Dana Stabenow - Whisper to the Blood

"Your rifle, too?"

She looked mock shocked. "Of course."

Her enthusiasm was contagious, and he warmed to her. "Should be a great trip, so long as the weather holds."

She shrugged. "I've been snowed in in Bush Alaska before. I'll bring a deck of cards."

He ate another french fry. "I have to say that snow machining down the Kanuyaq sounds like a lot more fun than eating bacon and eggs with the Cordova Chamber of Commerce."

"Tell me about it." She hesitated. "Actually. Tell me about something else."

"What?"

"You know Howie Katelnikof?"

"Everybody knows Howie," he said casually, suddenly on the alert.

"What do you know about him?"

He shook salt onto his plate and started mopping it up one fry at a time. "A lot more than I can prove."

"Shit," she said. It was a long, drawn-out expression of annoyance and frustration, and it was heartfelt.

"What'd he do?"

"I think he's been stealing stuff from the trailer out on the leases."

"You think?"

"I know stuff is gone, a computer monitor, a telephone, some other office supplies. I don't know that Howie took them, but he was the guy out there when they went missing. It was his shift."

"His shift?"

"Yeah, I hired Dick Gallagher to work a week on, a week off with Howie."

"Guy just here."

"That's him."

"You don't think Gallagher is responsible?"

"Wrong weeks."

Jim thought of the wariness in Dick Gallagher's eyes. He and Howie could be ripping off the place together. "Those snow machines don't work only on the river."

"You got something against Dick?"

"Just met the guy. Don't like to jump to assumptions, is all." He ate another french fry. Salty goodness. "Howie never was the brightest dog on the gangline. Come to think of it, that was probably an insult to any dog on a gangline. Actually, maybe anything on four feet."

"I guess I should have talked to somebody before I hired him," she said moodily.

"That would have been good," he said.

She smacked him halfheartedly on his arm. "What's more, he's decided he's in love with me."

"Only a matter of time," Jim said. "Why, thank you, Sergeant Chopin."

"Howie falls in love pretty easily," Jim said. "A working pulse is pretty much all it takes for him."

She smacked him again, less halfheartedly this time, and they both laughed. "Well, I'm not all that hard to please, but I'm a lot harder to please than that," she said. "How mad at me are the Park rats going to be if I fire him?"

"Not very. You might even get some more converts on the strength of it."

"Oh, well, then I'll fire him the next time I see him."

"Where is he?"

She made a face. "Out at the lease site. It's his week on."

The bartender came with the check. "Anything else?"

"I'll get that," Macleod said.

Jim managed to snag it a second before she did. "I'm here on business. I'll expense it."

The bartender stood there, waiting. "I'll have another glass," Talia said. "Jim? Want a beer?"

Jim shook his head. "Can't. I'm flying home this afternoon. Can't drink and fly. I might hurt myself. Not to mention that three-hundred-thousand-dollar plane they gave me."

She put a hand on his arm. "Simple. Don't fly."

He took a deep breath, and let it out before turning his head to meet her eyes. They were large and very blue, and the lashes were long and thick and heavy. They weighed her eyelids down, giving her a slumberous, sexy look. Her face was flushed and her lips were shiny with gloss and half parted, and as he watched her tongue came out to tease delicately at one corner.

He swallowed hard. "You know I'm with somebody now."

She didn't look away, and the smile didn't falter. "I've heard. So?"

She was making it clear she knew the score. An evening spent enjoying each other's company, and then parting the next morning with no promises on either side.

How uncomplicated that sounded, how downright relaxing.

How tempting.

She slid from her stool and leaned close to whisper in his ear. "Room 204. Come up the back stairs. I'll leave the door unlocked."

She walked away and he watched her attentively, because he was a trained investigator and there might be a clue in the way her well-toned muscles moved together as they went away from him.

He waited until she was out of the door and then turned and flagged down the bartender. "Could I have a receipt, please?"

It was always a bad idea to sit around brooding, so when the bread came out of the oven Kate went outside to split kindling until her nose and her toes were numb. She came back inside to thaw out beneath a steaming shower and dress. She called to Mutt and the two of them went into town to check the mail. She hadn't checked it since before the holiday so her mailbox was jammed and there was an overflow notice. She took it to the window and Bonnie gave her a hurt look and came staggering back with a plastic tub full to the brim. Kate detoured to the Niniltna dump and tossed nine-tenths of it into the ever-growing pile presided over by a flock of sleek, fat ravens and another of cranky-looking eagles, all of whom went silent as the tomb when they saw Mutt.

There were only a few people at the Riverside Cafe that morning, and Kate got the best table by the window. Through it she could keep an eye on Mutt, who was sitting on the seat of the snow machine, surveying the passersby with a lofty air and accepting tentative greetings with a regal condescension and, when someone dared to take liberties, a baring of teeth.

"Americano double tall, with lots of half-and-half," Kate told Laurel, and added two packs of sugar when it arrived.

"Damn, girl, how can you do that to an innocent little espresso? Sorta defeats the purpose of caffeine, you know?"

She looked up to see Pete Heiman standing next to her table, a grin on his face.

"Ah," Kate said, "Pete, hello. Still unindicted, I see."

His grin didn't falter. "I remain free on my own recognizance. Isn't that how you cop types put it?"

"Not quite," Kate said dryly, "but it'll do for going on with."

He indicated the seat across from her. "You mind?"

Kate shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"Just coffee, honey," he told Laurel, and sighed when Laurel winked at him and put extra into her hips as she departed their table. There was a reason the Riverside Cafe was so popular with men.

Kate sipped her Americano and schooled her face into an expression of cool neutrality as she regarded Pete over the rim of her mug.

Pete Heiman was a third-generation Alaskan with an irreproachable Alaskan family tree that included a stampeder, a Bush pilot, and one of Castner's Cutthroats. Grainy newspaper photographs going back a hundred years showed a succession of Heiman men who looked like they'd been cloned, the same coarse dark hair clipped short, the same merry eyes in the same narrow face, the same shovel-shaped jaw, and the same grin somewhere between ingratiating and shit-eating. The president and CEO of Heiman Transportation, a trucking firm that was responsible for a minimum of twenty percent of all goods moved between Fairbanks and the Prudhoe Bay oil fields, and a lifelong resident of Ahtna, Pete was also in his third term as the Republican senator for District 41, which included the Park.

Laurel brought his coffee and swished away again. "How you faring this winter?" he said.

"Like always," Kate said. "Fuel bills are killing me, but they're killing all of us. I'll get by."

"Heard about that PFD fraud ring you broke up." Pete gave an approving nod. "Good work there. Hate people who rip off the PFD."

"Everybody does," Kate said. "Helps that everybody gets one. Makes them feel real proprietary about the fund. If their lawyer had wanted them to get a fair trial, he should have petitioned for a change of venue, to a courtroom out of state."