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She soaped down, rinsed off, and toweled herself dry, then stalked into the bathroom and yanked on clean clothes. Mutt, who had followed her into the bathroom, trailed her into the bedroom. Kate took her bloodstained clothes into the laundry room and started the washer. Mutt followed her there, too, and followed her into the kitchen, where Kate boiled water for tea, got out a cup, and added a huge dollop of honey. She took the cup of tea into the living room and curled up in the easy chair, the afghan from the back of the couch tucked in around her. Mutt whined at her, so she scooched over, and Mutt climbed into the nest with her. It was a tight fit, but Kate was more than grateful for the reassurance that emanated from Mutt’s warm, solid body.
Suddenly, Kate was freezing. She was shaking so hard the tea spilled over the side of the cup and her teeth chattered on the rim. She had an immediate desire to call George and tell him to come get her and Mutt out of this friggin‘ town at once. She had an equally immediate desire to find the two shooters in the Pontiac, cut out their livers, and feed them to Mutt as a special treat.
Kate had never had anyone working for her hurt before.
Come to that, Kate had never had anyone working for her before.
It was one thing to get hurt herself. The risk of injury, even death, was always there in her line of work. The last time she’d been in the hospital the doctor had offered her frequent flyer miles.
But Kurt was new to the job, a mercy job Kate had thrown him because she’d felt guilty about separating him from his previous profession of poaching. It wasn’t like he was a professional private investigator. He’d never had any training, and other than the rare brawl at the Roadhouse, he probably had no experience in defending himself. He’d just been stumbling around in the dark, making it up as he went along.
Kate didn’t have a lot of personal investment in Kurt Pletnikoff. They lived on opposite sides of the Park, they hadn’t been in the same grade at school, they hadn’t been friends or lovers. He was some kind of second cousin twice removed-Kate thought through Auntie Vi, or maybe Auntie Balasha-but then, that could be said of half the residents of the Park.
But she’d accepted responsibility for him when she had hired him. From that moment forward, he was one of hers. She’d thought to share a little of the Ba
She didn’t feel guilty about that. Somebody had to stand up for the Park bears, poor little defenseless creatures that they were.
She could have sent Kurt out into the PI fray with a little less insouciance and a little more preparation, though.
For the first time, Kate understood what it must be like to send a soldier out into battle, and to have to explain to his loved ones why he hadn’t returned.
Mutt whined, an anxious sound, and touched her cold nose gently to Kate’s cheek. Kate closed her eyes and leaned her head against Mutt’s and tried to think. Charlotte had hired her to free Victoria. She had hired Kurt to help her do so. Someone had shot Kurt and had been waiting at the cabin to shoot her, too. It was just plain blind luck, and Mutt, that she hadn’t charged right in the door and picked up her very own personal bullet in the chest.
She managed to down most of the tea, and the heat of the brew and the sweetness of the honey finally managed to calm her trembling. She was able to feel her feet again. She could think.
She wondered whether Victoria Pilz Ba
But if that was true, if Victoria was i
Victoria could be one of those people who had become completely institutionalized, so used to the structured life of the prison that she could not envision any other. It happened, Kate had seen prisoners released on probation reoffend and be back inside within the week. For some of them, a bed and three meals a day were worth it. Kate didn’t think Victoria Pilz Ba
Reopening a thirty-year-old case had its risks. There were always secrets that people thought they had buried deep, but in Alaska, never deep enough. The community was too small, and the memories of the old farts too good.
When she thought her hands were steady enough, she got up and went to her day pack, where she got out the notebook she’d taken from Kurt’s pocket before the police and the ambulance got there.
13
It was a small spiral-bound notebook with lined paper. Kurt’s sprawling handwriting was barely legible. He’d written down Eugene Muravieff’s name on the first page and Henry Cowell’s name about halfway through. Notes followed each name.
He’d exploited those sources Kate had given him first, and Kate had to give him points for thoroughness. An attorney in private practice who subscribed to the Motznik public records database and who was willing to allow Kate to access it for a small fee had been his first stop, as indicated by the directions to the office that Kurt had scribbled down. Neither Muravieff nor Cowell had a current driver’s license, although the old ones had furnished their birth dates and Social Security numbers. The last litigation- the only-Muravieff had been involved in was his divorce from Victoria, when Victoria had been given all the property they held in common and sole custody of the children, and Eugene an admonishment from the judge to complete rehab, or detox, as it was called in those days. The last litigation Cowell had been involved in was as attorney of record for Victoria in Victoria Ba
Neither had a telephone number, listed or unlisted. Neither had a mortgage or a car payment. Neither had a vehicle with tires, wings, skis, tracks, or a hull listed in this name in the state of Alaska. MuraviefF had had a commercial fishing license for a set-net site in Seldovia, which had evidently been sold at some point, because Kurt’s notes indicated it had been transferred to an Ernie Gajewski. In parentheses Kurt had written “Wanda’s brother.”
Kate paused to look up Ernie Gajewski in the phone book. No joy. No Wanda Gajewski, either.
Neither MuraviefF nor Cowell had applied for a hunting or sportfishing license recently, and neither had ever applied for a permanent fund dividend since the payment had begun being made to Alaskan citizens in 1981. Cowell’s membership in the Alaska Bar Association had lapsed. Both men had registered for the draft their senior year in high school. MuraviefF had served in Korea, risen to the rank of sergeant, and been awarded a Purple Heart and a Medal of Valor. Cowell had served his time as a legal aide with the U.S. Navy’s Judge Advocate General’s Office in Washington, D.C.
All of which was no information at all. Kate wondered what happened when the Internal Revenue Service stopped getting taxes from a citizen. Did they notice? Did they follow up? Did they require proof of death? She’d had to file a final income tax statement for her grandmother when she died, so that Kate could legally give away most of Ekaterina’s belongings and take possession of the rest. That had required a death certificate. It might be worth checking into in the matter of MuraviefF and Cowell, if only because of the spectacular lack of other evidence of what had happened to either man.