A Shooting at Auke Bay

by Parker, Gordon;

  “Thanks, Sheriff, glad to be here.”

  A giggling Kelli ran past them holding a handful of carrots. She had insisted on stopping at a small town grocery store so she could give the treats to Prince George and Mac, her mommy and daddy’s horses, respectively.

  “Hi, Sheriff Jack,” she said as she ran by. “My daddy said I can have my own horse when I’m five.”

  “Hey there, Kelli,” Blake called after her. “How old are you now?”

  Grace held up three fingers without slowing.

  “C’mon, Mamaw Betty,” the little girl urged. “C’mon Mamaw Ivy. Prince George and Mac want their carrots.”

  The older women followed the child as fast as they could. A brown and white horse with the telling white legs of a tobiano paint and a bay trotted up to the fence enclosing the pasture to see what all the fuss was about. Prince George, the paint, and Mac, the bay, both nickered audibly as they recognized the small blonde head bobbing toward them.

  The three men unloaded the Jeep while the women were saying hello to Prince George and Mac.

  “You still favor that Herstal shotgun, Jordan?” Blake asked.

  “Got it right here in this case,” Jordan replied, as he lifted a long but otherwise inconspicuous duffel bag from where he had stowed it under the dashboard in the front seat. They wanted to keep the guns out of Kelli’s sight but handy. Since Jordan was driving, Hackett made the trip with the bag beneath his legs.

  “And I take it you’re armed, James?” Blake asked.

  Hackett was wearing a pullover, short sleeved shirt with the tail not tucked in. He lifted it to show the small but deadly Korth Sky Marshal holstered on his belt.

  “How about you, Jack?” Jordan asked. “You still hauling that monster machine gun Homeland Security bought for you?”

  “It’s not a machine gun. It’s a rifle with options,” Blake corrected. “But yep. Got my M4 right there in the front seat.”

  “Did they ever let you have the grenade launcher for it?”

  “You know, getting the grant to buy the rifle was easy,” Blake grumbled. “But they’ve been down right stubborn about the grenade launcher.”

  A Herstal shotgun. Excellent weapon. An M4. Powerful rifle capable of fully automatic fire.

  “I think you guys have me outgunned,” he commented.

  “Fortunately we’re all on the same team,” Blake responded.

  “Yeah, fortunate,” Hackett said.

  When they had unpacked the Jeep and Kelli was satisfied that the horses had been given enough treats, Hackett stood on the porch looking out over the Pines. The women were inside with Baron and Blake. They were making up a grocery list. Blake was going to have one of his deputies go into town and pick up everything they would need. As Betty had been away for several days the list was growing long.

  The old house sat at one end of a low ridge. At the other end was a cabin. A plant that looked like some sort of cactus was at the corner of the cabin’s front door. Hackett thought it was called a Spanish dagger. He recalled seeing similar plants when he visited his late wife’s native New Mexico.

  The barn sat on flat ground past and to the left of the cabin. He could see half a dozen horses grazing and playing in the pasture. And one donkey.

  Raquel would have loved this place, Hackett thought. Having a place like this was their dream. They had looked at land in New Mexico. They had hoped to move there and build a place like this one when he retired.

  Then came the cancer that took her from him. His life ended with hers. He had been dead inside ever since. Dead and angry.

  In Anchorage Christopher was busy making calls. He and Anthony Nettleton in Seattle were still trying to get their assigned parties on board with a conference call.

  And in Juneau, Monk was frustrated. It now looked like it would be Monday before the summit meeting he had called could take place.

  July 22nd

  Saturday was an uneventful day in Anchorage and Juneau. The rain for which Southeast was famous fell all day.

  The day passed quickly. In the dusk of a rainy Alaska evening, the yacht Integrity was anchored in the remote cove indenting the coastline of Kosciuska Island. A few minutes after nine o’clock a larger ship slipped silently into the cove.

  The skippers of the two vessels proceeded through their due diligence routines as they had been instructed. Phone calls were made. Friendly banks accommodated a swift transfer of funds. Crates of sports shoes, designer sunglasses, and perfumes, all counterfeit, were transferred to Integrity and stowed in compartments hidden beneath the false decks. Both vessels were underway in less than three hours.

  July 23th

  It was almost 80 degrees in Anchorage on Sunday. A very warm day by Southcentral Alaska standards.

  Darcey thought it was a good day to get out of the city and find a view other than what they could see from their deck. It didn’t take much to convince Christopher and Nancy. The three of them climbed into the black Escalade Darcey had rented.

  “You’ve adapted to Trent’s tastes in cars,” Christopher said, lightheartedly. “A black SUV.”

  “Yes, it had to be all black,” Darcey said. “When I bring Trent home from the hospital, he will be pleased to be riding in a black vehicle.”

  Funny, she thought, that she referred to the penthouse as home. Alaska has that effect on people she was discovering.

  She recalled a story Robert had told them about that effect. When he was a very young man, he said, he had the good fortune to get to know General Marvin “Muktuk” Marston, a legendary Alaskan who organized the Eskimo Scouts during World War II.

  “Alaska is more than a place,” the old general told him. “It’s a spirit. Some people live here all their lives and never get it. Others step off an airplane and feel it immediately. They’re the ones who make Alaska great.”

  She drove south out of Anchorage on the Seward Highway. Once they passed the bird sanctuary at Potter Marsh it grew quiet in the car. The scenery was spectacular. The Chugach Mountains bordering the road on their left. The waters of Turnagain Arm, a branch of Cook Inlet, splashing to the right. On the far side of the water the mountains of the Kenai Peninsula rose high.

  The British explorer Captain James Cook explored the waters around Southcentral Alaska in 1778. He gave his name to the inlet that surrounds Anchorage on two sides. Cook sailed into Alaska waters seeking, as the Europeans had for two centuries before him, the rumored Northwest Passage that would provide a shorter route between Europe, North America, and Asia.

  It was said that Cook himself gave Turnagain Arm its name when he realized it was not the legendary Northwest Passage as he had hoped. It was also too shallow to risk proceeding. He ordered his vessels to “Turn again.”

  They stopped at Bird Point for the view, lingering for photographs. Eventually they arrived in the small community of Girdwood. Technically part of the Municipality of Anchorage, Girdwood was the home of Mount Alyeska, the state’s largest ski resort.

  It was also home to the Double Musky, a Cajun-influenced restaurant, wildly popular in Alaska, which gained international fame thanks to multiple reviews by influential food critics who had been impressed. Though the restaurant didn’t open until five o’clock, Darcey had been told the line formed early so they should arrive by four. Even then, there were at least twenty people already in line when Christopher got out to hold a place for them while Darcey and Nancy went looking for a parking space in the already crowded small lot.

  While Darcey, Christopher, and Nancy were enjoying shrimp gumbo and the huge pepper steaks for which the Double Musky was famous, Monk was having a peach martini in Juneau. He had taken a liking to Trent’s current favorite cocktail.

  It had rained the day before. The sky over Juneau was still gray, which matched Monk’s mood. The first martini failed to brighten his outlook. A second, he reasoned, might do the job.

  He was frustrated that it had taken so long to arrange the summit meeting he thought critically impo
rtant. At least it appeared the conference call linking Juneau, Anchorage, Seattle, and San Francisco would take place on Monday. The call would join Trent’s troops with the Coast Guard in Juneau and Seattle, the FBI in Anchorage, Seattle and San Francisco, the Anchorage Police Department, and the Alaska State Troopers Bureau of Investigation. He also included the Juneau and Seattle Police Departments.

  The group was larger than he would have liked. Ordinarily he believed the more people involved the better the chance for leaks. In this instance he thought it wise to exclude no one. Monk was confident they had the opportunity to take down one of the most formidable desperados he had ever run into and destroy a major criminal activity. He didn’t want someone accidentally stumbling into their operation out of ignorance, giving Segal an opportunity to once again escape in the resulting confusion.

  Integrity was en route to the west coast loaded with counterfeit goods. They would be sold for many times what he had paid for them. It was free enterprise at the most basic level. No rules. Business at which only the most ruthless could be successful.

  Meanwhile, the yacht Bounty, with its six passengers, was preparing to cruise north to collect a cargo of video games and high-end ladies’ accessories, including designer hand bags and shoes. More counterfeit products to flood west coast markets.

  Darcey sat by Trent’s bed. She had started talking to him when she visited. Dr. Shannon said it was possible he would hear her.

  She told him about their evening. The drive along Turnagain Arm. Dinner at the Double Musky. She told him she wanted to bring Kelli back to Anchorage when recovered. Betty and Ivy, too. She wanted to explore more of Alaska.

  July 24th

  “So that’s where that low life got off to,” San Francisco’s FBI Special Agent in Charge Joseph Brady exploded. “We’ve been looking for him for four years.”

  Booth had just told those participating via telephone in Monk’s summit meeting that the man known in Alaska as Jim Segal was in reality Pietro Greco, formerly underboss and consigliere in the Rossi Mafia Family.

  “You know him, Joseph?” Brady’s Seattle counterpart, Charles Cabot, asked.

  “Oh yes, Charles, we know him. When the four members of Rossi’s criminal alliance imploded, the leader of each group was found murdered. The safe in each office was open and empty as was a safe deposit box belonging to Rossi. And an $8 million yacht owned by one of the gang leaders went missing. So did Greco.”

  “You think Segal or Greco or whoever was behind all that?” APD Chief Ben Kline asked.

  “I think he saw the alliance beginning to crumble and took advantage of the situation,” Booth replied. “I always thought he left the Bay area with a lot of money and a new identity. Now we know that’s what he did and we know his new identity.”

  Booth and Nettleton went on to describe the events surrounding Disher’s murder and what they had learned about the home port Segal had established on the deserted island in the San Juan group. Monk wrapped it up with his theory that Segal had put together a brilliant scheme to import counterfeit merchandise, using luxury yachts that were as phony as the cargo he imported, the San Juan Island base, and the secluded bays and coves of Southeast Alaska.

  From there the discussion moved to strategy. The Coast Guard, Monk noted, was key. Captain Joan Hardie, commander of the combined Seattle-Puget Sound Coast Guard Sector, said she was prepared to commit as many cutters and aircraft as necessary to clear out the nest in the San Juan Islands.

  Van Patten volunteered the cutters and support vessels under his command as well as the three Sikorsky Jayhawk helicopters stationed at Sitka. The aircraft could be armed with 7.62 millimeter M240 medium machine guns and Barrett .50 caliber M82 semiautomatic rifles. The cutters could be armed with heavy machine guns and grenade launchers.

  Having organized the summit meeting to urge a joint operation, Monk suddenly found himself arguing for restraint.

  “We can take the four boats Segal is using for his smuggling operation anytime,” he said. “That would give us his cookie jar. Better to maneuver Segal into a position in which we catch him with his hand trapped in the jar. Otherwise he’ll only disappear again and show up with another operation somewhere else in the world.”

  Eventually Monk’s view prevailed. All agreed to take a cautious, watchful approach for the time being. The Coast Guard would use its vessels and aircraft to keep tabs on Segal’s small fleet of yachts while not appearing overly aggressive.

  Coast Guard crews would be instructed to get pictures of the “guests” and crews when they could do so discreetly. Otherwise they were to continue waving friendly greetings to the “wealthy patrons” on deck whenever they encountered one of the yachts. Meanwhile, Captain Hardie’s vessels would be watching for traffic to the island Segal had commandeered. They would have to get supplies to the island and their cargo to the mainland.

  “They’re probably using a variety of vessels,” Captain Hardie offered. “We’ll spend the next few days observing from afar. When this group decides it’s time to act, we might have developed a list of vessels to seize. And once we get inside their home port, there’ll be plenty of information leading us to any we miss.”

  “Joseph and I can take the same approach on land,” Cabot said. “We can discreetly watch the comings and goings at the waterfronts in Seattle and San Francisco.”

  “They might be using secluded coves along your coastline as they’re doing in Alaska,” Monk suggested.

  “Maybe,” Brady replied. “But our coastlines down here are a lot more congested. I think they have to be bringing the stuff in right under our noses. They’re probably using vessels that seem too obvious to be suspected.”

  “Sounds to me like we have a plan. But give them no cause for alarm,” Monk urged, “until we find a way to drag Segal out into the open.”

  At the Pines, Hackett had to admit that so far this was the best duty assignment he’d ever been given. He was on the back porch with Jordan Baron and Jack Blake. Baron was expertly flipping burgers on Betty’s grill.

  “Ivy mixed a little brown sugar into the ground beef,” he said. “She says a little sugar makes everything taste better. And I’m grilling up enough burgers to feed you and your men, Jack.”

  The sheriff sat near the grill, sipping a glass of iced tea.

  “The sheriff’s department thanks you, Captain Baron,” Blake said, saluting the cook with his glass.

  Hackett almost felt like he was on vacation. Only the press of the revolver against his hip, and the sight of Jordan’s shotgun and Blake’s M4 leaning against the wall within easy reach redefined that feeling as sheer buncombe.

  The six deputies Blake had on duty around the clock at the Pines were also well armed. Hackett learned the sheriff armed his deputies with Beretta M9s, the same weapon with which the would-be assassins in New Orleans were armed. The only difference was Blake’s weapons were the version designed to meet the exacting demands of the U.S. Marine Corps, including a sand resistant magazine. It was known for its low recoil and high degree of accuracy.

  Not exactly the same weapon but enough of a similarity to raise a question in Hackett’s mind. He recalled Robert Monk’s words.

  “There is no coincidence in crime, corruption, or politics.”

  He watched the sheriff and wondered.

  In the kitchen, Betty was grilling onions in a black iron skillet. She added a bit of freshly grated nutmeg, a trick she learned from Trent, who was constantly experimenting with spices and ingredients.

  Ivy was frying potatoes in duck fat, something she had taught Trent.

  “Ain’t nothing better than duck fat for making French fries,” she told Betty, “I brought some from home because I didn’t figure we could find any out here in the country.”

  Kelli was playing with her baby carriage and a selection of favorite dolls she had brought down from her room. She was in the doorway to the dining room so her grandmothers could keep an eye on her.

  That either
Betty or Ivy was always close to Kelli was another sign of the seriousness of their situation. It was tense enough that Betty had brought her snake killer, which she usually kept under her bed, into the kitchen. The snake killer was a machete made from a saw blade from her grandfather’s lumber mill.

  Ivy used a large chef’s knife to slice the potatoes. She had taken to walking around the house with the same knife in her hand. She seemed almost disappointed that she hadn’t been attacked.

  Monk’s summit meeting wrapped up in time for him to catch the early afternoon flight to Anchorage. He was back in time to join Darcey, Christopher, and Nancy on the deck for cocktail hour.

  Darcey made French 75s for them. She shook gin, simple syrup, and lemon juice over ice before pouring it into chilled martini glasses. She filled each glass about halfway, then topped it off with Mumm’s Napa Valley Brut Prestige. It was the cocktail for which Trent was famous made with his favorite wine. He was very much on their minds.

  Darcey and Nancy had stuffed some very large Portobello mushrooms for dinner. They removed the stems and finely chopped them. They sautéed the mushroom stems with chopped onion, seasoned with a little salt and pepper. Darcey added what she told Nancy was a secret ingredient for this dish. Cinnamon. Immediately the kitchen was filled with a tantalizing aroma.

  When the vegetables were softened, they mixed in thinly sliced deli ham, also chopped into small pieces, and a handful of breadcrumbs. After gently scooping out the gills of the mushrooms, they filled the cavities with the stuffing before laying a slice of cheddar cheese over each one. They would go into the oven for half an hour or so.

  As they sipped the cocktails, Darcey pointed out the postage stamp park bordering the waters of Cook Inlet far below the penthouse.

  “Wouldn’t Kelli have fun in that park?” she asked, rhetorically. “It’s so pretty, with the trees and shrubs. And it has all the things she likes to play on when we go to a park.”