by Nora Roberts
"She could."
Jacob dried his hands, picked up the packages of meat. When he turned, Nate saw he wore an amulet around his neck. A dark blue stone over a faded denim shirt.
"I've talked to people." He walked into the little mudroom where Meg kept a small chest freezer.
"People who aren't so willing to talk to police. People who knew Pat and Two-Toes." He began to stack packages in the freezer. "I'm told, by these people who will talk to me and not the police, that when Pat was in Anchorage, he had money. More money than was usual for him."
He closed the freezer, walked back into the kitchen. "I'm having a whiskey now."
"Where'd he get the money?"
"He worked a few days at a cannery, took an advance on his pay, I'm told. He used it to play poker." Jacob poured three fingers of whiskey into a glass. Held a second glass up, with a question on his face.
"No, thanks."
"I believe this may be true, because he liked to play, and though he often lost, he would consider it. . . payment for the entertainment. It seems this time he didn't lose. He played two nights, and most of one day. Those who talk to me say his winnings were big. Some say ten thousand, others twenty, others more. It may be like a fish and grows bigger with the telling. But there's agreement that he played and won and had money."
"What did he do with the money?"
"That, no one knows, or admits to knowing. But some say they saw him last drinking with other men. This isn't unusual, so no one can say who the men were. And why should they remember such a thing over so long a time?"
"There was a whore."
Jacob's lips curved, just a little. "There always is."
"Kate. I haven't been able to locate her."
"Whoring Kate. She died, maybe five years ago. Heart attack," Jacob added. "She was a very large woman and smoked two, maybe three, packs of Camels a day. Her death wasn't much of a surprise."
Another dead end, Nate thought.
"Did these people who talk to you but not to cops tell you anything else?"
"Some say Two-Toes flew Pat and two others, or three others, no more than that, to climb. Some say to climb Denali, some say No Name, some say Deborah. The details aren't clear, but there's memory of the money, the pilot, the climb and two or three companions."
Jacob sipped his whiskey. "Or I could be lying and be the one who climbed with him."
"You could," Nate acknowledged. "It'd be ballsy. A man who hunts down a bear's got balls."
Jacob smiled. "A man who hunts down a bear eats well."
"I believe you. But I could be lying."
This time Jacob laughed and downed the rest of the whiskey. "You could. But since we're in Meg's kitchen, and she has love for us both, we can pretend to believe each other. She has more light now. She's always been bright, but now she's brighter, and she burns off the shadows in you. She can take care of herself. But. . ."
He took the glass to the sink, rinsed it, set it to drain, then turned back. "Take care with her, Chief Burke. Or I'll hunt you down."
"Noted," Nate replied when Jacob walked out.
Twenty-Eight
Nate bid his time. It seemed he had plenty of it. Since he made it a point to stop by The Lodge restaurant and see Jesse daily, it wasn't a problem to find an opportunity for a private word with Charlene.
He found Rose taking advantage of a mid-morning lull by sitting down in a booth refilling condiment dispensers.
"Don't get up," he said when she started to slide out. "Where's my buddy today?"
"We have cousins down from Nome, so Jesse has playmates for a few days. He's been showing off his uncle, the deputy," she said with a smile. "But he wants to bring them all into town to meet his good friend, Chief Nate."
"Really?" He could feel his own grin spreading from ear to ear. "Tell him to bring them on, and we'll give them a tour of the station." And he'd radio Meg, see if she could find him a bunch of toy badges when she picked up supplies.
"You wouldn't mind?"
"I'd get a kick out of it."
He leaned over to take a peek at Willow in her carrier. "She's awfully pretty."
He could say it with truth now. Her cheeks had grown plump and sort of pinchable. And her eyes, so dark, seemed to latch on to his as if she knew things he didn't.
He held out a finger. Willow wrapped hers around it, shook it.
"Is Charlene in her office?"
"No, in the storeroom off the kitchen. Doing inventory."
"Okay if I go back?"
"You'll want a flak jacket," Rose warned as she dumped ketchup into a bright red squeeze bottle.
"She's been in a mood the last few days."
"I'll risk it."
"Nate. Peter told us about the commendation. He's so proud. We're so proud. Thank you."
"I didn't do anything. He did."
Since her eyes filled, he made his escape quickly.
Big Mike was at the counter making what looked like enough salad to feed an army of rabbits. He had the radio on to local, and Yo-Yo Ma's deep and passionate cello streamed out.
"Crab Florentine a la Mike's the lunch special," he called out. "Buffalo salad for the heartier appetites."
"Yum."
"You going in there?" Mike asked when Nate turned toward the storeroom. "Better take a sword and shield."
"So I hear." But Nate opened the door, and since you could never tell with Charlene, left it open for safety's sake.
It was a large, chilly room lined with metal shelves that were loaded with canned and dry goods.
A couple of tall coolers held tubs of perishables, with a chest freezer squeezed in between them.
Charlene stood among them, briskly scribbling on a clipboard.
"Well, I know where to head in case of thermonuclear war."
She flipped him a glance, one that held none of her usual steamy come-on. "I'm busy."
"I can see that. I just want to ask you a question."
"Nothing but questions out of you," she muttered, then raised her voice to a shout. "I'd like to know why we're down to two cans of kidney beans."
Big Mike's answer was to turn the radio up.
"Charlene, give me a couple of minutes and I'll be out of your way."
"Fine, fine, fine!" She slapped the clipboard against a shelf, hard enough that Nate heard the wood crack. "I'm just trying to run a business here. Why should that matter to anybody?"
"I'm sorry about whatever's bothering you, and I'll make this as quick as I can. Do you know anything about Galloway having substantial poker winnings between the time he left here and when he went up the mountain?"
She made a sound of derision. "As if." Then her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, substantial?"
"A few thousand anyway. I've got a source that says he might've played a couple of nights and hit."
"If there was a game, he probably played. He hardly ever won, though, and hardly ever won more than a couple hundred if he got lucky. There was that one time in Portland. He won about three thousand.
And we blew it on a fancy hotel room, a big steak dinner, a couple bottles of champagne from room service. He bought me an outfit for it. A dress and shoes, and a pair of little sapphire earrings."
Her eyes went shiny. But she shook her head and shoulders briskly and dried the tears up on her own. "Stupid. I had to sell the earrings in Prince William to pay for motorcycle repairs and supplies. Lot of good they did me."
"If he had won money, what would he have done with it?"
"Pissed it away. No." She laid her forehead on one of the shelf posts, and looked so tired, so lost, so sad that he risked rubbing her shoulder.
"No, not right then. He knew I was on a tear about money. If he'd gotten his hands on some, he'd have played a little maybe, but he'd have held on to the bulk of it, so he could bring it home and shut me up."
"Would he have banked it? In Anchorage?"
"We didn't have a bank in Anchorage. He'd've stuffed it in his pack and hauled
it home for me to deal with. He didn't have any respect for money. A lot of people that come from it don't."
She lifted her head. "Are you saying there was money?"
"I'm saying there's a possibility."
"He never sent any home that time. He never sent home a dime."
"If he had money and was going on a climb?"
"He'd have left it stuffed in a drawer, if he kept his' room. Or if he didn't keep his room, he'd have taken it with him. The State Police didn't say anything about money."
"He didn't have any on him."
None, Nate thought as he went out again. No wallet, no ID, no cash. No pack. Just matches and the journal, zipped into the pocket of his parka.
On the sidewalk, he took out his notebook. He wrote down money, circled it.
The saying was "Follow the woman," he thought, but a cop knew if money was around murder, you always, always followed the money.
He wondered how he could find out if anyone in Lunacy had come into a tidy little windfall sixteen years before.
Of course, it was just as likely Galloway kept a room, left the money in it. And the maid, the owner or the next person to occupy it just got really lucky.
Or he'd taken it with him in his pack. His killer hadn't opened it up before he'd tossed it into a handy crevice.
But why should the killer take the pack at all if not for a reason? For supplies—and woo-hoo, look what else we've got here. Or just to dump it in a panic, thinking if the body was found it wouldn't be identifiable.
But if there had been money, Nate was willing to bet the killer had known it was there and had helped himself. Who—?
"People might wonder why they're paying taxes so the chief of police can daydream out on the street."
He shook himself back, looked down at Hopp. "Are you everywhere?"
"As often as possible. I'm on my way in to get a cup of coffee and brood. And plot." She wore irritation on her face as visibly as she wore her green-checked shirt.
"What's up?"
"John Malmont just tendered his resignation. Says he's leaving at the end of the school year."
"Leaving teaching?"
"Leaving Lunacy. We can't afford to lose him."
She took out her Zippo, but only stood snapping the top open and shut. Talk around town was she was wearing the patch.
"He's a superior teacher, and added to that, he's helping Carrie with The Lunatic, he runs all the school plays, heads up the yearbook committee, puts us on the tourist map with articles he gets published in magazines. I've got to sit down and figure out how to keep him."
"Did he say why he decided to leave? All of a sudden?"
"Just that it was time for a change. One minute we're planning our summer book club, which he heads up, and the next he's packing. Son of a bitch!"
She rolled her shoulders. "I'm having coffee and pie. Pie a la mode." She snapped the lighter violently. "That'll get the brain cells working. He's not leaving without a fight."
Interesting, Nate thought. Interesting timing.
* * *
Burke had to go. That was the bottom line now. Poking and prodding into matters that were none of his business.
Well, there was more than one way to run a pain-in-the-ass cheechako out of town. There were those who said Burke had risen above that status now that he'd survived his first winter.
But he knew some remained cheechakos no matter what they survived.
Galloway had been one. When push came to shove, he'd been gutless and mewling and sneaky.
Most of all sneaky.
The man had been an asshole, pure and simple. Why should anyone give a damn that he was dead?
Done what had to be done, he told himself as he carried the heavy plastic bags through the woods.
Just like he was doing what had to be done now.
Burke would be dealt with. Another gutless, mewling, sneaky asshole. Oh, my wife left me for another man. Woe is me. Oh, I got my partner killed. Boo hoo. I have to run away where nobody knows me so I can wallow in my own muck of self-pity.
But that wasn't good enough. Had to try to be a big shot. To take over what wasn't his. Could never be his.
Yeah, he'd be dealt with, and life would get back to normal.
He hung the plastic bags in the trees closest to the house while the dogs whined and batted their tails.
"Not this time, boys," he said aloud and hung another from the eave by the back door, just out of sight of the doorway. "Not this time, fellas."
He gave the dogs a brisk rub, but they were more interested in sniffing at and licking his hands.
He liked the dogs. He'd liked Yukon. But that old dog had been half blind, arthritic and damn near deaf on top of it. Putting him down had been a mercy, really. And had made a point.
He walked back toward the woods, stopping at the edge to look back. There were some patches of earth where the snow was busily melting in the sun, where the rains had washed it clear. A few sprigs of green were rising out of it.
Spring, he thought. And once the ground thoroughly warmed, they'd bring Pat Galloway home for the last time.
He planned to stand at the grave site, with his head respectfully bowed.
* * *
It was just softening to twilight when Nate got home. He waited by the side of the road while Meg walked over from the lake, over boggy green with thinning patches of snow, he noted.
She carried a box of supplies and wore a bright red shirt that