Nothing to Lose (J.P. Beaumont #25)(35)

Remembering the Tlingit words Harriet had used to refer to white men, I wasn’t at all sure what I’d just been called, but I suspected it wasn’t exactly complimentary.

“With a what?” I asked.

“A cheechako,” she repeated. “That’s a newcomer to Alaska—someone from Outside who just arrived and doesn’t know up from down about life around here.”

Presumably in Alaska the word “Outside” stands for anyplace else, but the part about my being a new arrival was absolutely true. I had visited Alaska only once before, and that had been on a cruise ship. Being in Anchorage in the depths of winter wasn’t at all the same thing.

“Sounds about right,” I admitted.

Twink hefted the toolbox up off the ground. Lifting loaded toolboxes is no mean feat, but she did so effortlessly, shoving it over the Travelall’s rooftop luggage rack and into what was clearly its designated space. Before she could tug the blue tarp back into place, I caught a glimpse of some of the other items stowed up there—a spare tire and a pair of ten-gallon gas cans along with several sturdy wooden crates.

“What’s in all the boxes?” I asked.

“Spare parts mostly,” Twink replied, manhandling the tarp back into position. “With the exception of replacement heater cores, I keep an inventory of anything and everything I might need with me at all times—alternators, generators, spark plugs, sun visors. You name it, I’ve got it. And thanks to my old man, if I break down out on a lonely road somewhere between hither and yon, all I have to do is haul out my handy-dandy toolbox and fix whatever’s broken.

“Last week I had some smart-ass kid throw a rock through the rearview mirror on the passenger side. After I cleaned the kid’s clock, I grabbed the spare mirror out of the crate and fixed the problem on the spot. You wreck one of them newfangled SUVs with all those fancy-schmancy cameras built into ’em and you’ve got yourself a five-thousand-dollar repair bill and a minimum three-week wait for parts.”

Once Twink finished tying down the tarp, she turned to me and said, “Where to next?”

I had been wondering that very thing. “Let me check,” I said.

I climbed into the passenger seat, fastened my belt, and consulted Todd’s incoming e-mails. The two unaffiliated boys from Homer High School who lived in Anchorage were John Borman and Bill Farmdale. John was a bartender at a place called the Anchor Bar and Grill, so depending on his shift he could be either working or at home sleeping. According to Todd, Farmdale was a social-studies teacher at East Anchorage High. Since this was a snow day, there was a good chance he might be at home.

When Twink got into the driver’s seat, she had stripped off and stowed the coveralls. Having shed her jacket as well, she was down to nothing more than her faded flannel shirt. Whatever the outside temperature might have been right then, it was clearly not an issue for her, while I was still zipped back into my parka. I guessed I was seeing an example of one of the differences between people who actually live in Alaska and a chucka-something—whatever it was she’d called me earlier.

Twink settled into the seat, punched the lighter, and lit her next cigarette. “Well?” she prodded, still waiting for me to decide where we were going.

“How far is South Salem Loop?” I asked.

“Not far,” she said, reaching for the key. “Not far at all.”

I gave her Bill Farmdale’s address. She didn’t need to enter the address into a GPS before putting the Travelall in gear.

As she drove, I thought about Danitza’s place on Wiley Loop Road and wondered aloud, “Why are there so many loops around here? Seattle has streets, avenues, courts, roads, and lanes, but I don't know of a single loop.”

“Beats me,” Twink said with a shrug. “Nobody bothered consulting me when it came to naming streets, but did you find out what you needed to know from the bone lady?”

“Pretty much,” I replied.

“Good news or bad news?”

During my years as a cop, I was taught not to discuss ongoing investigations with outsiders. Just now, however, not engaging in polite conversation with the woman who was driving me around seemed downright rude.

“Probably bad,” I said.

“So the guy you’re looking for is dead instead of missing?”

She had correctly assumed that my missing person was male, and I let it go at that. “Most likely,” I replied, “although that has yet to be confirmed.”

“By DNA?” she asked.

I nodded.

“I like those true-crime shows on TV,” she added. “Seems to me that DNA must make you guys’ jobs easier.”

“Seems like,” I agreed.

What I really wanted just then was for Twink Winkleman to be quiet so I could think, but that didn’t seem to be in the cards.

“Where’s he from?”

I was trying to decide how I would approach Bill Farmdale. Eventually I figured out Twink was asking about Chris. It turned out, however, that the answer in both Farmdale’s case and Chris’s was the same.

“Homer,” I replied.

“My dad grew up there,” Twink said. “Only way out for him was to join the military, so he came to Anchorage via a long stint in Korea. Never wanted to move back to Homer. I’ve been there on occasion for work. Homer’s not really my cup of tea.”