6

The bellman showed Kane into a room on the fifth floor. The place was dark and dingy, which reminded Kane of his apartment back in Anchorage.

All it needs is the smell of fish cooking and the sound of the people next door having sex and I’ll be right at home, he thought.

He astonished the bellman with a $20 tip, then unpacked. There was plenty of room left in the closet and the small chest of drawers when he finished. He looked at the pieces of the automatic. He’d brought it with him to Juneau, more to avoid leaving it in his none-too-secure apartment than because he thought he’d need it. He’d broken it down, put the pieces in plastic food-storage bags to keep the gun oil off his clothes, and distributed them throughout his checked bag. If he reassembled the automatic, it would be a lethal weapon. But would he really need it tonight, to defend himself against a lawyer? He wrapped the pieces in a towel and set the towel on the shelf in the closet. Then he let himself out and took the elevator down to the lobby.

Oil Can Doyle was in the bar, sitting alone at a small, round table and staring into a tall glass filled with amber liquid. A young woman and an older man whispered in a far corner. As Kane’s eyes swept over them, the man leaned over and kissed the young woman. Even in the dim light, Kane could see his tongue working. Besides the bartender, who stood behind his bar polishing glasses, and Doyle, they were the only people in the dimly lit room.

Kane walked over and stood next to Doyle’s table until the lawyer looked up. He was a small, slight man with a big nose, big ears, and a toupee that looked more like a dead muskrat than human hair. A gravy stain that looked vaguely like the Aleutian Chain marred his tie, and the front of his white shirt was sprinkled with bits of snack mix. The gray suit he wore was cheap, and the expression on his face was hostile.

“I’m not giving interviews,” he said. The tone in his high, squeaky voice was unfriendly. “Don’t you jackals have anything else to do but hound me?”

“I’m not a reporter,” Kane said, wondering how much Doyle had had to drink. “I’m Nik Kane, your investigator, the guy you’re here to see. We’ve met a few times in court. I used to be with the Anchorage police.”

Doyle didn’t say anything or offer to shake hands. Kane pulled out a chair and sat. The bartender put down the glass he’d been polishing and started for the table, but stopped when Kane shook his head.

“Good to meet you, I suppose,” Doyle squeaked. They said around the courthouse that he’d gotten his nickname when another lawyer heard him speak for the first time and said, “You should get an oil can for that squeak.”

If you built an unsuccessful trial lawyer from scratch, you’d end up with Oil Can Doyle, Kane thought. Looks like a bum and has the personality of a wolverine, but somehow he wins cases.

“Don’t get all overwhelmed,” Kane said.

Doyle screwed his face up and showed his teeth.

Good God, Kane thought, he thinks that’s a smile.

“I need an investigator,” Doyle said. “I can’t use anybody here. The case is too political. You’re not my first choice, but I’m not paying the bills. If you take this job, you’ll work for me—and only for me—helping prepare the defense.”

Kane waited for the lawyer to continue, and when he didn’t, said, “That’s some sales pitch. I can’t remember when I’ve felt so motivated.”

The two men looked at each other. Doyle shrugged.

“You can take the job or not,” he said. “It’s all the same to me. I can always bring in somebody else.”

Kane could feel himself smiling as he looked at the other man. Clearly, Doyle wanted him to turn the job down. So why was he here in the first place? Was Jeffords pulling strings? Was somebody else? Kane could feel the bottomless pit of political calculation opening under his feet, and he didn’t like the feeling one bit. He could console himself with the thought of the money, but he knew he was here for more than that, although he couldn’t say just what.

The two men were silent. The bartender walked to the couple in the corner, took some money from the man, and walked back behind the bar. The couple walked out of the bar. They might have been father and daughter, except that the man had his hand on the woman’s ass.

“I’ve already decided to take the job,” Kane said, watching for Doyle’s reaction. The lawyer didn’t even twitch. He’d be a great poker player, Kane thought.

“Well, that’s just wonderful,” Doyle said, twisting up his face and showing his teeth again. “But just so you don’t misunderstand, I expect you to turn over everything you find out to me, and to not discuss anything with anybody else. Anybody else at all.”

Kane didn’t say anything to that. Silence wasn’t a lie.

Doyle leaned forward again and picked up his drink.

“Here’s to a mutually beneficial relationship,” he said and drained it.

He held his empty glass above his head and rattled the remaining ice. The bartender came over to the table. Doyle handed him the glass.

“This is Tony,” Doyle said to Kane. “He is a fine bartender, which is a treasure rarer than pearls.”

The bartender, a middle-aged fellow with dark hair and a pencil mustache, nodded to Kane. Kane nodded back.

“Tony is going to bring me another,” Doyle said, “and I’m sure he’d be happy to bring you whatever you’d like.”

Kane shook his head.

“No, thanks,” he said.

Tony took Doyle’s glass back to the bar.

“Too good to drink with me?” Doyle squeaked.

“Probably,” Kane said, “but that’s not the reason I turned down a drink. I’m an alcoholic.”

Doyle shook his head.

“So am I,” he said, “but I don’t let a little thing like that stop me.”

Tony returned with a full glass and a bowl of snack mix. He set them on the table and went back to his station behind the bar. Doyle popped a handful of snack mix into his mouth, chewed, drank, and said, “Tell me what you know about all this.”

“What I’ve read in the newspaper,” Kane said. “I was hoping you could tell me more.”

Doyle nodded again.

“Instead of listening to me talk, why don’t you look over what’s on paper so far?” he said. “Although there’s not much that hasn’t been in print. Along with purple prose and bootless speculation.”

“You don’t like the press?” Kane asked. “In the cases I was involved in, you played those reporters like a violin.”

Doyle snorted.

“I like the press just fine when they’re reporting what I want them to,” he said. “But when they’re making life more difficult for me and my client, I hate the bastards.”

He pulled a big briefcase up into his lap, opened it, and pulled out a set of thin manila folders that were rubber-banded together.

“Here’s the discovery,” he said, sliding the folders across to Kane. “It’s mostly preliminary. Notes really, from the investigating officers and examining physician. Some crime-scene photos. Like that.”

He took another drink.

“I’ve got a transcript of my preliminary interview with my client, but it’s under lock and key in my office. You’ll have to come by there to read it.”

He took a card from an inside pocket, scribbled on the back of it, and handed it to Kane.

“That’s where I’m renting office space while I’m down here,” he said.

Kane slid the folders to his side of the table.

“Any reason you’re being so careful?” he asked.

“I’m always careful,” the lawyer said. “But with a case like this one, I’m being extra careful.”

“What’s so special about this case?” Kane asked.

Doyle smiled again and shook his head.

“Didn’t Tom Jeffords ever explain Alaska politics to you?” he asked. When Kane just looked at him, the lawyer continued. “Yeah, I know all about you and Jeffords. I know everything about you, except maybe where you got that scar. Somebody told me, but I forgot.”

He stopped as if he expected Kane to fill in the silence.

“It was an accident,” Kane said.

“What kind of accident gives you a scar like that?” Doyle asked.

“The kind where a guy wants to jam a sharpened toothbrush handle into your brain, but you turn at the last second and he accidentally misses the soft spot in your temple,” Kane said.

Doyle nodded.

“Yeah, prison’s a bitch, ain’t it,” he said. “At least that’s what some of my clients tell me. But if you think that was dangerous, wait until you get into this case. Politics is a full-contact sport in Alaska, and it doesn’t have a lot of rules.”

He drained his glass.

“You working for Jeffords makes you kind of an odd choice to try to get my client off, given their political positions,” the lawyer said.

“I’m not working for Jeffords on this,” Kane said. “I’m on my own. Politics doesn’t mean anything to me. Either this Hope did the crime or he didn’t. If he didn’t, I’ll find out. I’ll find out if he did, for that matter. And I’ll let you in on whatever I find. So if you’re going to worry, worry about something besides me selling out you and your client.”

Doyle looked steadily at Kane, then shrugged.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Why don’t you read through those files and come see me in the morning. Maybe we can work together.”

He closed his briefcase, got to his feet, and put on a frayed ankle-length topcoat with a matted collar that looked for all the world like it had been made of the same stuff as his toupee. When he saw Doyle getting ready to leave, the bartender hurried over with the bill and handed it to him.

“Why, Tony,” Doyle squeaked, “it’s like you don’t trust me.” He set the bill down on the table. “My colleague will take care of it.” To Kane he said, “Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?”

Kane nodded.

“You can tell me if there’s a Catholic church around here,” he said.

The lawyer peered at him.

“Seriously?’ he said.

Kane nodded again.

“I have no idea,” he said, and left, moving like a man walking on a slippery surface.

Kane looked at the bill, dug some money from his wallet, and, after making sure there was plenty for a tip, handed it to the bartender.

Tony gave him a small nod of appreciation.

“The church is three blocks up and one block over,” he said, pointing. “It’s called the Cathedral of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Big name for a wooden church.”

Mary, Kane thought. Mother of Jesus. Maybe she can help me figure out how to deal with my son.