Frostbitten

PERKY

THE PROPER PROCEDURE for one journalist approaching another would be to stop at reception and ask to speak to her. Better yet, call or e-mail ahead and make an appointment, invite her out to coffee. Proper procedure would have had me waiting hours, even days, to ask a few simple questions.

One advantage to being a Canadian journalist is that Americans don't expect you to know the rules. You're like a small-town reporter in the big city-as long as you're polite and respectful, they'll excuse your charming ignorance.

When I walked into the newspaper office, the receptionist was on the phone. I sneaked around the potted plants and into the back hall. Then a guy with bristly red hair and a neon green tie stepped from an office, saw me and stopped. He gave me a once-over and straightened his tie.

"Can I help you?" he asked, with a look that said he hoped he could.

"Elena Michaels, Canadian Press." I showed my card. He didn't even glance at it. "I'm on vacation in Anchorage and someone mentioned the possible wolf attacks you've had. I was wondering if I might speak to Ms. Hirsch about her articles. It's a subject our readers would be very interested in."

He listened to my spiel and nodded appropriately, but I suspected I could say I was selling Tasers door-to-door and still he'd take me to Ms. Hirsch.

We walked. He asked where I was from, how long I was staying, what I'd seen of Alaska so far… I could have sworn we passed the same set of bathrooms three times before, on the fourth, we nearly collided with a man coming out.

My guide-Garth-stopped and introduced me to the editor, saying I was a visiting journalist. We were shaking hands when a woman came out of the ladies bathroom down the hall. She glanced our way. Garth called, "Mallory!" and waved her over as the editor left.

From the end of the hall, Mallory Hirsch could pass for late twenties, with short blond hair, a trim figure and stylish suit. But with each step our way, she gained a few years. By the time she reached us, I'd peg her at early forties, with a tight, expressionless face that suggested I could add another decade presurgery.

"Yes?" she said, her voice as tight as her skin. Her gaze slid over me, taking in my ski jacket, hiking boots and jeans with disapproval.

"This is Elena Michaels," Garth said. "She works for the Canadian press."

"Canadian Press," I said. "It's like Associated Press, only much, much smaller."

Garth laughed, too loud for the mild joke. Mallory's expression didn't flicker.

I repeated my spiel, expanding it to explain that we'd had wolf activity in Algonquin Park in the last few years, and I wanted to tie this into that as an examination of the issues surrounding humans and wolves sharing an ever-shrinking world. I thought it sounded good, but from the expressionless way she stared at me, you'd think I'd accidentally switched to French.

When I finished, she said nothing, just looked at me as if waiting for the rest of the explanation.

"So, I told Elena you could probably spare her a few minutes-" Garth began.

Her look made him shrink back.

"It really is only a couple of questions," I said. "I know how busy you must be-"

"Garth? You can go now."

He fled.

I continued. "I would love to buy you coffee. Or lunch."

"I've eaten. So you're looking for someone to write your story for you, Ms. Michaels? Crib from my article? Save yourself the legwork?"

"Um, no… as I said, I only have a few questions, ones that will launch my own investigation. And, of course, anything I discover, I'll share with you."

"Your own investigation?"

I sensed her hackles rising. "For my own article. For my own newspapers. I've already been to the general area where the deaths occurred, but… " I forced a smile. "It's a lot bigger country than I'm used to. If I had a better idea where the-"

"Everything I can tell you is in my articles. I presume you've read them?"

"Yes." Wanna quiz me?

She stepped back and did an openly critical assessment of me. "How old are you, Ms. Michaels?"

"I'm not fresh out of college, if that's what-"

"Married, I see. Kids?"

"Two," I said carefully.

"Little ones, I suppose?"

"Yes, but-"

"An outdoors type?" she said, taking in my boots and jacket.

"You could say that."

" Anchorage is an outdoorsman's dream. A full-service city minutes away from a wilderness filled with lakes, rivers, mountains, glaciers… "

"It is pretty amazing," I said.

"Warmer than you thought, too, I bet. No mounds of snow or sub-zero temperatures… "

"Having experienced sub-zero, it's a very pleasant surprise."

I smiled, but her expression didn't change. What was with the tourism spiel? Was she going to try selling me timeshares?

She continued. "Good city. All the amenities. The great outdoors in its full glory at your doorstep. The perfect place for a young family to relocate."

"Relocate?"

"But first, you need a job."

"Job? I don't need-"

"You're not in the building five minutes and you're already shaking hands with the editor. I bet you think that's all it takes, don't you? A backwater place like Anchorage, there can't be any real journalists here. Probably all housewives, churning out articles before the kiddies come home from school. You can just show up, the perky Canadian girl-"

"Perky?"

"-and you think a spot will open up for you. A good spot. Maybe my spot."

"Um, no. I'm sure Anchorage is a great place to live, but I've already got a life-someplace else. I'm here to talk about the wolf kills."

"I'm sure you are. And I have nothing to say about them that isn't in my articles."

She walked away.

GARTH HAILED ME as I reached the doors.

"Did Mallory give you anything useful?"

I made a noncommittal noise.

"I might have another story for you," he continued. "I've been covering the disappearances of young women."

"Oh?"

"We've had three vanish in the last few months. It might make an interesting article for your readers back home."

Sadly, even in Canada, three missing girls wasn't news. It should be. Believe me, I know that, and I can rail against it all I want, but unless they're three teens from good families, even the police paid little attention. When I'd been in Winnipeg this winter, enjoying their twenty-below temperatures, I'd been researching a series on missing and murdered local women. The police had almost twenty cases of unsolved sex-worker deaths in as many years. Many of the victims were young, many Native Canadians, and all prostitutes.

One of my reasons for doing the articles was that Jeremy had sent me there to check out potential werewolf activity. Young sex-trade workers and street girls were the preferred prey of werewolves, who know how little attention will be paid to the deaths. It turned out that a few of those deaths had been a mutt. But it would be odd to have a man-eater in Anchorage mixing vanished young women with men left lying in the open.

"Were the girls from Anchorage?" I asked.

"One was. Two were from Native communities farther inland. Why don't we go grab a bite to eat and discuss it?"

"I'd love to, but I'm supposed to meet my husband for lunch."

His gaze dropped to my hand. "Oh, right. Sure. Well, if you decide to run the story, call me."

He headed back into the offices without giving me his last name, card or any way to "call him." I reached the exterior doors this time before he hailed me again. He walked over, looking chagrined, as if realizing how it must look, taking off once he discovered I was married.

"About Mallory's story," he said. "The wolves. There's someone else you could talk to. A local woman who knows more about the case than anyone, including Mallory."

"Oh?"

He waved for me to step outside. It had started drizzling. We ducked under an overhang.

"Her name's Lynn Nygard," he continued. "She works for the state police. Mallory used her as a source, but I know she didn't give Mallory everything." Garth lowered his voice. "Mallory can rub people the wrong way."

Really? Huh. "Will Ms. Nygard talk to me?"

"Oh, sure. There's just one thing. Lynn has this theory about the deaths and it would, uh, help if you didn't… discourage it."

"Theory?"

He waved to a coworker stepping out for a cigarette, then lowered his voice. "She thinks they were killed by some kind of Inuit shapeshifter. There's a name for them-I can't remember it. You don't have to say you believe in them, just… "

"Don't laugh when she mentions it?"

"Exactly. If she warms to you, you can also ask about the missing girls. She has a theory on that, too."

"Alien abductions?"

He laughed. "Met a few Lynns in your time, have you?"

"I have. You said she works for the police?"

"They tolerate her eccentricities because she's the best damned crime-scene photographer and sketch artist in Alaska. Of course, according to her, that's because she's the reincarnation of Leonardo da Vinci."

"Ah."

"Yes, she loves that paranormal shit, but obsession can be good if you're looking for the best source of detailed information. You'll find Lynn in the phone book." He spelled her last name as I wrote it down, then gave me his card and offered, genuinely it seemed, to help if he could.

I CALLED CLAY from the SUV.

"How'd it go at the paper?" he asked.

"She called me perky."

"Ouch."

I told him about Mallory Hirsch. After he said a few choice words about that, I explained the lead on Lynn Nygard. "I called her place. No answer. I'm going to swing by there on my way, then grab lunch."

I MADE IT three blocks before Clay called.

"Change course, darling," he said.

"Did Reese show up?"

"Yeah. And we've got a situation."