Field of Fire

by Marc Cameron

  “You should see the other guy,” Bowen said, rubbing his wrists, but deciding not to go into detail.

  “What do the feds want with the Wolf?”

  “Who?” Bowen said.

  “It’s Petyr Volodin’s fighting name,” O’Hearn said. “Petyr the Wolf. I know, he’s a dumbass. Anyhow, what do you guys have on him? I didn’t notice any warrants in NCIC.”

  “Oh, you know,” Thibodaux gave a noncommittal grin. “National security stuff.”

  “Of course it is,” O’Hearn grunted. He turned to walk toward the stairwell. “I got a shitload of blood in his apartment that looks like the floor of a butcher shop—and no Petyr.”

  “I’m guessing you haven’t seen the two bodies in the Dumpster yet,” Thibodaux said.

  O’Hearn spun in his tracks, interested now. “I have not. The babushka in 309 was up nursing her gouty arthritis and spied you two through her peephole when you were breaking into 307. We grabbed the call from the uniforms when we heard the location was Volodin’s. We barely had time to clear the apartment before we heard you two clomping up the stairwell. Is one of the bodies the Wolf?”

  “They’re faces are pretty caved in,” Bowen said. “But I’m guessing them to be two Middle Eastern males.”

  “No wonder the feds are involved.” O’Hearn unclipped a radio from his belt. “Ramos, do me a favor. The marshal says we got two dead in the basement Dumpster. Secure them until CSU gets here.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, sending the rest of his squad down to help.

  “Roger that, boss.” Ramos’s voice crackled back. “I’m on my way down there now from the lobby.”

  O’Hearn pointed the radio antenna at Bowen, giving him a wry look. “This leaves me wondering who it was you chased up the stairs.”

  “Not sure,” Thibodaux said, “but he’s long gone. Some dark-complected dude with a black beard and short hair. Neither of us got much of a look at him. We were hoping to grab some security video and run it through facial recognition if you have anything street-side.”

  “I’ll see what we got as far as cameras,” the detective said. “But don’t get your hopes up. The local gangs take ’em out with BB guns and paintballs as quick as we put ’em up.”

  “Mind if we tag along on the investigation?” Bowen said. “We promise not to get fed gunk on anything.”

  “Fine with me.” O’Hearn shrugged. “I got thirteen open homicide cases attributed to the wannabe Russian Bratva mobsters we got around here. Feel free to help me out all you want. I gotta tell you though, I don’t like Petyr Volodin for this one. He’s a hell of a fighter in the ring, but outside . . . he’s kind of a mook.”

  “We need to talk to him in any case,” Bowen said.

  “No doubt.”

  “Any suggestions about where we start?”

  “His girlfriend Nikka,” O’Hearn’s shoulders shook in a mock shiver. “She’s a stripper off Surf Avenue. A place called Cheekie’s. You’ll want to wear protection when you talk to that one.”

  “Protection?” Bowen grimaced.

  Thibodaux’s brow peeked out above his eye patch.

  The detective gave a pensive chuckle. “I’m only half kidding. This broad fights us every damn time we make contact with her. Don’t tell him I said this, but Ramos—the guy checking the basement for me—he’s kind of sweet on her. She’d be kind of a looker if she wasn’t so mean. No kidding though, you should wear some kind of sunglasses when you talk to her. She slings spit like a St. Bernard dog when she gets mad.” The detective leaned in as if to drive home his point. “And it don’t take much to piss her off.”

  Thibodaux frowned. “Slings spit, you say?”

  “Yeah,” O’Hearn said. “It’s really more of an angry lisp. Hissy, like a wet cat. And gets worse and worse the madder she gets. Red blotches on her chest too when she’s nervous. Won’t be a difficult clue to spot if you can catch her when she’s working at Cheekie’s. They don’t leave anything to the imagination at that place.”

  “Hey, boss,” Ramos’s voice came across the handheld radio again.

  “Go ahead,” O’Hearn said.

  “Negative on the bodies.”

  Bowen shot a glance at Thibodaux at the news.

  O’Hearn’s face darkened. “Say again.”

  “I got plenty of blood, and what looks like brain matter on the floor and in the dumpster—but no bodies.

  Bowen gave a slow shake of his head as he worked out the reality of what had happened. “The guy with the beard was a decoy. He drew us away long enough for someone else to move them.”

  “All right, Ramos,” O’Hearn said into his radio. “Secure the scene and we’ll get CSU down there to see what they can find.” He took a business card out of his wallet and held it out to Bowen. “I’ll work on grabbing security footage from any street cams that happen to be working, if you want to start looking for Petyr.”

  Thibodaux rubbed his palms together. “Vanishing bodies, killer Russian mobsters, and a blotchy spittin’ stripper—this is liable to get interesting.”

  Chapter 17

  Nome

  It was after midnight by the time the Air Force C-12 Huron crabbed in over Nome to set down on an icy runway amid a stiff crosswind and blowing snow. The Air Force pilots handled the landing with steely-eyed grace, though Quinn was certain they wondered what was so important as to bring them out to Western Alaska in the middle of the night.

  He’d been able to grab a short nap after they left Anchorage, but woke with a start an hour into the flight, his mind flooded with questions. It took him several hazy seconds to figure out where he was and what he was doing on a small plane with this blond woman who had her face pressed to the window. He found few answers even after his head cleared, so he sat with his eyes half shut, listened to the whir of the ventilation system, and rested his body, if not his mind, for the remainder of the flight.

  The pilot, an Air Force Major named Sitz ducked his head to step around his seat and throw the lever for the door, before stepping back into the cramped cockpit to allow Quinn and Agent Beaudine enough room to exit.

  Cold air flooded the stuffy cabin as soon as the door opened, bringing welcome relief along with the chill. Quinn was used to boarding and deplaning on the tarmac without the aid and protection of a skyway, so he’d put on his coat in anticipation of landing. Beaudine shivered and quickly shrugged on her coat. She didn’t complain about the cold, a fact that made Quinn feel slightly better about going on a mission with someone he knew next to nothing about.

  A white Tahoe with the golden bear emblem of the Alaska State Troopers on the door idled fifty meters off the nose of the C-12 next to the ten-foot chain-link fence that secured the perimeter of the airport. The Tahoe sat in the shadows, just beyond the reach of the hazy yellow lights behind the Alaska Airlines terminal building. Exhaust vapor swirled around the back tires for an instant then disappeared, whisked away by the wind, making it feel colder than it actually was.

  Just a few degrees below the Arctic Circle, temperatures in Nome could plummet to well below zero this time of year. Quinn guessed it was somewhere around twenty degrees—balmy weather by Nome standards—but the biting wind made it feel much colder. The Bering Sea had already brought in the first big storm of the season, and knee-high drifts and plow berms edged the fences and buildings. Pockets of snow clogged the gaps in the chain-link here and there like a giant crossword puzzle, remnants of the recent blizzard.

  Quinn’s boots crunched as he trudged across the thin layer of crusted snow. The sea wind bit him hard on every exposed inch of skin. He resolved to get the wool liner for his jacket out of his pack at his first opportunity.

  Beaudine ducked her head, a look of grim dismay seared into her face by the sudden cold.

  The driver’s door swung open when they reached the Tahoe, and a smiling woman in a powder blue trooper jacket stepped out and waved. Her cheeks were a healthy pink. Matching rosy lips turned up in a natural smile. Blond curls stuck
out from beneath her black wool watch cap. She didn’t have the battle-hardened look common to Alaska State troopers who’d spent much of their career assigned to the bush, and some might have considered her a pushover, but Quinn knew better.

  “Jericho!” the woman said through her wide smile, grabbing him in a fierce hug that startled Beaudine enough she pedaled backward.

  “Special Agent Khaki Beaudine from the Bureau,” Quinn said. He sniffed from the cold and stepped aside, giving the two women room to shake hands. “I want you to meet my mother’s younger sister—Trooper Abbey Duncan.”

  Just three years older than Quinn, his Auntie Abbey was really more like a cousin. The two had virtually grown up together. They’d run the Mayor’s Marathon, the Crow Pass Crossing, and taken jujitsu classes together over the years. Other than harboring an unabashed hatred for motorcycles, which Quinn could partially overlook in a relative, she was the near perfect aunt. A senior in high school when he was a sophomore, she had been his first crush, though he’d never admit it. She’d stayed in Anchorage after high school, attending the University of Alaska. She’d taught middle school like Quinn’s mother but ultimately decided that putting felons in jail was preferable to grading papers and dealing with snotty parents.

  “Khaki,” the woman said, taking Beaudine by the shoulders as if to size her up. “Is it a nickname?”

  “Nope,” Beaudine said. “It’s on the birth certificate.”

  “I love it.” Duncan hustled them out of the wind and into the Tahoe. “Call me Aunt Abbey.” She rested her hands on the steering wheel and waited for the C-12 to taxi out to the vacant runway. “You’re always into the big stuff, nephew, getting dropped off by an official Air Force plane that’s doing a turn and burn just to get you out here.” She drummed manicured thumbs on the wheel, glancing back and forth between Quinn, who sat in the front, to Beaudine, who was behind the Plexiglas prisoner screen.

  “She’s the important one,” Quinn said, tossing a backward glance at Beaudine. “I came along to show her around.”

  “Whatever you say.” Duncan smiled. She’d grown up in Alaska but for some reason had an accent like she was from Minnesota. “Anyways, you guys are lucky it warmed up. We’ve had one heck of a cold snap here for this early in the year. You gotta make sure you come by the house when you’re finished with your secret mission. Michael would love to see you.” She gave Quinn a chiding look. “Are you still riding those murdercycles?”

  Quinn learned as a youngster that ignoring the question was much easier than arguing with Aunt Abbey.

  “Our hotel’s the other way,” he said, as Duncan headed north off Seppala Drive at the end of the airport rather than continuing toward town and the Aurora Inn where he’d hoped to catch a few minutes of actual, horizontal sleep.

  Her handsome face was tinged green in the glow of the dash lights when she turned to look at him. “I am familiar with Nome, my dear,” she said. “But we’re not going to your hotel. Not yet, anyhow. There’s been a break-in at the ticket office where your scientist passed through Customs.”

  Beaudine poked her head through the open hatch in the prisoner screen. “You know about the scientist?”

  “Hon,” Aunt Abbey said, “Nome is a very small place. The checker down at the AC store probably knows about your scientist.”

  “Tell us about this break-in,” Quinn said.

  Duncan turned the Tahoe off the main road and into the lighted parking lot of the air charter business that handled trips between Alaska and Russia. Snow drifted against the blue metal building, most of which served as a maintenance hanger with the remainder converted office and terminal space. Quinn guessed it was large enough to house five or six aircraft at least as large as the C-12 or a couple of larger birds.

  A dark-skinned Inupiaq man wearing a wool watch cap and light jacket stood in a pool of yellow light in front of the building, seemingly impervious to the cold. The smoke from the ember of his cigarette was whipped away into the darkness. He gave a stoic wave when the Trooper vehicle pulled up. The headlights threw his long shadow across the driven snow.

  Trooper Duncan introduced him as Angus Paul, a night watchman for the airport.

  “I brought the feds, Angus,” the trooper said, her voice breathy against the cold air. “Show us what you found.”

  Angus Paul studied them for a long moment, then picked a stray fleck of tobacco leaf off his lip before turning to walk around to the side of the building. He pointed to a broken window three feet off the ground and still outside the airport perimeter fence. The area was protected from the view of anyone who happened to be driving by and a logical place to try to force entry without being detected. It was also protected from the wind. Several spots of yellow snow suggested it was the spot Angus Paul stopped to relieve himself during his nightly rounds—which was probably the reason he’d discovered the broken window before sunrise.

  Quinn took a small flashlight out of his pocket and stooped to look at the ground without approaching too close. Shards of glass lay scattered in two sets of tracks in the snow—the larger, a pair of boots with a lug sole and a well-worn left heel. The other tracks were narrower and smaller all around with a circular pattern in the tread.

  Quinn glanced at Angus Paul’s boots.

  “You won’t find any of my tracks around there,” the man said as if reading Quinn’s mind. He lit a fresh cigarette and blew the smoke into the relative still air in the lee of the metal hangar. “Anyways, looks like more of a break out than a break-in if you ask me. There ain’t any tracks walking up to the building, just the ones leadin’ away. I followed ’em as far as that drift over there by the road before the snow covered ’em over.”

  Quinn nodded. “You’re right. Whoever made these tracks was leaving, not breaking in. The glass is pressed into the snow where they stepped on top of it. You see any sign of forced entry anywhere else in the building?”

  Evidently tired of talking, Angus wrinkled his nose and eyebrows, the Inupiaq equivalent of shaking his head no.

  Quinn held his flashlight so the beam fell across the tread, throwing a slight shadow and revealing what looked like the imprint of a flower among the circular treads.

  “You know what that is?” Quinn asked, pointing to the design.

  “A girl’s shoe,” Beaudine mused. She squatted down beside him, careful not to disturb the tracks. “Looks like a daisy.”

  Quinn put his pen alongside the track for scale before snapping several photographs with his phone. “Could be,” he said. “Or it could be a chamomile, the national flower of Russia.”

  Quinn took a couple of notes, gleaning all the information he was going to get from the few tracks outside the building by the time the emergency contact for the charter company showed up ten minutes later.

  The break-in was really Nome PD’s jurisdiction, but with Alaska State Troopers and FBI on the scene, they were more than happy to yield the investigation. Aunt Abbey carried in a small crime scene kit, but the building manager, a balding man named Charles with a long goatee that was crooked from sleeping, could find nothing missing. It was Beaudine who found the displaced tile in the women’s restroom and scuff marks on the back of the toilet where someone had apparently accessed the false ceiling.

  “Mind if I use some of your fingerprint powder?” Quinn asked.

  Abbey handed over her kit. Quinn used the magnetic brush to dust the back of the toilet with finely ground iron powder, revealing the black outline of a shoe print where someone had stood on the porcelain with both feet. One of the prints was clear enough to make out the design of a chamomile flower in the tread pattern.

  Aunt Abbey stood next to the toilet and peered up. “So they cleared Customs and then hid up in the rafters waiting for the building to close.”

  “Apparently,” Quinn said. “Any flights leave Nome after dark?” He already knew the answer but asked anyway.

  “Nope,” Angus Paul said. “Not even any charters tonight. Too windy.”


  Quinn looked at Beaudine then checked his Aquaracer. He stifled a yawn when he realized it was a quarter after two in the morning. “Let’s get back to the hotel and catch a couple of hours sleep.”

  “This makes no sense,” Beaudine said. “Why would someone go to the trouble of hiding after they cleared Customs?”

  “You said he had mental issues,” Quinn offered. “But I’m guessing your doctor is hiding from someone other than the U.S. government. Maybe a welcome party.”

  Agent Beaudine’s face fell into a thoughtful frown. “I’m wondering if that makes this more or less of a shit detail.”

  Chapter 18

  A stout bang on the door ripped Quinn from the blackness of his dreams and sent him reaching for the pistol he kept on a folded washcloth in the drawer beside his bed. He sat bolt upright, staring through the darkness toward the door. The nightlight from the bathroom revealed that the chair he habitually placed in front of any hotel door was still in place.

  The pounding started again, followed by the urgent voice of his Aunt Abbey.

  “Jericho!” she said, her voice a breathy stage whisper. “Open the door before I wake everyone in the hotel!”

  There was no place to tuck the pistol since he slept in a pair of loose sweatpants, so Quinn set it back on his nightstand before opening the door. He squinted at the bright light of the hotel hallway. Abbey batted her naturally long eyelashes—dark for the blond that she was—and grinned, reminding him of why he’d always loved her. She shoved a cup of coffee in Quinn’s face.

  Across the hall, the door to Agent Beaudine’s room opened a tiny crack revealing a tan strip of thigh and one extremely sleep-deprived eye. The door opened completely when she realized it was Aunt Abbey. She wore a pair of navy blue sleeping shorts and a simple white T-shirt that hid much less than she probably thought it did.

  Beaudine ran a hand through the frosted hair of her mussed bed head. “Didn’t you just drop us off ten minutes ago?”