by Mike Doogan
“I’ve always felt sorry for George. He’s a foreigner, you know, but he wants to be an American, a successful American, so badly. I don’t know why he settled on lobbying, but he did. He managed to make enough to keep from starving. And he was useful in small ways, running errands, providing the occasional support for a wayward member’s story to his wife. He was a convenience.”
Grantham paused to suck air into his lungs, then continued.
“Then last year sometime, he seemed more prosperous. I was happy for him, if you can believe that. And when I was looking for front-office help, he had this young woman with a wonderful résumé, and she was beautiful in the bargain. Too good to be true, really.”
Grantham tried to chuckle at that but came out with a noise that sounded like gears grinding.
“Too good to be true,” he said again, sarcasm in his voice this time. He stopped and stared off into the empty distance for a minute or so before beginning again.
“Politics, state politics, has been my life, you know,” he said. “I started as a young man, full of optimism and good intentions. But I’ve seen too much, watched the wrong side prevail too many times, witnessed money and power win out over justice and common sense. I have lost so often, over and over again really, that all I wanted was someone to treat me like I was important, some sign that I mattered. That’s why I took up with Alma. She worshiped me—in the beginning, anyway. And then this new woman came along, Jennifer, and she was younger and more beautiful and even more willing.”
He shook his head.
“I should have known better,” he said. “We’d been meeting in her apartment for…well, you know, and earlier this week, right before they arrested Matthew Hope again, George came into my office and told me he had photos and videotape of Jennifer and me together, that she was working for him, and unless I did what he asked he’d see that the pictures would go to my wife and to the Anchorage newspaper and television stations. And if I did what he asked, just changed one vote, he would give me everything and I could destroy it. Jennifer would leave town and no one would be the wiser.”
Grantham was silent again, then resumed.
“I should have thrown him out of my office, reported him, and taken what came,” he said, “but he showed me some of the pictures. And I looked so…so pathetic, this fat old man and this young, beautiful girl. We’d done some things that couldn’t be explained away, and there they were on glossy paper in front of me. So I did what he said and here we are.”
Kane let the silence lengthen.
“Do you have the tapes and photos?” he asked.
“No,” Grantham said bitterly. “I asked George about them this afternoon and he just laughed and said he thought he’d hold on to them, they might come in handy again sometime. I suppose I should have seen that coming.”
Kane nodded at that.
“Yes, you should,” he said. “Do you know anything about Bezhdetny being involved with Melinda Foxx in any way?”
Grantham shook his head.
“I don’t,” he said, “but I wouldn’t put anything past him. Including murder.”
Kane looked at Mrs. Foster and raised his eyebrows. When she nodded, he said, “All right, Senator. I’m going to get some paper and a pen, and I want you to write down what you just told us and sign it.”
Grantham shrank back in his seat like he was trying to escape the room through the back of his chair.
“I won’t do it,” he said. “That would be my political death warrant.”
Mrs. Foster gave the politician a smile and said, “You don’t seem to understand, Senator. You are already dead politically. Even if word of this never gets out in public—and, frankly, I can’t see how it can remain a secret—even if the public never finds out, you are going to announce your retirement as soon as the session ends and you are not going to run for reelection. If you cooperate with Sergeant Kane, he may be able to keep you out of prison, but that’s the best you can hope for. That and a job with one of the companies I own. You may not want to take my offer, though. All my companies have strict sexual harassment policies.”
Watching Grantham wilt as the woman spoke was like watching a balloon deflate. By the time she was finished, he was just a tired old man. Kane went to the desk and took out a pad of hotel stationery and a pen. Then the three of them sat quietly as Grantham wrote down his tale and signed it.
“Thank you, Senator,” Kane said after he’d scanned the statement. “You may go.”
Grantham tottered to the door, opened it, and walked through.
“You can come out now,” Kane called, and Winthrop entered the living room, followed by Doyle and Cocoa.
“Did you get anything useful on the murders?” Doyle squeaked.
“No,” Kane said, “but we’ve got better ammunition for talking with Bezhdetny. Much better ammunition. What I’d like to do is get some sleep and tackle him in the morning.”
“Maybe not,” Cocoa said. “While we was in the kitchen, Cecil called. Said the big, white guy was in his car and it looked like he was driving to that mine storage place where those guys kept you.”
Kane shook his head.
“No rest for the wicked,” he said.
He folded Grantham’s statement, took Alma’s out of his pocket, and handed both to Mrs. Foster.
“Please put these somewhere safe,” he said. “If it’s okay with you, and with him, I’d like to take Winthrop along.”
“I can see to Mrs. Foster’s safety,” Doyle squeaked, and only the fact he was so tired kept Kane from laughing.
“You two lock the door behind us, and don’t open it for anyone but one of us,” he said. He turned to Winthrop and said, “You ready?”
The big man left the room and returned a moment later, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle out of his suit coat.
“Looks like this dude was born ready,” Cocoa said, opening the door to allow Kane and Winthrop to precede him.
28
War cannot be divorced from politics for a single moment.
MAO TSE-TUNG
The cab bounced slowly along the old mining road, lights off, Cocoa mumbling curses as he strained to miss the biggest potholes. A man stepped out of the brush and held up his hand.
“That’s Cecil,” Cocoa said as he brought the cab to a halt. The three men got out and Cocoa nodded to his cousin.
“‘Sup,” he said.
“Your big white guy is down at the mine,” Cecil said. “Couple other white guys joined him a little while ago. Ralph’s watching ’em.”
“They know you’re here?” Kane asked.
Cecil looked at him and shook his head.
“We’re Indians,” he said.
Kane nodded.
“Oh, yeah, right, I forgot,” he said, “that makes you invisible.”
Cecil and Cocoa exchanged a look.
“Not your typical gussik, is he?” Cecil said.
“Nope,” Cocoa said. He walked to the back of the cab, opened the hatch, removed something wrapped in a blanket, and said, “Why don’t you show us the way, Cecil?”
The four men walked down the side of the road with Cecil in the lead. Without talking about it, they let space open up among them like they were patrolling in hostile territory. Kane looked for clues that he’d been down this road before, but recognized nothing.
I must have been really drugged up, he thought.
Kane wasn’t sure how far they’d walked when Cecil led them into the woods. They moved quietly through the darkness until Cecil held up a fist and motioned them to the ground. They followed him as he began crawling. Kane could see the soles of somebody’s sneakers when Cecil signaled them to crawl into a line abreast.
They were at the edge of a big clearing. On the opposite side of the clearing was a rock face with a door in it. Kane wouldn’t have been able to see the door if it hadn’t been hanging slightly open, spilling light into the evening’s semidarkness. The light shone on two cars that were parked nearby.
/> Guess nobody’s had a chance to fix the door, Kane thought.
Cocoa and Ralph squirmed around until their heads were near Kane’s.
“Three of ’em,” Ralph whispered. “Heard some shouting, but nothing else.”
Kane nodded.
“I guess somebody’s going to have to go in there,” he said.
He could see in the men’s eyes that they didn’t like the idea. He didn’t either. Crossing open ground in the presence of the enemy was no way to stay healthy. But if they waited until the men came out, they could have a running gunfight on their hands and who knew what would happen. He wanted Bezhdetny alive. Better to get them when they were all in one place.
“If there’s going to be trouble,” Ralph said, “me and Cecil have got to go. Cocoa’s our cousin, but if we take another charge we’ll never see the outside again. Besides, we got no guns. Felons and firearms, you know.”
Kane didn’t like that, but he understood it. Nobody who’d been inside wanted to go back. Nobody sane, that is.
“You’d better go, then,” Kane said. He looked at Cocoa. “You, too?”
Cocoa shook his head.
“I’m good here,” he said.
Ralph crawled over and touched Cecil on the shoulder. The two men crawled off.
“What’s in the blanket?” Kane asked.
Cocoa unwrapped the blanket to reveal an old, well-kept AK-47. The barrel seemed longer than Kane remembered. Cocoa unfolded a pair of legs from the barrel and set their ends on the ground.
“My dad’s,” Cocoa said. “Him and my uncles brought it back in pieces from that old war.”
“Okay,” Kane said. “That means you stay here to provide cover. If that door opens while Winthrop and I are crossing the clearing, we’ll be sitting ducks. So I want you to put fire on it. But aim high. I don’t want to be picking pieces of your lead out of my hide, or to get all three of those guys shot to pieces before I can talk to them.”
“Yes, sir, sir,” Cocoa said, giving Kane a mock salute.
Kane crawled over to Winthrop to tell him the plan. When Cocoa had his weapon set up and loaded, the other two men got to their feet and began moving across the clearing. Kane had the automatic out and hanging at his side. Winthrop was carrying what looked like a .44 Magnum.
Well, he’s big enough to shoot it, Kane thought.
He and Winthrop moved in a curve, trying not to get between Cocoa and the door, which would be a very unhealthy place to be indeed if anything happened. Although, Kane thought, with all this rock around, a ricochet could get you from anywhere.
Days passed as they moved across the clearing, or so it seemed to Kane. He was sweating and he had that peculiar itch between his shoulders that he’d always gotten on patrol.
How do I get myself into these situations? he thought. I’m too old for this shit.
They reached the door without incident. They could hear voices. Kane put his lips next to Winthrop’s ear.
“I want you to pull the door open,” he said. “Try not to make much noise.”
Winthrop gave him a disgusted look, ghosted across to the other side of the door, nodded at Kane, wrapped a hand around the edge of the door, and pulled it open. The door creaked loudly.
Kane looked around the edge of the doorway. All three men were standing, looking at the doorway. The blond one brought a pistol out from under his coat and fired. A bullet made a familiar stuttering noise as it cut the air next to Kane’s ear. Kane had his automatic up. He leaned into the opening and aimed along the barrel, feeling loose and confident. He pulled the trigger three times, then rushed through the doorway, staying low. The blond one began to fall. On his way down, he pulled the trigger again. Kane heard the bullet crack into the rock floor and something struck his leg, knocking it from under him. He hit the floor and rolled, bringing his automatic up to cover the dark-haired one, who was struggling to get something out of his pocket. He really should have bought a holster, Kane thought, but some people never learn. He put a bullet into the wooden storage locker next to the dark-haired one’s ear.
“Freeze,” he shouted, “or the next one blows your brains out.”
The noise from the gunshot had deafened him to the point that he could barely hear his own shouts. He hoped the other man could hear better.
The dark-haired one stopped moving.
“Hands where I can see them,” Kane shouted. “Now.”
The dark-haired one lifted his hands to show they were empty, then raised them above his head. Kane rolled himself into a sitting position and looked for Winthrop.
The big Native was half standing, half crouching. His left hand was wrapped around Bezhdetny’s right wrist. His right hand rested on the big Ukrainian’s shoulder. Bezhdetny’s left hand grasped Winthrop under the arm. Both men were straining, their lips peeled back to show their teeth. As he watched, a pistol dropped from Bezhdetny’s right hand. Both men ignored it. Kane was certain that if he could hear, all he would hear is the two men’s breathing.
He thought about shooting Bezhdetny somewhere nonfatal, but didn’t think Winthrop would appreciate the help. Besides, he didn’t like the idea of more metal flying around. His own leg was starting to hurt, and he snuck a peek at it. Blood was seeping from his thigh. When he looked back, the dark-haired man had his hands at waist level. Kane gestured with the automatic and he raised them again.
Kane had no idea how long the two men grappled. At some point, Cocoa came through the door, gun barrel first. He surveyed the situation, looked at Kane, and jerked his head toward the wrestlers. Kane shook his head, then nodded toward the body on the floor. Cocoa walked around Winthrop and Bezhdetny, knelt, and put his fingers on the blond man’s neck. He looked at Kane and shook his head.
The two men were still locked in their private struggle. It’s like watching an epic battle, Kane thought. Hercules contending with Apollo. Or maybe good versus evil, but with the conventional colors reversed. But we can’t watch this all night.
Kane was about to tell Cocoa to hit the Ukrainian with his rifle butt when Bezhdetny’s left leg buckled and he let loose a scream Kane had no trouble hearing. Winthrop let go of him and the big, white man fell to the floor, where he rolled around clutching his left knee. Winthrop shook his head like a man coming out of a fog, looked around, walked over to the dark-haired man, and pulled his hands behind his back.
“Pick up the weapons, Cocoa,” Kane called. “Get the one in that one’s pocket as well. And the last time I looked, they both had ankle holsters.”
When Cocoa was finished, he had an armload of handguns.
“Dump them outside,” Kane said.
When the other men’s weapons were all outside the rock room, Kane limped to the door, took out his cell phone, dialed 911, and told the dispatcher what he needed. He used Tank Crawford’s name liberally. When he finished, he limped back to a chair and sat. Cocoa took out a Buck knife, knelt next to him, and cut open his pant leg, revealing a jagged hole surrounded by black-and-blue tissue that leaked blood. He took a not-too-clean-looking handkerchief out of his pocket, folded it, and laid it on the wound. Kane put his hand on the handkerchief and pushed. A bolt of pain shot through his thigh, but he kept the pressure on.
“Good thing you called for an ambulance,” Cocoa said. “That’s going to need looking at.”
Kane nodded.
“I don’t know how long it will take for the cops to get here,” he said, “but if you want to hold on to your toy, you’d better stash it somewhere.”
Cocoa smiled and left the room.
Winthrop had finished tying up the dark-haired man. The big Ukrainian lay as he had, his hand wrapped around his knee. He was no longer howling, but had his teeth set in a way that said he was in real pain.
“We should talk before the cops get here, George,” Kane said. “It would be in your best interest.”
Bezhdetny shot him a hard look.
“Fuck your mother,” he grated.
“That’s no wa
y to talk, George,” Kane said. “You should know that I’ve got written evidence that you were involved in blackmail and kidnapping, and I’m sure that your pal here”—he nodded toward the dark-haired man—“will be only too happy to talk as well. So maybe you should tell me why you murdered Melinda Foxx. You know, sort of practice your story before the authorities arrive.”
Bezhdetny’s expression seemed to contain real surprise.
“Murder?” he said. “I murdered no one. I didn’t even know this Melinda Foxx. And I know nothing of blackmail or kidnapping.”
Then he closed his mouth and didn’t utter a sound until what seemed like the entire Juneau police force arrived, guns drawn.
29
Force is all-conquering, but its victories are short-lived.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
Kane was staring morosely at a bowl of Jell-O when Tank Crawford walked in.
“This is what they call lunch,” Kane said. “Can you believe it?”
“If you’re looking for sympathy, bubba, you’ll find it in the dictionary between shit and symposium,” Crawford replied.
Mrs. Richard Foster looked up from the magazine she was reading. Crawford’s face reddened.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I didn’t see you sitting there.”
Kane was in the hospital again, with a thick wrapping around his throbbing thigh and a slightly thick head from the anesthetic they’d given him before digging around in there. The room looked exactly the same as the previous one. For all he knew, it was the same as the previous one. Mrs. Foster was here keeping him company, while Winthrop was at the courthouse watching Oil Can Doyle trying to use the Ukrainian crime wave to pry Matthew Hope out of prison.
“The language doesn’t bother me,” Mrs. Foster said, “but the sentiment does. Sergeant Kane was wounded apprehending dangerous criminals.”
The red in Crawford’s face grew brighter. He opened his mouth, but Kane intervened.
“I think the two of you should know who you are talking to,” he said. “Mrs. Foster, this is Juneau Police Detective Harry Crawford. Tank, this is Mrs. Richard Foster, the widow of the Richard Foster.”
