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?

Chapter 23

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.