A Shooting at Auke Bay

by Parker, Gordon;

  Booth didn’t bother making coffee. There would plenty at the station house. He called the main number for the Seattle Police Department and asked for Captain Nettleton. Twenty minutes later he was in a taxi on his way to Nettleton’s office.

  In Southeast, Integrity was making its way slowly up the east coast of Prince of Wales Island. They had four days to kill until they were scheduled to anchor in a hidden cove on the coastline of Kosciuska Island. Once a prosperous community, the island had been largely deserted since an environmental lawsuit shut down the logging industry, which had been its mainstay. Now it was perfectly suited for Segal’s type of industry.

  Segal hadn’t directed McGraw to participate in this transfer. He liked to have the man who, through force of old habit, he thought of as his underboss, drop in on the cargo transfers only occasionally. It was good to remind the yacht owners that they were his employees. It was also good that they never knew when or if McGraw, and his shotgun, would show up.

  If McGraw didn’t appear, the captain would call Segal, each using throwaway burner phones, to report when he was in position. When he verified that their supplier had arrived with counterfeit sport shoes, sunglasses, and perfume, he would have Jayne transfer the funds. The transfer of cargo would begin as soon as the supplier saw the funds show in his bank account. Banking was done through friendly banks on a twenty- four hour a day basis so the process would be quick.

  The pampered guests aboard the yacht would spend the four days eating, drinking, fishing, and having a good time. They would be friendly to every other vessel they passed.

  Captain Anthony Nettleton was a competent cop. The kind of cop Booth understood and respected. When he told Nettleton he hadn’t taken time for coffee before contacting SPD, Booth was led to a battered old breakfront book shelf. The coffee pot sat in the center section that protruded out from the side sections. Both cops filled mugs with coffee and got down to business.

  “I think I can give you the killer,” Booth said, much to Nettleton’s surprise. “At least, I’m pretty sure I can tell you where to find the gun the killer used. If I’m right and the slugs are nine millimeters, they came from a Glock 17.”

  “A Glock 17? Half the policemen in this country carry that weapon. You’re not saying a cop did this, are you?”

  “No way. I saw a Glock 17 at the bar where I met Disher. A place called the Caducean.”

  “The Caducean,” Nettleton said with a grimace. “One of the worst dive bars in this city.”

  “The night bartender’s name is Sharon,” Booth said. “She’s not the friendly sort. One night I saw her take a Glock from the backpack she carries and put it under the bar. It’s a little smaller than my Glock 20 so I’m guessing it’s a seventeen. She has been keeping a close eye on Disher and me. By the angry glares she directed at us she didn’t like the old man talking to me. He was clearly scared of her.”

  “Sounds like she could be a suspect.”

  “She’s no pro. If she did the job, my bet is she’s not smart enough to toss the Glock. To her it’s valuable property that she wouldn’t want to get rid of.”

  “We’ll find out,” Nettleton said, reaching for the phone. “The DA will get us a warrant and we’ll get on it. Her shift probably starts at six o’clock. We’ll show up at eight. Want to go along for the ride?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Booth said. “Disher liked his booze more than he should. But he wasn’t hurting anyone. In fact, he was trying to help us catch some bad guys. And I have a special relationship with Sharon.”

  “I’ll bet you have,” Nettleton said.

  Booth just laughed.

  Jayne made it a point to linger in the kitchen when she got to the restaurant. She didn’t like the attention Segal was paying to Fiona. She didn’t like it that Segal planned to take the young woman to Juneau. Jayne knew what that meant.

  She was already beginning to feel the depraved urges that controlled her. It had been only a few days since the last time. It was far too soon to leave another victim for the cops to find. But her growing resentment of Fiona added fuel to the fires that burned within her.

  More importantly, she had to find out what the young woman was doing snooping around the office in the middle of the night. The other stuff was infuriating but personal. Sneaking into the office was business. That was unacceptable.

  Fiona felt Jayne’s eyes on her. She focused on her work. She didn’t want to talk to Jayne. Fiona didn’t have a good feeling about the older woman.

  “You’ve made quite an impression on our boss,” Jayne said, doing her best to sound friendly. “Congratulations on your new position.”

  Fiona smiled nervously.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “We should get to know each other,” Jayne continued. “Maybe have dinner some evening. Or least cocktails.”

  “Sure, I’d enjoy that,” Fiona lied.

  Monk was at the federal building again by mid-afternoon. It hadn’t taken Captain Van Patten long to get the information the old cop requested.

  “All four vessels are registered in the Marshall Islands,” the captain said, handing over a sheet of paper. “Here are the names of the owners. We have reciprocity with the Marshall Islands under SOLAS, the International Convention for Safety of Life at Sea. That means there are minimal inspection requirements for the yachts to operate in U.S. waters as long as they carry fewer than twelve passengers.”

  Monk passed along name of the deserted island in the San Juan chain that Segal was using as a base.

  “There’s an abandoned dock and warehouse there,” Monk said. “No one lives on the island. Perfect for Segal’s needs.”

  “I can have a cutter cruise by.”

  “If I can suggest, Jameson,” Monk cautioned, “it might be smart to use a very light touch for now. Let’s not do anything out of the ordinary until we’re ready to scoop up the lot of them. If one of your cutters or aircraft goes by in the course of a normal patrol, no problem. Same goes up here, if you agree. If they pass one of the yachts, you might instruct your people to wave and smile. If they can get pictures of the people on board without being obvious, great. If not, they can note their observations to you but nothing more for now.”

  Van Patten agreed.

  “Are these yachts required to get any sort of U.S. license to charter?”

  “No. The reciprocity allows them to operate commercially in our waters for eighty-four days annually,” was the answer.

  “Eighty-four days,” Monk mused. “Twelve weeks. Four yachts. Roughly four weeks per month. Each yacht can make one trip a month, more or less. Nice numbers.”

  “Yes,” Van Patten agreed. “Rather coincidental.”

  Monk repeated his mantra.

  “There’s no such thing as coincidence in crime, corruption, or politics, Jameson.”

  “By the way, that guy you asked about, Marshall’s friend who was on deck with him that day, is Robert Monk,” Cameron McGraw said. “He’s a retired cop. He was a colonel in command of the State Troopers and later Commissioner of Public Safety. And he’s back in Juneau.”

  Segal had called McGraw to tell him he was bringing Fiona with him the next time he flew to Southeast and he would be taking her out on the boat alone. He had asked McGraw to find out what he could about the man. What he was hearing now chased the leer from his voice.

  “How do you know he’s there? Have you seen him?”

  “Yeah,” McGraw replied. “Saw him yesterday when I was in the federal building. Looked like he was going into the Coast Guard commander’s office.”

  Segal could feel himself going pale. Monk was a former cop. Not only a former cop but a very important former cop. Why was he talking to the Coast Guard?

  The only possible answer to that question drew Segal to another decision. His plan to flush Marshall’s family in New Orleans out of their fortress had to happen now. He needed them to be where he could get to them.

  He would also have to talk to
McGraw. Why hadn’t the man reported this news to him the day before? Segal wouldn’t abide that kind of incompetence.

  In the penthouse overlooking Cook Inlet, Darcey was still having difficulty functioning normally. There was nothing normal about her life. Nancy was quick to point out that the current situation was only temporary.

  The former detective sergeant also did everything she could to make her friend stay busy. Darcey was doing her best to follow Robert’s advice that she stay away from the hospital for the time being. It wasn’t easy. Nancy knew exactly the pain her friend was feeling. She tried to distract Darcey using every bit of chicanery she could think of.

  The obvious distraction, and the easiest, was urging Darcey to continue Nancy’s culinary education. Today they made chicken gumbo. Darcey had taught Nancy how to make a roux, the most critical part of gumbo. This was the first time she was going to try it solo.

  As Darcey watched, Nancy stirred the flour and peanut oil to make a roux. She stirred. She stirred more. And she stirred still more. Finally the roux reached the desired deep mahogany color.

  Darcey had taught her the spices to stir into the roux, letting them settle into the base before adding the other elements. Next came the Trinity, as it is called in Louisiana. Onion, green pepper, and celery. As the vegetables began to soften, Nancy added chucks of andouille sausage to let it brown. Then green onions and garlic.

  They were using leftovers from a roast chicken Darcey had made earlier in the week. Adding that to the pot, along with some okra, and pouring in the stock they had made with the bird’s carcass completed the active part. Now it was up to the gumbo to simmer for about two hours.

  As they had worked right up to the cocktail hour, Darcey made peach martinis to celebrate her friend’s accomplishment. Trent, Darcey told her friend, would be proud of her. He would have made peach martinis for them.

  They sat on the deck on the west side of the building as had become customary. They were both still fascinated with the magnificent view of the Sleeping Lady. They couldn’t see Denali today as it was far too cloudy. But this side of the building, as Robert had said, offered safety as well as view.

  In Seattle, Captain Nettleton entered the Caducean, accompanied by six uniformed police officers and Booth. The plain clothes officer he sent in earlier had confirmed that Sharon was behind the bar. He remained near the bar to keep an eye on her. She was surprised to see the police. When a suspect is surprised, there is no way to know how they might act. She might do something foolish. She did nothing at first.

  “Everyone stay where you are. We are only interested in one person here,” Nettleton announced, as he walked to the bar. Sharon reached for something under the bar, causing Nettleton to draw the Korth PRS from its holster on his hip. “Don’t reach for it, Sharon. Your Glock might have more cartridges in the magazine but I assure you I need only one.”

  Sharon proved she wasn’t completely stupid by withdrawing her hand.

  “Good decision,” Nettleton said, keeping the Korth trained on the bartender as he spoke to the uniformed officer at the open end of the bar. “Officer, please use your cuffs. I’m sure Sharon knows how they work.”

  The bartender glared him as she put her hands behind her back.

  The captain walked behind the bar and pulled the bartender’s backpack from beneath the bar. Looking inside, he found a wallet containing her driver’s license, reading her full name.

  “We could have done this much easier, Sharon Bean, had you not tried to go for this,” Nettleton continued as he reached into the bag again. Using a handkerchief, he withdrew the Glock 17, and dropped it into an evidence bag.

  “You’re under arrest, Sharon Beal,” Nettleton said. “The charge is suspicion of murder. Officer, be so kind as to advise Ms. Bean of her rights.

  As the officer went through the standard recitation of the Miranda statement of rights, the captain turned to address the handful of customers.

  “Now I’m afraid I have to ask you all to leave,” he said, “since we’re taking the only employee with us, we’ll have to lock the building to protect the property. And then, too, there is this,” he said, waving the search warrant. “Please give your names to the officers who will be at the door, and I also must insist that you show them some identification. I apologize for interrupting your evening.”

  In the car on the way back to Nettleton’s office, Booth congratulated him on how easily he handled what could have been a nasty situation.

  “I also think Seattle must pay its cops a lot more than San Francisco,” Booth said. “That’s a Korth PRS you carry, isn’t it? One of the world’s finest, and most expensive, weapons.”

  “Yes, it is a fine weapon. As to its cost, it was a gift from my father when I was promoted to captain. He’s already made his money.”

  Nettleton and Booth left the bartender to be booked and the Gunshot Residue test done on her hands and clothing, while the ballistics experts tried to get enough bullet fragments from the victim’s body to link them to her gun. The two cops walked three blocks from the precinct office to a diner. They both ordered fried eggs over hash.

  “No point in us going hungry,” Nettleton said. “We’re not going to get anything tonight anyway. The residue test isn’t reliable, not even the newer Scanning Electron Microscopy. Any half way decent defense lawyer will get whatever we find thrown out as evidence. Chances are slim that ballistics will get enough of a bullet to be conclusive either.”

  “Maybe she’ll do something stupid. Most non pros do. We probably couldn’t solve near as many cases if they were all smart,” Booth said.

  “We’ll try to bluff her and hope she watches a lot of cop shows on TV,” Nettleton said. “But the state’s moratorium on carrying out the death penalty makes that harder. She knows at worst she’ll have to sit in a prison cell for a few years.”

  “So we’ll hope for stupid,” Booth said.

  They were lucky. The bartender gave them stupid.

  When they returned to Nettleton’s office, a uniformed officer handed the captain an evidence bag. It contained three expended cartridge casings.

  “Where did you find these?” Nettleton asked the officer.

  “In her coat pocket, Captain,” was the answer.

  Nettleton looked at Booth. He could only shake his head.

  “And Captain, her fingerprints are on all three. There’s no doubt she loaded them into the magazine of her Glock, which is three rounds light.”

  “Anything else in the backpack?”

  “Just this, Sir,” the officer handed over another evidence bag, this one full of money. “$5,000.”

  “If only the crooks were smart…” Nettleton paraphrased Booth’s earlier observation.

  Nettleton motioned for Booth to follow him into the interrogation room in which Sharon Bean waited. He had ascertained that the bartender had been read her rights. She had not requested an attorney.

  The Seattle cop opened the door and, for moment, he stared at the bartender. He tossed the evidence bag containing the three cartridge casings onto the table in front of her.

  “Sharon, Sharon, Sharon,” Nettleton said. “What were you thinking? You were smart enough to pick these up after you killed Disher and then you put them in your pocket? It didn’t occur to you that you might be a suspect and we might search you?”

  Sharon looked ill. Booth thought she might throw up. Then she made her situation worse.

  “I meant to toss’em when I got off last night but I was tired. Guess I just forgot.”

  “That’s a mistake that is going to cost you your life, Sharon,” Nettleton warned. “Your fingerprints are all over them.”

  “It’s just three casings. Just because I picked’em up doesn’t mean I killed that old man. Anybody could have left them in the alley. Maybe I found’em and was trying to be a good citizen.”

  “Sharon, I have three expended cartridge casings with your fingerprints on them. The magazine of your Glock is light three cartridges
. When we get the results of all the tests back we’re going to find gunshot residue from your hands and clothes. We’re going find the bullets that killed Disher came from your gun,” Nettleton bluffed. “And Disher was scared of you. He just as much as said so to Captain Booth here.”

  “I knew you were a cop!” the bartender exploded at Booth. “I warned Disher to stay away from you.”

  “You need to understand, Sharon, that I have enough on you to convict you of murder,” Nettleton said, drawing her attention back to him. “That’s still a death sentence in this state.”

  “They ain’t executing people in Washington,” she said, morosely.

  “There’s a moratorium on carrying out executions, Sharon,” Nettleton explained patiently as though speaking to a child. “The law is still on the books and losers are still being sentenced to death for murder. Especially if it’s a murder for hire situation, which I somehow suspect this one is.”

  He tossed the evidence bag containing the money on the table.

  “Any reason you thought it smart to carry this around with you?”

  “I couldn’t leave it at home. I got two roommates. They woulda stole it. And I ain’t got no bank account.”

  “Well, you have yourself quite a massif to climb, Sharon.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “What’s a massif?” she asked.

  “It’s a mountain range,” Nettleton responded. “And the one you have to climb is about as big as the Cascades.”

  “You stop using those big words. You’re confusing me. That ain’t fair.”

  “I’ll tell you what else isn’t fair, Sharon,” Nettleton said, leaning dramatically forward. “It’s not fair to sneak up on an old man and shoot him three times in the back. You’re going to spend the rest of your life sitting on death row praying the moratorium is never lifted. That’s not the way I’d like to spend my life.”

  The bartender didn’t seem quite as tough as she had earlier. She seemed deflated. Defeated. She sat silently staring at the table. Nettleton let her stare.