A deeper sleep by Dana Stabenow Page A
Authors: Dana Stabenow
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, thriller, Suspense, adventure, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Mystery Fiction, Political, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Fiction - Mystery, Mystery And Suspense Fiction, alaska, Crime thriller, Shugak; Kate (Fictitious character), Women private investigators - Alaska, Suspense & Thriller, 19th century fiction, Indians of North America - Alaska
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with regular dividends from their Native corporations. And Ruthie had land and a house. And now Louis lives in it."
"And Howie."
"And Howie."
"And Willard."
Kate's lips tightened. "And Willard." She looked at him, her eyes glittering. "He'll kill Abigail. You know it, I know it, pretty much everyone in the Park knows it except for Abigail and her idiot family."
"Abigail isn't Native," Jim said.
"Abigail is the eldest child of parents who own forty acres of land that sit on the edge of the Park between the nearest town and an old gold mine, and gold at present is selling for over five hundred an ounce."
"You think that's what he has in mind?"
"No, I think that's what Father and Mother Smith have in mind." At Jim's look, Kate said, "You've heard the rumor that some outfit has been granted permission to do some exploration on Salmon Creek?"
"The one next to the Smiths' property?"
"That's the one. When I was up on the Step this morning, I was looking at Dan's map, you know the one?" Kate waited for Jim's nod. "I saw the flag on the area. Kanuyaq Mining and Minerals."
"Never heard of them."
"Me neither, but I bet if we did a search of the incorporation papers, we'd find somebody named Smith somewhere up the bread crumb trail."
It sounded as likely as anything else. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing," Kate said. "It's Dan's job to worry about illegal mineral exploitation on Park land. I'm worried about Abigail."
"Me, too," Jim said heavily. "Me, too."
Mutt tested the tension in the air with an inquiring nose and ventured out of her corner, padding over to rest her head on Jim's knee. He scratched behind her ears, and she let out a heartfelt sigh that increased the air pressure in his office by at least ten millibars.
He looked over at Kate, who was staring out the window with a set expression. "Kate?"
"What?"
"What did Louis Deem do to earn him that gold tooth?"
Her eyes were flat and unreadable. "Come on, Mutt," she said, rising to her feet. "Let's head for the barn."
Jim listened to Mutt's toenails beat a retreating tattoo on the new linoleum floors.
Out it wasn't Abigail's body they found a month later.
It was instead plump, perpetually unhappy Enid Esther Koslowski, sprawled head down on the staircase leading from her deck.
Two steps up from her lay her son, fourteen-year-old Fitz, in a broken, bleeding heap.
The two of them had been shot to death at point-blank range.
FIVE
THE FIRST SATURDAY IN APRIL
the Roadhouse
In the Roadhouse parking lot, people huddled together in small groups, holding on to each other like they'd fall over if they didn't. Jim opened up the back of the Blazer and pulled out the aluminum suitcase that held his crime scene kit. "Where's Bernie?"
The four Grosdidier brothers, the first string of Niniltna's emergency response team, gave a collective jerk of their heads. Jim squared his shoulders and threaded his way through the silent crowd, his mouth a grim line. Faces, pinched and pale and shocked, turned to watch, and one part of his brain began a list of potential witnesses.
In back of the Roadhouse were two rows of cabins which no matter what anyone said he knew from personal experience could not be rented by the hour. Bernie had put in a couple of covered picnic areas with fire pits and tables and benches for the occasional RV that stuck out the road in from Ahtna in the summer. A thick stand of birch insulated the cabin area from the Koslowski house, two stories high with a large deck supporting wrought-iron outdoor furniture and a gas grill big enough to roast an entire bull moose that was the envy of every man in the Park. The deck was reached by a wide staircase with two landings, both landings laden with flower boxes that in summer overflowed with an artful riot of nasturtiums and pansies. French doors led from the deck into the
"And Howie."
"And Howie."
"And Willard."
Kate's lips tightened. "And Willard." She looked at him, her eyes glittering. "He'll kill Abigail. You know it, I know it, pretty much everyone in the Park knows it except for Abigail and her idiot family."
"Abigail isn't Native," Jim said.
"Abigail is the eldest child of parents who own forty acres of land that sit on the edge of the Park between the nearest town and an old gold mine, and gold at present is selling for over five hundred an ounce."
"You think that's what he has in mind?"
"No, I think that's what Father and Mother Smith have in mind." At Jim's look, Kate said, "You've heard the rumor that some outfit has been granted permission to do some exploration on Salmon Creek?"
"The one next to the Smiths' property?"
"That's the one. When I was up on the Step this morning, I was looking at Dan's map, you know the one?" Kate waited for Jim's nod. "I saw the flag on the area. Kanuyaq Mining and Minerals."
"Never heard of them."
"Me neither, but I bet if we did a search of the incorporation papers, we'd find somebody named Smith somewhere up the bread crumb trail."
It sounded as likely as anything else. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing," Kate said. "It's Dan's job to worry about illegal mineral exploitation on Park land. I'm worried about Abigail."
"Me, too," Jim said heavily. "Me, too."
Mutt tested the tension in the air with an inquiring nose and ventured out of her corner, padding over to rest her head on Jim's knee. He scratched behind her ears, and she let out a heartfelt sigh that increased the air pressure in his office by at least ten millibars.
He looked over at Kate, who was staring out the window with a set expression. "Kate?"
"What?"
"What did Louis Deem do to earn him that gold tooth?"
Her eyes were flat and unreadable. "Come on, Mutt," she said, rising to her feet. "Let's head for the barn."
Jim listened to Mutt's toenails beat a retreating tattoo on the new linoleum floors.
Out it wasn't Abigail's body they found a month later.
It was instead plump, perpetually unhappy Enid Esther Koslowski, sprawled head down on the staircase leading from her deck.
Two steps up from her lay her son, fourteen-year-old Fitz, in a broken, bleeding heap.
The two of them had been shot to death at point-blank range.
FIVE
THE FIRST SATURDAY IN APRIL
the Roadhouse
In the Roadhouse parking lot, people huddled together in small groups, holding on to each other like they'd fall over if they didn't. Jim opened up the back of the Blazer and pulled out the aluminum suitcase that held his crime scene kit. "Where's Bernie?"
The four Grosdidier brothers, the first string of Niniltna's emergency response team, gave a collective jerk of their heads. Jim squared his shoulders and threaded his way through the silent crowd, his mouth a grim line. Faces, pinched and pale and shocked, turned to watch, and one part of his brain began a list of potential witnesses.
In back of the Roadhouse were two rows of cabins which no matter what anyone said he knew from personal experience could not be rented by the hour. Bernie had put in a couple of covered picnic areas with fire pits and tables and benches for the occasional RV that stuck out the road in from Ahtna in the summer. A thick stand of birch insulated the cabin area from the Koslowski house, two stories high with a large deck supporting wrought-iron outdoor furniture and a gas grill big enough to roast an entire bull moose that was the envy of every man in the Park. The deck was reached by a wide staircase with two landings, both landings laden with flower boxes that in summer overflowed with an artful riot of nasturtiums and pansies. French doors led from the deck into the
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