City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(81)

“Yes, sir.”

Dalton looks up. I see Anders walking over. When he’s close enough, Dalton says, “Thought I told you not to cut out early on your shift.”

“Fuck that,” Anders says as he sits.

I glance at Dalton, and we laugh, leaving Anders looking from one to the other, saying, “What?”

“Go get another round,” Dalton says.


Dalton tells Val I’m going with him to Dawson City. She doesn’t argue. It’s only when we’re in the plane that I notice there’s something different about Dalton today. He’s shaved. To be honest, the beard scruff suits him better. Without it, he looks younger, softer, not quite himself. Hopefully, it’s a temporary going-to-town change.

When we arrive in Dawson City, the car is waiting. Apparently, there’s a local guy who stores it, and the council calls and says, “Have it at the airport at 2 p.m.” or “Pick it up from the airport at noon.” He does, no questions asked, because the Yukon is not a place where people ask questions.

Dalton doesn’t drive directly into town. He goes down several side roads and stops along one. Then he’s out of the car, grunting, “Wait here.” Ten minutes later he’s back, saying, “I’m going to drop you off at the inn. You get settled. I’ve got things to do.”

“Like call your dad on that cellphone you just picked up?”

“What?”

“I’m a detective, remember? You didn’t drive way out here to take a piss. You were getting something you keep hidden. The only thing you wouldn’t want to keep in Rockton is a secret method of communicating with the outside world. It could be a laptop, but then you wouldn’t have considered buying a tablet for online research. It’s also hard to hide a laptop. So it must be a phone. A cheap one, presumably without Internet access. Something that just lets you place calls. But who would you call? Not a former resident—that would be unsafe for both of you. It must be your parents. And you’d only call from a secret phone if you’re saying more than ‘Hey, Mom and Dad, how are you doing?’ What might you need from someone down south? A partner to help you dig through the stories in your journal. Someone you trust. Someone with detecting skills. Like the former Rockton sheriff who happens to be your father.”

Dalton shakes his head, reaches into his pocket, and tosses a cheap flip phone onto the dashboard.

“Ding-ding,” I say with a grin. “What do I win? There is a prize, right?”

He grumbles something about rewarding me by not bringing me to Dawson City with him anymore.

“You just need to get better at subterfuge,” I say. “The correct way to do it would have been to drop me off at the inn first. Then I’d have suspected you were going to talk to a local source. It was the random ten-minute walk into the forest that gave it away.”

More grumbling. Then he turns back onto the main road and says, “You got a pen and paper?”

“I’d be a lousy cop if I didn’t.”

“Write a list. Research questions you want answered. Ones we can’t cover with an Internet search.”

I pull out my pad and paper. I’m jotting down questions when he says, “That guy … The one who gave you the necklace and left that message on your phone …”

I tense. “Kurt.”

Dalton adjusts his grip on the wheel. “I couldn’t let you return his text.”

“I understood.”

“I can do it now. Through my father. Pass along a message to let this guy know you’re okay. You want that?”

“I would appreciate it. Yes.”

“Write it down, then. With contact info. Include something so he’ll know it’s really you.”

“Thank you,” I say.

He nods and turns his attention back to the road.


The first thing I do is buy a tablet for Dalton. It’s not easy because, well, let’s just say you aren’t going to find an Apple Store or Best Buy in Dawson City. Instead, I get one at a pawnshop, which is actually just a regular store that sells second-hand goods on the side.

When Dalton takes me to a place to use the tablet, it’s the polar opposite of what I’d expect from him. Or from Dawson City. It’s a coffee house. The type that offers organic, fair-trade coffee and a menu to cover gluten-free, vegetarian, vegan, and so on.

Dalton seems as at home there as he would in a country and western bar. The guy who can morph between the rough-mannered lawman and the conservationist outdoorsman and the coffee-shop intellectual in a blink, because he is all those things, bound together in one very complicated package.

He’s already spoken to his father. He doesn’t say much about that. It must be a decent relationship or he’d never trust him to do sensitive research. When I ask if his dad knew about people being smuggled in, Dalton’s answer is a vague mumble and shrug. I suspect he did … and turned a blind eye. Yet obviously he still does this research for Dalton. In other words, the relationship seems complicated, like Dalton himself.

What his father found throws a serious wrench into my investigation. Namely, Hastings’s true identity—one that suggests he’s not the guy Dalton suspected he was.

Dalton hasn’t had contact with his father since Hastings disappeared, but he’d already had him investigating—because of the rydex issue—and he’s just found the first hint of who Hastings might really be. He hasn’t had time to dig deeper on his own. So we do now.