A Shooting at Auke Bay Page 5

  So they thought.

  Segal’s phone rang as he was shaving. He recognized the number. He answered but said nothing. He listened.

  They were getting the family out of Alaska. But Darcey Anderson was staying. What did that mean? Was Marshall still alive? Apparently, but perhaps not for long.

  Segal was already considering the meaning of this new information and how he could use it. He didn’t have a plan yet. There were too many unknowns.

  He didn’t know where this was going but it was smart to be prepared. He would talk to someone in New Orleans later in the day.

  It was ninety degrees outside when the Gulfstream’s wheels were lowered for landing at Louis Armstrong International Airport. The pilot taxied the aircraft away from the main terminal to a private hangar where two unmarked vehicles waited.

  Hackett went down the stairs first. He wanted to be certain that his charges would be safe when they exited the airplane.

  A man who was about the same age as Trent stepped forward.

  “Mr. Hackett?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Hackett replied, looking around with expert, searching eyes.

  “I’m Jordan Baron. Darcey asked me to meet y’all and see you safely to their home.”

  “Glad to see you, Captain Baron,” Hackett responded. “Darcey speaks very highly of you.”

  Forty-five minutes later, having wound their way through the crowded highways and streets of New Orleans, the two vehicles pulled up in front of the long brick wall on Governor Nicholls Street near Royal, which blocked the street view of Trent and Darcey’s home. Baron worked the code that opened the larger of two faded green gates, allowing the vehicles to drive into the courtyard.

  It was a beautiful residence, Hackett thought. No doubt about that. He was more interested in determining a defensive plan. He saw immediately why Darcey described the home as a fortress. It would be difficult for anyone to get in. If they got in, the home could be effectively defended. It would be next to impossible for any intruders to abscond with their lives intact.

  It was agreed that they should avoid attracting unnecessary attention. Baron would stop by from time to time but that wouldn’t be unusual. As a family friend he was often there. He would have an unmarked car drive by a few times a day. Hackett also put Baron’s phone number into his phone so he could call quickly if he needed to.

  Hackett suggested that Ivy move from her apartment into the main house.

  “Ain’t nobody going to chase me out of my home,” she said.

  “How about if I just ask you to please join us?” Hackett said, wisely taking a diplomatic approach with the stubborn woman. “If anyone succeeded in getting inside that wall, you being in a separate building would make their job easier and mine harder. It’s like the four of us running into a bear in the woods. If we all keep calm and move close to each other, we’ll look to the bear like an animal bigger than him and he’ll head in the other direction.”

  “Now that makes sense,” Ivy said. “Just let me get a few things.”

  “I never heard that about defending against a bear. Does it really work?” Baron asked.

  “That’s what they say,” Hackett replied with an unrestrained look of delight. “Personally, I would rather have a really big gun.”

  Hackett’s gun came out when he was alone. Darcey had told him that Baron would give him plenty of leeway regarding weapons but there was no point in putting the officer in an uncomfortable position.

  Stepping out onto the gallery outside his assigned bedroom, Hackett looked over the grounds. From the second floor he could just see over the wall. It was a good defensive position. He began to work quickly and efficiently, moving a chair and table into place.

  He drew the strange looking revolver from the holster on his belt. The German arms maker Korth produced some of the finest weapons available anywhere, and the most expensive. The nine-millimeter revolver, called the Korth Sky Marshal, was an effective weapon. As Korth weapons went, it was also relatively cheap at $1,000.

  With its blunt nose, it looked like it had no barrel at all. The cylinder, holding six rounds, swung out for reloading. To assist in rapid reloading, the Sky Marshal had small, spring-loaded extractor tabs at the base of the cartridge case. The tabs force spent cartridges out of the chambers when the ejector rod is pushed. Weighing less than twenty ounces, the small weapon had sufficient power for Hackett’s needs.

  The defensive position he prepared allowed him to rest his arm on the gallery’s railing to steady any shots. He was satisfied.

  Having finished his preparations, he returned to the first floor. There he found Ivy and Betty preparing a grocery list for Baron while the cop crawled around on the floor with Kelli riding him like a horse.

  “Gittie up, horsie,” the child said through her giggles. Clearly the policeman was a favorite playmate for the little girl when the family was in New Orleans.

  He and Baron agreed that for the time being the family should remain behind the brick wall. Hence, the police captain volunteered to make the grocery run. He would arrange for future deliveries directly by the grocer.

  He also promised to bring an assortment of po’ boys and fries. There would be oysters, shrimp, fried catfish, and roast beef “debris” sandwiches. Kelli would get a fried shrimp po’ boy which she would promptly deconstruct and eat the shrimp one by one with her fingers.

  Hackett wandered into the room that Trent used for an office and library. His attention was drawn to the glass display case placed in the center of the rear wall. An admirer of fine weapons himself, he marveled at the contents.

  The 1862 Colt alone would attract attention. But he was mesmerized by the matched pair of original Deringers, a beautiful set of the small, single shot pistols. And the LeMat. Monk told Hackett that Trent had brought a reproduction of the handgun on his trip to Alaska. But this was an original model probably produced sometime around 1860.

  On a small, slightly elevated shelf, lay a gold coin. Hackett didn’t know its significance. But it added to the mystery of the display of rare weapons.

  It was a mildly cool evening in Anchorage. At five o’clock, Monk mixed martinis for them. He and Darcey again sat on the deck, sipping their cocktails.

  The crew of the Gulfstream would overnight in New Orleans and return the next day after making a stop in San Francisco to pick up Christopher Booth and Nancy Patrick. They would arrive in the early afternoon, Anchorage time.

  This evening they would have Betty’s chicken soup for dinner. Darcey had put two heads of garlic in the oven to roast. They would smear it on slices of crusty bread to eat with the soup.

  After Darcey’s family was in the air and on the way to the safety of the New Orleans house, Monk went with her to the hospital. Dr. Shannon told them there was no change in Trent’s condition.

  Darcey asked if the swelling in his brain had gone down. Dr. Shannon repeated that there was no change.

  “But you said three days…” Darcey protested.

  “I said ‘usually’ three days,” Dr. Shannon corrected. “It’s not precise.”

  After dinner Darcey would go back to the hospital to visit with Trent for a while before going to bed. She would like to stay there with him but knew that wasn’t a good idea.

  He needed her to do what she was doing. She needed to be working with Robert, Christopher, and Nancy to find out who was behind the shooting and bring whoever it was down. To do that she needed to get sufficient sleep. You can’t find that in a hospital hallway.

  It was late in Louisiana when Segal talked to his New Orleans contact. The report was concise. The caller had observed the New Orleans house and described its excellent strategic position. It would be difficult to get to the family in that house if Segal wanted to do so. If it came to that, he’d have to find a way to flush them out. At this point, he preferred to leave them alone.

  Segal wasn’t an impetuous decision maker. He needed time to think. He also was beginning to think this af
fair had the potential to rapidly move in an uncontrollable direction. He couldn’t afford to let that happen.

  In Southeast Alaska, Captain Place was on the bridge in the dusk of the northern summer night. They were in Alaska waters just south of Ketchikan. Dancer would cruise leisurely through the waters northwest of Ketchikan for the next four days. His wealthy guests would spend the time fishing and enjoying the scenery. Of course, they weren’t guests at all and certainly weren’t wealthy. They were hired to play their roles. Their job was to wave and smile at any passing vessels. Not a bad job, Place thought.

  He would leisurely circle Prince of Wales Island before pointing his bow south. The course would be set for a small, secluded cove on Dall Island, one of several identified by Segal and McGraw as sites for Dancer and its companion vessels to meet their Asian partners to transfer cargo. There were only about twenty people living on Dall Island. The transfer of cargo should be unobserved.

  Place was on schedule to be in the cove, ready for the transfer, by the night of July 15th.

  July 12th

  Darcey stepped out onto the deck, coffee in hand. Only a few fluffy, white clouds sailed through the blue northern sky. The weather forecast called for temperatures in the seventies. Very warm by Alaska standards.

  She was learning that there was a good ten-degree psychological difference in weather between Alaska and the Continental U.S. In San Francisco or New Orleans, a day in the seventies would be pleasant. In Alaska, it felt unquestionably warm.

  She was coming to love the view from the deck. Looking to the north, she could see Denali, at 20,320 feet the highest peak in North America, sparkling white. Known until recently as Mount McKinley, a presidential executive order had changed it back to the name Alaskans always called it. She understood now, she thought, why Trent had such fond memories of his trips north with his father.

  Her heart began to race as her phone rang. It was Dr. Shannon. She closed her eyes for a moment before answering. She prayed it was good news.

  “The swelling in Trent’s brain has gone down,” Dr. Shannon said. “I thought you’d like to know that. Today I’m going to replace the small piece of his skull that I removed earlier.”

  The relief was overwhelming. For a moment, she thought she might pass out from the rush that flowed through her.

  “Thank you for calling, Dr. Shannon,” she finally responded. “I’ll be right there.”

  Monk had just poured himself a cup of coffee and was coming to join her on the deck as she suddenly dashed past him, almost knocking him down.

  “The swelling in his brain has reduced!” she shouted. “They’re going to put his head back together this morning! I don’t have time to wait for you, Robert.”

  “Go, Darcey,” he called after her. “Don’t worry about me. Let me know how it’s going when you can.”

  After Darcey left, Monk sat on the deck sipping coffee and thinking. He was being a cop again. Doing what he enjoyed most about being a cop. Working on a puzzle.

  From the beginning of his career he understood that the cases assigned to him were nothing more than puzzles. Puzzles often involving bad things happening to good people. Puzzles nonetheless.

  The puzzle in front of him now had very few visible pieces. Someone, unknown, tried to assassinate Trent Marshall. So far the attempt wasn’t successful.

  At the same time Nanuq’s deck hand was killed, presumably by the same person who shot Trent. Why was the deck hand killed? It wasn’t necessary. It was even risky. There had to be a good reason.

  He went back inside to refill his coffee cup, then walked across the room to the library and office in which sat the desk where both he and Darcey had set their laptops to connect to the condo’s Internet. He looked in a drawer to find an old-fashioned pad of paper and a pen.

  Pulling his phone from his pocket, he dialed Captain Hannigan’s number. He didn’t know where the Nanuq was. He hoped it was within range of a mobile tower.

  Hannigan answered after the third ring. He was still docked in Auke Bay. The local police and the State Troopers’ Bureau of Investigation had held him in port for the past few days as they launched their investigation. An investigation that so far had gone nowhere.

  Monk gave the captain a report on Trent’s condition, including what was going on today. Hannigan said he was hopeful all went well.

  Monk asked him what he knew about his late deck hand.

  “Not much really,” Hannigan answered. “His name was Warren Perkins. He was from Seattle. At least that’s where he lived. I don’t know where he was from originally. We don’t even know who to contact or what to do with his body. The Maritime Union is trying to find his family.”

  “Did he have any friends in Seattle? Did you ever see him with anyone?”

  “No. When we were in port he spent most evenings in a bar nearby. A hangout for longshoremen and seamen. I think he got drunk most every night but he always showed up sober and on time for work so I had no complaint with how he spent his nights.”

  “Do you remember the name of the bar?” Monk asked.

  “Let me think. Some kind of Greek name. Cad something. Cadious? Caduceous? Yeah, that’s it. Caduceous.”

  “The symbol of the messenger of the gods. Fancy.”

  “Far from it,” Hannigan scoffed. “It’s a dive bar trying to sound classy. It’s the kind of place where you would have got yourself shanghaied a century ago. Could still happen, I’d bet.”

  “You don’t happen to have a picture of him, do you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. You can see it online if you go to our website. We posted pictures of our entire crew. Warren is on the far right. He has a round face with a receding hairline and always seemed to have a three-day growth of beard on his face,” Hannigan said. “If it would help, I can send you just that picture.”

  Monk asked him to send it via text to his phone. After he ended the call, he looked at what he had written on the pad of paper.

  Warren Perkins.

  Caduceous.

  Seattle.

  Someone had to go to Seattle. Or they had to find a contact there who would do some leg work for them.

  Then he wrote two more names.

  Jim Segal?

  Cameron McGraw?

  Both question marks.

  Both on his list strictly on the basis of an old cop’s gut instinct. Nothing more than that. Instinct.

  It was almost noon before Dr. Shannon appeared in the family waiting room. Darcey had become increasingly concerned as the hours ticked by. The look on the doctor’s face, however, was reassuring.

  “No problems,” Dr. Shannon said with a pleased twinkle in her eyes. “The surgery went well. Trent has been put back together and is doing fine.”

  Darcey let out the breath she had unknowingly been holding since the doctor walked into the room.

  “Thank you so much, Doctor,” she said. “When can I see him?”

  “You can look through the window again now if you wish. He’s in intensive care. If he continues doing well, we’ll move him out of ICU into a room by tomorrow morning. At that point you can be with him.”

  “Just try to hold me back,” Darcey said, excitedly. “What happens now?”

  “He needs more time to heal,” was the answer. “We’ll keep him in an induced coma for probably a week or so. Then we’ll slowly bring him out of it. We’ll have to observe his reactions every step of the way. It won’t do him any good to rush the process.”

  “Any guess on when he might be discharged from the hospital?”

  “Well, that’s hard to say. If he responds positively when he comes out of the coma, maybe we can let you have him in another couple of weeks,” the doctor said. “There’s no set rule. From now on it’s really up to him. We just have to take it a day at a time. And after he leaves here I wouldn’t plan on him traveling for another month.”

  Darcey was adding up the weeks in her head. She was going to have to make more living arrangements.
And how could she be parted from Kelli for that long?

  As the doctor said, one day at a time. Today she had to focus on finding the shooter.

  “Wow!” Nancy Patrick said as she stood on the deck looking at the Sleeping Lady and a hundred miles beyond to Denali. “This place is fantastic even by your standards, Darcey.”

  Nancy and her companion, San Francisco Police Homicide Captain Christopher Booth, had become accustomed to the lifestyle of their wealthy friends. In the beginning of their friendship Nancy felt some resentment. On the salaries of two cops they couldn’t afford anything close to the homes that Trent and Darcey owned in San Francisco and New Orleans. But that quickly passed. She learned to enjoy the importance of having good friends. Especially friends you could count on to have your back when bad guys came at you with guns. Even better if they were rich.

  Darcey was surprised at Nancy’s comment when she introduced her friend to Robert.

  “That’s former Detective Sergeant Patrick,” Nancy said.

  “Former?” Darcey said. “I’m not prescient so you have to tell me what happened that I don’t know.”

  “I quit,” Nancy said.

  Darcey was stunned.

  “You quit your job? Why?”

  “Christopher asked his boss for two weeks off to come up here and got approval with no questions,” Nancy explained. “My boss refused. So I quit.”

  “When I asked for your help, Nancy, I didn’t mean for it to cost you your job!”

  “I was thinking about quitting anyway,” Nancy said. “After Operation Den of Snakes was successful in bringing down Rossi’s criminal federation, I was led to believe a promotion was coming my way. But it never happened. The Rooster kept losing the paperwork or something. So when he said no to my leave request, I quit.”

  The Rooster was the name the officers at his precinct in Richmond, just outside of San Francisco, called her boss, or former boss, Captain Terry Wooster, behind his back.