Why not?

“What?” Victoria said. “You’re afraid you won’t be paid?”

Kate looked at the proud chin, which was trembling a little now, and forbore to answer in kind. “I’m so sorry,” she said again.

Victoria was sitting in her usual fashion, straight-backed, head up, fixing Kate with a fierce, fearless eye. Kate felt that same reluctant admiration that she had before, but she needed answers and she needed them now. “I’ve been doing some research, Ms. Muravieff. Thirty-two years ago, your father laid off over a thousand Bannister employees and replaced them with contract hires. A company isn’t required to pay the same benefits to a contract employee as a union employee-health benefits, a retirement plan, workman’s comp, things like that. What’s more, he did it in the middle of the construction of the TransAlaska Pipeline, the biggest cost-plus contract in the history of this planet, when union members had the pipeline consortium by the short hairs and twisted them to their heart’s content. Teamsters rioted at Isabel Pass when they were refused steak for lunch, seven-ninety-eighters refused to share living space with other unions, and electricians walked thirty at a time when the plumbers got Sundays off with pay and they didn’t. Average union wage with overtime was something like twelve hundred dollars a week, back when twelve hundred dollars a week was real money. They were pretty much sitting up and begging to be slapped down, and your father was the first one to do so. He was hailed as a hero by every corporate owner in the state, and his action was a snowball that started a landslide, leading to the beginning of privatization of state services.”

Kate paused. Victoria’s breath was coming a little faster, but her expression was graven in stone. “You were quoted in the press as being adamantly opposed to that action. You marched with the employees. There are pictures of you holding a sign that read ‘People Before Profits.” You excoriated your father in the newspapers, on radio and television, all over the state. You even made it to the Washington state papers, and I found at least one op-ed piece in the Wall Street Journal. They hammered you, but consider the source.“

Jolted out of her grief, Victoria said involuntarily, “You’ve done your homework.”

“It’s what I do,” Kate said, who was still nauseated from yet another dose of microfiche. “Did your action against your father have something to do with the fire at your home and the death of your son?”

“No,” Victoria said. She sounded very calm, a little too calm.

“He was probably at that fund-raiser you and Charlotte went to that evening. He probably knew you would be there. Maybe he didn’t mean to kill anyone. Maybe it was just supposed to be a warning to you, to shut you up, to stop you organizing the peons, so he could continue to rip off the average Alaskan Joe in the best tradition of robber barons since J. P. Morgan. It’s not like it’s a new story in American history, after all. At least your father spent what he ripped off right here in the state, instead of retiring Outside to spend it all in Palm Springs.”

“No,” Victoria said, refusing the carrot. She wouldn’t implicate her father even if it meant exonerating herself.

Kate tried very hard not to lose her temper. For one thing, it wasn’t fair. Kate could walk away, Victoria couldn’t. For another, it was usually unproductive of anything except fear in her target. Although Victoria did not look noticeably fearful. “Look, Ms. Muravieff,” Kate said tightly, “it’s obvious that the death of your daughter Tuesday night is connected in some way to the death of your son William thirty-one years ago.”

“I don’t see why,” Victoria said with flinty composure.

“Come now,” Kate said a little impatiently. “I show up and start asking questions about a thirty-one-year-old homicide, moreover a closed case, a case for which someone has been convicted and imprisoned, and suddenly people related to the case start dying, including the one who hired me to ask the questions. Seems like, gosh, cause and effect.”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Victoria said, and waved a hand at her surroundings. “It’s not like I could have seen anything. I don’t get out much, you know.”

“There has been another death,” Kate said, and placed on the table in front of Victoria the head shot O’Leary had given her. “Someone killed him hours before my associate had a chance to ask him any questions, and then tried to kill my associate, as well.”

She watched Victoria, but the woman had herself well in hand. She raised her eyes to look at Kate. “I don’t know who that is,” she said in a voice like flint, but Kate heard the quaver beneath.

“Ms. Muravieff-”

“I don’t know him,” Victoria repeated in a stronger voice. “If that’s all, Ms. Shugak, I have work to do.”

15

Kate left Hiland Mountain ready to wash her hands of the whole damn Bannister clan. Instead, she went to the Pioneer Home to talk to Max.

He was getting beaten at checkers by a wizened old man who cackled like a hen every time he made a double jump, and he was cackling pretty much nonstop when Kate marched up. Max greeted her with evident relief. “Shugak!” he said. “My girlfriend,” he explained to his opponent.

“I need to talk to you,” Kate said.

“I thought I might be seeing you.”

“You catch the news last night?”

“Don’t sleep much anymore,” he said. Max noted the militant gleam in her eye, the stubborn set of her jaw, and the way her shoulders somehow resembled a battering ram. “About time for lunch, ain’t it?” he said.

She took him back to Club Paris. The staff recognized him (and Kate, who had left a very nice tip behind last time) and upon request, the maitre d‘ seated them in the very last booth. They’d get a lot of action from the kitchen but wouldn’t be seen by the other diners.

“Is this a three-martini luncheon?” Max said, settling in for the duration with a look of anticipation on his wrinkled face.

“If I drank, it would be a five-martini lunch,” Kate said, “but I’m in kind of a hurry, Max.”

“Like that, eh?” he said, and ordered a double, “and keep a watch, darlin‘, ”cause when the glass is empty, I’d like another ready to go at my elbow, okay?“

The waitress, smiling, promised to keep an eye, and when they were served, she vanished discreetly. Max took a long, continuous swallow and put the glass down with a loud smack of his lips. “That’s the stuff,” he said, and gave her a long, considering look. “You don’t drink?”

Kate shook her head.

“Recovering?”

She shook her head again.

He nodded. “Opposed to firewater on general principles, then. You’re missing out.”

Kate, who would have made all the alcohol in the world disappear with the snap of her fingers if it were in her power, said, “I don’t think so. I need your help, Max. I’ve got two people dead and one person wounded and I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

He settled into his seat like a race car driver waiting for the flag. “Tell me all about it, Kate my girl.”

She took a deep breath and then laid it all out, in order-the sequence of events that had begun when she drove into the clearing in front of her house and found Charlotte Muravieff waiting for her.

Max grunted. “Who’s the guy in the hospital again?”

“Kurt Pletnikoff. I hired him to look for Eugene Muravieff and Henry Cowell.”

“Did he find them?”

“He called me and told me to meet him at this cabin at Jewel Lake. I went there and two men started shooting at me. They’d already shot Kurt in the chest, and another man in the head, probably earlier that morning. I found this in the dead man’s bedroom.” She produced the photo of the three kids.

Max got out a pair of reading glasses and perched them on the tip of his beaky nose. “That would be William, Oliver, and Charlotte Bannister when they were kids, be my guess.”