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 Bannister Muravieff vs. the State of Alaska, one count of murder in the first degree, one count of attempted murder in the first degree, judgment found for the state.
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.
It was information of sorts, if only in a negative way, that both men had dropped out of sight entirely.
She wondered if anyone had shot at them.
She looked at the first photo she’d taken from the old cabin earlier that day. It was black-and-white in a blue wooden frame, a group of three preadolescents, a girl between two boys, arms around one another, smiling broadly at the camera. She recognized a much younger Charlotte. The two boys with her would be her brothers, the dead William, and Oliver, whose much younger face was easily recognizable.
She looked at the second photo, the formal portrait of the girl. No clue as to her identity. She removed the back of the frame. The photographer’s name was stamped on the back of the photo, Gebhart Studio. She looked in the phone book again. There were half a dozen Gebharts, but no Gebhart Studio.
Mutt had moved to the floor next to the chair the first time Kate had gotten up for the phone book, and she watched Kate’s every move with alert yellow eyes.
“If Victoria didn’t kill William, who did?” Kate asked her.
Mutt didn’t know.
“They’re still around.”
Mutt barked, a single, sharp, thoroughly pissed-off agreement. Mutt didn’t care for people shooting at her human.
Quick footsteps came up the walk, a fist beat a rapid tattoo against the door, and the doorbell chimed several times. “Kate? Kate, I saw the car through the garage windows. I know you’re in there. Open up, goddamn it!”
Kate sighed. She looked at Mutt, who was on her feet, tail wagging furiously. “Shall we let him in?”
The bark was still short and sharp, but this time it was joyous. Kate got up and opened the door.
“Are you all right?” Jim demanded. He walked in without invitation. “I ran into somebody at the courthouse who said you’d been involved in a shooting.”
Of course. The Bush telegraph might be a shade faster than a courthouse when it came to spreading the news, but not much.
He stood her against the wall and more or less frisked her. “You’re okay? You’re not hurt? Nobody shot you?”
“I’m fine,” she said, and fended him off when he showed signs of stripping her down right there to check for wounds. At least that was what she thought he was doing. “Really. I didn’t get hit.”
“Who did? They said somebody got shot.”
“Kurt.”
He stared at her. “Kurt Pletnikoff?”
“Yes. He’s working for me, helping track down some of the people connected to Victoria Muravieff’s case.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jim said. “Kurt Pletnikoff?”
“Yes.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“Yes. The guy he found isn’t.”
“What guy?”
“The guy lying dead in the bedroom with a bullet hole in his head.”
Jim stared at her for another minute and then shook his head. “Okay. I want you to start over, at the beginning.”
“I told you most of it last night.”
“Tell me again.”
It couldn’t hurt to talk it through again, especially since she was now hovering on the side of believing Victoria to be innocent. She knew how Jim, who was after all a practicing law-enforcement professional, would react to that notion, but maybe she needed a devil’s advocate right about now. Getting shot at always had a tendency to screw with her head. “Okay, but-what time is it?”
He looked at his watch. “A little after five.”
“God, is that all? It feels like a year since this morning.” Her stomach growled and she realized she hadn’t been able to finish her lunch. “Want some dinner?”
He followed her into the kitchen, where the pork ribs were stewing. She checked the rice, and pulled a package of frozen snow peas from the freezer and set it on the drain board to thaw.
Jim sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and listened to her story. When she finished, he stirred and said, “What took Kurt to that cabin?”
“I don’t know. He’s unconscious and his notes don’t say.”
“What did he say when he called you?”
“He said, ”I’ve got some news for you.“ And when I asked him what, he said, ”I want to show you.“”
“Did he call you from the cabin?”
She thought. “No. He said it would take him thirty minutes to get there because he was going to pick up some lunch on the way.”
“There’re damn few places in Anchorage that are thirty minutes away from anywhere, even when you’re stopping for lunch on the way,” Jim said.
“I know. Which leads me to believe he was in Muldoon, or South Anchorage, or…”
“What?”
“Or maybe up on Hillside,” she said.
“Who lives on Hillside?”
“Charlotte Muravieff.” Kate went into the living room and picked up the phone. It rang four times before the machine picked up. “Charlotte, this is Kate Shugak. I need to speak to you or Emily immediately. Call me at this number.”
She hung up and went back into the kitchen.
“You think your client sent Kurt to that cabin?” Jim said.