Read Online Nik Kane Alaska Mystery - 02 - Capitol Offense by Mike Doogan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mike Doogan
Tags: Mystery
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here.”
Jones moved a couple of steps to his left so he could see Kane over Smith’s shoulder. Kane took a half-step back, the backs of his legs hitting the bed.
I wonder if, to someone watching from above, it looks like the three of us are doing some odd dance, he thought.
“I don’t think I’ll be leaving soon,” he said. “Now that I’m here, I think I’ll see the sights.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Smith said and slapped Kane across the face. He leaned close and said, “On the airplane, tomorrow.”
Kane sighed and kneed Smith in the groin. Smith squealed. Kane put his hands on Smith’s shoulders and shoved. He flew backward and banged into Jones, who was trying to get something out of the pocket of his topcoat. Jones fell onto the coffee table. The coffee table collapsed and the pieces of Kane’s .45 slid onto the floor. Kane pivoted and hit Smith with his elbow. Smith went down at his feet. Jones was lying on his side amid the pieces of coffee table, still trying to get something out of his pocket. Kane took a couple of quick steps and kicked him on the chin. Jones stopped trying to do anything at all. Smith was stirring, so Kane kicked him, too. He lay still.
Kane stood there taking deep breaths for a few moments, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, then went through their pockets. Smith’s badge said, “Souvenir of MGM.” Jones’s overcoat pocket contained a .38 revolver, the hammer snagged on the pocket’s lining. Jones didn’t have a badge, but he did have a .32 automatic in an ankle holster. Smith wore a .38 on his belt and a matching .32 auto on his ankle. Each had a roll of bills in his pocket, but neither carried any ID whatsoever.
Kane piled all the guns on the bed. Then he dialed the Juneau police and asked the dispatcher to send somebody up. He picked up the pieces of his own gun, wrapped them in the towel, and put them back on the closet shelf.
The two men were just beginning to stir when the police arrived.
“These men broke into my hotel room and threatened me,” Kane said. “They pretended to be Alaska State Troopers. The dark-haired one hit me. They don’t seem to be carrying ID. Their guns and phony badge are on the bed.”
“How do we know that’s what happened?” one of the cops asked.
“Just that I say it,” Kane said, “but you can see the guns and phony badge on the bed. And the desk clerk will confirm that this is my room. I’m telling you that I didn’t let them in. That’s enough for a collar right there.”
There was more palaver when the two men were on their feet, but the police took the men and weapons away on Kane’s promise to come down in the morning and swear out a complaint.
Kane locked the door behind them, retrieved the towel from the closet, sat, turned on a lamp, and examined the pieces of the .45. They looked okay, but he was too tired to assemble them to be sure. He left the pieces on the nightstand, got up, opened the dresser, and unrolled a pair of socks, revealing two wedges. He put the wedges in the crack under the door and tapped them into place with his foot. Maybe it’s locking the barn door, he thought, but I’ll sleep better.
He brushed his teeth, took a couple of aspirin, removed his clothes, and climbed into bed. He lay for a while thinking about the two men, but didn’t get very far. So he thought instead about Dylan. What I need is a plan, he decided as he fell asleep.
9
Men who are engaged in public life must necessarily aim at reducing opposition to a minimum, and one of the most obvious means to that end is by misrepresenting, discrediting or ruining their opponents.
F REDERICK S COTT O LIVER
T he next morning, showered and dressed, Kane sat down at the little desk, poured himself a cup of watery room-service coffee, and read through Doyle’s files. There wasn’t much there: a brief statement from the janitor who had found Matthew Hope with the body, a statement from a security guard, the arresting officer’s
Jones moved a couple of steps to his left so he could see Kane over Smith’s shoulder. Kane took a half-step back, the backs of his legs hitting the bed.
I wonder if, to someone watching from above, it looks like the three of us are doing some odd dance, he thought.
“I don’t think I’ll be leaving soon,” he said. “Now that I’m here, I think I’ll see the sights.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Smith said and slapped Kane across the face. He leaned close and said, “On the airplane, tomorrow.”
Kane sighed and kneed Smith in the groin. Smith squealed. Kane put his hands on Smith’s shoulders and shoved. He flew backward and banged into Jones, who was trying to get something out of the pocket of his topcoat. Jones fell onto the coffee table. The coffee table collapsed and the pieces of Kane’s .45 slid onto the floor. Kane pivoted and hit Smith with his elbow. Smith went down at his feet. Jones was lying on his side amid the pieces of coffee table, still trying to get something out of his pocket. Kane took a couple of quick steps and kicked him on the chin. Jones stopped trying to do anything at all. Smith was stirring, so Kane kicked him, too. He lay still.
Kane stood there taking deep breaths for a few moments, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, then went through their pockets. Smith’s badge said, “Souvenir of MGM.” Jones’s overcoat pocket contained a .38 revolver, the hammer snagged on the pocket’s lining. Jones didn’t have a badge, but he did have a .32 automatic in an ankle holster. Smith wore a .38 on his belt and a matching .32 auto on his ankle. Each had a roll of bills in his pocket, but neither carried any ID whatsoever.
Kane piled all the guns on the bed. Then he dialed the Juneau police and asked the dispatcher to send somebody up. He picked up the pieces of his own gun, wrapped them in the towel, and put them back on the closet shelf.
The two men were just beginning to stir when the police arrived.
“These men broke into my hotel room and threatened me,” Kane said. “They pretended to be Alaska State Troopers. The dark-haired one hit me. They don’t seem to be carrying ID. Their guns and phony badge are on the bed.”
“How do we know that’s what happened?” one of the cops asked.
“Just that I say it,” Kane said, “but you can see the guns and phony badge on the bed. And the desk clerk will confirm that this is my room. I’m telling you that I didn’t let them in. That’s enough for a collar right there.”
There was more palaver when the two men were on their feet, but the police took the men and weapons away on Kane’s promise to come down in the morning and swear out a complaint.
Kane locked the door behind them, retrieved the towel from the closet, sat, turned on a lamp, and examined the pieces of the .45. They looked okay, but he was too tired to assemble them to be sure. He left the pieces on the nightstand, got up, opened the dresser, and unrolled a pair of socks, revealing two wedges. He put the wedges in the crack under the door and tapped them into place with his foot. Maybe it’s locking the barn door, he thought, but I’ll sleep better.
He brushed his teeth, took a couple of aspirin, removed his clothes, and climbed into bed. He lay for a while thinking about the two men, but didn’t get very far. So he thought instead about Dylan. What I need is a plan, he decided as he fell asleep.
9
Men who are engaged in public life must necessarily aim at reducing opposition to a minimum, and one of the most obvious means to that end is by misrepresenting, discrediting or ruining their opponents.
F REDERICK S COTT O LIVER
T he next morning, showered and dressed, Kane sat down at the little desk, poured himself a cup of watery room-service coffee, and read through Doyle’s files. There wasn’t much there: a brief statement from the janitor who had found Matthew Hope with the body, a statement from a security guard, the arresting officer’s
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