Nik Kane Alaska Mystery - 02 - Capitol Offense by Mike Doogan Page B
Authors: Mike Doogan
Tags: Mystery
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their own rules.
Senator Toby Grantham’s office was on the ground floor, down the hall from the print shop and the mailroom. The outer office was the size of a box of saltines. A gorgeous, dark-haired young woman sat at a desk flanked by a pair of closed doors. Her desk, a couple of chairs, and a coatrack barely left room for a visitor.
The young woman welcomed Kane with a big smile and asked if she could help him.
“I’m here to talk to Senator Grantham at the suggestion of Senator Matthew Hope,” Kane said, handing her a card.
The woman switched off her smile.
“Oh, it’s a terrible thing, terrible,” she said. “I’m sure Senator Hope had nothing to do with that woman’s death.” She got to her feet. “I’ll get Senator Grantham’s senior staff.” Still holding the card, she disappeared through one of the closed doors.
Kane took off his coat and hung it on a rack. He looked around the reception area. The walls were crowded with what he took to be class photos, but on closer examination they turned out to be photographs of the legislature through the years. He was looking at the oldest of them—the caption said “12th Alaska Legislature”—when the door behind him opened.
“That’s Senator Grantham there,” a woman said. She walked over and stood next to Kane, pointing at what appeared to be a college kid. “That photo was taken in 1982. Doesn’t he look young?”
“He certainly does,” Kane said.
The woman was a head shorter than Kane, with shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes. She wore a dark suit and a white blouse open far enough to show the beginning of spectacular cleavage. She smelled of soap and tobacco smoke. Kane guessed her age at thirty.
“I’m Alma Atwood,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Senator Grantham’s chief of staff. Jennifer said you’d like to speak with the senator?”
Kane took her hand, which was soft and warm and dry.
“I would,” he said. “I’m Nik Kane, part of Senator Matthew Hope’s defense team. Senator Hope suggested I talk to your boss.”
He was startled to realize that he was still holding the woman’s hand, so he dropped it, dug Doyle’s letter of authorization out of his coat pocket, and, since Grantham was on her list, Mrs. Foster’s letter as well. He handed them to the woman. The woman opened each in turn, read them, and nodded.
“I’m sure the senator will want to speak with you,” she said. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting?”
She took the letters, knocked at the other closed door, and opened it. Kane could hear a booming voice saying, “…organized labor gets off its ass and—” The closing door cut the voice off.
Kane sat in one of the chairs and waited. The woman emerged a while later.
“The senator can give you a few minutes now,” she said, “but he does have a lunch appointment.”
She opened the door and passed through it in front of Kane.
“Mr. Kane, Senator,” she said.
Grantham sat behind a big, tidy desk of dark wood. His office was much bigger than the outer office. RHIP, Kane thought.
The senator got up and walked around the desk, extending a hand. Kane shook it. The hand was as big and soft as a catcher’s mitt. Kane had no urge to hold on to it. Grantham was big and soft, too, and no longer looked like a college kid. He had salt-and-pepper hair that hung over his shirt collar and a big belly that hung over his belt. He wore a gray, pin-striped suit and a starched white shirt that gaped above the belt to show a not-so-white undershirt beneath. Red veins were visible in his beak of a nose and he smelled of aftershave and alcohol.
“Thank you, Alma,” he said in a voice as well seasoned as an oak barrel. The woman left, closing the door behind her. “Please have a seat, Mr. Kane.”
Kane sat in one of the wing chairs facing the desk. Grantham leaned over the desk, picked up the letters, and handed them to Kane. He sat in the other wing chair.
“So you are here on behalf of Senator
Senator Toby Grantham’s office was on the ground floor, down the hall from the print shop and the mailroom. The outer office was the size of a box of saltines. A gorgeous, dark-haired young woman sat at a desk flanked by a pair of closed doors. Her desk, a couple of chairs, and a coatrack barely left room for a visitor.
The young woman welcomed Kane with a big smile and asked if she could help him.
“I’m here to talk to Senator Grantham at the suggestion of Senator Matthew Hope,” Kane said, handing her a card.
The woman switched off her smile.
“Oh, it’s a terrible thing, terrible,” she said. “I’m sure Senator Hope had nothing to do with that woman’s death.” She got to her feet. “I’ll get Senator Grantham’s senior staff.” Still holding the card, she disappeared through one of the closed doors.
Kane took off his coat and hung it on a rack. He looked around the reception area. The walls were crowded with what he took to be class photos, but on closer examination they turned out to be photographs of the legislature through the years. He was looking at the oldest of them—the caption said “12th Alaska Legislature”—when the door behind him opened.
“That’s Senator Grantham there,” a woman said. She walked over and stood next to Kane, pointing at what appeared to be a college kid. “That photo was taken in 1982. Doesn’t he look young?”
“He certainly does,” Kane said.
The woman was a head shorter than Kane, with shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes. She wore a dark suit and a white blouse open far enough to show the beginning of spectacular cleavage. She smelled of soap and tobacco smoke. Kane guessed her age at thirty.
“I’m Alma Atwood,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Senator Grantham’s chief of staff. Jennifer said you’d like to speak with the senator?”
Kane took her hand, which was soft and warm and dry.
“I would,” he said. “I’m Nik Kane, part of Senator Matthew Hope’s defense team. Senator Hope suggested I talk to your boss.”
He was startled to realize that he was still holding the woman’s hand, so he dropped it, dug Doyle’s letter of authorization out of his coat pocket, and, since Grantham was on her list, Mrs. Foster’s letter as well. He handed them to the woman. The woman opened each in turn, read them, and nodded.
“I’m sure the senator will want to speak with you,” she said. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting?”
She took the letters, knocked at the other closed door, and opened it. Kane could hear a booming voice saying, “…organized labor gets off its ass and—” The closing door cut the voice off.
Kane sat in one of the chairs and waited. The woman emerged a while later.
“The senator can give you a few minutes now,” she said, “but he does have a lunch appointment.”
She opened the door and passed through it in front of Kane.
“Mr. Kane, Senator,” she said.
Grantham sat behind a big, tidy desk of dark wood. His office was much bigger than the outer office. RHIP, Kane thought.
The senator got up and walked around the desk, extending a hand. Kane shook it. The hand was as big and soft as a catcher’s mitt. Kane had no urge to hold on to it. Grantham was big and soft, too, and no longer looked like a college kid. He had salt-and-pepper hair that hung over his shirt collar and a big belly that hung over his belt. He wore a gray, pin-striped suit and a starched white shirt that gaped above the belt to show a not-so-white undershirt beneath. Red veins were visible in his beak of a nose and he smelled of aftershave and alcohol.
“Thank you, Alma,” he said in a voice as well seasoned as an oak barrel. The woman left, closing the door behind her. “Please have a seat, Mr. Kane.”
Kane sat in one of the wing chairs facing the desk. Grantham leaned over the desk, picked up the letters, and handed them to Kane. He sat in the other wing chair.
“So you are here on behalf of Senator
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