Frozen Treasure

FROZEN TREASURE

by

SEAN E. THOMAS

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright Ó 2013 by Sean E. Thomas

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-61160-603-4

Cover Artist: Gemini Judson

Editor: Dave Field

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

For my wonderful wife Doris, son Robert, nephew Raymond Michlig, my professor and mentor, Kim Rich, good friends Dorothy (Kaa-Saan-Da-Ooo), Jan (Nahx-oo-steh) and her father Walter (Taaw-Chun) who inspired and helped me in this and past endeavors.

Books by Sean E. Thomas Available at WCP:

Lost Legion August 2011.

Pulled from his honeymoon, Tlingit Alaska State Trooper Robert Sable investigates the murders of the governor’s brother and the brother’s friends. Clutched in the dead men’s hands are gold coins imprinted with the likeness of Augustus Caesar. In another, an ancient scroll chronicling a Roman legion’s voyage to Alaska.

Silent Killer October 2011.

Tlingit Alaska State Trooper Robert Sable investigates a serial killer who uses stealth and carbon monoxide to kill alumni from the class of 2000. The killer is exacting revenge for bullying and abuse in high school. The killer leaves minimal evidence, only a tiny smiley face with the number 2000.

Stalker May 2012.

More dangerous than Theodore Bundy and Robert Hansen combined, a serial killer calling himself Anubis stalks the cities and highways of Alaska. This killer leaves no trace. Now, the stalker has murdered a Seattle police detective. Alaska State Trooper Robert Sable must find the killer before he strikes again.

Alaskan Dutchman September 2012.

A prospector’s body is found near the railroad tracks south of Fairbanks. Rumors fly that the prospector had found the Dutchman, a mine of legend. The miner’s killers are closing on the mine’s location and as Sable follows the clues, they lead him closer to the killers and mortal danger.

Deadly Rites November 2012.

Priests are being crucified on inverted crosses. It appears priests are killing priests. Sergeant Robert Sable finds a similar trend across the lower 48 states heading straight for Alaska. The state has another serial killer. Sable must sort out the suspects and clues to find the killer.

Prologue

Where’s the damn log? The speaker seemed far away, his heavy Spanish accent making the words almost incomprehensible. Though the man wore a black ski mask and his massive size seemed to dwarf the room, he was barely visible through Edward Stone’s swollen, blood and tear-filled eyes.

What log? Stone croaked. Any real defiance was gone from his voice.

You heard me, the log book you found. The man was tall, muscular, and deadly. He was a blur, weaving in and out of Stone’s view threateningly. The gloves he wore dripped blood.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Don’t lie, the man said. He drove his fist into Stone’s face with a resounding crack. Another bone broke. The man continued pacing around the small office. He momentarily stopped and looked out the windows overlooking an empty parking lot illuminated by street lamps. It was covered with a fresh layer of snow.

I’m not lying. Stone stumbled over the words, his mouth feeling as if it were stuffed with oatmeal. Blood flowed from numerous cuts and gashes crisscrossing Stone’s face. Stone was alone in the university with no chance of help. He tried to adjust himself in an all too uncomfortable broken office chair, but every muscle in his body blazed with fire.

I know you’re lying. The man opened a plastic container, dug his glove into a red powder, spilling it from the container and gloves. He ground it into Stone’s cuts.

Stone screamed, but only a hoarse rasp came out as the compound burned into his wounds.

His voice rasped as a dull file on steel. No book.

Try this, the man said, forcing Stone’s mouth open. He poured the powder into Stone’s mouth.

Stone gagged as the powder sucked up all the remaining moisture and set his mouth aflame in excruciating pain as it burned and blistered. Stone wretched and sputtered, trying to get the toxin out.

The man roared in laughter. What about the codices?

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

I’ve heard you have them.

You’ve been smoking something.

The thug shook his head.

Stone spit the powder toward the man’s face, but his mouth was too dry and only a small amount of powder came out. The man dodged the futile effort.

I know you have it. One of my men gave it to you.

There is no damn book—no codices, he croaked in a barely audible whisper.

My men and I searched your house, tore up the carpeting, ripped out the safe, and it’s not there.

He studied Stone and picked up a tall paper drink cup from the edge of the desk. He savored the taste. I met your fiancé. She was very cooperative.

Darby. What have you done to her? Fear closed his throat and beads of sweat mixed with the blood as it ran down his face.

She’ll be safe so long as you give me the log book of Don Salvador Fidalgo, his tormentor said and sneered defiantly.

She’s either dead or you’ll kill her anyway. Tears washed away some of the blood in his eyes. Stone squinted, but he could barely make out his empty bookshelves and the books scattered across the room. His face was on fire from the strange compound. The masked man had ripped open desk drawers and cabinets, and strewn papers across his office.

Okay, she’s dead. The man shrugged. That should encourage you to tell me.

Fuck you. The chair seemed to sink away from under him. At that moment, nothing seemed important to him except to be insolent to his last breath.

I don’t think I’d enjoy it, the man said.

You’re going to kill me anyway—go ahead. Do it.

I’m losing my patience. We can do this all night or I can make it easy and kill you now. Where’s the damn book?

You’re chasing ghosts. The book doesn’t exist. I burned it. Stone knew death was inevitable. His secret was safe and would die with him. He’d arranged for the log to be sent to a friend, a state trooper, in case of his death.

The masked man threw a haymaker to Stone’s face. His head snapped back and an electric shockwave ran up his neck. Stone grunted. Another broken bone.

Stop lying. I know it does, he said. Fidalgo talked about finding the Aztec war canoes in his memoirs.

Fidalgo was seeing things.

Even your colleague from APU, Michael Jones, broke before he died. With his dying words, he said you had it.

You’re lying. Stone tried to place the man’s voice, but with the whooshing and roaring noises running through his head, he couldn’t make sense of it. The words blended together. Del Olmo, I know it’s you.

I’m much worse, the man growled.

Hector? Salazar?

No.

Who are you?

Call me Buscador de Oro.

How about something more original than Gold Seeker?

Okay. Call me the king maker. I have the money and power to destroy political careers. Now, give me the damn book.

Stone spat out a small amount of blood and shrugged. Pain arced across his body. Kill me.

It can be hard or easy. Buscador de Oro pulled a silenced 9mm Browning and placed it against Stone’s knee. Last chance.

Stone braced himself. The 9mm gave a soft psst and he felt excruciating burning as the bullet shattered it. He couldn’t help himself. He screamed.

Go ahead, scream all you want. There’s no one here.

Phillip’s here.

Oh, the janitor. Buscador de Oro let out a bored sigh and placed the pistol against the other knee. Dead.

Others will come.

Sorry. No one’s here. He fired, breaking the other knee cap.

Stone whimpered.

That’s what you get for working late on President’s weekend—no one else crazy enough to be around, not even the students.

You won’t ever get Fidalgo’s log. Stone huffed, trying to catch his breath, trying to maintain sanity.

I will. Buscador de Oro placed the pistol against Stone’s right shoulder.

Stone sucked in the air and steeled himself, but it came out as a cough. I sent the journal to someone more dangerous than you.

He pulled the trigger. Who’s that?

Stone groaned. When he finds out what happened to me, you’re a dead man.

No, you are. Buscador de Oro fired again, this time into Stone’s left shoulder.

Stone screamed and lost consciousness, his head slumping on his chest.

The man pushed Stone onto the floor and put a bullet in his head. Buscador de Oro searched the office one last time, then walked into the night.

Chapter 1

Sergeant Robert Sable stood outside the yellow tape of the crime scene—one of the smaller offices at the University of Alaska Anchorage. The hallway was barely lighted. He blinked as he looked into the bright office and wiped the sleep from his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he tried to bring himself to a state of alertness. Not even the extreme cold of the morning had worked. He slipped off his parka and tossed it over a chair near the door.

Your hair gets whiter every time I see it, Sergeant Hugh Conner said. The trooper stood a half foot taller than Sable. I’ve never seen a guy with white hair as young as you, especially a Tlingit.

He’s half Tlingit, Raven Clan. The other half’s Scandahoovian, Sergeant Aaron McCabe said. McCabe, Sable’s partner, was part Cherokee and towered over Conner.

Sable ran his hand though his hair, then took a clipboard from Conner. This job’ll do it to you.

I hope not.

He ain’t kidding, McCabe said and emulated Sable.

Yeah, but you’re an old fart who just looks young, Conner said.

Who’s the victim? Sable took the pen dangling from a chain and scratched his name on the log.

Dr. Edward Robert Stone, an archeology professor, Conner said. Though it was two a.m., his uniform was wrinkle-free.

Who reported it?

David Thomas, one of the janitorial team. I questioned him and released him.

What about Stone? McCabe asked.

He’s pretty messed up. Kalidasa and Davenport are in there. Stevens is down the hall with the other janitor, John Phillips. He was stuffed in a closet. One bullet to the pump.

Can’t these murderers kill their victims during the day? McCabe yawned.

Then get a day job. Sable slipped on white boots and latex gloves, then tentatively placed the face mask on top of his head.

Like the Army, I love the adventure. McCabe followed suit.

Sable stepped into the room and took it in. Papers and books were strewn across the floor as though they’d been tossed in a Mixmaster. File and desk drawers were open and empty. The medical examiner, Wally Davenport, leaned over the body, studying it while CSI Ashoka Kalidasa dusted for prints.

What’s the strange smell?’ Sable asked. It’s almost burning."

Kalidasa hadn’t heard him.

Sable slipped the mask down. What’s this powder in and around the body and on the desk and chairs?

It’s not toxic. I ran a few tests just in case, Kalidasa said.

And?

It’s some type of pepper, Kalidasa said. I haven’t figured out how it fits in yet.

Someone must have really hated the professor. McCabe stepped up behind Sable.

Or wanted something they considered important. Sable carefully picked his way across the room.

An archeology prof. Hopefully, it’s not like Landen and his friends. McCabe referred to the murder of the governor’s brother and the brother’s friends.

I doubt it, Sable said.

Davenport looked up at McCabe. Jim, he’s dead.

From the bullet between the eyes. Sable suppressed a smile. Davenport was trying to get McCabe’s goat, because he was a Star Trek fan.

You nailed it. Davenport pushed himself up on his cane.

"I’m glad you appreciate Trek," McCabe said.

Find anything useful? Sable asked.

Other than being beaten, tortured and shot to death, not a damn thing, Davenport said, bracing himself on the desk. While in the Gulf War, Davenport, an Army Reserve doctor, took several wounds to his chest, lost his right leg and had a bullet lodged next to his spine. The Army Reserves gave him a medical retirement and the doctors said he’d never walk again, but he proved them wrong.

Sable shook his head. Damn.

Davenport waved his cane. The most cooperative man in this world is a dead man. Once I get them on my table they tell me everything.

I recognize that quote from ‘A Piece of the Action,’ McCabe said, referring to a Star Trek episode.

Kalidasa stretched, groaned and said in a stilted British-Indian accent, I have fingerprints and bloody glove prints. The prints are probably from students and professors and the gloves from the killer.

Speculation.

Stevens’ll kick my ass for making such an assumption.

Anything significant in the mix? McCabe asked.

The usual—hair and fibers.

I know. You have to get them back to the lab to sort them out. Sable studied the desk. The monitor, keyboard and cabling were there, but the computer was missing. Computer on its way to the lab?

Kalidasa shook his head and stood. He was a few inches shorter than Sable and his perpetual summer tan seemed darker than Sable’s. It was gone when I arrived.

Sable’s cell phone buzzed, and he raised a finger to his lips. He looked at the screen. It was Captain Carl Owen. Whatcha got, chief?

Another murder, a Doctor Michael Jones. This time the murder’s on the Alaska Pacific University campus, Owen said. They may be related.

How so? Sable asked. Alaska Methodist University had become APU after the Methodist church dropped its support for it.

McCabe sidled up, leaned in and tried to listen to the conversation.

Both were my friends.

Sorry to hear it.

Head on over to APU and see what you can dig up. Coleman’s on scene.

Will do. Sable closed the phone.

Sounds like the chief, McCabe said.

Sable told him.

Open season on professors, McCabe said. I’ll bet it’s treasure again.

Not necessarily. What’s with you and gold? Sable asked.

It’s the reason for a lot of murders.

Sable turned to Davenport. We have to leave and so do you. There’s a body at APU.

That’s all I need—a triple slammer on a weekend.

Let me get the district attorney to release the bodies and I’ll meet you there.

Before you leave, Kalidasa said, I need to ask you something.

Shoot. Sable shook his head. He knew Kalidasa would have a corny joke.

How far did you have to drive on square tires at—forty below—this morning before they eventually became normal?

Neither of us, McCabe said. We’re both smart enough to have garages.

I guess I was being too obtuse, Kalidasa said. Do you know what the difference is between roast beef and pea soup?

Okay, I’ll bite, McCabe said.

Anyone can roast beef.

Sable groaned and headed to the door.

Here’s something that a trooper would appreciate, Kalidasa said. If someone with multiple personalities threatens to kill himself, is it considered a hostage situation?

Sable waved as he went out the door.

A tall man with disheveled salt and pepper hair and wearing a heavy parka open at the front blocked his path. Sergeant Sable?

Guilty as charged, Sable said. How may I help you?

I’m Martin Boucher, dean of the College of Arts and Sciences. Boucher offered his hand. I understand Dr. Stone’s been murdered.

Sable nodded. Yes.

Is there anything I can do to help?

Did Dr. Stone have any enemies?

Not that I know.

Students who didn’t like him? McCabe asked.

Boucher shook his head.

Was he married or had a girlfriend? Sable asked.

His fiancé was Darby Edwards. They live together.

Address?

Boucher gave it to him and Sable wrote it down.

What about his parents? Are they living? McCabe asked.

They’re in Portland, Oregon.

We’ll need his parents’ address and then a list of Stone’s colleagues, friends and current and past students. Please send the list to my e-mail address. Sable handed him his business card. I need a copy of his personnel file. Send it to my office.

I’ll get them for you immediately.

In the next day or so, we need to talk to his colleagues. They may be able to give a clue why he was murdered.

I’ll arrange it.

We’ll need a place to conduct the interviews, McCabe said.

Not a problem. I’ll set aside one of our conference rooms.

You should go home; we’ll talk later, Sable said.

Why would someone do this?

I don’t know, but we’ll get to the bottom of it, Sable said.

Thank you.

Chapter 2

Grant Hall’s second floor main hallway’s fluorescent lights nearly blinded Sable as he entered through the back door. He stomped on the grates to remove the snow from his boots. The clatter echoed in the hallway. Down the hall, Sergeant Brad Johnson stood outside the victim’s office. As Sable joined him, he handed Sable the clipboard. Watch out. Coleman’s on a rampage this morning.

Good to know, Sable said. Who found Doctor Jones?

The janitor, an Alexander Zappa, found him at one-thirty a.m.

He still here? Sable slipped on the white boots, paper cap and latex gloves. McCabe did likewise.

Yes. I let him go back to work.

How’d Jones die? McCabe asked.

Someone beat the shit out of him, cut off fingers, ears, then pumped bullets into his joints. Finally, he shot him in the head.

The killer really wanted something, McCabe said.

But what was it?

Sable entered a small office only a few steps across. Even from the outside office, Sable could smell the burning scent of the peppers. It was the same as at Stone’s. At the back of the office, a door stood open, revealing CSI Kara Coleman hunched over the desk, dusting for prints. She was a petite dark-haired woman dressed in an all-white forensic suit. She wore a face mask. Several feet from her, Jones’ body lay crumpled in a corner. As with Stones’ office, the place had been turned topsy-turvy with books, files, and papers scattered throughout.

Coleman stood, stretched and sent an icy stare. Careful, she said in a light Hispanic accent.

Find anything odd?

This damn dust is all over the place, she said.

The computer’s missing—no help there, McCabe said.

Duh, she said. "Kalidasa called me. Said he has