida whale pattern on the lapels. Together with his girth, balding head, and ring of dyed, artificially black hair, the man looked like a middle-aged bowhead that had conveniently beached itself at an all-you-can-eat buffet brunch.

  Instead of rising to greet them, the chief stuffed a forkful of salmon into his mouth. “Have a seat. I’ll have the maid bring you some plates.”

  “No, sir. We really can’t,” Ray argued.

  “Oh, I insist. You boys do a fine job of protecting our communities. The least I can do is feed you. You are hungry, aren’t you?”

  Ray instinctively licked his lips, drinking in the rich aromas. Actually, he was starving and the dishes were so inviting. “Really, sir, we—”

  “Rosemary!” Makintanz bellowed. “Two more plates! And some silverware!” After swallowing a forkload of scalloped potatoes, he asked, “What would you like to drink? Coffee? OJ? Dom Perignon?” He lifted a crystal goblet bearing a bubbly, golden liquid, gazed at it longingly, and gulped
it down. “Not the best year, but it’ll do.”

  An African-American woman came through the swinging door behind Makintanz carrying a stack of china and a collection of utensils. Without speaking, she set a place for Ray, one for Billy Bob, then left the room.

  Ray eyed the plate, surveyed the food.

  “Go ahead. Dig in,” Makintanz urged.

  Shrugging at Billy Bob, Ray slid the chair back and sat down. The deputy did the same, immediately reaching for the shrimp.

  “Inupiat?” Makintanz asked Ray.

  He nodded, stabbing a slice of roast beef. It was tender, rare in the middle, the edges dark brown.

  “Good people,” the chief grunted, stuffing a wad of eggs in his mouth.

  “The Real People,” Ray answered from rote. He poured coffee from a chrome decanter and sampled it: hot, earthy, full-bodied, with a pungent aroma. Not Folgers by any means. It was exotic, some of the best coffee Ray had ever tasted.

  “Sumatra,” Makintanz said, answering the unvoiced question. “Harvested in Indonesia. Roasted to perfection in Seattle. The Bradbury has it shipped up weekly.”

  Ray took another sip, savoring the flavor. If it was imported, that meant it was expensive. No doubt too expensive to afford on a cop’s salary.

  “What group?” Makintanz wanted to know. “Nunamiut?”

  “Tareumiut.”

  “Ah … People of the Sea,” the chief said in an approving tone. He lingered on this for a moment before downing a golf ball-sized strawberry.

  The maid returned with a pair of champagne glasses and efficiently filled them.

  “Mr. Makintanz,” Ray began.

  “Please. Call me Chief. Everyone does.”

  “Okay, Chief. The reason we’re here …”

  “How much you make a year, Ray?”

  The question caught Ray off guard. The size of his paycheck was none of Makintanz’s business. And how did this clown know his first name? “Excuse me?”

  “What do you bring home in a year? You work in Barrow, right? Must net about what, a hundred grand a year?”