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He waved for me to step outside. It had started drizzling. We ducked under an overhang.
"Her name's Lynn Nygard," he continued. "She works for the state police. Mallory used her as a source, but I know she didn't give Mallory everything." Garth lowered his voice. "Mallory can rub people the wrong way."
Really? Huh. "Will Ms. Nygard talk to me?"
"Oh, sure. There's just one thing. Lynn has this theory about the deaths and it would, uh, help if you didn't... discourage it."
"Theory?"
He waved to a coworker stepping out for a cigarette, then lowered his voice. "She thinks they were killed by some kind of Inuit shape-shifter. There's a name for them--I can't remember it. You don't have to say you believe in them, just..."
"Don't laugh when she mentions it?"
"Exactly. If she warms to you, you can also ask about the missing girls. She has a theory on that, too."
"Alien abductions?"
He laughed. "Met a few Lynns in your time, have you?"
"I have. You said she works for the police?"
"They tolerate her eccentricities because she's the best damned crime-scene photographer and sketch artist in Alaska. Of course, according to her, that's because she's the reincarnation of Leonardo da Vinci."
"Ah."
"Yes, she loves that paranormal shit, but obsession can be good if you're looking for the best source of detailed information. You'll find Lynn in the phone book." He spelled her last name as I wrote it down, then gave me his card and offered, genuinely it seemed, to help if he could.
I CALLED CLAY from the SUV.
"How'd it go at the paper?" he asked.
"She called me perky."
"Ouch."
I told him about Mallory Hirsch. After he said a few choice words about that, I explained the lead on Lynn Nygard. "I called her place. No answer. I'm going to swing by there on my way, then grab lunch."
I MADE IT three blocks before Clay called.
"Change course, darling," he said.
"Did Reese show up?"
"Yeah. And we've got a situation."
SITUATION
I WAS STILL ten feet from Reese's hotel room when I smelled blood. I slowed, my stomach giving a reflexive clench.
Yes, I hadn't wanted Reese hurt, but if he gave Clay any trouble, fists would fly and blood would flow. That was a given. There was a time when I'd convinced myself that Clay liked hurting people, because that fit the way I wanted to see him. But I'd always known it wasn't the truth. For Clay, beating a recalcitrant mutt was like brushing his teeth. It wasn't something he liked or disliked--he was just doing what needed to be done. A swift beating helped stop the spread of respect-decay, the kind that led to strikes against the Pack and its Alpha.
That's why Clay and I made such a good team. I played good cop and no one thought it a sign of weakness because, well, I was a woman, so naturally I'd be the soft touch. When a mutt wouldn't listen to me, he had to deal with Clay's fists. The mediator and the enforcer. It worked fine until half the team wasn't around.
So as I approached the door, I rubbed my face, erasing any sign that said I regretted anything Clay had done to Reese.
"Door's open," Clay called.
I found him pacing inside, cell phone at his ear. Reese sat on the edge of the bed, with a bloody towel around his right hand.
