Nik Kane Alaska Mystery - 01 - Lost Angel by Mike Doogan Page B

picture taken, clustered around a shiny gold bar.
    “That’s all the time we have for the tour,” the mine manager said. “Now, if you’ll just follow me back to the office, we’ve got a few mementos to give you, and then I’ve been told you have to get back to your airplane for the flight back to Anchorage.”
    Simms nudged Kane.
    “We can go finish our talk,” he said.
    Back at the office the two men sat on opposite sides of the desk.
    “Who were those guys?” Kane asked.
    “I’m not sure,” Simms said, grimacing. “Maybe potential investors. An operation like this one burns through money like a sailor on shore leave.”
    Kane remembered the grimace from the poker table. It was a tell; whenever Simms was bluffing, he’d grimaced like that.
    “Okay,” Kane said. “Now I’ve met the manager. Now what?”
    “Now nothing,” Simms said. “All I want is for you to keep your eyes and ears open and let me know if you hear anything I might be interested in. I can’t add you to the payroll, but the company would be sure to give you a consulting fee if you turn up anything.”
    “You could start by paying me for all the time I wasted here today,” Kane said. Then he sighed. “Never mind, Charlie. Jeffords asked me to check in, so I’ll see what I can do for you. Give me your telephone numbers.”
    Simms handed him a card, and Kane tucked it into his wallet.
    “Now, you can tell me what you know about a girl named Faith Wright,” Kane said.
    Simms grimaced as he shook his head.
    “Never heard of her,” Simms said. “Why do you think I’d know anything?”
    “Pretty young girl,” Kane said. “A crew of young men with money, and you the security chief. I figured you might know something.”
    Simms shook his head again.
    “I don’t get off the mine property much,” he said, “but I’ll ask around.”
    “Now, Charlie, you’d tell me if you knew something, wouldn’t you?” Kane asked, trying to keep his voice light.
    The door to Simms’s office popped open, and the mine manager stuck his head in.
    “Ah, good, you’re still here,” he said to Kane. “Our guests have a little ceremony for us. The Asians are very big on ceremony, you know.”
    The three men walked out to the front of the office, where the group was waiting. With a bow, the youngest of them handed Richardson, Simms, and Kane large manila envelopes.
    “Just small tokens,” he said, “for your hospitality.”
    Kane started to undo the clasp on his envelope, but the man put his hand over Kane’s.
    “Please,” he said, “it is considered bad luck to open a gift in the presence of the giver.”
    There was a flurry of mutual bows and handshakes, and the tour group left.
    “Thanks for taking the tour,” the mine manager said to Kane. “Charlie here tells me that you might be in a position to give us some help on the security front. We’d be grateful for anything you can do.” He finished like someone who’d come to the end of his memorized material, shook Kane’s hand, and walked quickly back toward his office.
    Simms walked Kane to the door.
    “Remember, Nik, pass along anything you hear,” he said. “And I’ll do the same.”
    Kane walked to his pickup, thinking about Simms’s reaction to his questions. He tossed his envelope on the front seat, unplugged the head-bolt heater, drove back to the gate, and waited for Lester to open it.
    “We going to be seeing you around, Nik?” the gate man asked.
    “Damned if I know,” Kane said, and rolled out onto the road.
    Even though it was almost eleven a.m., the sun was just a rumor on the eastern horizon. Several of the businesses strung out along the highway were still closed. Kane wasn’t surprised. Some probably closed for the winter. And the others? Well, the mine was one of the few places for hundreds of miles that kept to a set schedule. In his years in Alaska Kane had heard the phenomenon called things like “bush time” and “village time” and “Native