Ray stared at him, wondering what the point of this was.
“I could use a solid man like you, a good strong Tareumiut. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find qualified Natives. For my security team, I mean.” He paused to guzzle another glass of champagne. After wiping his mouth he said, “Most Eskimos are either too small or don’t have the experience. You … you’d be perfect”
“Thank you, sir, but—”
“I’ll beat your present salary by … fifty thousand.”
“Really, I couldn’t—”
“Okay, I’ll double it Whatever you’re making now, times two. I know talent when I see it Ray.”
Ray squinted at him. What a salesman. He was smooth, polished, able to sidetrack you in the blink of an eye. No wonder he was rich. No wonder he was always in trouble with the law. The man was a snake, in whale’s clothing.
“How do you know my name?” Ray asked.
“I know things,” Makintanz assured him with a mischievous smile. “Your friend here, Billy Bob, he’s too small. No offense. I just have standards. Requirements. And I’m predisposed to hire Natives. Those bozos in the hall are Italian. Bricks for brains, cloth ears, but they’re good with their hands—and their guns. So …” Here he sighed melodramatically. “But I could use you, Ray. Kind of a personal assistant and bodyguard. I’ll bet a quarter mill a year would have Margaret doing cartwheels.”
“How did you know—”
“I told you, I know things,” Makintanz chuckled. He tossed down two jumbo prawns. “I know about your grandfather too. One of the last great umialiks. A fine man.”
Ray suddenly had the feeling that he was being threatened. Subtly, almost imperceptibly. But intentional or not the vague implication was there.
“One thing I don’t know,” the chief admitted. “How in blazes did you get that way?”
“What way?”
“So big.”
Ray shrugged at this
“What are you, six foot?”
“Something like that.”
“Amazing. A six foot full breed …” He shook his head at this as though it represented one of the great wonders of the world. “You are full Inupiat, aren’t you?”
“As far as I know. Listen, Mr. Makintanz, we’re here to discuss a murder.”
“You mean two murders,” he said playfully. “Don’t you?”
“So you’ve heard?”
The chief nodded. “Bad timing.”
“Excuse me?”
“The murders. We don’t need that sort of thing right now. Not with Davis and Arctic Slope Regional about to jump into bed together.”
“You’re talking about the deal to extend the exploration field.”
“Right. It’s a touchy situation. The Corporation doesn’t want to get robbed. They’re paranoid. They think all oil companies are out to rip them off. Still hung up on tradition. You know, the old kinship thing. Never trust a stranger unless he forges a bond with a member of the clan.”
“Isn’t that what you are: a liaison?”
Makintanz smiled thinly at this. “Basically. Yes.” Tossing in another prawn, he said, “On the other side, you’ve got Davis. They want to accept the lease Arctic Slope’s offering, but don’t want to get taken to the cleaners on the mineral rights. So they’re being cautious. Then there’s Hiro Hiroshuto.” The chief went on to describe the man as an illegitimate son of a canine. “His conglomerate is waiting in the wings, drooling over the possibility of horning their way onto the Slope. If Davis so much as blinks, Hiroshuto will come rushing in like a bore tide, gobbling up that contract. That’s all we need, the Japs getting their grubby little paws on the Prudhoe reserve. They already own half of America. Why not give ‘em Alaska.” He swore, obviously disgusted by the idea. “It’s a delicate situation. Everyone’s on edge. Wouldn’t take much to spoil things for Davis. Precisely the wrong time to have a madman running around killing folks. Especially if that madman turns out to be a Davis employee.”
“You think it might be?”
“No idea. But if Arctic Slope even thinks that’s a possibility, who knows. They might walk away from the table and hand the lease to the slant eyes.”
Ray sipped his coffee, trying to size up his opponent. Makintanz was a strange one. Descended from Asians himself, it was odd that he could be prejudiced against the Japanese. He reminded Ray of one of those lizards that had the unique ability to change colors depending on their circumstances and surroundings. Getting straightforward, honest answers out of him would be like trying to wrestle a walrus: cumbersome, energy-intensive, potentially hazardous.
“You know a man by the name of Weinhart?”
“Hank? Sure. I did.”
“Did?”
“He’s dead. That was his body you found in the pipe up at seventeen. Wasn’t it?” He gazed at them, puzzled. “I hope that’s not news. You boys are supposed to be in charge of the investigation.”
Ray produced the sketch. “Recognize this face?”
“Looks a little like Hank.”
“A little?”
“Hard to say for sure.”
As he refolded the sketch, Ray asked, “Was Weinhart up here because of this deal with Arctic Slope?”
Makintanz nodded, then grumbled, “Hank was Davis’s closer. He was supposed to put the icing on the cake.” The chief cursed at this. “The incompetent boob.”
“You weren’t impressed with his abilities?” Ray asked. He had given up on his roast beef and was working on a slab of salmon.
“Hank was about as agile as a lame moose when it came to negotiating. I still can’t figure out how he got where he was. The guy was a lawyer. Went to Harvard. Good credentials, but no business savvy. No instincts. You have to have good instincts to anticipate your opponent’s next move and get there before he does.”
“How’d you two get along?” Billy Bob asked over a sticky bun.
“We didn’t. From the day I got elected to the board of Davis to the day Hank was murdered we butted heads like a couple of Dall sheep.” He lifted the bottle from its ice tab, shook it, then hollered, “Rosemary! More DP!”
“What do you mean by ‘butted heads’?” Ray asked.
“Just what it sounds like. We disagreed on everything. Especially this deal. Old Hank just wouldn’t get on board.”
“And why was that?”
“He thought Arctic Slope was charging too much for too little. He failed to see the big picture, as usual. Sure, it’s a relatively small plot, but the potential for production is out of this world. Well worth the price they’re giving us. And if it was any bigger, the BLM and the Department of the Interior would get all hot and bothered. As it is, we’ve got a dozen environmental groups breathing down our necks, promising to bring suit if the deal goes through.” The chief sighed, then shouted, “Rosemary! Where’s that champagne?!”
The maid hurried through the door, bottle in hand. Makintanz scrutinized the label, pursed his lips, ultimately pronouncing it worthy to drink. Rosemary popped the cork. After filling the chief’s glass, she stood waiting for him to hand down a verdict.
“Fine,” Makintanz grunted after a cursory sip. He waved her away with his hand and began loading his plate with another helping of beef, a half dozen more shrimp, more eggs Benedict. “Believe me, Hank’s death is no great loss. He was a liability, a blight on Davis. The putz. When he wasn’t fouling up contracts, he was fooling around, with the ladies. Real tomcat. Couldn’t keep his pants up. And if there’s anything Davis doesn’t need, it’s a sophomoric Don Juan. That behavior just leads to scandal. And scandals kill deals. You ask me, those Casanova types get what they deserve in the end. One way or another, they wind up paying for their sins.”
“Is that right?” Ray wondered how Makintanz had the audacity to pass judgment on Weinhart when he was himself a repeat offender. Condemning adultery? It was public knowledge that the chief was a shameless womanizer. Word had it that he had fathered enough children to field a small
army.
“Any idea who mighta wanted ‘im dead?” Billy Bob asked.
“What are you doing out of your room?” Makintanz demanded in an angry tone.
“Daddy …” a voice complained from behind them. Ray and Billy Bob turned to find a woman in her early twenties standing in the doorway, fists on hips. She had long, dark hair and the face of a movie starlet. Her vibrant red blouse was stressed to its limit, buttons threatening to give way. A black belt was wrapped around her pencil thin waist. Below it, hips curved dangerously toward supple thighs, all accentuated by a pair of jeans that looked as though they had been spray painted on. Ray was amazed that she could breathe. And when she smiled, he forgot to: perfect teeth surrounded by full, red lips, long lashes fluttering over alluring, bedroom eyes.
“Wow …” Billy Bob sighed, mouth agape.
Ray was staring too, hypnotized by the combination of shapes, makeup, and smooth, bronze skin. The woman looked as though she had leapt off the page of one of Margaret’s Cosmopolitan magazines. He decided that she was a blend of Tlingit and something … possibly Hispanic. And it was an eye-pleasing mix.
“Daddy …” she purred, the smile growing. “I’m going to go—”
“Back to your room!” he insisted in something approaching a shout.
“But Daddy—” she whined. Fingers began playing with an errant strand of hair. “I just want to—”
“Go back to your room. I’ll tell you when you can come out.”
The ruby lips formed a pronounced pout. She hissed something, turned, and flounced out. Ray and Billy Bob watched, entranced.
“Daughters …” Makintanz lamented. “You have to watch them every second. That one’s goal in life is to cause me deep and lasting grief.”
Ray dabbed at his brow. It was wet with perspiration. Miss Native America had elicited a hot flash. After a deep breath, he said, “Back to the question of who might have killed Weinhart, if that is, in fact, who the body turns out to be.”
The chief chewed his beef, thinking. “Could have been someone from Arctic Slope. Someone who didn’t want Hank to screw up the deal. Or it could have been someone from Davis. For the same reason.”
“Someone like you,” Ray suggested.
“Yeah. Like me. But I don’t believe in violence. I’ve never been a fighter. Except when it comes to my family. You want to punch me in the nose, I’ll probably turn the other cheek. Even in business. I’m pretty forgiving. But mess with my family and you better find a deep hole to hide in.” His expression was suddenly serious, angry, almost evil. He chased a slice of pineapple, stabbed it with a fork. As he chewed it, his countenance magically changed, the jovial, relaxed look returning.
He glanced at Ray, then at Billy Bob. “I’m confident that you two will succeed in bringing this unthinkable atrocity to a quick and conclusive end.”
It sounded to Ray like a rehearsed speech. And there was something familiar about the words, as if he had heard them before.
Makintanz was gazing out one of the darkened windows overlooking the Beaufort Sea. “Weather can be your friend or your enemy. Right now, it’s our friend. Until it breaks, the groups can’t get in here to hammer out the agreement and sign the papers. That gives you time to clean up this nasty business. I trust you’ll do your best.”
“Yes, sir.”
Though Makintanz didn’t rise, it was plain that the meeting was now over. Ray stood and waited as Billy Bob took a last bite of beef, a final gulp of coffee.
“I appreciate the time you’ve given us, Chief,” Ray said. only half sincere. He turned to leave, but a thought stopped him. “Does Salome mean anything to you?”
“Salome?” Makintanz popped a prawn into his mouth, his expression pensive. “No. Give me a hint. Is it mineral, vegetable, or animal?”
“Never mind.”
“There’s a dish called salmi, a wonderful blend of seasoned game that’s roasted, then stewed in wine.” He kissed the pointer finger and thumb of his right hand and flourished them in the air. “Prepared correctly, it is excellent.”
“Thanks for your help.”
They left the chief to his feast, retracing their steps through the suite, into the hall, back to the elevator. This time the security patrol barely offered them a glance. One was napping, the other engrossed in the sports page. Billy Bob found his gun on the floor.
Inside the elevator, he asked, “Salome?” His tongue gave it an acutely southern slant, as if it were the name of a flower found only in Texas.
“Don’t ask,” Ray grumbled.
The cowboy shrugged and stared stupidly at the spot above the door where the floor numbers should have been but weren’t. “What now? Back to Davis?”
“Huh-uh. Not yet. First let’s do a little fishing.”
“Fishing?” The deputy made a face, buck teeth fully exposed. “Fer what? Icebergs?”
“No. For clues.”
TWENTY-SIX
“THIS IS IT.”
The manager pulled a plastic card from his jacket and zipped it down the slot next to the door. The device beeped at them. A green light blinked on and the lock mechanism clicked.
“But I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” He swung the door back. “The maids did a full-service cleaning after Mr. Weinhart checked out.”
“So you said.”
Henderson flipped a switch on his way in and two rows of inset studio lights came alive. The trio performed a quick walk-through. It was a large suite, with a main living area, connected dining room, kitchen, two bedrooms, each with its own bath. The walls bore contemporary Alaskan art. The furnishings were handsome and comfortable. Still, it seemed modest, almost primitive in comparison with Makintanz’s penthouse.
“What is it you’re looking for?” the manager wanted to know.
Ray shrugged.
“We’re fishin’,” Billy Bob chimed proudly.
“Fishing?”
“Thanks for your help,” Ray muttered. He was inspecting the coffee table. An oversized hardcover titled Inside Alaska sat at the center. Ray leafed through it: vivid color photos of moose, dog sleds, float planes, Ezkeemos in fur parkas … On the side of the coffee table, facing the couch, was a shallow drawer. He pulled it out and found two decks of Bradbury playing cards. He looked up and saw Henderson hovering over him like a protective mother. “We’ll lock up when we’re finished.”
“You won’t have to,” the manager explained. “The door is self-locking. When you leave, just be sure you’re finished. You won’t be able to get back in.”
When he was gone, Ray told Billy Bob, “Check the kitchen.”
“Fer what?”
“You’ll know when you find it.” I hope, Ray almost added. Despite the deputy’s dopey facial structure, and Looney Tunes teeth, he seemed competent enough. Not brilliant, but he wasn’t brain-dead either. He was simply young and rather naive. Actually the kid would probably make a good apprentice, if some older cop wanted to take him under his wing. Ray wasn’t sure he was up to that task.
He ran a hand under, then behind, the cushions of the sofa. Nothing. Not even lint. Henderson hadn’t been exaggerating when he said the maids had totally serviced the place. Kneeling, he peered under the couch, looked beneath the adjacent chair. Spick-and-span. Not so much as a crumb or a fleck of dirt.
A bookcase, with gold-lettered hardcovers set in neat rows, was pushed against the opposite wall. Ray surveyed the titles: Moby Dick, Great Expectations, The Brothers Karamazov, Hamlet, Pride and Prejudice, War and Peace. He had heard of most of these classics, but never aspired to read them. And from the condition of the volumes, it appeared that none of the guests had either. Lifting The Scarlet Letter, he examined the spine. It was perfect, nary a wrinkle or a bump. When he opened the cover, it crackled in protest, the thin, tissuelike pages inside still stuck together at the edges. Part of the illusion, he decided. The Bradbury was a high-brow establishment, the sort of hotel that oozed sophistication and culture. Staying here was supposed
to make you feel smarter, wealthier, better than you actually were.
Ray selected books at random, pulling them out, peeking behind them. Still nothing. Not even dust bunnies. The wood of the bookcase smelled of lemon oil, the books of crisp new paper.
Giving up on that “fishing hole,” he moved toward one of the bedrooms. “Find anything?” he called to Billy Bob.
“Oh, I done found lotsa thangs,” the deputy drawled back. “Wine, cheese, smoked oysters, choc-a-lut, even some cavee-ar. But nothin’ I’d call a clue.”
“Keep looking.” The first bedroom was decorated in a subdued flower pattern, where bedspread, wallpaper, even artwork all complemented this theme with pastel pinks and blues. It looked like something a woman would appreciate.
Pulling back the spread, he checked the sheets. They were fresh. No need to ruin the maid’s work further. He replaced the spread and glanced under the frame. Zip. Just air, carpet, the faint scent of flowers. There was a phone on the night stand, two phone books in the drawer: Anchorage and Seattle. The wall directly in front of the bed was paneled in light wooden squares. Ray found a handhold and slid one of the squares sideways. As he did, three other squares magically retreated to reveal a big screen television, a CD stereo, and a mini-bar, complete with a tiny sink and a miniature refrigerator. Nice. He rifled the cable guide, glanced at the pay-per-view movies, then closed the panels again.
The bathroom was dressed in terra cotta tile and pale green terry cloth. There were two toilet stalls with doors to allow for privacy, four sinks, and an oversized whirlpool bath. A thin shower stall fashioned from crystal bricks stood next to the tub. The ceramic surfaces gleamed under the track lighting. The towels looked as though they had been hand pressed. Paper-encased soap and a line of hair products were lined up along the counter, as if this were a beauty parlor. Ray found it hard to imagine anyone ever using the room for waste elimination or dirt removal. He opened drawers, examined the linen closet, considered taking a sample of the soap for Margaret.
“Anything?” he asked on his way to the other bedroom.
“Nah,” came the reply.
Elements of Kill Page 21
