Kelley Armstrong - Frostbitten

It was yet further proof that I wasn't dealing with a typical careless kid. He'd been using one card for big purchases, like plane tickets, but keeping the others small, as if hoping they wouldn't be noticed until the next bill came in.

The motel was in a part of town with a drunk on every corner. A big sign out front announced a prerace visitors' special for the Iditarod. This year's race had left Anchorage two weeks ago.

I told the clerk I was supposed to meet a friend, but didn't know his room number, and he gave it to me. He'd probably have given me the key, too, if I asked nicely. In a place like this, no one wants to know why you're looking for a guy-they just want you to leave them out of it.

While I went to Reese's door, Clay headed around back. He was supposed to guard the rear window, in case Reese bolted when I knocked, but he returned before I got the chance.

"Window's too small," he said.

I lifted my hand to knock. Clay shook his head, grabbed the door handle and gave a sharp twist. When he pushed it open, unencumbered by bolt or chain, I knew what we'd find-an empty room. Clay shouldered past me and strode into the bathroom.

"Gone," he said.

"Meaning we're stuck on stakeout duty until he comes back." When we'd approached the door, we'd left a scent trail that would have Reese bolting the second he got within sniffing distance.

"I saw a coffee shop across the road," he said. "I'll go stand watch from there, while you check the place out."

There was nothing to check out. Reese traveled ultralight-unscented deodorant, toothbrush and a single change of clothing.

I grabbed my laptop from the SUV and caught up with Clay inside the coffee shop. He looked at my computer case.

"As long as I'm sitting around, I can do some more research into those deaths."

"If you can get Internet service in here, I'll give you my snack."

"I'm an optimist."

He shook his head and went to get us some food while I booted up.

I WAS SHUTTING my laptop as Clay returned with coffees and bagels.

"Don't say it," I muttered.

He handed me a coffee and set both bagels on his side of the table.

I snatched one. "I didn't bet anything. You want two, I'll grab you another. We're going to be here awhile anyway."

"No need for both of us to hang around. You wanted to stop by the newspaper. Do that and I'll watch for the kid."

I didn't really want to leave. I was just starting to relax, the tension of the last week fading. But the more tasks I checked off my list now, the sooner we could take a break.

"I'll be back in an hour." I nodded at the cement-hard bagels. "I'll bring a better lunch."

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-"