Thibodaux frowned. “Slings spit, you say?”
“Yeah,” O’Hearn said. “It’s really more of an angry lisp. Hissy, like a wet cat. And gets worse and worse the madder she gets. Red blotches on her chest too when she’s nervous. Won’t be a difficult clue to spot if you can catch her when she’s working at Cheekie’s. They don’t leave anything to the imagination at that place.”
“Hey, boss,” Ramos’s voice came across the handheld radio again.
“Go ahead,” O’Hearn said.
“Negative on the bodies.”
Bowen shot a glance at Thibodaux at the news.
O’Hearn’s face darkened. “Say again.”
“I got plenty of blood, and what looks like brain matter on the floor and in the dumpster — but no bodies.
Bowen gave a slow shake of his head as he worked out the reality of what had happened. “The guy with the beard was a decoy. He drew us away long enough for someone else to move them.”
“All right, Ramos,” O’Hearn said into his radio. “Secure the scene and we’ll get CSU down there to see what they can find.” He took a business card out of his wallet and held it out to Bowen. “I’ll work on grabbing security footage from any street cams that happen to be working, if you want to start looking for Petyr.”
Thibodaux rubbed his palms together. “Vanishing bodies, killer Russian mobsters, and a blotchy spittin’ stripper — this is liable to get interesting.”
Chapter 17
It was after midnight by the time the Air Force C-12 Huron crabbed in over Nome to set down on an icy runway amid a stiff crosswind and blowing snow. The Air Force pilots handled the landing with steely-eyed grace, though Quinn was certain they wondered what was so important as to bring them out to Western Alaska in the middle of the night.
He’d been able to grab a short nap after they left Anchorage, but woke with a start an hour into the flight, his mind flooded with questions. It took him several hazy seconds to figure out where he was and what he was doing on a small plane with this blond woman who had her face pressed to the window. He found few answers even after his head cleared, so he sat with his eyes half shut, listened to the whir of the ventilation system, and rested his body, if not his mind, for the remainder of the flight.
The pilot, an Air Force Major named Sitz ducked his head to step around his seat and throw the lever for the door, before stepping back into the cramped cockpit to allow Quinn and Agent Beaudine enough room to exit.
Cold air flooded the stuffy cabin as soon as the door opened, bringing welcome relief along with the chill. Quinn was used to boarding and deplaning on the tarmac without the aid and protection of a skyway, so he’d put on his coat in anticipation of landing. Beaudine shivered and quickly shrugged on her coat. She didn’t complain about the cold, a fact that made Quinn feel slightly better about going on a mission with someone he knew next to nothing about.
A white Tahoe with the golden bear emblem of the Alaska State Troopers on the door idled fifty meters off the nose of the C-12 next to the ten-foot chain-link fence that secured the perimeter of the airport. The Tahoe sat in the shadows, just beyond the reach of the hazy yellow lights behind the Alaska Airlines terminal building. Exhaust vapor swirled around the back tires for an instant then disappeared, whisked away by the wind, making it feel colder than it actually was.
Just a few degrees below the Arctic Circle, temperatures in Nome could plummet to well below zero this time of year. Quinn guessed it was somewhere around twenty degrees — balmy weather by Nome standards — but the biting wind made it feel much colder. The Bering Sea had already brought in the first big storm of the season, and knee-high drifts and plow berms edged the fences and buildings. Pockets of snow clogged the gaps in the chain-link here and there like a giant crossword puzzle, remnants of the recent blizzard.
Quinn’s boots crunched as he trudged across the thin layer of crusted snow. The sea wind bit him hard on every exposed inch of skin. He resolved to get the wool liner for his jacket out of his pack at his first opportunity.
Beaudine ducked her head, a look of grim dismay seared into her face by the sudden cold.
The driver’s door swung open when they reached the Tahoe, and a smiling woman in a powder blue trooper jacket stepped out and waved. Her cheeks were a healthy pink. Matching rosy lips turned up in a natural smile. Blond curls stuck out from beneath her black wool watch cap. She didn’t have the battle-hardened look common to Alaska State troopers who’d spent much of their career assigned to the bush, and some might have considered her a pushover, but Quinn knew better.
“Jericho!” the woman said through her wide smile, grabbing him in a fierce hug that startled Beaudine enough she pedaled backward.
“Special Agent Khaki Beaudine from the Bureau,” Quinn said. He sniffed from the cold and stepped aside, giving the two women room to shake hands. “I want you to meet my mother’s younger sister — Trooper Abbey Duncan.”
Just three years older than Quinn, his Auntie Abbey was really more like a cousin. The two had virtually grown up together. They’d run the Mayor’s Marathon, the Crow Pass Crossing, and taken jujitsu classes together over the years. Other than harboring an unabashed hatred for motorcycles, which Quinn could partially overlook in a relative, she was the near perfect aunt. A senior in high school when he was a sophomore, she had been his first crush, though he’d never admit it. She’d stayed in Anchorage after high school, attending the University of Alaska. She’d taught middle school like Quinn’s mother but ultimately decided that putting felons in jail was preferable to grading papers and dealing with snotty parents.
“Khaki,” the woman said, taking Beaudine by the shoulders as if to size her up. “Is it a nickname?”
“Nope,” Beaudine said. “It’s on the birth certificate.”
“I love it.” Duncan hustled them out of the wind and into the Tahoe. “Call me Aunt Abbey.” She rested her hands on the steering wheel and waited for the C-12 to taxi out to the vacant runway. “You’re always into the big stuff, nephew, getting dropped off by an official Air Force plane that’s doing a turn and burn just to get you out here.” She drummed manicured thumbs on the wheel, glancing back and forth between Quinn, who sat in the front, to Beaudine, who was behind the Plexiglas prisoner screen.
“She’s the important one,” Quinn said, tossing a backward glance at Beaudine. “I came along to show her around.”
“Whatever you say.” Duncan smiled. She’d grown up in Alaska but for some reason had an accent like she was from Minnesota. “Anyways, you guys are lucky it warmed up. We’ve had one heck of a cold snap here for this early in the year. You gotta make sure you come by the house when you’re finished with your secret mission. Michael would love to see you.” She gave Quinn a chiding look. “Are you still riding those murdercycles?”
Quinn learned as a youngster that ignoring the question was much easier than arguing with Aunt Abbey.
“Our hotel’s the other way,” he said, as Duncan headed north off Seppala Drive at the end of the airport rather than continuing toward town and the Aurora Inn where he’d hoped to catch a few minutes of actual, horizontal sleep.
Her handsome face was tinged green in the glow of the dash lights when she turned to look at him. “I am familiar with Nome, my dear,” she said. “But we’re not going to your hotel. Not yet, anyhow. There’s been a break-in at the ticket office where your scientist passed through Customs.”