Ryan launched in, using a tactic that implied more familiarity than we actually possessed. “I’m Andy. This is Tempe. We got your name from Nellie Snook. We’re associates of Annaliese Ruben.”
For several beats Tyne said nothing. I thought he was about to tell us to hit the road when he grinned ever so slightly.
“Annaliese. OK. We’ll go with that.”
“Sorry?”
“Nice girls, those two. Known them all their lives. And their kin. Used to get themselves into some mischief. Annaliese left here some years back. Wouldn’t mind hearing how she’s doing.”
“We think she’s returned to Yellowknife.”
“Seriously?”
Did I imagine it, or did Tyne’s eyes narrow ever so slightly?
“Annaliese was living in Edmonton. We’ve come from there. We know her former landlady. When Ms. Forex heard we were headed to Yellowknife, she gave us some belongings Annaliese left behind. We’d like to find her before we leave town.”
Each sentence, taken by itself, was absolutely true.
“Come on in.” Tyne stepped back. “You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
We trailed Tyne through a dimly lit foyer to a living room furnished in standard-issue Sears. The flooring was linoleum trying to be brick. The air smelled of onions and bacon.
Tyne gestured to the couch. Ryan and I sat. He offered coffee. We declined.
When Tyne dropped into an armchair opposite us his bony knees V’ed out, providing an all-too-clear view of Mr. Happy and the Bong Bongs.
I was glad I had not eaten lunch.
“Please feel free to put on warmer clothing.” Ryan smiled. “We don’t mind waiting.”
“Don’t want the lady distracted by my squeeters.” Tyne winked.
Ryan smiled.
I smiled.
Tyne left, returned moments later in a sweatshirt and jeans. “So. Let’s put our heads together.”
That image was almost as revolting as the prospect of the squeeters.
“First off, thanks for talking with us,” Ryan began. “We won’t take up a lot of your time.”
“One thing I’ve got, it’s time.”
“That’s a luxury.”
“Not when the bills roll in.”
“You’re unemployed, sir?”
“Worked fifteen years at Giant. One day they up and shut her down. ‘Sorry, buddy. You’re shitcanned.’ Did some staking for a while. Some trucking. Not a lot of opportunities around here.”
“Giant is a gold mine?” I asked.
“Was. For decades gold was the lifeblood of this region.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“’Course you didn’t. Everyone’s heard of the Klondike gold rush. Well, Yellowknife had her own day in the sun.”
“Is that so?” Ryan had no interest in gold. I knew he was trying to loosen Tyne up.
“Eighteen ninety-eight. A prospector on his way to the Yukon got lucky. Overnight this place was a boomtown.” Tyne laughed. It sounded like a hiccup. “Meaning the population soared to a whole one thousand. Wasn’t until this century that mining had any real economic impact.”
“How many mines operated here?”
“Con opened in ’36, shut down in 2003. Giant opened in ’48, shut down in 2004. Depleted reserves, high production costs. Same old corporate bullshit. ‘Profits are down, so, chump, you’re out of a job.’”
“I’m sorry,” Ryan said.
“Me, too.” Tyne wagged his head. “Con was really something. Her workings go down a hundred and sixty meters and extend under most of Yellowknife and Yellowknife Bay, almost to Dettah. And Giant wasn’t no slouch. In 1986 she was one of only a handful of mines churned out ten thousand gold bricks. I’m talking worldwide.”
I recalled another of the Giant mine’s claims to fame. In 1992 a disgruntled miner murdered nine men, six of them scabs who’d crossed the picket line. His bomb demolished their cart while two hundred meters underground. The crime was the worst in Canadian labor history.
“We understand you’re involved in environmental conservation,” I said.
“Someone’s got to take a stand.”
“For the caribou.”
“The caribou. The lakes. The fish. Diamond mining is going to destroy the whole damn ecosystem.”
That threw me. “Diamonds?”
“Treasure under the tundra?” Tyne’s voice dripped disdain. “Death to the tundra is more like it.”
Ryan slipped me a look. Enough circling. “You say you know Annaliese Ruben’s family,” he said, wishing to get to the point.
“Knew her father pretty well. Farley McLeod was quite a character.”
“Was?”
“Dead. He and I worked for Fipke.”
“Fipke?”
“Seriously?” Tyne looked at me as though I’d asked him to explain soap.
“Seriously.”
“Chuck Fipke is credited with discovering diamonds in the Arctic. Which he did with a guy named Stu Blusson. Everyone thought the two of them were crazy. Turned out they weren’t. Now, thanks to them, the caribou are taking it in the pants.”
“Diamonds have replaced gold in the territory?” I asked.
“Seriously?”
Tyne loved the word. This time I didn’t play parrot. “How many mines?”
“Ekati opened in ’98, Diavak in 2003, Snap Lake in 2008. She’s the only one underground.”
“Where are they?”
“Couple hundred kilometers north. Snap Lake is De Beers’s first mine outside of Africa. Now they’re trying to bring another one online. Gahcho Kué. Won’t be a caribou left when these bastards get through.”
My knowledge of the diamond industry was limited. No. That’s being too generous. I knew that Cecil Rhodes founded De Beers in the late eighteen hundreds, that the group was based in Johannesburg and London, and that it was responsible for 75 percent of the world’s diamond production. I knew that Angola, Australia, Botswana, Congo, Namibia, Russia, and South Africa were diamond-rich. I had no idea Canada was a player.
“You said you did some staking. What’s a staker?” I asked.
“A guy drives in stakes.”
“To register a claim.”
“You’re quick, little lady.”
“Seriously quick.”
Tyne pointed two fingers at me. “Once Fipke found his pipe, all hell broke loose. Made the Klondike rush look like a garden party.” Tyne hiccup-laughed again. “’Course, that’s ancient history. Today there’s not a square inch of tundra hasn’t been staked by some bonehead hoping to strike it rich. And the big boys have sucked up every claim worth a spit. Rio Tinto. BHP Billiton. De Beers.”
“What’s a pipe?” I asked.
Tyne’s eyes went flat. “Thought your interest was in Annaliese Ruben.”
“It is,” Ryan said. “Did Annaliese live with Farley?”
“Farley wasn’t the parenting type. Spawned ’em and left ’em, kinda like carp.”
“Annaliese lived with her mother?”
“Micah Ruben. Then she changed it to Micah Lee. Don’t think she ever married. Those two just liked changing up names.”
“Oh?”
“Micah named the kid Alice. At one point she was Alexandra. Then Anastasia. Thought they sounded fancier.”
“What happened to Micah?”
“She was a drinker. Five, seven years back a neighbor found her lying in the snow, a human Popsicle.”
I remembered the DNA. “Was Micah aboriginal?”
“Dene.”
“Farley?”
“Plain old white bread. Farley passed not long after Micah. Two thousand seven, I think.”
“How old was Annaliese?”
Tyne appeared to give that some thought. “I think she’d just started at the high school. What would that make her? Fourteen? Fifteen? ’Course, Annaliese wasn’t the sharpest stick in the bag. She could have been older.”
“How did Farley die?”
/> “Crashed his Cessna into Lac La Martre. Hunter saw it go down. Searchers found debris, not Farley.” Tyne paused. “I think Annaliese may have been living with her daddy then. Because of Micah being gone.”
“Where was that?” I felt a tickle of excitement.
“Little shithole in Yellowknife.” Tyne wagged his head. “Farley lived month to month. When the deposit was gone, orphan or not, the kid got the boot. Her siblings didn’t reach out, so I let her crash with me for a while. I was living in town then.”
“And?”
“And then she left.”
“To do what?”
Tyne shrugged. “Girl had to survive.”
“Meaning prostitution,” Ryan said.
“I’m only guessing. Based on her ma.”
“Did you try to intervene?” The tickle of excitement was morphing to disgust. “Urge her to stay in school?”
“I’m not kin. I had no say.”
“She was—”
Sensing my hostility, Ryan cut me off. “You say she had siblings.”
“All’s I know about are a half brother and a half sister.” Again the hitchy laugh. “Probably a whole platoon out there. Farley had a way with the ladies.”
Dazzled with the squeeters. I didn’t say it.
“Who was the half brother?”
“A guy named Daryl Beck. Different mother. Beck was a bit older than Al—Annaliese.”
Ryan noted the verb tense. “Beck is dead, too?”
“One too many lines of blow, I guess. House burned to the ground. Heard they hardly found enough to ID.”
“Beck was a crackhead?”
“I only know what I hear.”
“When was this?
“Three, four years back.”
“Was there an investigation?”
“Cops tried.”
“Meaning?”
“Folks keep to themselves up here.”
“Was Annaliese close to her brother?” I asked.
“Damned if I know.”
“Did Beck have other family?”
“Same answer.”
“While she was staying at your place, did Beck ever visit? Call?”
“No.”
“Anyone else?”
Tyne just looked at me.
“Where did Annaliese live after she moved out?”
“The kid left no forwarding address.”
Again the tickle. “Did you ask around?”
Tyne’s eyes roved my face. I could feel him trying to read my thoughts.
“Did you and Annaliese part on bad terms?” Pointed.
“I don’t like what that implies. You ask a lot of questions for people trying to deliver a package.”
Tyne pushed to his feet. The interview was over.
“We appreciate you talking to us.” Ryan placed his aviator shades on the bridge of his nose.
At the door, I squeezed in a few last questions.
“Do you know why Annaliese left Yellowknife?”
“It was none of my business.”
“If she has come back, do you know where she’d go? Who she’d contact?”
“Maybe the half sister.”
“What’s her name?”
Seriously?
NELLIE SNOOK.
Neither Ollie nor anyone at G Division had uncovered the link.
The whole way back to Yellowknife, I’d been trying to wrap my mind about that. “Snook’s name never popped when they ran checks on Ruben?”
“No reason it would.”
“Fewer than twenty thousand people live in this town.” I wasn’t believing this. “Wouldn’t it be common knowledge that Snook and Ruben are half sisters?”
“Apparently not.”
Ryan parked in a strip of dirt fronting a bright blue shack. We got out of the Camry and crossed to it.
“And not one single person they questioned had a clue?”
“Tyne told you. Folks keep to themselves up here.”
Antlers, snowshoes, and an oddly shaped paddle hung above the shack’s door. A sign had been nailed to the siding beside it. No Sniveling.
Ryan pointed to the sign and raised his brows.
“I’m not sniveling.” I wasn’t. I was venting.
Ryan pointed to another sign. Hot Beer. Lousy Food. Bad Service. Welcome. Have a nice day. Then he opened the door. Bells jangled us in.
To our left was a stuffed moose head doing duty as a hat and coat rack. Opposite Bullwinkle was a combo bar, fry kitchen, cashier’s station. A woman in a black Mao cap, plaid shirt, and jeans was scraping the griddle with a spatula. The rest of le bistro was taken up by wooden tables and high-back chairs, some plain, others carved.
On hearing the bells, Mao turned. “Got reservations?” Her vocal chords had seen a whole lot of smoke.
Ryan and I looked at each other, surprised. It was three in the afternoon. The place was empty.
“Gotcha!” Mao laughed, showing gaps once occupied by molars. Then she swung the spatula to indicate we could sit wherever.
We chose a graffiti-scarred table next to a window shaded by venetian blinds. Through the slats, I could see trees and blue picnic tables. The adjacent wall was layered with photos and business cards, many faded to illegibility.
“Good thing I’m not the ‘I told you so’ type.” I continued pressing my point. “Because I’d be saying it.”
“We’ll see.”
When Mao appeared at our table, Ryan and I both ordered fish and chips. Rainwater had sent us to Bullock’s saying everything on the menu came straight from the lake.
“Let’s hope we’re not too late.” When Mao was back at the griddle, I rolled on. “Again.”
“Rainwater said no one’s entered or left the house since Snook got back from the store.”
“Ollie asked him to talk to her?”
“About ten minutes ago. But if she refuses, he can’t go inside.”
Mao brought our drinks. Diet Coke for me. Moosehead for Ryan. I hoped his choice didn’t offend our buddy on the wall.
Ollie arrived as Mao was delivering our food. His face was tense, his cheeks flushed with asymmetrical raspberry splotches. I knew the look. The hunt was on, and he was loving it.
Turned out Ollie and Mao knew each other. Her name was Mary.
“What you cooking today, sweetheart?” He gave her his trademark jaw-hitch maneuver.
“Cod, trout, and pike.”
“What’s good?”
“Everything.”
“Pike.”
“Excellent choice.”
Ollie waited until Mary was out of earshot, then spoke to me. “Nice. Very few have the poise to carry off the hamburger-chin look.”
“I used to model for Chanel.”
“Really?”
“No. Who’s Zeb Chalker?”
Big grin. “Bola’ed you over, I hear.”
My look suggested I wasn’t amused.
“Chalker’s MED.”
I tipped both palms in question.
“Municipal Enforcement Division. They’ve got maybe six constables, a couple of supervisors, some patrol cars and snowmobiles. Do mostly traffic, animal, and crowd control. And, of course, koi ponds.”
“Hilarious. What about Scarborough?”
“He’s in town, all right. Staying with one of his greaseball pals.”
“Unka and Castain know he’s here?”
Ollie’s eyes rolled to Ryan. “Both claimed to be unacquainted with the gentleman.”
“They denied Scar was trying to cut in to their action?” I asked.
“They didn’t admit to having any action. Hadn’t a clue the meaning of my questions. They’re honest citizens trying to make a buck leading outdoor adventures for tourists. Castain offered to take me bird-watching.”
Mary arrived with Ollie’s root beer. Left.
“So you got nothing,” Ryan summed up.
“I learned that neither Unka nor Castain cares for me.”
“Indeed.” br />
“Both called me unpleasant names. Unka was more creative.”
“You had to kick them?”
“We know where to find them.”
“Someone’s working a tail?”
“Hadn’t thought of that.”
“Scarborough, too?”
“Hadn’t thought—”
“For God’s sake.” Already it had been a very long day. I was not up to their testosterone wrangling. “Knock it off.”
Ryan and I cleaned our plates. Then we sat in awkward silence until Mary delivered Ollie’s pike. While he ate, I provided further details of our visit with Horace Tyne.
“We ran the half sister,” he said when I’d finished. “Snook’s her married name. She was born Nellie France in Fort Resolution.”
“Where’s that?”
“The south shore of Great Slave Lake. Where the pavement ends.”
“Literally?”
“Yes.”
“So people in Yellowknife might actually be unaware of Snook’s connection to Ruben.”
“It’s possible, though Chalker should know.” Ollie dipped a french fry in mayo and ate it.
“Rainwater’s with Snook now?”
“He’ll try making nice. If that fails, he’ll ask for a warrant. What’s your take on Tyne?”
“The guy’s a sleaze. But an environmentally conscious sleaze.”
“Friends of the Tundra.” Ollie dipped and popped another fry. “Never heard of it.”
“I was surprised to learn that diamond mining is big business here.”
“You haven’t noticed the banners on every lamppost?” Ollie made a marquis gesture with one hand. “Yellowknife, Diamond Capital of North America. There’s a big-ass rock on the official city logo.”
“You ever hear of this guy Fipke?”
“You’re kidding.” Ollie regarded me with the same incredulity Tyne had displayed. “Chuck Fipke’s a legend.”
“Fine. I’ll get a book.”
“Copies in every souvenir shop in town. Or google Fipke.”
“Is Tyne right about the caribou herds?”
“Some locals, mostly aboriginals, claim that diamond mining is disrupting the migration routes. It’s a hot issue up here. When De Beers proposed opening Snap Lake, some of the chiefs banded together. Set the project back years. Environmental-impact studies and all. Now De Beers wants to bring another operation online. I forget the name.”
“Gahcho Kué.”
“That’s it.” Ollie bunched and tossed his napkin. “You should talk to Rainwater. He knows more about the mining controversy than I do.”