Nik Kane Alaska Mystery - 01 - Lost Angel (37 page)

He probably arranged for this place to be empty, Kane thought. He didn’t want anyone else to hear this conversation, and he’s still not saying anything. I wonder who he thinks might be listening.

“The case involves a politician,” Jeffords said. “It would be . . . incongruent . . . for me, or the firm, to be involved with this.”

And that’s as close to an admission that he owns the firm as I’m likely to get, Kane thought.

“Incongruent,” Kane said. “I guess those word-a-day calendars really do pay off.”

He was silent for a moment.

“If you’re trying to lay low on this, why send me?” he asked. “All your political pals will figure you’re involved the minute they see me anyway.”

Jeffords’ job title was chief of police, but for the past decade or more he’d actually run Anchorage, stage managing the elections of mayors and assembly members who did what they were told. Because so much of the money that made the city go came from the state and federal governments, he had made himself a force in state and federal politics as well.

“I’m not responsible for what people may think,” Jeffords said. “But if anyone asks, you can truthfully tell them that I am not involved in this case.”

Kane decided to let that go.

“This politician have a name?” he asked.

“His name is Matthew Hope,” Jeffords said. “He’s a member of the Alaska State Senate.”

Kane was silent as he thought about what Jeffords had said. Matthew Hope’s name had been all over the news in the past couple of days. He’d been arrested for the murder of a young woman in the state Capitol. The victim had been beautiful and “scantily clad,” as the newspapers and the TV news readers put it. She’d also been white, and Hope was an Alaska Native. The story had everything needed to crank up the media—sex, politics, violence, and race. The crime had even been given a tabloidy nickname—The White Rose Murder, for the flower embroidered on the front of the garter belt the victim had been wearing.

Maybe that’s why Jeffords is being so careful, Kane thought. A case this hot could burn anybody involved. Or even anybody in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“The White Rose Murder case is a lollapalooza,” Kane said. “Is Hope one of yours?”

The chief smiled.

“One of mine?” Jeffords said. “What do you think, Nik, that I have a stable of politicians who jump when I snap my fingers?”

Actually, that’s exactly what Kane thought, but he couldn’t see that saying so would get him anything but a lecture on how representative democracy worked. Instead, he asked, “Is he a friend of yours or not?”

Jeffords was silent for a moment.

“I think it’s fair to say that Senator Hope and I don’t see eye-to-eye on some things,” he said.

Jeffords was clearly not going to tell him anything useful about his relationship with Matthew Hope, so Kane changed the subject.

“What do you know about the case?” he asked.

Jeffords looked around the firing range, as if expecting to see a grand jury sitting in it somewhere.

“The newspapers have given it extensive coverage,” he said.

So he wants to be able to tell people he never discussed the case with me, Kane thought.

“If you don’t like this guy’s politics, why get involved?” he asked.

“I’m not getting involved,” Jeffords said with a thin smile. “You’re getting involved.”

Kane opened his mouth, but Jeffords spoke again.

“I really can’t tell you any more,” he said.

Can’t, or won’t, Kane thought. Either way, he knew trying to pry information out of the chief was useless.

Kane thought about what Jeffords was offering. He wouldn’t put it past the chief to dump him into a sticky situation just to show him that he’d be better off staying with the security firm. But the chief had too much at stake to send Kane blundering into the political world just to teach him a lesson. So this was probably a legitimate job, and it did sound more interesting than what he’d been doing. Of course, watching paint dry sounded more interesting, too. As long as Jeffords didn’t want him to do anything he just wouldn’t do. He watched as Jeffords’ fingers, nimble despite his age, danced just above the counter, reassembling the Glock. Then he began feeding rounds into an empty clip.

“So do you want me to try to get this guy out of the trouble he’s in or not?” Kane asked.

Jeffords’ thin smile became a grin. I’ll be damned, Kane thought. He might still be human after all.

“You know I’d never ask you to do anything but what you thought was right, Nik,” the chief said. “We both know that wouldn’t do any good. What I’d like you to do is go and talk with Mrs. Foster, and if you find it agreeable, work for her.”

He snapped the last round into the clip.

“I believe she’s prepared to offer you quite a lot of money,” he said. “You do need money, don’t you, Nik?”

“Everybody needs money,” Kane said.

The truth was that Kane was doing pretty well financially. He was drawing a salary from the security firm and a pension from the police department, and since he wasn’t drinking, he didn’t have any expensive habits. But wanting to go out on his own was part of an effort to gain greater control of his life. Working, as he saw it, was a matter of trading his time for money and, as he got older, time got to be more and more important. More money would buy him more time to do what he wanted. If he could just figure out what that was.

“I’ll have to hand off my part of a surveillance,” Kane said. “Then I’ll go see this Mrs. Richard Foster and I’ll try really hard to take the job.”

“Good,” Jeffords said. He slapped the clip into the automatic and holstered it. “Wait here.”

He went back to the range master’s stand, returning with a much plainer automatic, a couple of clips, and a black fabric belt holster. He laid them all on the firing table.

“You should have a little practice,” Jeffords said.

Kane looked at the gun for a long moment then shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

Jeffords blew air through his lips in exasperation.

“Then at least take the weapon with you,” he said. “It’s a gift from me.”

Kane could see that saying no would start an argument. It was easier just to take the gun.

“Okay,” he said, picking up the automatic and accessories from the stand and stowing them in various pockets. “But I don’t see why you’re so concerned. If this case is political, what’s the worst that could happen? A nasty campaign ad?”

Jeffords gave him another real smile.

“You have no idea,” he said.