Chapter 3
Maxwell gathered his bag from the luggage carousel at Stevens International, and walked outside. It was a clear day, with skies a different shade of blue from those in the Midwest. The Chugach Mountains were gleaming white in the sun, with what looked like quite a lot of snow above the tree line.
A short line of Yellow Cabs were waiting at the curb. Rick slid into the first one and gave the driver his destination. As they pulled away, he stared out the windows at the mountains to the east, but his mind was elsewhere.
What had Patterson meant by “military munitions”? Guns? Ammo? Something else? What exactly was going on, and why was Bob Corbett in the middle of something that got him killed? Who had access to whatever it was that Bob had with him? The answer to “who” will depend on “what” was in the bag, he decided.
There were plenty of questions, but few answers.
After checking into his hotel on 5th Avenue, he walked the few blocks to the area where Corbett had departed in such a spectacular fashion. There was still police tape hanging in tatters from a few barricades, but it appeared obvious that pedestrians had been passing through the area freely.
He spent 20 minutes looking over the scene in the alley, but saw nothing which yielded any answers. The area had been thoroughly swept and then contaminated - assuming anything had escaped police notice - by passersby.
Corbett’s office was a different matter altogether. Only the lack of holes in the walls and the fact that the furniture was still mostly upright, convinced him that no explosives were involved in the police search. There were no notes, pads, notebooks, or computer – nothing of any use at all. Everything else looked like it had been disassembled, broken, or ripped apart. These guys are thorough, I’ll give ‘em that. Let’s see if they made anything of it.
* * * * *
Lieutenant Christakos seemed annoyed by Rick’s questions. “Look,” he said, “I know you worked for the same company, but give us a break. It’s only been a few days, and we already told your office we’d forward the results once we have anything.”
“I appreciate what you’re telling me, Lieutenant, but … afto?”
“Huh? You speak Greek?”
“Just enough to buy a beer or get my face slapped. So how about it? Is that all? I’ll bet you already have some ideas about what’s going on, don’t you?”
The veteran cop seemed ready to say something when the phone rang. “Christakos.” He paused, flushed, and then hung up without saying anything else. “Sorry, Mr. Maxwell, that’s all there is. I got nothing else for you.”
* * * * *
Rick stopped on the sidewalk to let the cold breeze under his coat. It was hot in that office. What is with these Alaskans who run around with their coats open in the teeth of a gale, and then crank their heat up to 80 inside? he wondered to himself. So these guys know something, but they won’t talk to me.
He spent the next three hours knocking on doors, asking questions at customer counters, and approaching pedestrians. He heard repeatedly about how loud the explosion was, and how many windows got broken. After the third repetition, though it became more useless facts that added nothing to the puzzle.
He finally wandered into a street-front café that had an outdoor seating area. That part of the establishment was buried under two feet of snow, though, so he took a window seat. He was lost in thought after placing his order, but suddenly realized that someone had joined him.
“I hear you’re asking questions about the bomb,” the guy said. Rick stared at him for moment: a man of slight build and indeterminate age, but with crow’s feet around his eyes and obvious signs of exposure to the climate. The guy could be 35 or 50, he finally decided, but couldn’t guess any closer until after conversation.
“Yeah, Bob Corbett was a friend of mine. I'm trying to get some answers … for his family, you could say,” he said.
“I’m Jack. I know who you are. People have been talkin’. Listen, man, your friend ought to have been more careful about who he did business with.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Look, that old man has been buying and selling property up here since the Sixties, but he’s not one of us. He’s from Outside.”
Rick could hear the capital letter when the guy said it. “Just a second. When you say 'outside', it sounds like it means something else besides just 'outside'. So what are you saying?”
“He was from Outside, man. You know, outside of Alaska. Not one of us, you know? Just some carpet-bagger up here to make money off of Alaskans.”
“Do a lot of people think that way?”
“Sure, man. Everybody knows. We know when some dude comes here from the States, he’s just looking to take our money. And we don’t get much back, you know?”
“Okay, I get that. So you say Ng’s unpopular with the locals?”
“Hell, man, he’s unpopular with everybody. Everybody who knows who he is. Or who he used to be, anyway. He’s from Washington … or maybe California. I forget. You know, the west coast, man. But my dad was a real estate broker before he died, and he told me about Ng, lots of times. Old Man Ng and his partners started buying up all the vacant land north of town, out toward the Valley, but had a falling out with his partners and it all got split up.”
Rick made a note to find out what 'the Valley' was. “And?”
“The guy leaves a trail of broken business relationships everywhere he goes. You know, what you call disgruntled former acquaintances and upset employees everywhere, man. Hard feelings, you know? There’s plenty of folks here who used to work for him, or whose parents did. But I’ve been hearing other stuff, too.”
He paused dramatically, so Rick asked the question that the man was obviously waiting to answer. “Okay. What other stuff?”
“There’s people talking about bombs. Firebombs and stuff. Bad stuff, you know?”
“Yes, that would qualify as ‘bad’. What else have you heard?”
“Well, it’s not just that folks are upset with the old man. He’s not happy about his business, either. Seems he’s hit a rocky road, man. The dude’s old, you know? And all his friends are gone, if you know what I mean.”
“What? You mean something happened to them, too?”
“Naw. Just old age, man, you know? Happens to all of us, sooner or later.”
“Yeah. That it does.”
* * * * *
Back at his hotel room, Maxwell looked at his notes. He’d talked to one or two others he more-or-less confirmed what the guy in the restaurant said.
The senior Ng and his family had a reputation for being business sharks, but that’s not illegal. They’d seen lots of lawsuits in their day, and there were plenty of people around Anchorage who didn’t like them. It seemed the feelings were mutual. It was hardly an exclusive club, though, and lots of folks get mad without killing anyone.
Rick decided it was time to call the home office and speak with Patterson again.
To be continued ...
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