Nik Kane Alaska Mystery - 02 - Capitol Offense (25 page)

He could feel his eyelids trying to close. Being drugged and shot really takes a lot out of you, he thought.

His mind wandered until he was standing in the doorway of the rock room again, aiming along the barrel at the blond man. He felt the shock of the automatic firing run through his arm. Breathe normally, he thought. Level the barrel. Squeeze. The gun went off again, then again, Kane firing until the blond man went down, the way he’d been trained to. Now he was looking down at the lifeless body, searching inside himself for how he felt. Once, he had promised himself that he would never kill anyone again. He expected to feel guilt, and disappointment in himself. Instead, he could hear his lungs working and the blood rushing in his veins, and he felt alive and happy to be that way. In the doorway, in the moment, he’d had no choice. Someone was going to die, and he was elated that it wasn’t him.

He opened his eyes. The white room was gray in the late-afternoon light, the shapes of the chairs blurry and indistinct. I’m alive, he thought, and the next thought came unbidden: And I have a job to do. I should be figuring out how to do it. Instead, images flowed through his head in an unchanneled stream: Letitia Potter, Alma Atwood, Melinda Foxx, Mrs. Richard Foster, the woman—what’s her name—with the streaked hair, Dylan’s friend. With that, he was asleep, dreaming that Dylan was shooting at him with an AK-47 and shouting something important. But he couldn’t quite make out what it was.

K
ane was easing his way out of Cocoa’s cab when his cell phone rang. It was Dylan.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were in the hospital?” he asked.

Kane leaned back against the cab to take the pressure off his wounded leg. A clump of men in suits came through the hotel’s glass doors, turned right, and headed up the hill. A misty rain, or maybe fog, hung in the air, which was fresh and sharp with the joy of spring.

“I didn’t know you’d be interested,” Kane said.

A long silence ensued. Kane couldn’t believe how tired and weak he felt. All he’d done that day was listen to the doctor tell him to take it easy, get dressed, ride a wheelchair to the cab and the cab to the hotel, but he felt like he’d been wrestling bears for a week.

“What happened?” Dylan asked. “Did you fall down again?”

Kane laughed at that. More proof, he thought, that I am ridiculously happy to be alive.

“Which time?” he said.

“Which time?” Dylan asked.

“You’re going to have to pay closer attention if you want to keep track,” Kane said. “I’ve been in the hospital twice since you threw a fit and walked out of the restaurant. The first time, I was kidnapped and drugged. The second time, I was shot.”

The silence was longer this time.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” Dylan said. “I behaved badly. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help myself.”

He was quiet again.

“I’d love to continue this conversation, Dylan,” Kane said, “but I’m standing in the rain on one good leg. Maybe you could stop by the hotel at lunch?”

“Maybe, if I have the time,” Dylan said.

“Good,” Kane said. He gave his son the room number, then added, “How did you find out? That I was in the hospital?”

Dylan snorted.

“This is Juneau,” he said and hung up.

Leaning on Cocoa’s arm, Kane hobbled through the lobby, into the elevator, down the hall, and into his room. He sank thankfully into the chair. Cocoa tossed the plastic bag that held the remains of Kane’s change of clothes on the bed.

“Now what?” he said.

“Now I rest,” Kane said, “until I can muster the strength to go out and buy some more clothes. The ones I’m wearing haven’t been washed in I don’t know how long, and those”—he gestured toward the plastic bag—“are trash.”

“You’re as trashed as they are,” Cocoa said. “Why don’t you give me some money and some sizes and I’ll go buy the clothes.”

Kane looked Cocoa up and down. The cabbie was dressed in a flannel shirt, jeans, and motorcycle boots.

“Maybe I should ask Winthrop to do it,” he said, shifting so he could get at his wallet, “considering he dresses so much better than you do.”

A broad smile split Cocoa’s face.

“Yeah, that’s one Native knows how to dress all right,” he said. “’Course, I’d be dressing fine, too, if a rich white lady was buying my clothes.”

Kane handed Cocoa an ATM card, then rattled off the PIN number and his sizes. The cabbie left. Kane was dozing when his phone rang.

“Dad?” Dylan said. “Something’s come up. I can’t make lunch. How about if I come by after work.”

“That’s fine,” Kane said and Dylan hung up.

Kane thought about shifting to the bed, but it seemed like a lot of work.

I probably ought to take off my coat, though, he thought, so he got to his feet, removed the coat, hobbled to the table, and hung it over the back of a chair. He went into the bathroom, drank a glass of water, and made it back to the bed. He took the automatic from the plastic bag and threw the bag on the floor. He set the gun on the bedside table and lay down. I should get rid of these shoes, he thought, and went to sleep.

Pounding on the door awakened him. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. Then he looked at the clock. He’d been asleep for all of fifteen minutes. The pounding continued.

“I’ll be right there,” he called.

Groaning, he got to his feet, limped to the door, and opened it to find Oil Can Doyle standing there.

“We’ve got to talk,” the lawyer said, scooting past Kane into the room.

Kane closed the door, went back to the bed, and lay down, propping his head up on the pillows so he could see Doyle. The little man was hopping around like a cat on a griddle.

“We’ve got a situation,” Doyle said. “We need to figure out what to do.”

“Why don’t you stop bouncing around like a demented bunny rabbit and tell me what’s going on?” Kane said.

Doyle threw himself into the chair and immediately started bouncing on the seat.

“Bezhdetny’s lawyer called me,” Doyle said. “He said his client wants to see you.”

“So?” Kane said.

“It’s unusual—it’s very unusual,” Doyle said. “Someone who is accused of crimes wanting to see one of the witnesses? It’s not done. I think I should go with you.”

“Stop bouncing,” Kane said. “You’re making me seasick. Have you been using illegal substances to pep you up?”

The lawyer stopped bouncing, stood, and pulled himself to his full height.

“I do not use illegal substances,” he said with dignity. “Although I have had a lot of coffee this morning.”

Then he began pacing. Kane sat thinking, then said, “What does Bezhdetny want?”

Doyle paused in his pacing to say, “His lawyer claimed not to know. Said he’d advised his client that such a meeting was unwise but that his client insisted.”

“Okay,” Kane said. “I’ll do it.” Doyle started to say something, but Kane held up his hand. “It’s not that much of a problem. I’m not really a witness against the guy; Alma Atwood and Grantham are. And who knows? Maybe he wants to confess to killing Melinda Foxx.”

So Kane found himself limping into the hospital again, leaning on Cocoa’s arm. The detective was wearing fancy gear that Cocoa had purchased at the outdoor store across from the hotel.

“It breathes,” the cabbie had said as he dragged it out of the bags. “It repels insects. It will probably do your taxes if you let it.”

Salmon and balsam aren’t really my colors, Kane thought, but at least the stuff is clean.

A uniformed cop sat on a chair outside of Bezhdetny’s room.

“I’m going to have to pat you down,” he said, and did so. When he was finished, Kane went into the room. Bezhdetny lay like Gulliver, strapped to a bed he came close to overflowing, his left leg raised above the bed by a cat’s cradle of wires. Tubes and wires ran from machines and disappeared under his hospital gown. His hair was a mess and there were deep lines in his face. Kane moved slowly to the chair beside the bed and sat.

“You look like I feel,” he said.

Bezhdetny gave him a wan smile.

“I apologize for the shooting,” he said. “There should have been no shooting, but those men had no training and no discipline.”

Kane shrugged and said, “I suppose there’s no reason criminals should have better luck getting good help than anyone else.” When Bezhdetny didn’t reply, he said, “Why did you want to see me?”

“My lawyer is negotiating now with the authorities,” Bezhdetny said. “He is trying to make a deal. I will name my employer and testify against him for certain considerations in charging and sentencing. Therefore, I cannot tell you the name of my employer, although I can tell you everything else.”

“Why would you do that?” Kane asked.

“Why would I not?” Bezhdetny said, surprise in his voice. “Someone killed those people, that White Rose and the other. Maybe something I say will help you catch that killer.”

Kane thought about that for a while, then said, “Okay. Start talking.”

Bezhdetny reached over and took a cup from the table that was positioned next to the bed. His hand shook. He managed to corral the straw with his lips and suck down some liquid. He put the cup back and began.

“I am from Kiev,” he said. “My parents were not important, so I didn’t have many opportunities. But I did well in school and was accepted by the state security service. That is where I learned English. I had a good life in Kiev by the standards of the time. But I had rivals, too, in my job—office politics, you know? They are everywhere—and when one of them was promoted over me, he sent me to Magadan, in the Russian Far East. Magadan is not so nice as Kiev. Not so nice as Hell, really. But there were opportunities and compensations for a man in my position, so I made the best of it.

“Then the Communists gave up. Can you believe it? It was like I had been cursed. I did not get paid and life in Magadan got worse. I thought about going back to Ukraine, but why? So I came here, to Alaska. I had met some people on cultural exchanges, and everyone was so happy about the change in relations that I had very little difficulty getting the necessary permissions.”

Bezhdetny took another drink, sighed, and continued.

“I thought perhaps my luck had changed. I studied those around me and decided that politics offered the fastest path to success. So I came to Juneau and got a job working in the lounge, and I watched and I learned. Perhaps no one in history paid such close attention to the Alaska State Legislature and how it worked and how someone could make money from it. It was obvious that of all the people associated with the legislature, a lobbyist made the most money. So I became a lobbyist.

“At first, I thought my lack of success was due to the fact that I was new and did not know the task well. Then I thought perhaps it was because I was an outsider and did not have the connections necessary to succeed. But as time went on I realized that history was my handicap. I had grown up in a much different society, with different standards and rules, and no amount of study and hard work would give me the…reflexes…I needed to succeed here.”

The Ukrainian stopped to stare off into the distance for a while.

“Once I realized that, I didn’t know what to do. I am getting older and I have the same concerns as anyone: What happens if I get sick? What do I live on when I retire? I began to feel that I had wasted my life and my opportunities and that the curse had defeated me.

“Then, near the end of the last legislative session, the man I will not name came to see me. He owns a company in the oil field service business. He told me he knew that the legislature would attempt to raise taxes on the oil industry. This, he said, would slow down oil development and cost him a lot of money. He needed my help to prevent it.

“I knew who this man was. I knew he could afford many lobbyists much more successful than I. I asked him why he was talking to me then. He said that with oil prices so high, regular lobbying could not defeat this bill, that the House was impossible, and that he had counted the votes in the Senate and was one short. He said that he knew something of my past, and that he thought perhaps I had learned some things in state security in the Soviet Union that would help him prevail. He said he would pay me much money, but that I would be hired—how did he put it?—off the books.

“I asked him for time to think. I didn’t know what he meant. Americans have this strange idea of the old Soviet Union, one that perhaps made him believe I had spent all my time in state security making people do things against their will. The truth is that all I pushed around was paper. I spent my time drinking tea with my comrades and standing in lines and maybe enjoying too much vodka at night.

“But I looked at his list of names and how they would vote, and I saw Senator Grantham’s name and I had an idea. I knew that he was having an extramarital affair of long standing with his aide. Such a man is subject to pressure. I thought about asking his aide, Alma, to help me bring that pressure but decided she would not. Then I asked myself, What does such a man as Grantham want? And the answer came to me: A younger, more beautiful woman. I knew his receptionist was quitting, so I found such a woman who would do what I asked for money, helped her compose a résumé that would get her hired, sat back, and waited.”

Bezhdetny tried to adjust himself in the bed and winced.

“This knee is very painful,” he said. “They did much surgery on it and say they must do more. I had no idea how powerful that man was, that such a powerful man existed. It is the curse working, that I should encounter this man who is more powerful than I.”

He shook his head, then picked up the thread of his story.

“As I thought, Senator Grantham was attracted to the younger, more beautiful woman and I soon had what I needed. I told my employer to arrange for the bill to advance and that I was certain there were not eleven votes to pass it.

“Then Melinda Foxx was murdered and Senator Hope arrested. And I became greedy. I blame myself, although I had been working around greedy people for so long I can understand completely my failure. I thought that if I could just keep Senator Hope off the scene, I could save my information on Senator Grantham for another time, another client. So I asked this man I cannot name for some help and he sent me those two amateurs.”

“I don’t understand,” Kane said. “How could you expect to manipulate the criminal justice system to keep Hope out of the Senate long enough to do what you wanted?”

Bezhdetny shrugged.

“I wasn’t sure that I could,” he said. “But I knew that others, some for the same reasons as I and some for other reasons, would want Senator Hope to be out of the picture. And I only needed three days: One to get the bill to the floor, one for the vote, and one for the reconsideration vote.