“HOW MUCH DO YOU KNOW ABOUT GAHCHO KUÉ?” SHE ASKED.

“It’s the new diamond mine De Beers Canada plans to open.”

“Actually, it’s a joint venture with Mountain Province Diamonds, but close enough.”

“The project has caused some controversy, right?”

“Gahcho Kué is the aboriginal name for the Kennady Lake region. I think in some Dene dialect it means Place of the Big Rabbit. The area is lousy with barren-ground caribou and has traditionally been used by the Dene from Lutselk’e and the Métis from Fort Resolution. Back in the day, the Tlicho—or Dogrib Dene—also swung that way.”

“So objections have mostly come from First Nations groups?”

She waggled a hand. Maybe yes, maybe no. “But they’ve had a big impact on the process. You want the full-blown?”

“Hit me.”

“In 2005 the Mackenzie Valley Environmental Impact Review Board ruled that De Beers’s applications for a land-use permit and water license would require a full environmental-impact study, an EIS. De Beers appealed the decision to the NWT Supreme Court but lost in April 2007.

“Long story short, in December 2010 De Beers finally submitted its EIS. Last July the review panel ruled that the EIS is in conformity.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning now the panel will read the monster, all eleven thousand pages of it. The review process is expected to be completed by 2013. De Beers hopes to begin production in 2014.”

“How big is Gahcho Kué?”

“The proposed mine calls for recovery of four and a half million carats annually. They’ll be working three pipes, 5034, Hearne, and Tuzo, using the open-pit method.”

“For how long?”

“I think they put mine life at eleven years.”

I did some quick math. Given the cost of development, construction, and maintenance, and a very limited life span, the profit in diamond mining had to be monstrous.

“Where is Kennady Lake?” I asked.

“Roughly three hundred kilometers north of here. Ninety kilometers southeast of De Beers’s Snap Lake mine.”

“What does this have to do with Eric Skipper?”

“Throughout the review process, the panel holds open sessions at the local level, so anyone interested can express his or her opinion.”

I saw where she was going. “Skipper came to Yellowknife for one of these town meetings.”

“And ended up dead.”

“What did he plan to say?”

“Don’t fuck with the caribou.”

“How long was he here?”

“He left Brampton on March first. By bus.”

“Allowing for travel time, that means he was in Yellowknife a few days before he died. Did he get into any trouble while he was here?”

“Let’s find out.” She dialed, then leaned back. The chair made a sound like an air compressor gasping its last.

“Hey, Frank. Maureen King.”

A tinny voice said something I couldn’t make out.

“I’m good.”

More tin.

“Tell her to keep applying heat. She’ll be fine. Listen, do you remember a guy named Eric Skipper? Came from Ontario to speak his piece at a review panel session in March 2008.”

Tin laughter.

“Didn’t think so. Do me a favor, run the name? See if anything pops?”

Tin.

“No, I’ll wait.”

She laid the receiver on the blotter.

To me, “This shouldn’t take long.”

It took ten minutes. As Frank spoke, King took notes. “Thanks. Have a good one.”

She said to me, “Skipper made it into the books, all right. On March seventh, 2008, G Division got a call about two guys having a throw-down in a parking lot on Forty-seventh. The responding officers defused the situation and made no arrests. One combatant was Horace Tyne. The other was Eric Skipper.”

That was a shocker.

“What were they fighting about?”

“The incident report consists of two lines.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Tyne sees himself as the savior of the tundra. He and Skipper should have been comrades.”

Our eyes met. We were on the same page.

“A little face time with Captain Caribou?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said.

Ryan called as we were pulling into Behchoko. For the first time in days, he sounded energized.

“We got him.”

“Unka?”

“Yes.”

“Where was he?”

I looked at King. She gave a thumbs-up.

“Some kind of root cellar under a barn behind his mother’s house. Looked like goddamn Saddam Hussein crawling out of his spider hole.”

“You didn’t notice it when you first tossed the place?”

“He’d parked an old truck over the pull-up panels, then crawled under and down. Bastard had the place tricked out with camping gear and a battery-operated TV. I guess Mama delivered meals.”

“Where is he now?”

“Sitting in an interview room, trying to look tough.”

“Will he be charged with Scar’s murder?”

“Rainwater’s talking with the crown prosecutor.”

“Where’s Ollie?”

“Catching heat from K Division.”

“Why?”

“Not heat. They just want him to wrap it up. Guess he’ll be booking a flight out tonight.”

“Really?”

“Though Scar’s from Edmonton, he bought it on G Division turf. So did Castain and Ruben. Shithead’s boss is calling him home.”

“Ollie’s good with that?”

“He and I just don’t talk like we used to.”

I waited.

“He looks livid.”

“What about us?” I asked.

“We could try counseling.”

“Are we heading out?”

“Ruben killed babies on my patch. That’s a felony.” All levity gone. “Someone helped her flee the jurisdiction. That person is an accessory.”

“Meaning you plan to continue the case.”

“I do. Where are you?”

I told him about Skipper and Tyne. “Ryan, I think there could be more than one thing operating here.”

“Enlighten me.”

“The locals, Ollie, you—everyone thinks these murders stem from Scar’s attempt to usurp Unka’s control of the drug trade up here. Maybe that thinking is overly simplistic.”

“What are you suggesting?”

What was I suggesting? “Maybe there’s no one single motive. One single set of killers.”

“Go on.”

“There’s so much disconnect. Your informant fingering Scar and Unka but denying knowledge of Ruben. This guy wants to stay out of jail. Why hold back? The more he knows, the better his bargaining position. Why not offer everything he’s got?”

I heard Ryan exhale through his nose.

“Binny says word on the street is Ruben is different. Why make that up?”

“The kid likes pastry.”

Despite the sarcasm, I knew Ryan was listening. So was King.

“The ballistics. Ruben and Beck were shot with a hunting rifle, Scar and Castain with nine-millimeter handguns.”

“Maybe relevant, maybe not.”

“Daryl Beck was killed in 2008. There’s no indication he was involved in the drug trade.”

Ryan started to speak. I cut him off.

“A drug war can take a high toll. I get that. But maybe everyone’s making the mistake of trying to fit the evidence into a preconceived model. A model that’s wrong. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Piece of advice while you’re with Tyne?”

“What?” Wary.

“Eyes off the squeeters.”

“Aargh!” I jammed the phone into my purse.

“What?” King asked.

“Ryan thinks he’s George freakin’ Carlin.”

“Most men do.”

Tyne took his time answering the door. Today he was wearing a poncho with some sort of logo and jeans. And a look that said he was not thrilled to see us.

“You remember me, Mr. Tyne? We spoke on Friday about Annaliese Ruben,” I said.

“I’ve got to get to work.”

“I’m happy you found employment.”

“Weekend security. Pay’s shit.”

“This is Maureen King. The deputy chief coroner.”

Tyne’s eyes went empty as glass. “Someone croak?”

“Annaliese Ruben.”

Tyne slipped two fingers below the collar of his poncho and massaged his chest.

“Someone shot her,” King said.

“Seems to be a lot of that going around.”

“You know anything about that, sir?”

“Annaliese was a nice little girl, despite her troubles.”

“That wasn’t my question.” King smiled benignly.

“No, ma’am, I don’t. But I do know the whole world’s going to hell.”

Time to change the subject.

“Are you acquainted with a man named Eric Skipper?” I asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“I find that odd, Mr. Tyne. Ms. King and I uncovered a police report stating that you and Skipper went at each other in a parking lot back in 2008.”

Tyne’s fingers froze. His lips moved as though trying out the name. “You talking about that prick who came to Yellowknife preaching e-cology?” Hitting hard on the long e.

“I am.”

“That gasbag had a ton of education and not one ounce of common sense. His agenda? Write an article, get a name, score a university position. All off the back of a species that’s about to go down.”

“You disagreed philosophically?”

“Damn right we did.”

“Wasn’t Skipper’s goal the same as yours? Saving the caribou?”

“The moron thought we should fight this new mine the government’s shoving down our throats. That’s like trying to stop a train with your bare hands. I told him the only thing’s going to help the caribou is a safe place to go.”

“The guy made you mad?”

“Good thing he left town.”