A Shooting at Auke Bay Page 2

  Darcey was now running on adrenaline. She had to keep the others under control so she could save her husband.

  “Ivy, go help Mom with Kelli,” she called out. “That’s what Trent needs you to do now.”

  Ivy wiped her eyes with a paper towel the chef handed to her. Still crying and grief stricken, she turned to do as Darcey ordered.

  Darcey knelt by her husband, cradling his bloody head. The captain had placed himself, with his imposing weapon between the other three and the vessel’s gunwales. He had already determined that his deck hand was dead. He wasn’t sure about Trent.

  Monk was on the phone issuing orders to someone. Whoever was on the other end of the call was apparently obeying.

  “A helicopter is on its way. Juneau cops and State Troopers, too,” Monk said, as he ended the call. “How’s he doing?”

  Darcey felt numb. She couldn’t cry. She could only hold her husband’s head, his blood staining her clothing.

  “He’s still breathing,” she said.

  “The helicopter will get him to the hospital here,” Monk said.

  “And then what?” Darcey asked, in a monotone.

  “I don’t know,” Monk replied honestly. “Either they’ll take care of him here or we’ll medevac him to Anchorage. A medevac jet is already in the air from Anchorage. It’ll be here in less than an hour and a half. By then we’ll know if we need it or not.”

  The man drove south on Fritz Cove Road. He first heard, then saw the helicopter on its way to the boat harbor. It was a medevac chopper. They wouldn’t be looking for him.

  As he turned onto Engineers Cutoff Road he heard the sirens of multiple police vehicles. He followed that road north toward Glacier Highway.

  He thought the police would set up a road block closer to the harbor. They would be looking for someone driving away from the scene. He turned west on Glacier Highway, driving toward the harbor.

  He encountered the first of numerous police near the northern end of Fritz Cove Road where it intersected with Glacier Highway near the campus of the University of Alaska Southeast. There were only a few vehicles on the road. He was the only one headed toward Auke Bay. The others had been on their way into Juneau when they were stopped.

  A young woman in the distinctive blue State Trooper uniform with a gold stripe running down the leg and matching corporal’s stripes on her sleeve motioned for the man to stop. He did so without hesitation and with no negative reaction as the officer approached his minivan.

  “Can I see some identification, sir?” she requested, politely but with a tone that said refusal wouldn’t be the correct response.

  “Certainly, corporal,” the man said as he reached into his hip pocket for his wallet. He handed his Alaska driver’s license to her.

  She looked the license over carefully before handing it back to him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Segal,” she said. “May I ask your business in Auke Bay today?’

  Jim Segal hadn’t always been his name. When Pietro, or sometimes Peter, Greco purchased a new identify in preparation for abandoning San Francisco, it came with that name. It also said he was born in Homer, Alaska. When the skipper of the yacht taking him out of San Francisco Bay asked for the course he should set, Greco thought, “Why not?”

  “North,” he replied. “Set our course to north.”

  And he became Jim Segal.

  Before he could answer a cop in the similar though darker blue of the local Juneau police department walked up.

  “It’s ok, Susan,” Officer Barlow King assured his colleague. “Jim’s ok. He’s the guy who’s opening the new restaurant down on South Franklin Street across from where the cruise ships dock. This is Corporal Susan Duryea, Jim. She’s a good cop.”

  “Nice to meet you, Corporal,” Segal said. “What’s going on? This looks serious.”

  “Looks like there’s been shooting, sir. Couple of guys are reported down on a yacht in the harbor.”

  “That’s awful,” Segal said. Outwardly sympathetic. Inwardly pleased. “I’m sorry to hear it. It’s terrible that some people can be so feckless, especially with guns.”

  “This isn’t just someone being irresponsible, Jim,” King interjected. “Looks like it might have been planned. No one saw the shooter or even where the shots came from.”

  “That’s even worse. Certainly not something this community is used to.” Turning back to the State Trooper he continued, “In answer to your question, as Barlow said I’m opening a new restaurant soon. JS Bistro Southeast. I was just driving out to see if there were any fishermen around. Trying to set up as many local suppliers as I can get. But it looks like this is not a good time. I think I’ll just turn around, if it’s ok with you, and head back to town.”

  “Probably a good idea, sir,” the corporal responded.

  “Nice to meet you, Corporal,” Segal said.

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  “Barlow, let’s have coffee soon. It’s your turn to buy,” he called out as he maneuvered his minivan through a U-turn.

  King responded with an affirmative wave.

  Segal liked King. The cop really believed that most people don’t lie and cheat and steal and kill. Segal thought the cop naïve. He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill him some day.

  Dr. Younger found Darcey and Monk in the hospital’s family waiting room. Darcey looked at him anxiously. She was afraid to hear what he was about to say. She reached for Robert’s hand.

  “The good news is Mr. Marshall is stabilized. His vital signs are weak but steady,” the doctor reported.

  “Will he live?” she asked, dreading the answer.

  Dr. Younger paused before answering.

  “I don’t know, Ms. Anderson. He has a chance but I don’t know. He has a brain injury. It’s not the worst I’ve ever seen but it’s still a blow to his brain. The most difficult injury to treat. The most difficult to survive. He has to have surgery and the sooner the better.”

  “Can it be done here? Can you do it?” Darcey asked, her voice trembling with fear.

  “This is a good hospital, Ms. Anderson, with competent doctors and staff. But I’m not a brain surgeon and neither are my colleagues. His best chance is for us to medevac him to Anchorage. There are excellent surgeons there who specialize in brain injuries. We need to get him there now.”

  “I ordered a medevac plane down from Anchorage while we were still waiting for the chopper,” Robert said. “It’s here now, refueled and ready to take him to Anchorage.”

  Dr. Younger nodded. “We’ll get him ready to travel,” he said as he headed back to the emergency room where Trent lay unconscious but breathing.

  Robert took Darcey’s hands in his.

  “He’s strong, Darcey. He’s going to make it. We have to believe that. And you’re every bit as strong as he is. I know that. He’s told me about the scrapes the two of you have been in together. I know about the time in Louisiana when you used a pretty little nickel plated .38 single action revolver to take down the lunatic who kidnapped your mother and him. And when you went after the Mafia soldier in San Francisco who kidnapped you and your business partner. You chased that guy into the ocean with an M16. Anybody can handle a .38 revolver. But an M16 is a powerful automatic rifle. Takes some gumption to handle one of those.”

  “This might sound silly, Robert, but those things seem easy now,” she said, wiping away tears with a tissue, her eyes lowered. “I could do something in both those situations. This time I feel helpless.”

  “And that’s when you have to get even tougher, Darcey,” Robert said. “That’s when you have to get just plain mean. You never give up, Darcey. Never give up.”

  She nodded, raising her eyes to look Monk full in the face.

  “You’re right, Robert. So what do I do?”

  “Right now you get on that flight with Trent. Just be with him. He’ll know you’re with him and knowing that is the best medicine he can have right now.”

  “All right. But what about Kelli and M
om and Ivy? And what are you going to do?”

  Robert had planned on joining them on the Nanuq to cruise up to Glacier Bay, then across the northern edge of the Gulf of Alaska, and through Prince William Sound to Whittier. From there they had planned to take the train to Anchorage.

  “I’ll go back to Auke Bay and help them pack up. I don’t think it would be a good idea for them to spend the night on the yacht and I doubt if we have time to catch an evening flight. They can spend the night at my house. I have lots of room and I can protect them there. There’s a nonstop flight that leaves here around 1:30 tomorrow afternoon and arrives in Anchorage about three o’clock. I’ll book all four of us on that.”

  “When you get to Anchorage, I guess we can talk about how to find out who did this.”

  “You bet we will,” he said. “I still have some influence with cops in Alaska. And if we need the governor, I know him, too. Oh, and you might want to just check into the Captain Cook Hotel when you get there. You can pick up a few things you need in their sundry store. Hopefully we can get into the condo Trent rented a few days early.”

  “I’m going to be at the hospital most of the time,” she replied, with determination.

  “Well, you have to rest. You’re not going to do Trent any good if you’re worn out and get sick yourself.”

  “Thanks, Robert,” Darcey said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “You’re really very sweet.”

  Monk grunted.

  “Huh. I’m just a curmudgeonly old cop who doesn’t like it when someone shoots one of my pals.”

  Darcey started to leave, then turned back.

  “Uh, Robert, about packing up our things…”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s something you should know,” she said, haltingly.

  “How big and what caliber?” he asked.

  “Trent has a reproduction of his LeMat revolver.”

  “Nine .44 caliber balls and a second unrifled barrel bored for twenty gauge shot. Cap and ball, black powder handgun. Considered a collector’s item in Alaska. Not a problem,” he said. “And you?”

  “A single shot .410 hand gun with a ten inch barrel,” she said quietly.

  The old man shook his head. He looked thoughtfully out the window. He shook his head but he was smiling when he looked back at Darcey.

  “Well, I became acculturated to the world of Trent Marshall and his rules that don’t always match everyone else’s a long time ago. That weapon has been completely illegal since passage of the National Firearms Act in 1934. It presents more of a problem. But I’ll figure something out.”

  “I have the papers that Trent’s great uncle got when he registered it during the 1968 amnesty. The gun is in a box in my suitcase and the registration is with it,” she offered.

  “That should do the trick. Now get in there with Trent. Don’t worry about anything here. We’ll catch up to you tomorrow.”

  Jim Segal was on time to catch the evening flight to Anchorage. He had stopped by the apartment over the building he was renovating to hide the rifle in a secret compartment he had built in the bedroom closet.

  He really did intend to open a restaurant in Juneau. It would be the companion to his highly successful JS Bistro in Anchorage. But it wasn’t the main business he intended for Southeast Alaska.

  When Trent and Darcey, along with their colleagues, Detective Sergeants Christopher Booth and Nancy Patrick, had launched Operation Den of Snakes to take down the alliance of four criminal organizations in San Francisco, Segal immediately realized how vulnerable the fragile relationship among the four gangs was. And he saw opportunity.

  He acted quickly to betray and assassinate his boss, Jonathan Rossi, head of the Rossi Mafia family and the man who had organized the alliance. He then methodically, and personally, did away with the leaders of the three remaining groups. After eliminating all four he confiscated stashes of emergency funds each had kept in his office as well as the money Rossi kept in a safe deposit box. He had been foolish enough to allow his consigliere to access it. Altogether it amounted to a substantial sum.

  Segal also stole the yacht of his last victim, an $8 million vessel that he gave to its captain, Gary Place, thereby gaining the seaman’s lifelong loyalty. Captain Place quickly registered the vessel, which he renamed Dancer, in a friendly country whose government didn’t ask any questions.

  Segal arrived in Alaska with several millions. He had no need to work and for a while did nothing but tour the land of Jim Segal’s birth. He opened JS Bistro out of boredom, hiring the best chef and staff he could find. JS Bistro was an immediate success. He enjoyed playing host to the elite of Anchorage, all of whom were anxious for the company of this native of Alaska who had returned home after finding success in other parts of the world.

  Eventually even that began to bore him. While his restaurant was successful it was, of course, the liquor license that brought the money pouring in. A liquor license, he knew, could be very helpful when it came to sliding illicit money into the legal economy.

  Then he read an article about a smuggling industry that was making billions for those with the brains and guts to get into it. While live streaming of concerts and movies made a difference, there was still a healthy market for counterfeit CDs and movies. The market became even larger when counterfeit jewelry, fashion, video games, pharmaceuticals, and other products were added. And there was always the possibility of occasionally hijacking a load of weapons headed for a military base or a border patrol unit.

  He remembered the many small bays and inlets he had seen in Southeast Alaska. Given Alaska’s strategic location between Asia and North America, Southeast Alaska seemed to him designed with smugglers in mind. He went to work.

  It didn’t take long for him to make contact with suppliers in Asia who could provide the counterfeit products. He got in touch with some of his old cohorts in the continental U.S. and Mexico to talk about guns. He stayed away from street drugs. There were too many people already in that market, most of whom seemed to wind up either dead or in jail on a regular basis. Neither fate interested him.

  He enlisted Captain Place with Dancer. Place located three other vessels with greedy owners. All three were larger and slower than Dancer. They could carry more cargo and if they got caught it wouldn’t be a problem for Segal. Captain Place might have to stay out of sight for a while but nothing more than that.

  On the recommendation of a San Francisco friend, he brought in Cameron McGraw to oversee the Southeast operation. McGraw was from the east coast and had some experience in the restaurant business. His public job would be manager of JS Bistro Southeast. Privately he would be busy with other things.

  Monk and Captain Hannigan sat in the main cabin while Sally Hannigan and the steward assisted the women with the packing. Hannigan was still in a stage of disbelief that such a thing could have happened on his vessel. Monk tried to encourage him to talk his way out of his state of shock.

  “That looked like one monster of a weapon you hit the deck with, Captain,” the old cop said.

  Hannigan had stuck the hand gun in his belt once it was clear the shooting was over. Now he laid it on the table where the two men sat. Monk picked it up and looked it over.

  “An Arsenal Firearms double barreled 1911,” Monk said. “I’ve heard about it but never saw one before. I also heard there are some problems with it.”

  “Yeah, it’s not the most effective weapon,” the captain agreed. “It’s basically two 1911s stuck together. Two of everything. It’s not accurate at any distance. One bullet will go straight to the target but the other will waiver off. It’s also too bulky and the slide is very difficult to work. But if you’re close enough to your target and only have to fire once it’s ok. Plus there’s the psychological factor. Like a double barrel shotgun. Point that thing at a bad guy who doesn’t know much about guns and it’ll scare the pants off him.”

  Monk laughed. “That’s not a bad theory.”

  The steward enlisted the bosun to hel
p load the luggage into Monk’s SUV. He thanked them, then rose and shook hands with the captain.

  “I’ll talk to Darcey tomorrow about settling accounts with you.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” the captain responded. “Trent paid a considerable cash deposit up front plus we have his credit card on file. We’ll figure it out. Just take care of Trent.”

  The chef came over with a tightly covered pot.

  “You’ll need to eat, Mr. Monk,” he said. “This is the pot of red beans I prepared using Mrs. Ford’s recipe. Cooking some rice and cornbread will help keep the ladies’ minds occupied with something other than the shooting.”

  “Thanks, Chef. That’s very thoughtful of you. Much appreciated.”

  Later in the evening Monk sipped a martini as he stared out the large window of his home overlooking Juneau, Gastineau Channel, and Douglas Island. Betty and Ivy had taken Kelli upstairs where all three were in bed. Kelli loved the idea of spending the night at Monk’s house and thought the view splendid. It helped get her mind off her daddy.

  Monk was thinking about Jim Segal. As he drove back to Auke Bay, he had seen Segal turn into the airport with his man McGraw driving him. Probably going to catch the evening flight to Anchorage.

  As far as he knew Segal was a successful business man. Nothing more. Still there was something about him that set Monk’s cop antennae buzzing. He had only talked with the man twice. When he asked where Segal had worked before he retired and came back to Alaska, the answer was equivocal. It wasn’t much. Just enough to make Monk wonder.

  He was also curious about McGraw. The Irishman was not especially friendly. He had a hard look about him.

  He also knew that whenever Segal was in Southeast, he and McGraw spent a lot of time exploring the fjords and islands in a boat Segal kept at Aurora Basin harbor. A Sea Ray Sundancer. Very nice boat.

  He rented a slip with a stall, which he kept locked. But then lots of people did that. They were after fish. Segal probably was, too, though some of Monk’s buddies mentioned that he hardly ever came into the harbor with a catch.