Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (302 page)

Nihls grunted. “Not so important now anyway. We’ve located the mispers’ camp. Technically, Elliott and the cops from Ottawa located it.”

Chris let out a whoop. “That’s great news, sir! Are they all right?”

“We have no information at this time, but the camp was extensively buried in a flood. We’re sending a recovery team in there in the morning. I can tell you it doesn’t look good.”

Chris’s euphoria died. He asked a few more questions but Nihls had no details. “Do you still want me to follow up with Whitehead, sir?”

“That was your initiative in the first place. But yes, until we have further confirmation on the mispers, carry on.”

Chris trudged back down to the waterfront. Much of the glow of the morning had worn off. He had grown to admire Inspector Green’s tenacious passion to find his daughter, so to have it end like this weighed heavily.

It being Saturday, the outfitter’s store was more crowded than ever. Chris waded through the customers toward the office at the rear. Inside he spotted the man who’d been talking to Victor Whitehead the day before. Chris’s uniform announced his presence and his authority even before he knocked on the window. He saw the man frown and close the ledger he was working on before he rose to open the door. Once they’d finished the introductions, he invited Chris to sit.

“Fort Simpson,” said the man, who’d identified himself as the owner Quincy Burke. “You’re a long way from your jurisdiction.”

“Anything to get out of the office,” Chris said with a grin. When the man didn’t respond, he switched gears. “We’re trying to trace the whereabouts of a young man who’s gone missing in the Nahanni Park. We have receipts that indicate he purchased supplies at your store.” Chris decided to ask about Scott first, hoping Burke would relax enough that he could broach the more sensitive subject of Victor Whitehead.

Burke showed no signs of that. Instead he folded his arms. “What’s the man’s name?”

“Scott Lasalle. He was here on June 18th.”

“There have been a lot of customers in my store since then. Almost all of them purchase or rent equipment.”

Chris showed him a photo he’d taken from Scott’s Facebook page and described some of the items on the purchase receipt. “Sounds like he bought half your store.”

Still the man continued to frown. “And this relates to his disappearance how?”

Chris had not expected resistance and his police antenna went up. “Maybe not at all. But he did not file a trip itinerary, so I’m hoping he discussed his destination and his needs with you. Maybe asked you for advice on what equipment to get.”

Burke studied him without blinking for what felt like an eternity. Chris forced himself to hold his gaze. He was used to public suspicion, even antipathy, but sometimes it annoyed the hell out of him. I’m one of the good guys, he wanted to say. I’ve got no hidden agenda here. I’m helping someone in distress, not threatening to bring down the law on them.

He added a touch of humility. “We don’t know where to look for him, and time may be running out.”

Abruptly Burke went to his filing cabinet, flipped through it, and yanked out a file overflowing with papers. He searched these until he found the one he wanted, and read it without expression. He was an unusual man, Chris noted. He had curly, carrot red hair, a full beard, and pale blue eyes, yet he had none of the constant animation of the Irish. He was almost Native in his stillness.

“You called about this man last week,” he said. “He and his friend rented two canoes for a party of four. I advised them to rent three, for safety reasons and because they had a lot of gear, but his friend said no.”

“Anything unusual in that gear?”

“Not really.”

Chris sensed a split-second hesitation. “Perhaps a little?”

Burke shook his head. “No. They just didn’t seem to see eye to eye. I remember the friend wanted some pretty heavy-duty lighting, enough to light up the entire camp, and a bigger camp tarp than they needed, considering he was skimping on the canoes.”

As Chris jotted down the information, his mind was already making connections. Lighting and tarp to protect and illuminate a substantial area. Was Scott planning to take rock samples and test them on the spot?

“Did they have any research equipment? Anything fragile?”

Burke shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t know that. They didn’t volunteer much. Didn’t talk much at all.”

Chris pretended to study his notes. “I was in here yesterday,” he began “But you were busy with Victor Whitehead. Someone else I want to talk to. Was he asking about this guy Scott?”

Surprise flitted across Burke’s face. “No, why would he?”

“Well …” Chris tried to keep his voice casual, “Scott is his cousin.”

“You’re kidding. Really?” Burke blinked a few times. “Then maybe that’s what he’s doing.”

“What do you mean?”

Burke shrugged. He seemed to have abandoned his earlier suspicions. “He was planning a trip. Rented a canoe and a bunch of gear. I was surprised because he’s more the city type and he didn’t know much about tripping. But maybe he was going to search for Scott.”

Chris was in a taxi on his way back to Victor Whitehead’s house, determined to talk to the man even if he had to stake out the premises and wait for him, when he received a call from his boss.

“We’re calling off the investigation,” Nihls said. “You’re to return to Fort Simpson ASAP.”

“Has the party been found?”

“Negative.”

“Have they reported in?”

“Negative.”

In the back of the cab, Chris rolled his eyes. He pictured the sergeant in his office, ramrod straight behind his spit-and-polish desk, secretly enjoying this little power trip. “Then why are we calling it off?”

“We have obtained new information.”

Silence again. Chris decided not to play anymore. “Sir, I have some new information of my own. Scott Lasalle’s cousin Victor Whitehead has an interest in northern development initiatives and it would appear —”

“Yes, I know him. I heard him speak at a conference on the Mackenzie Valley pipeline.”

“Well, he may have independently learned about the ruby mine, and he’s just rented a bunch of wilderness gear for a river expedition.”

“Nothing unusual about that, Constable. This is July, prime holiday time.”

“Except he’s not the wilderness type. Likes the inside of a smoky bar better.”

There was a pause. “What are you thinking? That he’s going to meet up with Lasalle on the Nahanni?”

“I don’t know yet, sir, but since Scott tried to crack his head open in a bar fight. I don’t think their interests are the same.”

“Not a police concern, Constable. We have no evidence a crime is being committed.”

“No, sir, but I’d like to question Whitehead one last time before I fly back. I know there’s been no report of a crime but I think one or more of these parties may be up to no good in the Nahanni. We should know what they’re up to, so we can be prepared —”

“It wouldn’t matter if they were meeting ET, they’re not breaking any laws. And Whitehead is not a guy you want to get on the wrong side of, Constable.”

Chris bit back a protest. Nihls’s last words held a warning. Whitehead had friends and influence in the upper reaches of power, perhaps even of the senior RCMP itself. So far Nihls had not outright forbidden Chris to question him. It would be wiser not to push his luck.

The taxi had pulled into the drive of Whitehead’s expensive home. The drive was empty, the blinds were drawn, and Chris could see no signs of activity. He cursed and checked his watch. Olivia had said she would meet him for coffee between three and four if she could escape from her professor’s clutches. If he waited here for Whitehead, possibly in vain, he might miss her.

“Very well, sir. I’ll return to base. Are there any other leads I should follow up on before I leave?”

“Negative, Constable.” Nihls paused. “The missing party appears to have gone inland in pursuit of this mining claim, so Bugden has called off the search.”

“Why would he —?”

“We have no reason to believe they are in distress, and I needn’t remind you of the cost of this wild goose chase.”

Chris cut short his protest. He knew he was the one who had started the wild goose chase when he spotted the turquoise canoe. It was best not to argue. Once he’d signed off, however, he felt a surge of frustration. There were too many unanswered questions, too many hints of conflict and threat to simply abandon the entire investigation. The answers to many of the questions were tantalizingly within reach. But if he wanted any career in the RCMP, orders from the sergeant could not be ignored.

After double-checking that Whitehead wasn’t home, he instructed the cab driver to take him back to the hotel to pick up his overnight bag and from there to the coffee shop. Light rain was falling, chasing all the patio patrons inside. The interior was dark, warm, and noisy with the hiss and clatter of the espresso machine. He pushed through the crowds eagerly, but there was no sign of Olivia. He picked up a coffee and chose an armchair by the window so he could keep a hopeful eye on the street.

Sipping his coffee, he opened his laptop and typed notes as he let his mind roam over the case. Over the past week he had chipped away at the mystery of where Scott and his party were and what they were up to. He’d uncovered a few facts, enough to hang a pretty good theory on. First Scott had come into possession of his grandfather’s will, which mentioned a mining claim. After that he visited the Mining Recorder’s Office in Yellowknife to discover further details regarding its location and operational history. He met Victor Whitehead in Whitehorse shortly afterward, apparently to discuss the claim, but the meeting had degenerated into a fight and an accusation of cheating. Then Scott had returned to Vancouver to plan an exploratory trip to the Nahanni to check out the claim.

At the same time — and here Chris was far less sure of his facts — Victor had gone through his grandmother’s effects after Scott’s visit and had come across both the ruby and the diary. He’d visited Nahanni Butte to find out more about his ancestry. It seemed likely he’d figured out he was Gaetan Lasalle’s grandson and learned about the existence of the ruby mine claim. Since it seemed to be common barstool gossip, that would have been easy. He was strongly pro mining, a view his own mother did not share, and now he was packing up for a river trip of his own.

Studying his notes, Chris could see some striking gaps in the theory. Most important, how had Scott found out about Victor? There were no official birth records linking Victor to Gaetan Lasalle, let alone to Scott’s own grandfather. Had Scott also visited Nahanni Butte? Or had there been mention of Gaetan’s romance in his grandfather’s other papers?

Equally puzzling, why had Scott set up the meeting? Had he hoped that Victor, with his inside connections, would work with him to explore and finance the mine’s potential? Had Victor refused, precipitating the argument? Why had Victor denied the blood ties and why had he refused to work with him? Did he have his own plans to exploit the mine without sharing the success with Scott? Since neither cousin had any legal claim to the mine after all these years, whoever could slap a new mining claim down first would walk away with the prize.

Chris felt his heart spike with excitement. Was that the real reason for Victor’s sudden trip to the Nahanni? To beat Scott to the claim? It was a theory with a lot of whys and ifs, but now at least the picture was slightly clearer. That only served to bring his own vague unease into starker relief. Scott seemed like a lamb among wolves here, eagerly contacting his cousin for help and then setting out on his own to find the claim. Victor’s motives were murkier. Darker. Like a wolf circling its prey in the night.

The thought chilled him further, yet there was nothing he could do. He felt like a dog who’d caught a whiff of scent, only to be called back to its pen.

His cellphone rang, jerking him from his thoughts. He glanced at the display. Olivia. His hopes surged and he realized he’d been waiting over an hour.

“Hi, flyboy,” she shouted above the rumbling in the background. A truck engine, possibly.

“I’m still here,” he said. “On my third cup of coffee.” Then he winced. Did that sound too eager?

“Oh, how I wish. But the meeting ran late.” She lowered her voice until he could barely hear it above the noise. “I tried to sneak out but there was no way. And now I’m out of time.”

“Where are you? I could come —”

“No. It would be too rushed and we’d have no time alone.” He heard a man shouting her name in the background. “Let’s hold on to our goodbye from this morning. That was delicious. And next time —”

“When will that be?”

“I’m on a trip for a couple of weeks, but don’t worry, I’ll be back.” The man’s voice was closer now and Chris could hear her reassuring him that she was just checking her messages. Then she returned on the line with a breathy whisper. “Gotta go, love. But hold me tight in your dreams.”

Then she was gone, leaving him in a flush of arousal. The word
love
danced through his blood. Lifted him, buffeted him. For a moment he thought only of her and of her whispered promise. Before long, however, the man’s voice broke through his euphoria. The man had sounded insistent and in charge. He’d clearly expected her to jump to his tune, and she had. She’d lied about talking to Chris. Why? What kind of hold did he have on her? Why would she need to hide her personal life from any man, especially one who was only her professor?

Chris didn’t like the answer he came up with. He flipped open his laptop and began a Google search of Olivia and geology and Waterloo University. Very quickly he pinned down the name of her professor, Dr. Anil Elatar. A further search for his bio revealed that he was a mining engineer with an expertise in ground geochemical sampling, who served as advisor to governments and mining companies worldwide, including a company with the odd name of Northern Rubicom. Elatar’s publications ran several pages long with technical titles Chris couldn’t begin to understand.

His attention was distracted by the photo accompanying the bio, of a middle-aged man with a shiny bald head, a thin grey comb-over, thick eyebrows, and the beaked nose of a hawk. He looked at least fifty years old, maybe more. His skin hung in folds around his scrawny neck and Chris doubted the rest of him looked any better.