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NEXT STOP: REESE'S motel. You'd think a guy using stolen credit cards would be living large, but this place--like the last motel I found him in--was the kind you see advertised on the highway for thirty bucks a night, wonder how it can be so cheap, then decide you'd really rather not find out.
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--un-scented 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."
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."
