LITMIR.BIZ

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to a ripe old age, yet this was her mother they were discussing, not some stranger in the exam room.

      She made arrangements to bring her mother in later that afternoon for the first treatment and to fill the prescriptions she’d need to take with her, then drove aimlessly around the city. She ended up in Spenard, sitting in the rental car which she’d parked in front of Alaska Salvage. “One bone,” she said aloud, staring up at the neatly lettered sign. “One bone, and I can pay Carson Dodge whatever he charges to salvage my father’s plane. I can put my mother in the finest house in Alaska and get her the best medical attention. All I need is some DNA.”

      The DNA in a single bone fragment would prove that Connor Libby had been her father, and it would be the kind of proof that Daniel Frey couldn’t deny, no matter how much it would kill him to discover that half of his fortune belonged to a blue-eyed Athapaskan. The icing on the cake would be to somehow prove that Frey had caused Connor Libby’s death by tampering with his plane, but the DNA was a damned good place to start. One step at a time.

      Libby got out of the car. There was only one truck parked in front of the Quonset hut doors. She could only hope it belonged to Carson Colman Dodge. She stepped into the dim interior of the hut. The overhead lights were off, but the wreckage of the commuter plane was exactly where it had been two days ago. Everything was quiet and the office door was ajar. She peered inside, convinced that they’d all gone out to lunch, and was startled to see Dodge slumped over the desk, head pillowed in the curve of one arm. She watched him for a few moments, long enough to deduce that he was asleep and not dead, then she rapped her knuckles smartly against the door. “Mr. Dodge?”

      He jerked upright and lunged half out of his chair. When he recognized her, he slumped back, unable to completely mask the grimace of pain his sudden movements had triggered. “Lady, let me give you a little advice,” he said in that rough and borderline hostile voice. “Never sneak up on a man that way. It could get you into a lot of trouble.”

      “I didn’t sneak,” Libby said. “I walked in, knocked on your door and called out.”

      He eased himself in his seat and drew a few careful breaths as if the exercise were a tricky one. He looked even worse than he had on Libby’s first visit, if that were possible. He gestured to the metal chair opposite his desk. “Have a seat.”

      Libby sat, glancing over his shoulder at the Playboy calendar pinned to the wall behind him, and felt the heat come into her cheeks before she could drop her eyes. She hadn’t noticed that calendar last time. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Mr. Dodge. I just wanted to ask you a couple more questions.”

      He made a small gesture with his bandaged hand. “Fire away.”

      “You mentioned that you sometimes took salvage instead of money to cover the cost of a recovery effort.”

      “That’s right, but usually that just defrays some of the cost. If you’re talking about the de Havilland, fully restored it might bring three hundred grand. But selling the wreckage of that plane wouldn’t come close to covering your expenses.”

      “Actually, Mr. Dodge, I wasn’t talking about the plane.”

      Dodge studied her with a cynical expression. “You mentioned in your first visit it was something the plane was carrying.”

      Libby nodded. “That’s right.”

      “Wait. Don’t tell me.” The faint trace of a wry grin mocked her. “The plane was loaded down with gold dust and nuggets from a secret mother lode, which is why it crashed. You know how many of those I get a year?”

      Libby felt her flush deepen. This crude man definitely needed some lessons in business etiquette. “Obviously quite a few, from the way you talk.” She pulled the Forbes magazine from her shoulder bag and laid it on the desk. “But how many of them involve this man?”

      Dodge leaned forward and glanced at the glossy pictures for a few moments, his eyes scanning the captions. “Okay,” he said, leaning back and giving her a calculating stare. “So tell me, what does billionaire Daniel Frey have to do with the wrecked plane you’re looking for?”

      “His godson was flying the plane when it crashed,” Libby said.

      “And what do you have to do with all of this?”

      “Frey’s godson was Connor Libby, the son of billionaire Ben Libby, and he was on his way to marry my mother.”

      Dodge slouched back in his chair, picked up a pen and tapped it on the desktop, eyes narrowing in thought. “So, let me get this straight. This superrich son of a billionaire crashes the plane into the lake and leaves your mother standing at the altar bereft of both a husband and his considerable fortune. And now, twenty-eight years later, you want to find the wreckage. Your mother must have been expecting a nice wedding gift from her fiancé, and she thinks it’s still in the plane. Is that it?”

      Libby leaned forward, her blood up. “Mr. Dodge, I have five thousand dollars in my savings account. I know that’s only half of what you require for a deposit, and I’ll tell you right now that if you don’t find the plane that’s all you’ll ever get. But if you do find the plane, I guarantee I’ll pay your company the full freight. What you stand to make on this job will be in direct proportion to how good you are at what you do.” Libby rose to her feet, tucking the magazine back into her bag. “I’m staying at the Airport Hotel tonight and flying out first thing in the morning. If you should wish to discuss this further, please give me a call.”

      She was almost out the door when he said, “Lady, how the hell do you expect me to call when I don’t even know your name?”

      WHEN CARSON LIMPED DOWN the dock ramp that night and descended the ladder onto his old wooden cabin cruiser, he was carrying a six-pack of beer and a thick, bloody slab of steak. The two chili dogs he’d eaten on the drive to the marina had taken the edge off his hunger but he was still contemplating the possibility of a real meal. Real as in meat and potatoes. Real as in something that might build his blood back up and return his strength. First, though, he wanted to nurse his bruised ego with a cold beer. It galled him to be puttering around the office while his crew was off on a job. He knew Trig would see that things ran smoothly, and he also knew they needed the work and couldn’t sit around waiting for him to come to the front. Big equipment cost big bucks, and banks liked to get their payments on time. He could’ve gone along with them, could’ve captained his vessel, but he was still so crippled up he knew he’d only be in the way, and worse, his crew would try to make things easy for him. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Just climbing down the ladder to his boat had left him weak and out of breath. The doctors said his condition would slowly improve, but they all hedged when pressed for details. Punctured lung, lacerated muscles, abdominal wounds, torn tendons all take time to heal, they said.

      No shit.

      Carson hated doctors. Hated their rhetoric, their placid, professional expressions and their holier-than-thou condescending attitudes. Hated the fact that they’d saved his life because he hated being beholden to them. Hated having to follow their instructions and forgo salvage diving for some unspecified length of time…maybe even forever. Yes, they’d hinted at that, too. His injuries, the highly paid specialist said in her placid, professional tone, had been severe. No shit times two. It didn’t take eight years of education and a fancy medical degree to figure that one out. He’d lost thirty pounds in those four weeks of hospitalization. He’d also lost his spleen, the use of one of his lungs and the tendons in his left shoulder and wrist, a big chunk of muscle in his left thigh, and almost all of his strength. The guys were all hush-hush about it but he knew they were talking, saying things like, “Old King Cole sure screwed the pooch this time. He’ll probably never dive again.”

      Old King Cole… His crew had long since picked up on his mother’s pet name for him and, knowing his dislike for it, used it when they wanted to get his goat.

      His crew also called him “the old man.” Maybe he was, to them. They were all young kids, the oldest was Trig at twenty-seven. Was thirty-nine old? It was only one year away from forty, and forty was definitely old.

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