Primal Calling. Jillian BurnsЧитать онлайн книгу.
I have a steward bring up your luggage, Ms. Sandstone?” The concierge handed her the room key.
“Er, no. Thank you.” It’d been too late to retrieve it from the plane. But she was nothing if not a veteran traveler. She kept everything from Anbesol to Zantac—including an emergency outfit and toiletries—in her huge purse. She’d used a portion of her emergency cash bribing the clerks for information on how to find the White Wolf, but she should have enough to last her a week, give or take, plus her charge cards.
She took the key. “Is Eric here this evening?”
“I believe he’s just leaving. I’ll try to catch him, if you’d like to wait?” He gestured toward the plush sofas around the piano bar.
“Thank you.” She settled into a club chair, pulled out her laptop and found the next flight to L.A. via Seattle. Then on impulse she checked flights into Barrow. There was one tomorrow morning with a layover in Fairbanks. She closed her laptop without booking either.
What if her father had given up at the first roadblock to his investigation?
“Ms. Sandstone?” Eric, her favorite concierge, strode up, a grin on his face. He was younger than Serena’s twenty-eight years, tall and lean, and if there were any rumors flying around, he heard them.
“How can I help this time?” He sat in the chair next to hers, folded his hands and crossed his legs.
Serena leaned forward. “What can you tell me about a mysterious plane crash a few years ago, where the man came into the emergency room pulling the other man on a sled?”
“Ah, the White Wolf. He’s practically become an urban legend.”
“Really?”
Eric nodded, leaning forward as well. “They say he runs drugs.”
“Drugs?” Serena’s stomach dropped in disappointment. “Why would people say that?”
Eric shrugged casually. “Too many things don’t add up. First, the day of the crash, the weather was clear. And, the missing men were said to be, not fishermen, but drug runners. Also, how is it that he has a new plane now? Even though the insurance has refused to pay out as long as he’s under investigation. And how was he able to retain his pilot’s license? What other answer is there?”
She hadn’t thought of that. How could he afford a new plane? “The newspaper called him Taggert. And he introduced himself to me as Max. Why is he called White Wolf?”
Eyes wide, Eric sat forward. “You’ve met him?”
“I asked him for an interview, but he, um…turned me down.”
“Serena.” Eric placed his hand over hers. “You should be really careful. He could be dangerous.”
Yes. She’d seen a taste of that tonight. But he’d also seemed…lonely.
“White Wolf is his native name,” Eric continued. “He’s half Iñupiat. Some say he’s a powerful shaman.” Eric laughed. “Maybe he used Inuit witchcraft to get his new plane.” He stood and buttoned his suit coat. “But, really, be careful.” He extended his hand and she shook it.
“Thank you.”
He nodded and strode off.
“Eric, one more thing,” she called after him.
He stopped and spun back to her. “Anything.”
“Do you know any other bush pilots that fly into Anchorage International I could speak with?”
Eric smiled. “If I don’t, I’ll find someone who does.”
Serena’s mind whirled as she made her way to the bank of elevators. Drug running? Inuit shamans? Native witchcraft? This could be a story of international intrigue.
Grabbing a notepad and pen from her purse, she started making a list. There must be a way to prove the identity of his passengers that day. If he’d been transporting drug lords, or anyone else, there had to be records of that.
The clear weather was another mystery. If the plane hadn’t really crashed, wouldn’t the sole surviving passenger’s injuries have revealed that? And why fake a plane crash to kill drug lords, and then drag one with him all the way to the hospital in Nome? She jotted a note to look up the exact date of the crash again and check the weather history.
But one thing she knew for fact. He did have a plane. And there was one thing she couldn’t do from a computer.
Taggert had said he was only here for one night. So, if someone wanted to search his plane’s cargo before he left, the window of opportunity was quickly closing.
Not giving herself time to rethink her decision, she took a cab to a discount department store and bought black jeans, a black turtleneck and some black boots. Just what all the trendiest spies were wearing this spring. Hopefully she could hide in Taggert’s plane until he loaded it.
When she returned, Eric had the name and number of a pilot who flew a small one-propeller plane into the Anchorage airport all the time. Once in her room, Serena pulled out her cell and called him. Using her show as an excuse for research, she asked the pilot if he could arrange for temporary clearance as his guest. She winced when he readily agreed, feeling guilty for using him to snoop. But she wasn’t going to harm or steal anything. And real investigative reporters sometimes had to use unconventional ways to gain access to information. Didn’t they?
Since she hadn’t eaten, she ordered room service and tried soaking in the tub to calm her stomach. Failing miserably, she got into her pj’s, laid out the new outfit and then sat down to send an email to Roberta. Then she went over the plan in her head one more time.
Could she really sneak onto someone’s plane and search through their stuff? If she was caught, she could be facing jail time.
She remembered the story her father told of getting dragged into a black Caddy by some goons. It was 1972 and the EPA had been established a couple years earlier. Simon Sandstone had just published his first exposé on a major company dumping toxic waste. The corrupt corporation had tried intimidating him into giving up his secret informant.
He’d come home bloodied and bruised, but he hadn’t revealed his source. If Serena’s mother hadn’t had friends in high places he might not have come home at all.
Her dad had risked his life to help save the environment. Surely she could risk arrest to get the scoop on a drug running operation in Alaska.
If Max was a drug runner.
But if he had nothing to hide, why refuse to give interviews?
Still, he hadn’t seemed the type. Way to be objective, Sandstone. What exactly was the type? Street-corner thugs? Mafia hit men? Slick, rich kids? Just because the guy had a dog and wore a traditional Inuit coat with his jeans didn’t mean he couldn’t have been meeting his supplier tonight.
She bolted up from the bed. Had he thought she was his drug contact? Or had she interrupted his meeting when she’d had that drink in the bar with him? If that were the case, would he have taken her to his room and loaned her his gloves? And kissed her so deliciously?
Running a finger over her lips, she sat back down and closed her eyes. His beard had been soft and his lips had moved over hers with the perfect combination of tenderness and purpose. If she’d met him at some boring celeb party in L.A. would she have still felt that overwhelming attraction?
She didn’t remember falling asleep, but the harsh blare of the alarm jerked her awake. Bleary-eyed, she slammed the snooze button—5:00 a.m.
Within thirty minutes she was dressed and in a cab headed for Anchorage International. She instructed the cabbie to drop her off at the General Aviation Hangar.
Once in the office, there was a desk with a security guard. He looked up as she approached. Through the office window she could see the hangar with a couple of planes inside.
“I’m