Free Bonereapers by Jeanne Matthews Page B

next corner, she discerned the words KAFFE & KANTINE in coruscating red neon and decided it was time to defrost and ask directions. She put her head down and waded through the snow toward the sign. By the time she reached the door, her nose felt brittle as a China cup. She pushed inside, blinked away the snow, and prayed that the establishment didn’t require that she take off her boots. She shrugged out of Erika’s parka, pulled off her balaclava, and shook her hair loose.
    “Is that you, Dinah Pelerin?”
    She looked around the dingy, dusky little café and saw Brander Aagaard slouched over a table near the back. His face was wreathed in cigarette smoke and he squinched his eyes as if he were drunk or nearsighted. “Come and sit down. What is it you Americans say? We can scratch each other’s backs, yes?”
    She stuffed her gloves and ski mask in the pockets of the parka and hung it on a peg beside the door. “Hello, Herr Aagaard.”
    “We Norwegians are the rustic strain of Scandinavians. We don’t stand on ceremony. I am Brander. Shall I call you Dinah?”
    “How do you know my name?”
    “It’s my business to know things. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
    “Yes, please.”
    He held up his hand to a man behind the counter. “Two more coffees, Lars. And another bottle of Akevitt.”
    “Right. Okay. Et øy eblikk .”
    Dinah edged her way between the tables, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “Have you heard about the murder of the protester? Are you investigating?”
    “Is the Pope Prussian?”
    She took that for a yes. “Where did it happen? Do the police know who did it? Have they made an arrest?”
    “In the alley behind the Beached Whale, directly across the street. No one claims to have seen who did it and no, there has been no arrest.”
    Aagaard plucked a pen from his rat’s nest of hair and opened his notebook. “Did the news of the murder disconcert your American senators?”
    If an admission of something that obvious counted as back scratching, she would scratch. “Yes, of course they were disconcerted.”
    “What did Sheridan say?”
    “He was afraid…he thinks you’ll use the situation to slime him.”
    Aagaard put down his pen and rumpled his hair with both hands. When he looked up, his grin was diabolical. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want me to tell you about the thief of their peace.”

Chapter Eight
    “It takes a warped sense of humor to hang a name like Fritjoe on an innocent child,” said Aagaard, pouring a tot of Akevitt into his morning cuppa. “It means thief of peace and he has fulfilled his prophecy admirably.”
    Dinah calculated how much grief she might bring on herself if she talked to this bird. Valerie’s admonition not to talk to him was practically an inducement to do just the opposite and, whether from a lack of patriotism or personal dislike, she didn’t feel any loyalty to either Senator Sheridan or Tillcorp. Aagaard probably had multiple sources. Nothing she said would necessarily be attributable to her. Even so, she hedged. “You go first. Who was this thief of peace?”
    “Fritjoe Eftevang was a stringer for a Swedish alternative newspaper and an all-around gadfly.”
    “He was your competitor then.”
    “Not on the same level. I write for a major Oslo daily. But he and I occasionally vied for scoops.”
    “You both seemed to have learned that Senator Sheridan would be bringing the Tillcorp CEO on his visit to Svalbard. How did you find out?”
    “Jake Mahler’s not known here in Norge, but he gives speeches all across the continent. I recognized him when he came off the plane.”
    “And you wanted to make Colt Sheridan squirm.”
    “I want to make everyone squirm. Squirming liars make good copy. I would have gone after Sheridan if he’d brought another campaign contributor with a scheme to sell. I’d have gone after him if he’d brought his mistress. Happen to know if he has one?”
    She tried to remain expressionless.