A Shooting at Auke Bay

by Parker, Gordon;

  Brian and Maureen Wayne were on the water at first light. They wanted to be back in Hoonah early. Maureen was on the city council. The council met as a Committee of the Whole on the first Thursday of the month. She wanted to be there by five o’clock.

  They cruised slowly out of the protected harbor and into the waters of Icy Strait. Brian had the wheel. Maureen watched her hometown recede into the distance. Hoonah, originally known as Xunaa, which translates as “protection from the north wind,” was largely populated by Tlingit people. Maureen’s family had lived in the area since the 18th century. Part of Brian’s family began trickling in a hundred years later.

  They missed the drifting Sea Ray when they left that morning. They saw it as they were returning home at noon, their boat’s locker filled with fish. It had been a good day.

  Maureen had the wheel on the return. Brian was busy putting away their gear and straightening up. He would clean the deck and lockers more thoroughly when they were back in the harbor but he wanted to get a head start on the job before they got home.

  “Brian, there’s a boat over there,” Maureen said. “Looks like a really fancy one.”

  Brian stopped what he was doing to look in the direction Maureen was pointing.

  “What’s he doing?” Brian wondered. “Looks like he’s drifting.”

  “Maybe nobody’s aboard,” Maureen suggested. “It might have broken loose during the night. We should check to make sure.”

  “Yeah, that’s a lot of boat to lose if there’s nobody on board,” her husband agreed.

  Maureen pointed their bow toward the Sea Ray. When they were close enough, she skillfully guided it alongside.

  “Hello!” Brian called out. “Anyone aboard?”

  There was no answer.

  “Get close enough for me to board her,” he said.

  Maureen moved in a little closer. Brian jumped onto the Sea Ray’s deck and called out again.

  “Anyone here?”

  Still no answer.

  “Check inside,” Maureen suggested. “Someone might be hurt.”

  Brian disappeared into the cabin. She heard him make a sound. A gagging sound. Suddenly he rushed back onto the deck. He barely made it to the far side gunwale before vomiting into the sea.

  Maureen was stunned.

  “Brian, are you ok? What’s in there?”

  “You don’t want to see it. Get the Coast Guard on the radio. Let them know we found a drifting boat with a body in the cabin. Better contact the State Troopers, too.”

  Jessica Rossi woke up late Thursday morning. After setting Greco adrift in his boat, they flew to Juneau, returned the rented Cessna, and caught an evening flight to San Francisco. Bell declared the shotgun in his checked luggage. TSA had no objection.

  For the first time since she was a teenager she spent the night in her old bedroom. After her father was murdered, her mother saw to it that the family home in the hills of Atherton was well cared for. When Jessica said she planned to return to the California house, her mother asked a friend to stock the house with food and other items her daughter might need. There were still many who remained loyal to the Rossi family.

  And, as Greco had learned, some of them pretended to be his friends as well. They were not.

  Pulling a robe over her pajamas, Jessica went downstairs to the kitchen. She had programed the coffee pot before going to bed. Hot coffee would be waiting.

  When her uncle came downstairs a short time later he found her sitting at her father’s desk. She had already used her laptop to log on to the Internet.

  “Everything good?” he asked, setting his own mug of coffee on the desk as he pulled a chair closer.

  “Everything is very good,” Jessica replied. “Our Miss Colombo has already logged on to her computer. The software I added is working perfectly.”

  “So what now?” he asked.

  “Now we wait for Saturday night.”

  “And after that?” he continued.

  “After that we finish off Greco’s empire and get busy putting the Rossi family business back together.”

  “And you want me to be your consigliere or whatever it’s called?” Bell said.

  “No, I need your help, Uncle Jess,” she said quickly, “but we’re not going to use any of those old Mafia words. It’s a new world and we will have a new family business. My only regret is that Pietro Greco won’t know how much he is contributing to our business. As Shakespeare’s Hamlet said, ‘… for tis the sport to have the enginer hoist with his own petard…’”

  “And you, my dear niece, learned well the rest of Hamlet’s speech,” Bell added. “But I will delve one yard below their mines and blow them at the moon.”

  Jessica laughed at her uncle’s completion of the quote.

  “It’s too bad my sister doesn’t want to come back,” Bell said. “This house and the grounds here are beautiful. And it was her home for so many years.”

  “That’s why she isn’t coming back. At least not right away. My father died here. In this room. It doesn’t feel right to her.”

  Jessica stood and walked to the French doors leading to the garden and the pool.

  “Daddy loved the garden,” she remembered. “He enjoyed having lunch at the table out there. He said just being in the garden was soothing. Lash and I liked the pool better.”

  Bell chuckled at her reminiscence.

  “Speaking of your brother, when will he join you here?”

  Jessica’s brother, Lash, was three years older. He was already in college when their father sent them with their mother to her family in Virginia. He transferred to the University of Virginia to finish his undergraduate degree. He was now nearing completion of a master’s degree in business at Tulane University’s Freeman School of Business in New Orleans.

  “He’ll graduate at the end of the fall term,” she said. “He will go to Virginia for a short visit and pick up a few belongings. He’ll probably get here some time in February. And what he’s learning at one of the country’s best business schools will be very helpful.”

  “Just as your degree in computer science is already proving useful,” Bell said, saluting her with his mug.

  Jessica took a deep breath. It felt good to be home again.

  The Coast Guard Cutter Liberty, on patrol near Chichagof Island, was the first to arrive. The cutter’s commanding officer sent his lieutenant and two enlisted men to the Wayne’s fishing boat. Brian and Maureen were both there. Brian refused to return to the Sea Ray.

  “I didn’t touch anything in the cabin,” he said. “You couldn’t make me touch anything in there. And I’m not going back on board that boat again. Nothing you can do will get me back on board that boat.”

  The lieutenant found that puzzling but didn’t press the point. He gently pressed the nose of his small boat to the Sea Ray’s stern. One of his crew leaped aboard the abandoned boat with a line, which he tied onto a cleat.

  The lieutenant climbed onto the boat’s deck and went into the cabin, followed by his crewman. In seconds, the enlisted man was back on deck, vomiting over the side just as Brian had done.

  Inside, the lieutenant stood in a near state of shock at the sight. He wanted to run out of the cabin and vomit also. He was an officer. He didn’t think he should do that. But he wanted to. Instead he stood frozen, struggling against the bile rising in his throat.

  A man he had seen around Juneau was lying on a bench in the cabin. His arms spread-eagled, wrists tied to bolts screwed into the bulkhead.

  He was missing the index finger on his right hand. His torso was covered in blood. His face was twisted into a picture of rage. It was as though he died screaming curses.

  But he couldn’t have died screaming curses. There was no way he could have done that.

  On the small table near the bench lay the man’s missing finger.

  And something looking much like a human tongue.

  Captain Van Patten called Monk as soon as he received the report from the commander
of the Liberty.

  “We found Greco’s boat, Robert. And we found Greco. He’s dead.”

  Robert was surprised.

  “Any idea what happened? Could you tell how he died?”

  “Oh yes, that wasn’t hard to figure out,” Van Patten replied with distaste. “He was died to a bulkhead. His index finger had been cut off.”

  “His trigger finger,” Robert said. “That would be painful but wouldn’t kill him.”

  “No, that’s not what killed him. His tongue had been cut out, Robert. The only question is whether he bled out before he drowned in his own blood.”

  Robert felt a slight touch of nausea.

  “Someone from his past executed him using his own boat as the gallows,” he concluded.

  “There’s more, Robert,” Van Patten continued. “He brought a young woman with him when he flew into town last week. She’s nowhere to be found. Neither is Cameron McGraw, his restaurant manager here.”

  “They could be victims or perpetrators,” Robert mused. “We don’t have enough information to make that determination.”

  “We did learn one thing for certain,” the Coast Guard captain said. “Acting on reason to enter, the Juneau police searched Greco’s restaurant and the apartment above it. They found a hidden compartment in a closet. It contained only one item. A large item. A Remington Modular Sniper Rifle.”

  “So Greco was the one who shot Trent.”

  “I’d bet money on it. Since the bullet passed through Marshall’s skull we don’t have anything to compare. But it’s about the right caliber and is good for the range. The sound and muzzle flash suppressors account for no one hearing or seeing the shot. And it’s a very expensive weapon. It’s doubtful that there’s another like it in Juneau. Probably not anywhere in the state.”

  “Greco was afraid Trent would see him and recognize him so he tried to kill him. Really all he needed to do was stay out of sight for a short time. We were going to leave Juneau the next day. What a waste!” Robert lamented.

  Caine’s friend, J.B., called in the late afternoon. As promised, he had tracked Darcey Anderson to her “lair,” as he called it.

  “She’s holed up in a luxurious penthouse condominium overlooking Bootlegger’s Cove,” he reported. “She has company. A man and woman are also staying there. And an older man comes and goes.”

  Colombo was surprised at how quickly J.B. had found the woman.

  “I know people around town,” was his only explanation.

  “If she’s in the penthouse, it’ll be a secure floor,” Colombo pointed out. “If, and I said if, I decide I want to get to her, how do we get onto that floor?”

  “Oh, it might cost a few bucks in the right hands,” J.B. answered. “Or a broken bone or two. I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

  No one felt much like having dinner that evening. The image of Greco’s finger and tongue lying on a table didn’t encourage a healthy appetite.

  Robert made pitcher of margaritas.

  Then he made a second pitcher.

  Darcey didn’t go to the hospital. She was busy in the penthouse.

  August 5th

  Jessica Rossi had taken Greco’s phone when they left him adrift in his boat.

  It rang on Saturday night. Jessica’s uncle answered.

  “This is McGraw.”

  The woman who owned the Justice was calling.

  “I need to talk to Segal,” she said. “Put him on.”

  “He’s…uh…busy. He can’t come to the phone. And he told me to proceed with the transaction if you called to request it.”

  “Yeah, everything seems in order. You can transfer the funds.”

  McGraw ended the call and hit the speed dial for Jayne Colombo.

  “Yeah,” she answered, sounding unhappy. “Where are you?”

  “This is McGraw, Jayne. You know where Jim is. And you know I’m not going to disturb him when he’s having his fun.”

  She knew exactly what “fun” McGraw meant. The image of the young woman with the ridiculous red and black hair came to mind. It made the older woman furious.

  “I just got the call from the Justice,” he continued. “The skipper reports everything is in order. Jim told me to authorize you to transfer funds.”

  “I don’t much like this,” Colombo said. “If there’s a problem it’s going to be your head that rolls, not mine.”

  In her father’s office in the Atherton house, Jessica watched everything Colombo was doing on her computer in the Anchorage office. Within seconds, the software the young woman had put on Colombo’s machine captured everything Jessica needed to empty Greco’s accounts. All the passwords. The friendly banks who would follow instructions when they were given the correct passwords. Their coup was almost complete.

  In a secluded cove on the coast of Admiralty Island, several boxes of pharmaceuticals were transferred from the larger supply vessel to be stowed in the compartments secreted below decks on the smaller yacht. The drugs were worth millions. All counterfeit. All promising death in the name of profit.

  The next evening, Dancer would begin its journey north with a new crop of “wealthy travelers.” On the following weekend, it was scheduled to meet another supplier to take on a cargo of electronics.

  Smart phones. Tablets. Integrated circuit boards. Flash drives.

  All counterfeit.

  August 12th

  It had been a long week.

  The Coast Guard in Alaska and Seattle were anxious to move on Greco’s small fleet. The FBI in Seattle were, too. Even the Alaska Bureau of Investigation and the police chiefs in Anchorage and Juneau were ready.

  Monk still did his best to hold them back. He even convinced them to withhold any statements regarding Greco’s death and the disappearance of Cameron McGraw and the unidentified young woman seen with Greco on his boat.

  It wasn’t time. He wasn’t sure why. He just knew it wasn’t time.

  An old cop’s instinct.

  That changed at nine o’clock, Alaska Daylight Time.

  Something happened.

  Something big.

  Half an hour earlier, Jessica Rossi was busy at her computer. Entering passwords. Accessing accounts in Greco’s friendly banks. Moving funds to her own friendly banks. In less than 15 minutes she had set the charge that she earlier described in Shakespeare’s words. She had “…delve[d] one yard below their mines to blow them at the moon.”

  Dancer and the ship from which it was to receive its cargo of counterfeit merchandise rode at anchor at yet another secluded cove. They were on the seaward side of Baranof Island, about halfway between Sitka and Port Alexander.

  At the appointed hour, Captain Place dialed Greco’s number. There was no answer.

  The skipper of the larger vessel wasn’t happy. This was a complication. People in his business didn’t like complications.

  Place nervously attempted to assuage his counterpart.

  “These mobile phones can be a problem. My boss is probably not in range of a tower. I’ll call the office.”

  Jayne Colombo was at her desk. She was not happy. She hadn’t talked to her boss in over a week despite calling numerous times.

  McGraw answered the first few times. Four days ago he called her to say that their boss was missing. He said he was calling the Coast Guard to report him overdue.

  Since then she had heard nothing. When she called, no one answered. She could think of several possibilities. None of them good for her.

  She became so alarmed that she considered calling the Coast Guard herself. But she was hesitant to get involved with anything resembling law enforcement.

  When Place called to let her know their boss wasn’t answering his phone, her glum mood took a turn toward the violent. She had to find out what was going on. But at this moment there was business to tend.

  “I haven’t been able to reach him either,” she told Place. “But I’ll make the transfer anyway. We can’t stop because the boss found a new girlfriend.”
>
  Ending the call, she turned to her computer. She entered the necessary password to open the program that showed their accounts. That was the moment she realized how fundamentally her world had changed.

  Each account showed a zero balance.

  In a large, beautiful home south of San Francisco, the woman known as Fiona Robinson and her uncle, the man known as Cameron McGraw in Alaska, were sharing a bottle of Merlot from the well-stocked wine cellar. It had been a good night for them. Using connections with friendly banks supplied by her father’s old friends and armed with all the passwords retrieved from Jayne Colombo’s computer, Fiona had moved $21 million from Pietro Greco’s banks into new accounts. Through a series of dummy corporations, the new accounts were all controlled by a previously unknown entity. The Bell Family Trust.

  It had been a very good night.

  In the secluded cove in Southeast Alaska, the two vessels bobbed side by side. On board Dancer, Captain Place was nervous. It had been an hour. The skipper of the boat with the cargo Place was to accept hadn’t reappeared. Neither man had left the bridge of his vessel.

  Place had no idea what was going on. Was it possible the transfer of funds hadn’t been made? Even worse, had the transfer of funds been made and now the other captain planned to steal the cargo?

  Place loved Dancer. He ran his hand over the beautiful, polished mahogany, caressed the brass fittings. He didn’t want to see any harm come to her. He would fight to protect her.

  Speaking softly, Place issued an order to his first officer. The man moved among the crew, repeating the captain’s order.

  Place himself reached into the locker beneath the wheel and reached for the AR-15, keeping the rifle out of sight as he leaned it against the bulkhead within easy reach. His crew did the same. Place knew his orders were to avoid a fight but he might not have the choice.

  If they had to fight, he would regret only that Greco hadn’t supplied them with automatic weapons. He feared they were outgunned.

  In the office of the Anchorage restaurant, Jayne Colombo sat for several minutes in stunned silence. She stared at the screen of her computer as though willing the lines of zeros to turn themselves back into the millions they had been.