Chapter Two

When a call comes in to the Anchorage Daily Standard news line, every reporter’s phone rings. Whoever picks it up deals with the tip, the request, or the angry reader.

Before social media, this urgent ringing across the room was exciting. Now, Twitter alerts for two of the young guns in the newsroom beat the news line’s call by ten minutes, and Stuart Murphy’s old school desk phone also rang before the general alert. Good contacts still rule. A hysterical new resident to Alaska’s largest city had reported a body.

“Whoa! Murder victim found on the coastal trail near Earthquake Park!” Only twenty-four, Rick Harris tracked a wide range of official and citizen Twitter feeds. He hunched his shoulders as he peered at his phone, the ubiquitous posture of his tech generation. He quickly scanned other tweets for more information.

“Hooker?”

Tom Harwood reached for his phone while he asked. Bitter about the rapid clip at which he was being technologically left behind, he impatiently scrubbed fingers through his gray hair.

“I’ll call Andy.” Harwood sounded put upon, such a burden to be the guy with a friend on the Anchorage police force. To Harwood it made up for the fact that he didn’t use social media and ‘cheep’ or ‘quack’ as he liked to call it after several drinks.

“Not unless hookers are eligible for social security.” Murphy dropped the receiver on the phone that had graced the left corner of his desk since 1979. “This woman was at least 75.” Murphy spoke without looking up from the notes he was jotting on the long pad gripped in his right hand, the left swiftly moving across the page. Stuart Murphy was as close to retirement as Harwood, but Murphy had cultivated much better connections through the years and still had a driving passion for news. He was decent, honest and didn’t burn his sources. Harwood was burned out and let whiskey do his talking too often.

The Daily Standard’s Managing Editor, Ed Brooks, walked out of his office and into the newsroom. He looked directly at his newest hire, Zilla Gillette.

“Gillette? You and Walker take this.” He turned back toward his office, knowing they’d follow. They did.

He spoke while staring out at the dark. “Some fuckheads worked this old broad over pretty bad.” Even though she had been born a modest Midwesterner, Zilla was used to coarse language in newsrooms.

“Why send us?” Ray Walker wouldn’t have asked that question a year ago, but he’d been re-assigned from the urban crime beat to work with Gillette on the main assignment she’d been hired for; covering militias and anti-government separatists.

Zilla knew immediately. “Wife or mother? What do you suspect Ed?”

Brooks continued to stare out the window, as if the milky old glass was hypnotic.

“Don’t know, but I’d guess mother. The anti government crowd wants young chumps who like violence and don’t ask questions. Their moms don’t like any of it. There could be a link here to Burke’s group of merry bastards.”

Alex Burke wasn’t a household name in the state, but to Gillette, Walker and Brooks, he had emerged as the leader of the Double Eagles Militia. They had been meticulous, documenting a widening circle of his followers.

It was 6:20 in the evening and Zilla’s plans for a work out and quick dinner went out the window.

Even through the closed glass door of Brook’s office, they could hear Harwood’s voice, ‘beaten, stabbed, no signs of sexual assault but a brutal attack just the same. Dumped on the coastal trail. A runner saw two thugs drop the body and run.’

Harwood wound down a bit as he quoted one of his most consistent and reliable sources inside the Anchorage Police Department. “Andy” wasn’t his source’s name, but rather than saying something that sounded silly like, “someone told me.” Or sounding like an asshole and saying “A little APD bird told me.” Harwood had the practical habit of giving his sources fictitious names.

Zilla knew this because Ray Walker had told her. She looked up at Walker now, his well-muscled arms crossed, his lanky body leaned against the bland wall of his boss’s office. Zilla caught his eye and he raised his eyebrows slightly in an “oh Andy,” mildly mocking way. She smiled. Through the door, Harwood continued his self-important diatribe as if the weight of all terrible crime in the city rested on his shoulders because he had moles in high places.

Ray straightened up. “So, we’ll head over there chief.” He looked at his watch instead of Brooks. They turned and walked out, needing no other instruction from their boss. Ray Walker had worked with Zilla Gillette for 13 months and knew what came next.

“I’ll head to the scene, you’ll head to APD?” She had moved to her desk and was grabbing her gear.

“Yep. Meet you back here, say 8:30?”

Zilla looked at him for a moment. “You want to come over for dinner? We can write up what we’ve got and file for the website, update tomorrow as we get more.” Raymond Walker looked slightly shocked.

“Really? Does Harwood’s talk of homicide make you hungry?”

“Hm. That is sort of a strange segue I guess.” Zilla shrugged. “But I can’t help it. Once I get done at the crime scene, I’ll need to do something to wind down and cooking always helps”

“It’s been a while since someone other than Ruby cooked for me.” Ray was starting to get excited about the prospect.

“Look, I didn’t say I was good at it, just hungry.” Zilla looked straight at him, her face serious.

“Oh.” Ray’s expression was so forlorn, she laughed out loud.

“I’m kidding, Mr. Walker. I know my way around a kitchen.”

“Ok, great.” Raymond’s big, friendly smile returned full watt. “What should I bring?”

“Stop and grab some wine after you’ve wrung all the information you can from the detectives. I’ve got everything else, chicken, rice, salad and some good bread. Sound ok?”

“Sounds great.” He headed for the door.

“Walker?”

He turned at her voice. “Yeah?”

“Some ice cream would be good too.”

He chuckled in that low, interesting way he had and shook his head as he turned back toward the newsroom door.

Zilla threw on her leather jacket, grabbed a notepad, pen and cell phone and crammed them all in various pockets as she left. She zipped up against the quickening gloom. It was 6:30.

As she walked to her car across the mostly empty parking lot, she had a sweet stab of remembrance for her dad and his cooking. She’d learned at age nine that if she wanted variety at mealtime, she’d have to learn how to cook, so she did. The memory came with the same confounding mix of comfort and happiness for a father who had been a good, kind man with the hollowed out feeling of knowing she’d never see him again. His funeral was two years back but still so fresh in her heart that the pain was raw in an instant. She focused on the meal regime he’d developed for them to overcome the sorrow of missing him.

He hadn’t been a creative or adventurous chef, but his simple meals were packed with good nutrition. Brown rice, veggies, fish, chicken. Always something raw every day, whether it was fruit, salad or vegetables, sliced fresh or steamed lightly. He fed Zilla like a coach fed an athlete in training because that’s what she was, that’s what they were. Practicing Tai Chi Chuan and Kung Fu form every day, he worked her hard. Running, weights, sparring. It was as if he’d decided he could drive off debilitating sorrow and depression over the brutal loss of Zilla’s mother by driving Zilla to focus on training to control herself, to shield her inner and outer being from the self destruction of pain and self pity.

He wanted her to be as safe as possible from bad people, especially men with ill intent toward his daughter. He wanted her to be able to break their nose if they attacked her, but he also wanted her to be able to exorcise the demon of horror that he knew was buried in her mind, rising in nightmares. He did the best he knew how to help Zilla live a life that kept her inner chemistry clean and her mind focused and sharp. He had saved her.

Her mind flashed an ugly and unwelcome memory. A little girl’s shoes, her shoes. Green and white and brand new. She’d loved them but could now only remember them splattered with blood.

Her mother’s blood.

Zilla opened her car door and shook off the weird, heavy connection her mind had created from making dinner for a friend and colleague to the death of her mother. Must be the impending winter blues, She thought gazing up at the bruise colored clouds floating in the dark sky.

Focus on work, then dinner and let the past stay where it is.

Good advice when she could get herself to take it. She inhaled the cool evening air deeply and blew it out toward the Chugach Mountains, knowing those enormous old sentinels could easily handle a puff of grief-tinged breath. She smiled, gave them a grateful little nod, got in her old Willys jeep and coaxed it into first gear. The steel sides shuddered as the engine coughed, then steadied. She pulled out of the lot and headed for the park and the glaring, portable lights and yellow crime scene tape, the grim hallmarks of these assignments.

Zilla recognized the black Chevy truck of Sergeant August Platonovich, the head of APD’s homicide division, as she pulled in to the Westchester lagoon parking lot. Platonovich was talking with three other officers as she walked up. A patrol car blocked most of the entrance. The intermittent blue wash of its rollers warned curious neighbors to stay back. Zilla held up her press badge.

“Giving statements yet Sergeant?”

“Hello Ms. Gillette. You’re here quite fast.” His Polish accent still distinct after two decades in Alaska.

She shrugged. “I get the assignment, I go. What can you tell me?” She flipped her notebook open, jotted the time and started writing, knowing Platonovich would tell her what he could without excessive coaxing. After a year of reading her stories and watching her meticulous work with officer interviews, he trusted her. At least as much as any cop ever trusts a reporter.

“We don’t know a lot yet. On background…She was killed somewhere else and brought to the trail. A jogger saw two men drop the body on the trail and run.”

“Did she describe them?” Gillette was didn’t look up from her rapid note taking.

“No, they had hoods on and it was nearly dark.”

“How does she know they were men?”

“Good question, but it’s hard to imagine two women dragging a body that distance.”

“How far?”

“At least 200 yards, from the upper parking lot to where they crossed paths with the runner. He paused, continued. “Again, this is off record at this point. Probably they planned to dump the body in the inlet and let the tide erase their mess.”

“Has anyone reported an elderly woman missing?” Still looking down, writing and flipping pages.

“Her son called, worried that she wasn’t home. He’s waiting for us to get done at the scene and move the body so he can i.d. her.”

“God, where is he?”

Platonovich nodded his head in the direction of the car with the slow flashers.

She looked up, surprised. “He’s here? Anything else you can tell me right now?”

No, I’m afraid not. There is much to be determined.” His intense blue eyes, as usual, revealed nothing. She thanked him and walked to the patrol car, leaning down slightly to look in the window. He was in the front seat and looked distraught. Zilla immediately recognized him. Del Warner, small time drug dealer and known Double Eagle militia associate. Brooks’ instincts had been spot on. This could be a way in to this group.

“Mr. Warner? My name is Zilla Gillette. I’m a reporter with the Anchorage Daily Standard. Could I talk to you for a couple of minutes sir?” She spoke in a low voice, hoping it would coax him into opening the car window. It didn’t.

“I ain’t talking to no reporters. My momma’s dead! Can’t you leave me alone?”

She pressed gently. “I’m sure you’re worried, but how can you be sure this person is your mother?”

He stared straight ahead, a baseball cap jammed over unkempt graying hair. His voice was at first so quiet she barely heard him. “Because I know.” Then angry. “Now leave me the fuck alone!” He flashed a look at her, anguish and of note to the sharp reporter…fear was in his eyes.

She reached in her pocket and tucked a card into the slot between the glass and the door. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

She walked back to Platonovich.

“Is he a suspect?”

His lips tightened for an instant. “Everyone close to the victim is a suspect in a homicide Ms. Gillette, you know that. However, Mr. Warner has an airtight alibi in this particular instance.”

“How so?”

“He’s been in lock up since last night. Picked up for traffic tickets and a bench warrant for failure to appear on a drug charge from a year ago. We were hoping to work him for information about where he’s getting the black tar he’s been peddling, but he was uncooperative and desperate to get out to check on his mother. He was very worried about her. Obviously with good reason.”

“Interesting.” Zilla jotted a few more notes. “He didn’t say why?”

“He did not. Would not”

“Thank you Sergeant. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

“I expected you would.” He nodded, his handsome features somber.

She shook his hand and took her leave.

##

As was often her habit, Zilla ended up making a more sophisticated meal than just chicken breast and salad. Other than martial arts drills, cooking was her favorite way to relax. She hit the preset on her radio for one of only two stations she listened to. Tonight it was the city’s urban Native station KNBA and the salsa music pulsing through the kitchen inspired her. When she wanted news, she tuned in KSKA.

Soon she was pounding the breast meat with a well used wooden mallet until it was flat enough to accept the scrumptious feta cheese, mushroom, fresh herb and black olive filling she’d whipped up. She rolled the meat around her concoction, tied and seared them in a hot pan before drizzling a bit of cranberry and orange sauce over the rounded tops and sticking them in the oven. The salad went together quickly and when Ray knocked on the door at 8:40, prompting an acknowledging woof from her chocolate lab buddy Buck, she had already cleaned up her prep dishes, set the table and was ready for some pre-dinner conversation.

“Hello Zee.” Ray Walker’s smile made women walk into street signs if he flashed it at them on a city sidewalk. Tonight the wattage was turned up full.

He lifted two bags. One clinked, hinting at the two bottles of wine within. The other had the solid blocky look of a container of ice cream.

“Two bottles? You’re not planning on getting me drunk are you?” She was teasing but also suddenly had a bit of discomfort, wondering if Ray had misread her invitation for a simple meal as an invitation for a date. As if reading it, he immediately put her mind at ease.

“On a school night? No way!” He laughed easily. “Ruby taught me that I should always bring a bottle to leave with my evening meal benefactor as a true expression of gratitude, rather than just one bottle that I’ll certainly help drink.” His smile could be heard in his voice. “I appreciate the invitation Gillette. People just don’t have friends over for dinner for no reason that often anymore. “ He was in the front glassed in porch, or arctic entry, shrugging off his coat.

“Wow, dinner smells great!” His enthusiasm was genuine and soon they were at the table, a glass of hearty Syrah in front of them, as they waited for the bread to warm in the oven. The talk turned to work.

“What did you find out?” Ray took a healthy draw from the deep red wine in his glass and turned expectantly to his colleague. Zilla ran through what Platonovich had given her and then casually lobbed out her best information.

“The son was there, in the cruiser. Guess who it was?”

“Really? Come on.” Ray held her gaze as he took another drink of wine.

“Del Warner! He was sure it was his mom. Brooks was right to send us. If it all confirms; we’ve got a murder potentially linked to Alex Burke.”

“Holy shit!” Ray sat up in his chair. “I don’t want to get too far out in front of it, but this could be huge.”

Zilla carried salad dressing to the small table. “How about you? What did you find out at APD?”

“Well”, he turned the stem of his wine glass thoughtfully, “She wasn’t robbed, has no criminal record and no family history of trouble, except her son’s minor drug offenses. Who would want her dead?”

“Maybe her son owed the wrong person drug money. Or maybe it really is linked to Burke, the so called General of the Double Eagles.” Zilla was pulling the food from the oven now and serving plates for them both.

Ray poured more wine and eyed with appreciation the plate set before him.

“Someone needs to get Warner to answer some questions.”

“He seemed sure the body would be his mother and he looked scared.”

“Think he’s the one that killed her?” Ray was slicing through the perfectly cooked chicken.

“No, Platonovich told me he was in lock up. Couldn’t have done it.”

Ray grinned. “Ah, your detective.”

“He’s hardly my detective Walker.” Zilla said. It was true she had quickly developed a good rapport with the head of the Anchorage Police Department’s homicide division since she’d started working assignments on the city beat and he was admittedly a sharp looking man, but Zilla was a professional and didn’t pollute her work with contacts by flirting with them.

It made her prickly to have it suggested.

“She doth protest too much.” Ray teased. “What did he have to say?”

“Not much, but they were planning to pump Warner for information on his drug connections. Platonovich would love to know where all the damn heroin is coming from. I suppose they were going to offer him a reduced sentence, but he said Warner was freaked out about his mother’s safety and wouldn’t talk.”

“Well, I’ll poke around tomorrow and see if I can roust a name or two from some of the people who sell to him.”

“Know a lot of drug dealers do you Walker?” Zilla was enjoying the delicious meal, but still took time to tease.

“Sure. It’s where I get some of my best leads and this story needs a break.”

“Ok super sleuth.” Then pouring the last of the wine, she affected her best Ed Brooks voice, their ferocious, gruff editor. “Get on it tomorrow Walker and hurry the hell up about it. This paper can’t write itself.”

At the end of the evening Zilla realized that just like Mo Scott, the tough but sensible and funny bartender at Ruby’s Bar, Ray Walker, Ruby’s son, had quickly become one of her favorite people and their friendship would be easy and relaxed.

Not that she couldn’t be attracted to him, how could you not if you were a straight woman with eyes? And although she’d grown up in a glaringly white part of the Midwest, she’d been raised by solid people who judged others by their character and how they treated their families, rather than skin tone or the size of their bank account. Ruby was as white as you could get and Ray’s father had been a black jazz musician from Louisiana. Ray’s mixed race heritage was of mild genealogic interest to her just as a friend who was Italian and Swedish might be, but it meant nothing else. She figured personal histories should be of most interest to those who carried them.

She was glad for the friendship of an intelligent man who didn’t have designs on wooing her into the bedroom. She wanted a comfortable partnership with a colleague she knew had tremendous reporting skill, so they could easily focus on their profession and not have to deal with the awkwardness of sexual interest. She loved her new gig and the next day caught an important break. Her newsroom line had a message from the elder Warner’s son Del. He wanted to talk, but not to the police. He wanted to talk to her. “Yeah Gillette. You need to meet with me. I got information you need. You’re gonna get a call about The General. But you better hear me out first.”