A Shooting at Auke Bay Read online

  A Shooting at Auke Bay Alaska Assassin: Crime, Collusion, Conspiracy

  Gordon Parker

  Tales of Crime and Corruption Creator

  PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974

  [email protected], www.publicationconsultants.com

  ISBN Number: 978-1-59433-881-6

  eBook ISBN Number: 978-1-59433-882-3

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2019942424

  Copyright 2019 Gordon Parker

  —First Edition—

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Dedicated to my son,

  David,

  who read every revision of every draft of every book.

  I acknowledge others who read early drafts and offered encouragement, including Paul Rich, Tom Brenan, Rich Listowski, Kimberly Rimert (self-proclaimed #1 fan of Trent & Darcey), Don Cartee, Donn & Karen Wonnell, and Walt Larson (aka Ed Riley). My Thanks also to Willie Hensley who guided me to the perfect publisher and to Evan Swensen for having faith in me.

  Contents

  July 8th

  July 9th

  July 10th

  July 11th

  July 12th

  July 13th

  July 14th

  July 15th

  July 16th

  July 17th

  July 18th

  July 19th

  July 20th

  July 21st

  July 22nd

  July 23th

  July 24th

  July 25th

  July 26th

  July 29th

  August 1st

  August 2nd

  August 3rd

  August 5th

  August 12th

  August 13th

  August 14th

  August 22nd

  August 26th

  July 8th

  Trent Marshall must die.

  To see him here was to portend approaching disaster.

  To let him live was to invite it.

  The man had known that for more than a month. He had used the time to plan carefully.

  From where he lay hidden in the trees, he had a clear view straight to the Nanuq, the luxury yacht tied up in the harbor at Auke Bay just outside of Juneau. The Schmidt & Bender scope was so precise he could have been on the Nanuq’s aft deck.

  When he awoke this morning, Trent Marshall didn’t know the beautiful Southeast Alaska summer day would bring an existential crisis. It would not be a crisis of any length. Once Marshall stepped onto the deck and appeared in the circle of the scope, there would be only seconds of his life remaining.

  The yacht was half a mile away. No challenge for the Remington Modular Sniper Rifle the man held steadily trained on the vessel. Resting on its bipod, the rifle had an effective range of almost a mile. At half that distance the .338 magnum slug would easily accomplish its assignment.

  With the rifle’s superior sound and flame suppressors, the shooter would not be spotted. Anyone watching would see only Marshall dying.

  There was no emotion in the pending assassination. He was not stirred by what he was about to do. The man didn’t dislike Marshall. He actually admired what the retired investigative reporter had accomplished in San Francisco four years prior. In a sense he was indebted to Marshall for taking down the alliance of four powerful criminal entities. He had been underboss and consigliere to the organizer and administrator of the federation. It was in the destruction of the alliance and its members that the man had found opportunity.

  But admiration wouldn’t save Marshall. This was business. Nothing more. Trent Marshall must die.

  The man had known he must kill Marshall since the day he received the call from one of the sources he was careful to maintain in San Francisco. The source told him that Marshall had chartered a luxury yacht for a cruise up through the islands and fjords of the Alexander Archipelago, which made up Southeast Alaska.

  The source thought Seattle was the yacht’s home port.

  The Nanuq. He was familiar with the vessel. He knew quite a lot about the Nanuq. It was important that he know everything about the yacht.

  A week before Marshall and his family were to set sail, the man flew to Seattle. He spent two days wandering around the waterfront. He spotted the Nanuq right away. It was an impressive vessel. 120 feet long with six luxurious guest staterooms plus quarters for Captain Eric Hannigan and his wife, Sally, who was also chief stewardess. The first officer, chief engineer, bosun, a deck hand, a chef and a steward made up the rest of the crew.

  The man figured chartering the Nanuq for a cruise through Southeast Alaska cost what most people would consider a fortune. Trent Marshall could afford it. As an investigative reporter he didn’t make a lot of money, even after he won a Pulitzer Prize. Then his last living relative, his mother’s aunt, died leaving him 1,000 acres of land just across the river from Baton Rouge. He and a partner built a golf course surrounded by scores of multi-million dollar homes. He invested his substantial profit from that venture wisely. Trent now counted his millions by hundreds.

  The man observed the crew’s routine carefully. The deck hand, he thought, offered the most potential for his purpose. Each evening the hand left the vessel headed for the Caduceous, a dive bar attempting sophistication in the choice of its name. Symbol of the messenger of the Greek gods; conductor of the dead; protector of merchants and thieves. The man found the deck hand sitting at the bar. He took the next stool.

  The man was generous with drinks. The deck hand was thirsty. It didn’t take long to learn the plan for the Nanuq’s upcoming cruise. A few more drinks and the deck hand was convinced that a firm friendship had been formed. Money exchanged hands on the second night. On the third night, the deck hand agreed to call the man whenever the Nanuq was within range of a mobile tower. The man would know where Marshall was at all times.

  The number the deck hand was given rang on a burner, a mobile phone bought at a convenience store. It couldn’t be traced and when his business with the deck hand was done, the man would toss it into the ocean.

  Activity on the Nanuq’s aft deck brought him back to the present. But it was only the steward bringing out refreshments in preparation for the five o’clock cocktail hour. Based on his knowledge of Marshall’s tastes, the man assumed the three bottles of red wine would be very good Napa Merlot. There was also an assortment of what appeared to be soft drinks. When the steward went back into the main cabin, the man relaxed, though he kept his eye on the scope.

  The door to the main cabin opened again. This time a giggling three year old girl ran onto the deck pursued by two older women, one white, one black. The man knew that Betty Anderson was the mother of Darcey Anderson, Trent’s wife. The black woman was Ivy Ford, who had been a friend to Trent’s mother. Ivy became a mentor to the young white woman when they worked together at New Orleans’ venerable Coffee Pot restaurant.

  When his mother died unexpectedly, Ivy became a surrogate mother for the teenaged Trent, a relationship encouraged by Trent’s father after the boy went to live with him in Baton Rouge. The father made sure Trent visited Ivy often at her New Orleans home.

  After Trent and Darcey were married, Ivy remained an important part of their family. When Ivy’s husband, Walter, passed away two years earlier, Darcey convinced the older woman it was time for her to retire. Trent converted the carriage house at his New Orleans home into an apartment for her.

  The child wa
s Kelli Elizabeth Ivy Marshal. She was named for Trent’s mother, Darcey’s mother who was called Betty, and the black woman who was there for Trent when little Kelli’s grandmother died.

  Now young Kelli was scampering around the deck. The women pretended they couldn’t catch her. It was a happy game of chase with the child.

  A younger woman, who the man knew to be Darcey Anderson, stepped into view. She sat next to the table on which the refreshments were arrayed, pleased to enjoy her daughter’s play with the older women.

  The steward reappeared to open a bottle of wine. He poured two glasses and, after speaking with the guests, began to open bottles of soft drinks and pour them into glasses filled with ice, including one sippy cup.

  At last the target appeared. Trent Marshall stepped onto the deck. The child dropped her sippy cup and ran to him, leaping into his arms. He watched through the scope as Marshall swung his daughter around and around while Darcey picked up the cup. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but he could imagine the words from the look on their faces.

  It was too complicated. Too many people. Marshall was moving too much with his daughter. The man’s job today was all business. Nothing else. He had no intention of killing anyone not connected with that business. Certainly not a child. The man might be cold and merciless. He didn’t consider himself to be a monster.

  He watched as Marshall turned to the pier in response to an activity not in the scope’s view. He swung the rifle around until another man came into view walking down the pier. His snow white hair proved him to be elderly. Late seventies. Maybe eighties. He looked to be in relatively good shape for his age. He held a duffel bag in place on his shoulder with his left hand while he waved toward the boat with his right.

  Another complication, the man thought.

  Patience. Patience. The deck would clear at some point. There would be a safe shot. Patience.

  The old man climbed aboard, dropping the duffel as Marshall embraced him. Marshall introduced the newcomer to the three women and then to the child, who converted quickly from giggling little girl to polite young lady. The man forced himself to push that sort of thought from his head. This was business. It wasn’t helpful to put personalities together with faces.

  Trent poured his guest a glass of wine. The man watched through the scope as they talked animatedly. He saw Darcey laugh. Trent and the newcomer were telling stories of adventures long past.

  The man continued watching without impatience. He had all the time he needed. Daylight went long into the evening at this time of year in Southeast Alaska.

  “Dad met Robert the first time he came to Alaska to work. I wasn’t with him on that trip. Robert was chief of police in Anchorage in those days. Later he went on to command the State Troopers and finally wound up in the governor’s cabinet as Commissioner of Public Safety,” Marshall was explaining to Darcey.

  “Now, Trent,” the old man scolded, “you make it sound like I was important. I’ve never been anything but a cop, Darcey. Now I’m an old cop.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” Trent responded. “Robert Monk is a legend in Alaska. His hair might be white and there’s not as much of it these days, but when he speaks Alaskans respond.”

  “None of that matters,” Monk waved Trent’s praise away. “What is important is your dad and I became good friends. And when the work here ended, he would bring you to Juneau for a few days each year. We had some great times out on the water. We caught a lot of salmon and halibut. And we had some good hunting trips.”

  “We always stayed at Robert’s house, Darcey,” Trent said, excitedly. “He’s got this old house on Basin Road at the top of Starr Hill. The view from his living room is spectacular. The road leaves town not far past his house but it’s an easy hike around Mount Juneau to the old Perseverance Mine. I had a great time exploring the mine shaft.”

  “Yeah, and you about scared the life out of your daddy and me. That old shaft was dangerous. Still is.”

  “Wasn’t the first time I scared my dad,” Trent said with a chuckle. “Robert also has the best library I’ve ever seen, Darcey. An entire room with bookshelves on all four walls, all filled. I can still recall the unique smell of old books. It’s enough to bring on bibliosmia.”

  The old man laughed. “I think you read your way through most of them. And you picked up quite a vocabulary while you were doing it.”

  Monk had no children. He had never married. He told Trent’s dad that he was married to the police force. And he said he found it difficult to think about strapping on a gun to go to work, not knowing if he would live through the day, leaving a family also not knowing.

  Darcey set her empty wine glass on the table and stood to chase Kelli down.

  “You two get caught up while Mom and Ivy and I get this little urchin cleaned up and presentable for dinner,” she said. She kissed Trent before turning to chase a giggling little Kelli into the main cabin, followed by the two grandmotherly women, leaving the two men alone.

  It was the moment the man a half mile away was waiting for. He had held Marshall in his scope through the arrival of the unexpected guest. The Schmidt & Bender was a fine instrument. He had made the adjustments on the scope for windage and elevation. He had also adjusted the ring on the scope to account for the parallax, the slight difference between his eye on the scope and the target over the half mile between them.

  On deck Trent refilled their wine glasses.

  “We’re having red beans and rice for dinner, Robert,” Trent informed his guest. “We’ve eaten so much seafood in the past week I requested some Louisiana country food. And Ivy gave the chef her own recipe so he’d get it right.”

  The man squeezed the trigger. There was a soft whisper of sound and the .338 bullet sped from the barrel on its way to the target. He estimated the missile’s velocity at about 2,500 feet per second. That meant it would strike Marshall less than two seconds after leaving the barrel.

  Monk was taking a sip of his wine when he was shocked to see a nasty red blotch appear on the right side of Trent’s head. The blow of the bullet knocked Trent backwards in his chair, landing on the deck.

  His eye still pressed to the scope, the man saw the red spot appear on Marshall’s head. Saw him fall backwards onto the deck.

  Immediately the man saw two other actions in quick succession. The first was the old man moving surprisingly quicker than would be expected for a man his age. He covered Marshall’s body with his own. At the same time, he pulled up the right leg of his pants to draw a small semiautomatic weapon from an ankle holster.

  The second sight was an unexpected bonus. The deck hand stepped into sight in the bow, oblivious to anything happening aft. The man had planned on getting rid of his spy aboard the Nanuq but didn’t think the opportunity would come today. He wasted no time working the bolt action to move a new cartridge into firing position as he repositioned the rifle to follow the welcome target. Waiting for the moment.

  When the hand reached the aft deck, he stopped to stare in shock at the sight of Trent Marshall’s body lying on his overturned chair, blood streaming from his head. An old man covered Trent’s body with his own, his small but effective Glock 27 swinging from side to side as he searched for the source of the bullet.

  The man with the rifle squeezed the trigger a second time. The bullet struck the deck hand square in the back of his head, shattering his brain stem. The man thought he had made a good hit on Marshall. He had no doubt about the deck hand.

  After picking up the used cartridge from the first shot to be discarded later, he began breaking down his rifle. He didn’t hurry. But he wasted no time. His movements were measured and practiced. He disconnected the bipod. Flipped the release to fold the stock. Removed the scope as well as the sound and flame suppressor. He placed the rifle and its ancillary parts into the case made especially for it.

  He carefully moved back into the spruce trees until he was certain he was out of sight of anyone. He walked casually to where he had left h
is minivan parked on the edge of the evergreens that grew along Fritz Cove Road.

  As the man drove calmly away unnoticed in the light gray vehicle, the Nanuq’s aft deck was alive with activity. Ivy was in the galley with the chef keeping an eye on his execution of one her special recipes. The chef both resented having her in his galley and appreciated the learning opportunity.

  They saw movement when Trent was slammed to the deck but didn’t realize what had happened. The chef understood without question what was happening when the deck hand was shot. He immediately reached for the vessel’s phone and called up to the bridge.

  Though he was stung with disbelief that a passenger and member of his crew had been shot on his vessel, Captain Hannigan instinctively reached into a locker to retrieve a large, semiautomatic hand gun with dual barrels, the only weapon he allowed on board.

  Alerted by the sound of critical activity, Darcey came out of her stateroom in time to see the captain racing aft, his bulky handgun at the ready, shouting for Ivy and the chef to stay down. Alarmed, she followed quickly behind him.

  As the captain moved cautiously onto the open deck, Darcey came to a shocked standstill. She saw her husband lying on the deck, Robert Monk protecting him with his own body. For a moment she was unable to move. Unable to make a sound. Suspended in disbelief.

  The sound of her curious daughter brought her back to dreaded reality. She shouted to Betty take Kelli into one of the staterooms. The child’s grandmother didn’t know what had happened. But she rushed to comply with daughter’s shouted direction. Looking over her shoulder as she shooed Kelli back into the state room, Betty’s worried eyes followed Darcey as she ran toward where Trent lay on the deck.

  Ivy rose from where the chef had pulled her to the floor to keep her from danger. She saw Trent lying motionless on the deck, blood streaming from his head.

  “Oh, no,” she cried out, tears running from her eyes. “My boy. My boy. They’ve killed my boy.”