A Shooting at Auke Bay

by Parker, Gordon;

  “This is Charles Cabot, FBI Special Agent in Charge for the Seattle District. Whoever receives this message should know that we have taken control of an old warehouse full of counterfeit products on a deserted island in the San Juans. We have also seized three yachts and a fishing boat. More than one of those we have taken into custody are anxious to tell us anything we want to know. You are out of business and will soon be in custody. Have a nice day.”

  Colombo threw the phone across the room. For two long minutes she stood in the middle of the room, trembling. Unable to move. Trying to think.

  She was running out of options. Boxed in. Escape was being cut off in every direction. Her chances were slim.

  She had planned to go to the bank as soon as it opened the following day to withdraw most of the funds from the restaurant’s account, leaving only enough to keep the account going. Now that was out of the question. People at the bank would have seen the same news report she saw. Any attempt now to withdraw such a large sum from that account would only send the cops to her door faster. She had only the money she found in the safe.

  She poured another scotch.

  There was nothing left for her but to seek revenge.

  Greco dead. McGraw and that little twit Fiona nowhere to be found. Marshall either dead or on life support. Only Marshall’s wife was left as target of Colombo’s fury.

  She drained her glass and poured another drink. She had to stop her hand from shaking before doing what she intended next.

  When she felt in control, she called Caine. She told him they had a job to do the following night. She told him to pick up breakfast and bring it, along with Brooke and J.B., to her apartment by eight o’clock the next morning. Then she told him to put J.B. on the line.

  Two hours later, J.B. pressed the buzzer asking for entry into the lobby of the building overlooking Cook Inlet. He had made it a point to meet and become friendly with the night concierge, dropping in over the past few evenings with coffee and doughnuts.

  At the sound of the buzzer, the man looked up from the book he was reading. He was over sixty, bespectacled, and wore his silver hair long, matching it with a silver beard. He was among the thousands who reached retirement age only to discover they didn’t have the financial resources they thought they would have. Consequently, he was working well past his prime to keep food in his belly.

  J.B. was about the same age as the concierge. He had an intimate understanding of the man’s life situation. His thin gray hair was a hint that he shared the fate of the concierge. It was why he had to sleep on the couch in the small apartment he shared with two roommates. Fortunately, he was as murderous as were they.

  J.B. smiled his humorless, painful smile as the man opened the door.

  “Good evening, Trey. How’s your world this evening?”

  “Doing ok, J.B.,” the old man replied. “No doughnuts tonight?”

  “Oh, I have something much better than doughnuts.”

  When he left half an hour later, J.B. had what he came for in his pocket. Trey had been offered a choice. Two thousand of Colombo’s scarce dollars or considerable pain. The old man opted for the money, understanding he would also get the pain from J.B.’s partners if he told anyone about their transaction.

  J.B.’s partners were not known to him. The money was tactile in Trey’s hands. He understood that pain could have a certain tactile nature of its own. It was a thought that, at his age, he couldn’t face.

  August 14th

  Monday morning broke cloudy but comfortable in Anchorage. Caine and his companions arrived at Colombo’s Spenard apartment at a quarter past eight.

  She had not slept all night. She was on edge and furious that they were fifteen minutes late. With great effort she held her fury inside. She needed them to storm Darcey Anderson’s penthouse that night.

  They would pay later. J.B. would die immediately. The other two after she had her fun with them. She was looking forward to the fun. It excited her to think of it. But now was not the time for fantasizing.

  They ate biscuits stuffed with bacon, eggs, and cheese along with fried frozen hash browns as she briefed them on her plan. Over the next two hours they burned through three pots of coffee as she made them go over the plan time and again. All three had to know their parts without having to think.

  Each member of Colombo’s hastily assembled team reacted differently.

  J.B. seemed resigned. He realized his neck was already in a noose as Trey could, and no doubt would if pressured, identify him as the front man. Trey would have to die.

  Brooke seemed excited. Her nostrils flared. Her breathing grew faster. Colombo decided Brooke was as perverted as was she. It made her think again of the fun they might have before the younger woman died.

  Surprisingly, Caine seemed the most troubled. Negative. Almost frightened.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea, Jayne?” he questioned.

  “What’s wrong? Scared?”

  “No, I’m not scared,” he said, offended. “It just seems like a wild plan to me. And for what purpose?”

  “For my purpose, Dennis,” Colombo said. “That’s all that should concern you.”

  She saw Caine fading from her fantasy. Maybe the fun would include only Brooke. Caine didn’t seem as interesting as she once thought.

  The cloudy day covered the magnificent view from the penthouse. Robert, Christopher, and Nancy were gathered again in the main sitting room for coffee. Darcey was busy making her morning phone call to Louisiana. And with other things.

  Captain Nettleton from the Seattle PD had called Christopher to tell him that, with information supplied by some of those arrested the evening before, they had carried out a raid on a rundown warehouse on the waterfront.

  They had seized another old commercial fishing boat and a retired tug. Greco had used those nondescript vessels to lighter his counterfeit goods in from the island. From there they were picked up by independent dealers in vans and small trucks that could move unnoticed along the waterfront.

  “Our holding cells are full of former Greco employees,” Nettleton said, with satisfaction. “And almost all of them can’t wait to tell their stories. They’re especially anxious since they learned the district attorney is exploring charges of something like serial attempted murder or whatever he can find similar to it.”

  “Intent to distribute that much in counterfeit drugs has to be considered at least assault with a deadly weapon,” Christopher suggested.

  He had put his phone on speaker so the others could listen to the conversation.

  “If any of them are ill, or become ill, you could always treat them with their own drugs,” Robert chimed in.

  “Well, that would be justice. But vigilante justice,” Nettleton said. “The DA wouldn’t go for it.”

  “No more than they deserve,” the old cop responded.

  “Can’t say I disagree, Colonel Monk,” Nettleton said. “But I guess we have to play it by the book. We’ll nail’em all on something.”

  After the call from Nettleton the atmosphere in the room was considerably lighter than it had been in weeks.

  “What are we doing for dinner?” Christopher asked. “We should do something special.”

  “We are doing something special,” Nancy said. “Darcey has been teaching me to make real southern fried chicken. And I’m making it tonight with mashed potatoes and gravy and lima beans on the side. Is that special enough for you?”

  “Oh yeah, a California girl learning to cook southern!” Christopher said, a genuinely happy grin spreading across his wide face. “That’s very special!”

  Christopher thought the days of pizza and scrambled eggs and ham sandwiches at their house were over.

  “We’ll do even better than that,” Darcey said, overhearing the last of the conversation as she entered the room. “I’ll make French 75s and we’ll toast Trent.”

  ‘Fried chicken and French 75s,” Robert said, with delight. “I’m in. I’m definitely in.”
>
  Colombo and her team walked up to the building overlooking Cook Inlet at precisely nine o’clock. She chose that hour thinking Darcey Anderson Marshall and her guests would have had a few cocktails and, if luck was with the attackers, a heavy dinner. Hopefully they would be sluggish and slow to respond.

  Trey had given J.B. the pass keys that would let them enter the main floor lobby, use the elevator to access the secured floors at the top of the building, and enter all the condominiums in the building. He also gave him the floor plan of the four thousand square foot penthouse Darcey was occupying along with its adjoining one thousand square foot caretaker’s apartment.

  Colombo knew there were two entrances. One was through the main front door, the second from the caretaker’s apartment through a small, informal sitting room to the rear of the penthouse.

  The concierge looked up at the sound of the door opening. He saw J.B. entering accompanied by another man with uncombed brown hair and rumpled clothing, a brassy blonde woman with a crazy look about her, and a smaller, younger woman with dark hair and cold eyes.

  J.B was old fashioned. He always appeared in public neatly and conservatively dressed in a coat and tie. Tonight was no different except for the duffle bag he carried.

  Both women carried oversized handbags. The younger woman wore jeans and a light, pullover sweater. The older woman wore a dark skirt cut high above her knees and a white top under her fashionable jacket. Both were dressed for easy maneuverability.

  “Good evening, Trey,” J.B. said, the ever present, painful smile on his thin face. “I’ve brought some friends to meet you tonight. This young lady is Brooke. She came along especially to thank you for helping us.”

  “That…that’s nice of you, J.B. but it isn’t necessary,” Trey stammered. This didn’t feel right. This felt dangerous. He was suddenly fearful.

  “Nonsense,” J.B. said. “We always take good care of our friends. You just take Brooke into that back office for a while. I guarantee it’ll be an experience you’ll remember for the rest of your life.”

  Brooke didn’t wait for the old man to take the lead. Without speaking a word, she reached out and took his hand, leading him to the vacant office behind the concierge desk. Trey noticed that the cold look in her eyes got no warmer.

  The door was closed no longer than a few seconds when those waiting in the lobby heard a faint pop. Brooke reappeared, the oversized bag hanging from her shoulder, the lightweight, long gun broken as she replaced the .22 long rifle cartridge she had just used to send a bullet through the ear and directly into the center of Trey’s brain.

  J.B. was right. It was an experience Trey remembered for the few seconds that remained of his life.

  Upstairs in the penthouse, Robert was preparing to take the trash to the garbage chute around the corner from the elevator.

  Nancy was in the kitchen finishing the cleanup from dinner. Christopher was helping but had taken a short break to go to their room.

  She was pleased with the dinner she’d made. The fried chicken, flour seasoned with cayenne and buttermilk with a little maple syrup as the liquid was a big hit. She also had the idea to sauté a chopped green onion until it was soft and mix it in with the mashed potatoes. That proved to be popular also.

  The oil in which the chicken was cooked was still far too hot to handle without risking a serious burn. They would leave that to cool overnight and clean the pan in the morning.

  Darcey was busy elsewhere in the penthouse.

  Colombo and her four accomplices rode the elevator to the top floor. There they took up their assigned positions.

  Caine, backed by J.B., was assigned to go in through the front door. Colombo and Brooke would take the stealth approach through the caretaker’s apartment. They would have Darcey Anderson Marshall and her companions in a crossfire.

  Caine and J.B. took up their positions. They watched as the two women entered the caretaker’s apartment. They gave them three minutes, as directed, to locate the rear entrance into the penthouse.

  Caine used the time to work the slide of his Beretta. J.B. unzipped the duffle bag and brought out his shotgun, breaking it to assure himself each chamber was ready with a twelve gauge shell.

  When exactly three minutes had passed, Caine used his pass key to open the front door of the penthouse. He quietly pushed the door open and stepped into the large entry way.

  He found himself face to face with Robert Monk.

  Robert had been in many violent situations in his long career. He was surprised but less so than Caine. That gave the old cop time to drop to the ground, reaching to his lower leg to free the Glock from its hideout holster.

  In the few seconds it took Robert to arm and cock his own weapon, Caine fired. The man lying on the floor was hit in the side, blood immediately beginning to flow.

  Caine fired only once. Again the experience of the retired cop prevailed. Robert fired three times. The first round hit Caine in the left ankle, taking his leg out from under him. The second struck his left wrist as he fell backward. Before he could raise the Beretta to fire again, Robert’s third shot hit him square in the lower belly.

  Caine was out of the fight. The bullet to his belly bored through his small intestine. He didn’t know it yet but he was dead. It would be a slow, painful death.

  When Caine fell, he crashed into J.B., who was following too closely behind him. One barrel of the older man’s shotgun fired into the ceiling.

  Before he could right himself and train the second loaded barrel at Robert, Nancy came from the kitchen to the left of the doorway.

  Unfortunately for J.B. her opening shot was a large frying pan full of hot cooking oil tossed directly at him.

  J.B. screamed as the hot oil covered his head, face and body. In his agony he waved the shotgun around wildly, blindly seeking a target to avenge his agony. His inability to find a target gave Nancy the opportunity to draw her Smith & Wesson .357 magnum. She sent one bullet from the revolver into J.B.’s left hip, shattering the femur at its juncture with the pelvic structure. A permanently crippling wound.

  All thought of continuing the fight was gone. J.B. was scalded, blinded, unable to stand, and now unable to even find the shotgun which he had dropped when Nancy’s bullet broke his hip. He lay moaning and crying on the floor, covered by hot oil turning his flesh into something resembling hamburger, blood pouring from his wounded leg.

  Brooke had told Colombo that being quiet and getting close with her lightweight weapon was her specialty. And so it was.

  She had entered through the caretaker’s apartment and was now standing only a few feet behind Nancy, the top barrel of her light, two barreled weapon, with its .22 caliber long rifle cartridge, was cocked. Focused on the two at the front door, the former detective sergeant was unaware of the other woman’s presence.

  At that moment, Detective Captain Christopher Booth stepped into the hallway. Drawing his own Glock, he entered the fray in time to save his partner. Booth fired twice. His first bullet penetrated the flesh high on Brooke’s left shoulder to the right of her shoulder blade. Excruciating but not a killing shot. Her lips turned up in a smile. The pain didn’t appear to bother her. It seemed to thrill her.

  Brooke turned to train her weapon on a new target but she was out of time. Booth fired again. His second shot penetrated her heart. The woman’s eyes began to glaze over as she dropped to her knees. She fired her light weapon but the small piece of lead buried itself harmlessly in the ceiling. Her fingers twitched as she tried to switch barrels to fire the second round. But they stopped moving as the light went out of her eyes.

  The obstreperous activity brought Darcey from the master bedroom, the single shot .410 gauge hand gun at the ready. She was in time to confront Jayne Colombo.

  Colombo was delighted. Darcey was her main target. Trent Marshall’s wife was to be Colombo’s revenge. She held her MAC 10 at the ready. But Darcey fired first.

  Her shot was accurate. The small shot from Darcey’s unusual weapon
spread a series of red dots across Colombo’s chest. But it wasn’t a killing blow. The .410 gauge was little more than birdshot. It stung but did no serious danger.

  Colombo looked down and laughed.

  “That’s not much of a gun, Mrs. Marshall,” she taunted. “I think I have you.”

  Colombo waved her machine pistol at Darcey. She wanted to make this moment last. She was shocked when she heard the voice behind her.

  “Let her go,” the voice said. “It’s me you want. Not her.”

  In her surprise, Colombo spun to face the voice. The voice came from the dimly lit shadow of a doorway.

  She could see only the outline of a man. He was seated. He seemed to be wearing a hat. A dark western style hat with a pinched front crown, brim turned slightly down in front, with gentle upward curls on the sides.

  “Marshall? Is that you? You’re alive” Colombo questioned, hardly believing it.

  “I’m alive.”

  Colombo felt perverted desire stirring within. Her breath became ragged.

  “This is perfect,” she said, her voice husky. “We can have a little fun as we die. All three of us.”

  “It’s me you want,” the voice repeated. “But not that way.”

  “No fun? How disappointing,” she said. “Just death then. First her. Then you.”

  She pointed the notoriously inaccurate MAC 10 machine pistol toward Darcey. She saw the flame from the barrel of the revolver held by the shadowy figure at the end of the hallway. She heard the sound of metal exploding powder. She watched in disbelief as the man disappeared in a cloud of black smoke. All that before she felt the .44 caliber ball strike her lower left leg, breaking the tibia.

  She pulled the trigger of her MAC 10 as she fell to the ground. Though hurting badly, she had time to do so. The weapon the man was using was not a modern handgun. It fired slowly. The three round burst from her weapon went wide to the side of the dim figure sitting in the cloud of dark smoke.

  She saw the burst of flame from the center of the cloud as Marshall fired again. The second ball hit Colombo in the upper left arm, plowing through muscle and nicking the humerus. She was no longer able to use that arm to steady her weapon.