She reminded Kate of Lyda Blue, if Lyda had worked in town and shopped at Nordstrom.

She took in Kate with a cool, steady gaze. The phone rang and she picked it up. Pletnikoff Investigations. Her voice was low and pleasant. One moment please. She waited for a reply and pressed the Hold button. She looked at Kate. Kate Shugak, Kate said. I called ahead.

The receptionist, who according to the brass nameplate on her desk went by the name of Agrifina Fancyboy, pressed another button and murmured into the phone. She waited for a response.

The single door in the wall to her right opened and a firm step was heard. Kate! Kurt walked forward and enveloped Kate in a bear hug that raised her right off her feet.

Oof, Kate said. Lemme go, I can‘t breathe.

He laughed and dumped her back on the floor, beaming down at her as if she was the best thing he‘d seen in a month of Sundays.

You look great, they both said at the same time, and they both laughed. Hold my calls, Kurt told Agrifina, and led Kate into the inner sanctum. This room was three times the size of the outer office and decorated in the same colors, with some brass and glass thrown in. It was a corner office with dovetailed windows looking north and west, before which Kurt‘s desk sat with two visitor chairs arranged in front of it. In another corner was a couch and two armchairs around a coffee table, and in a third corner was, if Kate‘s eyes did not deceive her, a wet bar. She blinked. Just tell me we‘ve still got some money left in the operating account. He grinned and flopped down on the couch, pointing to one of the chairs. On the table was a faux silver (hell, it might even be sterling) tray with two glasses of cracked ice and a large bottle of Diet 7UP. Something to drink?

Sure. Kate sat down and watched him open the bottle and fill up the glasses. Their first significant encounter had been in a cabin in the Park. He‘d had a hatchet on his side, she‘d had quick and tricky on hers. Their next encounter, in Anchorage this time, had encouraged her to believe that he might not be the loser she‘d thought, and had led her to start him down the road toward becoming a private investigator. Later on, she‘d helped bankroll his first office, which she recalled being in the corner of a shabby strip mall in Spenard.

Attired in a black suit that did not look off the rack, a white button-down shirt with a dark blue silk tie, and black leather shoes gleaming with polish, he looked as if he‘d been decorated with the same fine hand as the office and the receptionist sitting out front.

But that was only on the surface. It was what was beneath that surface that she found most interesting, and gratifying. Where before there had been a subdued despair, now there was a quiet confidence. He was going to be okay. Who‘d have thought Kurt Pletnikoff, Park rat, poacher, and all-purpose super-duper utility screwup, would have a happy ending?