A Cold-Blooded Business

A COLD BLOODED BUSINESS

Kate Shugak 04

DANA STABENOW

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A COLD-BLOODED BUSINESS

A Berkley Prime Crime Book published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime hardcover edition I March 1994 Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition April 1995

All rights reserved.

Copyright 1994 by Dana Stabenow.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

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ISBN: 0-425-15849-7

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

15 14 13 12 II 10 9

For Tony Kinderknecht the last of the original Slopers

I left out the story about Mile's pigs because no one can tell it like he can

This book is a work of fiction. There's no such man as John King. There is no RPetco. There were never any drugs * at Prudhoe Bay. There wasn't any booze, either. Nobody ever wrapped duct tape around the Trans Alaska Pipeline; turtles never raced at the Base Camp; two women never sold $20,000 worth of magazine subscriptions in two days at Crazyhorse; nobody's ever sold Native American artifacts to the Detroit Institute of Arts for $55,000; no oil company ever spilled ten million gallons of oil into Prince William Sound; and I've got some land for sale in Wasilla, guaranteed swamp-free, beneath which Arco's about to find a natural gas field the size of the Sadlerochit.

John. Here she is."

The man on the couch met Mutt's yellow eyes and his ruddy face lost color. "Jesus H. Christ on a crutch."

Jack grinned. He was a big man and it was a big grin. "Not her." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Her."

Her five-foot self barely visible behind Jack's six-foot two mass, Kate closed the door and dumped her duffel on the floor.

The man on the couch wasn't looking at anything but Mutt. "What the hell is this, that's a goddam wolf, Morgan!"

Jack gave his stock answer. "Nah. Only half. Mutt, John King." Kate stepped around Jack. "Kate Shugak, John King. John's the CEO of the Alaskan division of RPetco, the operator for the western half of the Prudhoe Bay field." A second man standing next to the couch received a perfunctory wave of the hand. "Lou Childress, RPetco's security chief.

You know who Kate is, gentlemen."

King glowered from Kate to Mutt and back again. He wasn't accustomed to being thrown off balance and he didn't like it. "About goddam time," he said curtly. Mutt lifted a lip at his tone, but King ignored her, if anyone on two legs can truly ignore the weighty gaze of a 130pound half husky, half wolf, and concentrated on the woman.

She gave an impression of height, possibly because she held her spine so straight, possibly because her gaze was so level and direct. Her shoulders were squared, her waist narrow and her hair reached it in a straight, black fall. Her face was broad with high cheekbones, her mouth full-lipped and wide. Held straight and unsmiling, it made her look aloof, even severe. A hint of epicanthic fold between brow and lash slanted over clear hazel eyes that went oddly with the rest of her coloring. Their expression was cool and measuring, containing a speculation devoid of curiosity. Her skin was a rich, golden brown, smooth and unlined, and the only warm thing about her. It looked younger than the thirty-two years Jim Chopin had told him she was.

Her eyes looked older. A lot older.

Jack repeated, "Kate Shugak, John King."

She was shrugging out of her jacket. King let his eyes wander down to the open collar of her shirt and he saw the scar, a knotted cord of paler flesh pulling at that otherwise smooth, perfect skin. He knew the story, of course. Chopper Jim's briefing had been concise but thorough, the direct result of RPetco buying every Alaska state trooper's raffle ticket that came their way, and encouraging a similar habit in RPetco's

1,500 statewide employees and 3,000 contractors.

She stood, hands at her sides, waiting impassively. "How do," he said shortly, and held out a hand.

They shook without speaking as she looked him over with the same frankness he had her. He was six inches taller than she was and had the same general build as a fireplug, with a square face and fair, freckled skin that flushed easily. He had no discernible neck and thick, straight blond hair that fell in his eyes and over his collar.

His glasses were wire-rimmed and thick-lensed and magnified the baleful glare that appeared to be his natural expression. The result would have a daunting effect on anyone across a negotiating table or on the carpet in front of him. She wondered if that was why he wore them. His frayed, faded jeans were rolled up twice at the cuffs over mustard-yellow cowboy boots, and his plaid shirt strained to contain his barrel shaped chest.

Kate sat opposite him and Jack went into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and gazed inside as if it might hold the ultimate answer to the mystery of the universe. "Want a refill on that beer, John?

Kate? You thirsty?"

"You got any Diet 7UP?"

"Nope. Pepsi, root beer, Coors, that's it."

"A glass of ice water then."

John King gave a snort clearly audible to Jack two rooms away. "I'll have another beer myself." "So will I," Childress said immediately, and sat down next to John King. He was easier to pigeonhole than King, but the ability to do it gave Kate no pleasure. Brush cut, knife-sharp creases in his tailored slacks, black loafers shined so brightly she could see her reflection in them from ten paces. His tie was squared away in the best military fashion, his shirt a breastplate of starch, his expression D. I.-certified hostile. Retired military, had to be, and probably, God help her, Marine. She looked for flaws in the government-issue facade and found only one. Seated, an incipient potbelly that she was ready to bet Childress fought every meal of his life spilled over a tightly clinched, gleaming leather belt. For the rest, he was a paragon of God and country; tight-lipped and a tighter ass. Already she was bored.

He looked her over, too, but he was so annoyed that she'd beaten him to it that his perusal was less effective. She waited, dispassionate, until he looked up to meet her eyes. "Childress."

His nod was curt. "Shugak." He slapped shut a manila file folder and tossed it into the eels king briefcase open on the coffee table. "John, I want to go on record one more time as being against this. My department can resolve this thing internally."

"Your objection is noted," John King growled.

Kate propped her feet on the coffee table and said nothing.

The silence in the living room reached into the kitchen, where Jack dropped ice cubes into a glass, filled it and a large bowl with water, grabbed the beer bottles by their necks and juggled everything into the living room. Kate was seated on the love seat across from John King, both of them working at not being the first to blink, while Childress practiced scowling and from one side Mutt observed the staring match with all the bored disinterest of a professional witnessing an amateur event. Jack bit back a smile and set the bowl down next to her and handed the glass of water to Kate. John King drank half his beer in one long swallow as Jack eased gratefully into an easy chair and put the footrest up. The chair gave a protesting groan but held.

John King burped, and gave the bottle a look of disgust. "Might's well be drinking sody pop." He drained it with another gulp and set the empty bottle down with a snap. Childress set his, barely tasted, next to King's. King transferred his look of disgust to Kate. "What's your fee?"

It was more of an attack than an inquiry. Keeping her tone mild, Kate replied, "Seven hundred fifty a day, plus expenses."

King snorted. Childress did, too, but it was an action unsuited to his high, thin, aristocratic nose. For King it was more natural, an all-purpose expression denoting disbelief, contempt and ridicule at will, singly or all together. "You get four hundred a day, when you're working, which Chopper Jim says ain't all that often."

Her expression didn't change. "For Royal Petroleum Company, majority partner in the Prudhoe Bay oil field and producer of fourteen percent of the nation's oil supply, my price is seven-fifty a day. Plus expenses."

He snorted again. So did Childress, who said, "You won't have any expenses. We provide food, lodging and arctic gear, and you ride to work on our own charter. All you have to do is investigate."

The last word was something between a sneer and a snarl, and Kate examined him thoughtfully. Jack watched Lou Childress try not to squirm beneath that cool survey, and had to give him an A for effort.

Kate let the silence get uncomfortable before breaking it. "What's the job?"

Again, King's question was more of a bark than a question. "What do you know about Prudhoe Bay?"

She linked her hands behind her head and leaned back. "It's a supergiant oil formation producing a million and a half barrels of oil per day, the largest oil field in North America. It sits on the edge of the Arctic Ocean 600 miles north of Anchorage, 250 miles north of the Arctic Circle, 100 miles north of the Brooks Range and 1,300 miles south of the geographic North Pole. It runs about 125,000 square acres in size, with, lately, around 4,000-plus employees. There are two operating owners, Royal Petroleum Company, aka RPetco, and American Exploration, aka Amerex. You've been taking the oil out since, oh, since when, since

1976 or thereabouts. The field should have begun to decline in 1986 but due to new recovery techniques and the exploitation of several smaller fields in the vicinity, this decline has been delayed."

"First oil into OCC in Valdez was July 28, 1977," King corrected her, but he couldn't hide his surprise.

One corner of her mouth drew up. "I'm an Alaska Native, King. I was born and raised and I live in the bush. We've got a new school in my village, with a brand-new gymnasium tacked on, and a brand-new power plant to keep the lights on during the Class C state championships. I'm well aware they were paid for with state taxes on Prudhoe Bay crude." She also had clear and distinct memories of what it was like trying to dribble a basketball outside at twenty below, but she saw no reason to say so.

"Taxes increased eleven times in twelve years by the Alaska state legislature," he said immediately.

Kate declined to debate the average I.Q. in Juneau. "What's the job?"

He pushed his jaw out. "One thing I gotta know up front before this goes any further. How do you feel about the oil business in Alaska?"

She knew instantly what he was getting at. "Don't you mean, how do I feel about the oil business in Alaska after the RPetco Anchorage spill?"

The answer was obvious on his face, and she said, "I think I'm more interested in why RPetco hired a known drunk to steer a day's production of Prudhoe crude through the Valdez Narrows in a Very Large Crude Carrier, when two states had already yanked his license to drive a car.

And I'm definitely interested in the fact that he's still working for RPetco." Her smile was slight and humorless. "Training new tanker crews."

Childress stirred but King beat him to it. "He ain't working for RPetco, he's working for the seamen's union. We don't got nothing to do with that."

Out of the loop, Jack thought, and wondered if John King knew George Bush from his wildcatting days in Texas. He took a sip of beer, savoring it all the way down.

"And he was acquitted," John King added. Kate said nothing, and he was driven to fill the sudden vacuum. "Well? I know your homestead's close to the Gulf of Alaska. You gotta have friends, relatives, who were affected by the spill." Still Kate didn't answer, and goaded, John King declared, "I gotta tell you, I'm of half a mind to do like Lou says, let his department take care of this. I don't like the idea of sending a broad in on a job like this, let alone a Native broad. But Morgan says you're the best investigator he ever had in the D. A."s office. Chopper Jim backs him up. Shit, even the fucking FBI says you're good."

"An unimpeachable source of information," Kate murmured.

"Look at all they've done for Leonard Peltier."

"Okay." King's voice rose. "I just don't want you busting my chops after the fact with whatever dirt you dish up on my people down the line, just because you think you've got an axe to grind because you're a Native or a woman or because you think all the oil companies ought to have their asses kicked back Outside where they belong. I want this kept quiet. I got enough problems already without broadcasting the fact that half my people are putting their paychecks up their noses."

He realized what he'd said too late and his mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

Jack studied his beer bottle thoughtfully. John King had all the social skills of a blast furnace.

Kate took a long swallow of water and set the glass down carefully on the coffee table. "My fee is seven-fifty a day." She looked at Childress. "Plus expenses." She looked back at King. "Your checks don't bounce, that buys you a fair amount of discretion." For the third and last time, she said, "What's the job?"