Kathy Reichs - Bones Are Forever

She looked at me like I needed a shot of Prozac.

“Who?” Barely voiced.

“I don’t know. But I will find out.”

I felt distrustful eyes on my back as I ran to the car.

* * *

Back in the Camry, I hit a key on my speed dial.

Come on. Come on .

“Hey, buttercup. You back in Charlotte?”

“Pete, listen to me.”

Twenty years of marriage had sensitized my ex to every nuance of mine. He caught the tension in my voice. “What is it?”

“You’re a lawyer. You know how to research corporations, right?”

“I do.”

“In Canada?”

“Mais oui.” May we.

“Never speak French, Pete.”

“Noted.”

“How long would it take?”

“What do you need?”

“Just the names of the owners, or officers, or whatever they’d be.”

“Probably not long.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“You’ll owe me, sugar britches.”

“I’ll bake you a big batch of cookies.”

“What’s the name?”

“Fast Moving.”

“ Oh! là là . I like that.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Do you know if it’s a partnership, a corporation, or just an assumed name used by an individual?”

“No.”

“That makes it difficult. Do you know where it’s registered?”

“No.”

“That makes it even harder.”

“Start with Alberta.”

Ollie was coming out of G Division headquarters as I pulled in. The lot was small, and I almost ran him over.

Holding two palms high, he circled to my side of the Camry. I lowered the window. “Sorry.”

“Slow it down, sister, or I’ll have to write you up.”

“You can’t write me up. You’re out of jurisdiction.”

Ollie pointed a finger pistol in my direction.

“Haven’t seen you since Friday,” I said.

“Believe me.” He tipped his head toward the building. “I’d rather be with you than those skanks.”

“What’s happening?”

“Unka’s about to roll on Scarborough. Doesn’t matter. It was endgame when his buddy nailed him to the wall.”

“So Scar killed Castain, and Unka killed Scar.”

“Cheap method of social cleanup, eh?”

“What about Ruben?”

“No one’s owning that one.”

“Ryan’s still in there?”

“He and Rainwater will be at it awhile.”

“He said you might be leaving.”

“Flying out in two hours.” Ollie grinned, but the tightness in his jaw belied unhappiness. “Thanks for coming west. Sorry we didn’t get satisfaction on Ruben. But it’ll all come out.”

“I think her murder is unrelated to Castain and Scarborough.”

“What do you mean?”

I laid out my theory.

“Who do you like for the doer?”

“I don’t know. But Tyne has Snook convinced that her”—I hooked air quotes—“‘land’ is vital for his caribou preserve. That the opening of the Gahcho Kué mine threatens the herds. Here’s the thing. Snook’s mineral claims are way over by Ekati. They’re nowhere near Gahcho Kué.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m waiting for info on the owner of the claims adjacent to Snook’s. In the meantime, I plan to dig in to Tyne’s background.”

“Good luck.”

Our eyes held for a moment. Then Ollie reached in and stroked my cheek with one knuckle. “Do you still think I’m the most magnificent creature to ever cross your path?”

“I think you’re a narcissistic pain in the ass.” Smiling.

“I may start calling you again.”

“Keep in mind they’ve tightened the laws on stalking.”

Ollie laughed and stepped back.

* * *

Back at the Explorer, I booted my laptop and entered the name Horace Tyne.

Google sent me to an old photo of a Second Lieutenant Horace Algar, gazetted with the Tyne Electrical Branch of the Royal Engineers.

I tried a more detailed string. Horace Tyne. Caribou. Alberta. That bought me a link to Friends of the Tundra. Ryan was right. The site was primitive.

I decided to take a different approach. The Fifth Estate.

I started with the Yellowknifer but could find no link to its archives. I looped through a number of newspaper portals. The Deh Cho Drum. Inuvik Drum. Nunavut News. Kivalliq News . Each had interesting headlines and colorful photos. None offered access to archives.

Frustrated, I returned to the Yellowknifer and tried clicking through some of the drop-down menus. One presented a graphic of the newspaper’s seventy-fifth anniversary collector’s edition.

The cover displayed a black-and-white of a man in coveralls and a miner’s hat. I clicked on it and downloaded the PDF file offered.

I was studying a shot of the Con mine circa 1937 when my mobile sounded.

“I’m thinking this is worth a lot more than cookies.”

“What did you find, Pete?”

“Maybe buns?”

“Uh-huh.”

While I listened, I scrolled to a story titled “The Golden Age of the 50s and 60s.”

“Fast Moving is an LLP, a limited liability partnership. It’s registered in Quebec. Because it’s a partnership and not a corporation, this may take a bit longer.”

“OK.”

I moved on through a series of ads to a color shot of the Old Stope Hotel burning down in 1969. Prince Charles’s visit in 1975. Strikers protesting in 1992.

I kept scrolling.

My eyes fell on a photo.

I stared in disbelief.

THE WORLD SHRANK IN AROUND ME. NOTHING EXISTED BUT the image on my screen.

The article was titled “Ice Road Truckers.” The black-and-white photo showed four men, all wearing parkas, fur-trimmed hats, and safety vests.

Three of the men were smiling and squinting as though facing into the sun. I recognized two of them.

The fourth man had his face turned from the camera. Though I couldn’t see his features, something about him looked familiar.

“Are you there?”

“I’m here, Pete.” Squeezing the phone between my shoulder and ear. “That’s incredibly helpful.”

“Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Really. You’re awesome.”

“I know.”

“I’m about to head out, so could you e-mail the partners’ names when you find them?”

“Will do. How about Katy’s news?”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

“Pretty ballsy move.”

“I’ve got to go, Pete.”

I clicked off, skimmed the article, then stared at the photo. The caption identified the three forward-facing subjects: Farley McLeod, Horace Tyne, and Zeb Chalker.

Facts zinged like popcorn in my head.

Charles Fipke had discovered diamonds in Canada, setting off a staking rush in the nineties. McLeod and Tyne had both worked for Fipke.

McLeod had staked claims during the rush. He had named his offspring—Nellie Snook, Daryl Beck, and Annaliese Ruben—as coowners.

Snook and Ruben possessed samples rich in diamond indicator minerals. DIMs point to kimberlite. A kimberlite pipe means diamonds. Diamonds can mean millions, even billions, of dollars.

Snook now held all of Farley McLeod’s active claims.

Horace Tyne had confused Snook into thinking that she owned land. He’d persuaded her to donate the land for a caribou preserve. A preserve necessitated by the impending opening of the Gahcho Kué mine. But Snook’s claims were nowhere near Gahcho Kué.

My ill-formed idea began to solidify.

I stared at the photo, heart pounding my ribs.

McLeod. Tyne. Chalker.

Zeb Chalker had bola’ed me at Snook’s house. Blown me off when I’d reported Ruben’s murder. Spread rumors about my drinking.