Kelley Armstrong - Frostbitten

"No idea, but I'm sure you'd love to tell me."

"Yes, we interrogated the mutt," I cut in. "We were trying to figure out what happened to your father, three dead men and three missing women. And yes, Clay tortured him until he admitted they'd tortured and killed your dad, killed at least one of the men, raped and presumably killed the girls. So what did you do with your day, Joseph? Write a catchy jingle?"

"You don't know anything about me."

"No," Clay said quietly. "I guess I don't."

Joey jiggled his keys, as if deciding whether to try shouldering past Clay. After a moment, he pocketed them. "What do you want?"

"I've already asked: who does this jacket belong to?"

"I have no idea."

"Can I guess?" I said. "You and your dad had a falling out. Was that because another son showed up on his doorstep?"

"I'm a little old to be jealous of my daddy's attention."

"I didn't say you were, but you might be miffed with him for being careless and bringing another werewolf into the world, something I don't think you'd approve of."

"If my father did, I know nothing about it. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Clay moved aside to let him into the car. He waited until Joey's hand was on the door, then asked, his voice low again, "Did you call them this morning, Joey?"

"Call who?"

"The mutts. They paid a visit to our hotel after I talked to you."

Joey turned, meeting Clay's eyes. "I can't believe you'd ask me that."

"But you do have their number, right?" I said. "It's part of your deal with them."

"Deal?" He turned to me. "What deal?"

Clay told him what Dan Podrova said.

"Well, that mutt's a liar," Joey said. "Big shock there. That's another problem with torturing someone-eventually they hit the point where they'll say anything to make you stop. No, I don't have a deal with a pack of thugs and I didn't send them to your hotel room. Now take your wife, Clay, and go home."

"We'll leave as soon as I'm done talking to you."

"I mean, go home . Back to Stonehaven. There's nothing here you need to concern yourself with. Take your pretty wife, go back to your Alpha dad and your kids, whom I'm sure are just damned adorable. That's your life. This is mine. Now leave me alone."

WE LEFT HIM alone. For now. But we knew he was lying. Was he colluding with a gang of gun-runners, hoping to make us leave before we poked our nose in too deep? Clay didn't think so, but he had to consider the possibility, and we had to keep doing what Joey didn't seem to want us to do-digging for the truth.

LYNN NYGARD LIVED in a neighborhood in west Anchorage, one with winding lanes and thick trees, sparsely dotted with eclectic homes that ranged from cottages to sprawling McMansions. Hers was one of the smallest homes-a tiny A-frame chalet. I'd called her again after we'd confronted Joey, and she'd said to come right over. Clay drove me, but stayed in the truck.

I must admit that when someone said "paranormal enthusiast," I pictured a tiny, dimly lit apartment, smelling of canned stew, the walls covered in yellowed newspaper articles. It could be a stereo type. Or it could just be that I've met too many who conform to it.

The neighborhood and the house were not what I expected. Neither was Lynn Nygard. She looked like a school-teacher-small and slender with sleek white hair. She ushered me in as she tried to wrap up a phone conversation, mouthing an apology to me and rolling her eyes.

"I haven't forgotten. I'm getting old, not senile. Now I have a guest… " A pause. "Yes, dear, I'll make all the arrangements." She waved me into the living room. "But right now… "

The person on the other end kept talking. A male voice. Judging by her tone, I was guessing a son.

"I really have to let you go, dear. There's a young woman here who wants to talk to me about the wolf kills." She widened her eyes. "Well, no, I didn't plan to mention my theory on the Ijiraat, but now that you mention it… "

A pause.

"No, that is an excellent idea. I'm so glad you brought it up."

Her eyes sparkled with mischief as her son's protests grew louder.

"Yes, dear, I promise to behave myself. But if something goes wrong, you will come visit me at the psychiatric hospital, won't you? Loosen the bindings on my straitjacket? Wipe the drool off my chin?"

She laughed at his reply, signed off, then turned to me.

"Do you have kids, Ms. Michaels?"

"Two."

"Well, eventually you reach the point where they aren't sure whether they're the children or the parents. One minute my son needs Mommy to arrange his wife's surprise party, the next he's trying to make sure I don't embarrass myself in front of strangers." She set down the cordless phone. "Coffee? Green tea? Red wine?"

I noticed an almost full wine glass on the kitchen counter behind her and said I'd have wine.

"So you work with Hope Adams?" she asked as she got down a glass.

"When she needs me. Otherwise, I freelance. Do you know Hope's work?"

"I'd be a poor paranormal fanatic if I didn't. With World Weekly News closing last year, True News -and Ms. Adams's column-is the only game in town for those of us who like the occasional vampire story with our daily doom and gloom. Not that World Weekly News was much competition. I stopped reading it back when they added a disclaimer that it was for entertainment only. Seemed like a license to give up even trying to uncover any truth."

She handed me a glass of wine. "Now, Ms. Adams? She's a professional. She doesn't take herself too seriously. After all-" She winked. "-we are talking about the paranormal, not world politics. But you get the feeling she really is looking for the truth. She strikes me as a young woman I could have a coffee with." She raised her glass to me and smiled. "Or a glass of wine."

The phone rang again. "The machine can get it," she said.

"No, go ahead."

It stopped ringing.

"Good. Now you wanted to know-"

The phone started again. She sighed and said she'd be just a moment.

I sipped my wine and turned to survey my surroundings. What I saw made me sputter, clapping my hand to my mouth before I sprayed my shirt. There, almost over my head, was a picture of me.

"Do you like wolves?"

I jumped. Lynn stood in the doorway.

"I didn't mean to startle you," she said. "I just asked if you liked wolves."

She pointed to the painting. It was me… as a wolf, in one of Jeremy's paintings. Nightfall , if I remembered right. It had been years since I'd seen this one. The public preferred Jeremy's more atmospheric pictures of wolves in city streets. This was the more natural style he liked better.

"It's a print," she said, as she sat. "I'd love an original, but I could never afford one. I must confess, wolves fascinate me, as they do many people these days."

"They are popular."

"From demonized to romanticized. No, my view of wolves is somewhat more realistic, I hope. True, they aren't the big bad beast of lore. But if I met one in the wild, I'd back away very slowly and get out of there as fast as I could."

"Not try to pet it?"

She laughed. "Exactly. But they do intrigue me more than other animals, which is why when those killings started, I took an interest-"

The phone rang.

Lynn sighed. "This time, I am letting the machine pick up." The answering machine clicked on, and we could hear that the caller was a young man who said he was in town on a logging contract and looking for a place to let.

"I'm getting a lot of interest," Lynn said when the message ended. "But not the sort I was hoping for."

"You're renting out a room?"

"Or two. My husband died a couple of years ago and I'm ready for some company. I was thinking of a stripper."