Like Trent, Monk didn’t believe in coincidence. In fact, Trent learned that from the experienced lawman. He knew Segal was renovating a building that would house a restaurant so he had reason to be in town. Still he was here on the day that Trent was shot. And he never seemed to catch fish.
Monk knew he was being unfair. He had no reason to suspect Segal of anything.
Just instinct.
But he didn’t believe in coincidence.
July 9th
Darcey sat across the desk from Dr. Natalie Shannon. She knew the doctor was tired. She had been working to save Trent’s life since nine o’clock the previous night. It was now three o’clock in the morning.
Darcey was desperate to know if Trent had a chance to live. She was afraid to ask. She waited to hear what Dr. Shannon had to say.
“First, Ms. Anderson, your husband is alive,” she said.
Darcey felt the rush of relief flow through her.
“Thank God,” she said. “And thank you, Doctor.”
“You can also thank whoever shot him,” the doctor said. “He was good but not good enough. The distance was great and Trent was moving just enough to avoid a killing shot.”
“Will he survive, Doctor? And if he does, will there be any lasting damage?”
“I don’t know the answer to either yet. He received what we call a perforating wound, meaning the bullet didn’t lodge in the brain but passed through the right frontal lobe tip. It didn’t pass through any vital brain tissue or vascular structures.
“The right side of the brain is popularly known as the creative side. It allows us to visualize through feeling rather than thought. It’s our artistic side. The left side of the brain is the part that allows us to think in words, consider facts and math and logic.”
“So Trent’s speech and ability to think shouldn’t be impaired?” Darcey asked.
“If we’re lucky,” Dr. Shannon hesitated before continuing, “And if he survives. But it’ll be a while before we know either. For the next three days our biggest concern will be swelling in his brain. We removed a small piece of his skull both to assess the damage and to relieve pressure for the inevitable swelling.
“Now I’m going to get some sleep. And you need to rest, too. If he survives, Trent is going to have to lean on you during his recovery. We can’t have you getting sick.”
“Can I see him?”
“Yes, but only through the window. A portion of his brain is exposed. It’s critical that we maintain a sterile environment around him,” she said. She again paused for a moment before adding, “If he is going to heal.”
Darcey nodded, again feeling the tears welling up in her eyes. Dr. Shannon took notice.
“You must be exhausted,” she said, “and it’s late to try to find a hotel room. I can’t let you be in the room with him but I can have a bed set up outside his window and put a screen around it. At least he’ll be in your sight and maybe you can get a little sleep.”
Darcey lay on the uncomfortable bed staring through the glass at her unconscious husband. Monk had called Anchorage Police Chief Benjamin Kline to request an undercover officer posted in the hospital and Dr. Shannon reluctantly agreed. They also asked Dr. Shannon to list him in the hospital records under an assumed name. The hospital management evidenced some nervousness about the unusual request but agreed after Chief Kline assured them he approved.
In Juneau, Monk made shrimp cakes for breakfast using the tiny Petersburg shrimp so plentiful in Southeast Alaska waters. Kelli was thrilled to help him in the kitchen. Her main job was to set the table and serve the cakes after each was covered with a fried egg.
Shortly after nine o’clock Darcey called. She had slept for five hours and was still tired. She told Monk what she had learned about Trent’s condition.
“I’m relieved to hear he’s hanging on, Darcey,” the old man responded. “Let me suggest, however, that we not let the news of his survival be publicly known. It won’t hurt to let our shooter think the assassination was successful.”
He had already talked to the right people in Juneau to keep the story as quiet as possible. The cops had to tell the press something. They said only that a tourist and a deck hand had been shot. They were working on it but had no leads to report. And they were trying to reach the next of kin to notify them before releasing the victims’ identities. The media lost interest quickly as the governor called the legislature back to town for the second special session of the year as the state’s budget battles continued.
Darcey told Monk she had talked to the owners of the condo Trent had rented. They had no problem with the family moving in a few days early. She planned to get a rental car and pick up keys later in the morning. She would also lay in some groceries before meeting their flight in the afternoon.
“I think we should get Kelli, Betty, and Ivy out of the state as soon as possible. But I don’t want to do that until we can be sure they’re protected. I’m working on a plan,” Monk said.
Jim Segal had slept well. He was pleased with the state of his world as he knew it. He left his home on Second Avenue in downtown Anchorage to walk the few blocks to Fifth Avenue and JS Bistro.
The lunch crowd was just beginning to wander in when he arrived. He took time to greet each of his guests as he always did. He was also careful to return all the greetings of his staff as he looked into the kitchen.
He noticed the young woman recently hired as a prep cook. She was thin. Maybe, he thought, it was just the way she dressed that made her appear so. Her hair was short with a black streak through the center and red stripes on the sides. It looked like she cut it herself. It was like she wanted to appear unattractive. Too bad. He thought she might be quite desirable if she wanted to be.
There was also something oddly familiar about her. He tried to remember her name. Florence or something similar?
Satisfied that the kitchen was running smoothly, he made his way to the stairs at the end of the bar. A landing at the top of the stairs opened to the right into a large room reserved for special events. It could be divided into smaller rooms as needed. The office he shared with his manager was to the left.
As usual, Jayne Colombo was working at her desk when he entered. She was an attractive woman, though her blonde hair and blue eyes belied her Italian heritage to some. He wasn’t at all sure that the name she called herself was any more the one with which she was born than was Jim Segal his.
He knew her family came from Lombardy. Colombo is one of the most common family names in that northern region of Italy, which borders Switzerland. In fact, Lombardy was ruled by the French, Spanish, Austrians, and even many centuries ago, Germanic tribes longer than it has been part of Italy. In the 21st century Milan emerged as Italy’s economic powerhouse. The industrious citizens of Milan don’t always appreciate their southern neighbors.
He also knew she was as ruthless as was he. Anyone who stood in her way would likely wind up carrying several lumps of lead from the MAC 10 machine pistol of which she was fond and from which she was never separated. Small enough to fit in the large bag she always carried, its thirty round magazine of .45 ACP cartridges could blaze off at a rate of more than a thousand rounds per minute. But it was notoriously inaccurate. It had been said that it was good only if the fight was being waged inside an old-fashioned telephone booth.
Its saving grace was the revolutionary two-piece sound suppressor that was developed somewhere along the line as the Military Armaments Corporation tried to save its entry into the worldwide military market. That, and the fact that alluring aura emanating from her like the sweet fragrance of a frangipani flower made it easy to get most men and many women into the telephone booth with her.
Killing and sex were connected in some weird way for her. He learned that one night in San Francisco when he assigned her to a job. She met the target at his hotel. Two hours later she showed up at Segal’s front door, face flushed and breathing heavily.
It was a memorable night. It was a disquiet
ing night. He realized she was a psychopathic murderess. She could be useful if he could control her. That was the question. Could he control her? If she was caught carrying out an assignment, he could always say he was unaware that she was a serial killer.
He decided to risk it. But he would keep a close eye on her.
They trusted each other as much as two people in their world could trust. When he opened the restaurant, he brought her to Anchorage as his general manager. She was as efficient as she was remorseless. Those were the qualities he needed in his chief of staff. There would be things other than a restaurant to manage.
She looked up when he entered. Leaning back in her chair, she reached for the pack of Marlboros on her desk. Lighting one, she blew smoke through pouty lips before speaking.
“So how did it go in Juneau?” she asked.
“Couldn’t be better. They got him to the hospital but I could see the head shot. He didn’t look to have much life left in him, if any. Anything in the news here?”
“Not a word,” she said. “But this isn’t New Orleans or San Francisco. He’s not well known here. He could die and the media wouldn’t notice.”
He sat down at his own desk across the room and starting going through the mail Jayne had left for him.
“That new prep cook we hired. The one with the weird hair. What’s her name?”
Jayne laughed.
“She’s kind of young, isn’t she? Must be a middle-aged man thing.”
Segal didn’t mind being the source of her amusement. He smiled.
“Her name is Fiona Robinson. She’s from somewhere back east. Just one of the kids who come through Alaska on their travels before they have to settle down. At least she’s earning her keep instead of letting mommy and daddy pay her way. She’s a good worker, too.”
Segal let the subject drop. Business was more important.
“Dancer will be cruising north this evening to meet one of our friends from Asia,” Segal said. “She’ll return to the West Coast with a cargo of ladies’ fashions and accessories. Prada handbags and shoes.”
“Is he bringing any cargo for trade?”
“Nope. This one will be an all cash deal. But a good one,” Segal said. “We pay ten bucks for a handbag, sell it for $700 and the customers won’t ask any questions. As far as they know they’re getting the real deal for a bargain basement price.”
“Yeah, and hopefully the products won’t fall apart before the customers get home with’em,” Jayne added, mockingly.
Dancer would cruise slowly and be at the southern end of the Alexander Archipelago near Ketchikan sometime in the next couple of days. Captain Place had to avoid attracting undue attention to himself.
Place knew the strategy was to bluff if challenged by a cutter. If that didn’t work, they would run and hope no one called in air power.
Dancer should be able to slip away. Their trading partners’ vessel might not be as fast. To emphasize the strategy, Segal told Place the old Alaska joke about running into a bear.
“In that case, Place,” he said, “I don’t have to outrun the bear. I just have to outrun you.”
Place got the point. He just had to outrun the larger ship delivering the counterfeit cargo. Better to lose a partner than the whole operation. Losing a ship was one of the costs of doing business for their Asian suppliers.
Place and the other skippers were instructed to do whatever they had to do to avoid a fight. That would bring too much attention. Attention was the last thing they needed.
“You should have let me do it,” Jayne said.
Segal was puzzled by the non sequitur.
“Do what?”
“The hit. You should have let me do it,” she repeated.
“Wouldn’t have worked. You couldn’t get Marshall alone. You would have had to get on the yacht. And if you did that, you’d have to kill everyone on board. That would have made too big a mess,” he said. “No. This one had to be a long distance kill.”
The girl with multi colored hair didn’t look up as Segal walked through the kitchen. Nevertheless, she watched him from beneath lowered lashes as he strolled through the kitchen. She saw him looking at her. She didn’t raise her eyes. She didn’t want him to see the emotion that would be so obvious.
“We have to get Kelli, Betty, and Ivy to your New Orleans house,” Monk was saying. “It seems the safest place for them with its protective brick wall blocking entry from the street.”
They were in the sitting room of a large, four bedroom penthouse overlooking the Bootleggers Cove neighborhood in downtown Anchorage. It had magnificent views on three sides. Cook Inlet and Mount Susitna, known as the Sleeping Lady by locals, to the west with the Alaska Range far beyond, capped by the shining majesty of the mighty Denali anchoring the northern end. To the east, they looked over the city of Anchorage with its backdrop of the Chugach Mountain range.
“I’m not leaving Trent, Robert,” Darcey said in a tone that made it clear it was not a point for discussion.
“I didn’t expect you would, Darcey,” the old man replied. “I’m not leaving either.”
“Then how do we get them to New Orleans?”
With perfect timing, the buzzer sounded, indicating someone was in the lobby asking to be allowed upstairs.
“I think the answer has just arrived,” Monk said.
James Hackett was a few years younger than Monk and looked to be in the same excellent physical condition. Monk and Hackett were partners during their time with the Anchorage Police Department. Hackett stayed with APD when Monk moved to the State Troopers. When he was appointed Commissioner of Public Safety for the state, Monk brought Hackett in as his deputy.
Hackett had been married but lost his wife to cancer several years earlier. It was a long, painful struggle for both of them. They had no children. Hackett took her death badly.
Now the two old cops had another joint assignment. To protect Trent Marshall’s family.
At five o’clock, the cocktail hour religiously observed by Trent, Darcey mixed rum and cokes for herself, Robert, and James. They went out on the west deck overlooking Cook Inlet and the Sleeping Lady to continue their planning.
Kelli was in the kitchen happily assisting Betty and Ivy as they prepared dinner. They were letting ribeye steaks rest in Creole seasoning while they prepared rice seasoned with roasted red peppers, onion, garlic, turmeric, smoked paprika, cumin, and a pinch each of saffron and cinnamon. It was a Caribbean influenced dish that Ivy often made.
“We’re up against a well organized enemy,” Monk said. “I judge the shot that took Trent down was made from at least half a mile. That means the shooter has a very sophisticated weapon and knows how to use it. They’re not easy to come by and they’re not cheap.”
“The rifle or the shooter?” Darcey asked.
“Both,” was the answer.
Darcey looked out across the inlet at the Sleeping Lady. She considered Monk’s words. She shivered. She was wearing a light jacket. It wasn’t the cool air. It was fear. But she had long since learned not to let fear stop her. It wouldn’t stop the people around her either.
“We’re going to need more troops,” she said.
“I’ll get in touch with the Anchorage cops, State Troopers, and Department of Public Safety. We’ll get them to help us or at least stay out of our way.”
“Some of those guys are pretty territorial, Robert,” Hackett spoke up. “They might not be cooperative.”
“If I have to call the governor, I will,” Monk said. “If we have to go around some of them, we know how to do that, too, James. And with you in New Orleans with Betty, Ivy, and Kelli, we won’t have to worry about them.”
Hackett nodded.
“I have a feeling that whoever is behind the attempt on Trent’s life isn’t a loner,” Monk continued. “I think we have an organization that extends from Anchorage to Southeast Alaska, and maybe beyond.”
Darcey turned her head to look at him. Then she looked at the park two
blocks away. She studied the foliage there.
“We’re going to need a lot more troops,” she concluded.
Same Day. Dimension Unknown.
Trent was aware that Darcey had been there. He heard every word she and the doctor said as they stood outside his door.
He tried to talk to her but he couldn’t speak. He wanted to see her but couldn’t open his eyes. He could only lie there.
He wondered if this was what it’s like being dead. Was he dead? It didn’t seem logical. He was hooked up to machines. An IV in each arm. If this was death it was remarkably similar to life after a really bad accident.
The worst was when he heard her say, “I love you, Trent Marshall. Please don’t leave me.”
He wanted to tell her he was still here. That he didn’t want to leave her. That he wouldn’t leave her if it was in his power to stay.
Stay where?
He didn’t know where he was. His last memory was of having a glass of wine with Robert Monk on the aft deck of the Nanuq. He remembered a blow to the head. A strong blow to the head. Like being hit with a shovel. Or a bat.
Then he was in this hospital. Darcey was here. And he couldn’t talk to her. Couldn’t see her. He couldn’t feel her lips kissing him.
He lay in the bed silently. He was aware only of…
Of what?
He was aware only of what? Of everything? Of nothing?
Of life? Of death? Of something in between?
July 10th
After her visit with Trent the night before, Darcey was able to sleep through the night. She awoke refreshed. Energized. Ready to fight.
It was Monday morning. There were travel arrangements to be made. And it was time to call in Trent’s troops.
Half an hour later she was in the kitchen with Kelli making one of her daughter’s favorite breakfasts. Scrambled eggs with stir fried zucchini and sausage. None of those fruit smoothie things for this three year old. She was, after all, Trent Marshall’s daughter. Breakfast, in her pretty eyes, meant eggs and sausage. If Mommy wanted to add some healthy vegetables, that was ok, too.
A Shooting at Auke Bay Page 3
