Death's Last Run (2 page)

“It's not funny,” Noah said. “You know how hard this is for me, playing chess with you, browsing websites with you for your last hour in New York?” He grabbed her chair and spun her back around. They locked eyes. “I want to be naked with you — not fucking you, but touching you, feeling your muscled little legs wrapped around me, running my fingers through your hair, kissing your lips, your neck, your body. Why do you think I put on romantic music as soon as you came over?” When Clare said nothing, Noah continued, “Are you even capable of falling in love? As you, I mean. Not as Lucy, or as Tiffany, or whatever cover role you're playing. It's Clare Vengel I'm trying to reach. Is she even fucking available?”

Clare couldn't speak to that, so she went back to Noah's coffee table and started setting up the chess board. She had time for one more game before her airport cab came.

But as she arranged the wooden men into their orderly lines, the image of Sacha Westlake's death shot came back to the front of Clare's mind. No matter what Noah said — or what they said on
CNN
— the biggest inconsistency was staring right out from that photograph. Suicide was leaving life. Snowboarding was living it. They didn't go together. That was the killer's mistake.

“You know what, Noah? Fuck this.” Clare stood up. “I'd rather stare at the blank walls of the airport gate than sit here and listen to you tell me all my flaws.”

“Clare, I . . .”

“Oh, and jazz isn't romantic. It's lame. You want to get me naked, try Depeche Mode or Leonard Cohen. We've been together for a year. I can't believe you don't know that.”

Clare grabbed her carry-on and slammed the door shut behind her. She'd cancel her scheduled airport car and hail a cab on the street. She had to figure out what the killer's other mistakes were. Before he — or she — killed again.

MARTHA

Martha Westlake gazed out the back window of her West Seventieth Street brownstone. A few stories up, in an apartment that backed onto Martha's courtyard from West Seventy-first, a naked, fleshy fortysomething contemplated her wardrobe options. In other windows, a retired couple drank tea with no animation and a shirtless man, maybe in his twenties, danced around his bathroom as he shaved. Her constituents. She hated them right now, probably because they were alive.

How had she failed so completely?

She had a zillion phone calls to return and her email inbox was bulging to the point of overflow, but all Martha wanted to do was sit and stare at photographs.

She opened the fourth giant album, the one where Sacha was three. There should have been twenty-three years to go through, but somewhere along the way the world had gone digital and now no one printed photos anymore.

She touched the photograph on the first page, traced her finger along Sacha in her brown plaid trench coat, marching through Central Park and looking like a tiny reporter. Martha remembered the day she'd taken the picture. One of the rare full days she had spent with her daughter. The nanny had the flu and Fraser was out of town, so Martha was stuck — she felt that way,
stuck —
looking after Sacha. Near the park entrance, she and Sacha passed a homeless man with a three-legged dog. Sacha looked up at Martha with her big brown eyes and said, “Mommy, can we bring that man home tonight? If I give him my dinner, he won't have to eat his dog's other legs.” Martha had hurried Sacha along with some brusque explanation of why inviting strangers into your house was unsafe. She wished now that she'd helped Sacha take the man a sandwich.

She reached for her coffee and took a sip — lukewarm. Why could she not shed a single tear? Martha had always suspected herself of being a cold bitch; now she knew for sure. She touched the photo again and closed her eyes.

Martha's BlackBerry rang. Ted. She'd been ignoring his calls for over a week. She sighed and picked it up.

“Martha. So sorry to bother you. Kearnes is pulling tricks in Michigan.”

“What kind of tricks?”

A metal snapping sound came through the phone. That would be Ted cracking his first can of Red Bull for the day. Or maybe his second, judging by the speed he was talking. “He's been making phone calls to your supporters. In particular, he's aiming to snag Hillier's endorsement.”

“He can aim all he likes. Reverend Hillier and I had dinner three weeks ago. We shook hands and agreed that I have his support.”

“That was before . . . Kearnes is implying that it's a good thing this happened now — Sacha's death — so the Republican Party can see your so-called true colors before making the mistake of electing you as leader. He's trying to prove that if you're taking this much time off over one death, how would you handle the presidency in wartime?”

“For Christ's sake, this is my daughter. Can't Hillier see that? Can't Kearnes?”

“Yeah, but you're not there to defend yourself.”

“How do you know what Geoff Kearnes is saying on the phone, anyway? Or do I not want to know?”

“A college friend is involved in Kearnes' campaign. He and I grabbed a coffee after the all-candidates town hall meeting in Flint . . .”

The meeting Martha should have been at
was the implication and why Ted let his sentence trail. She eyed her photo album and wished Ted would get to the point.

“It's disgusting,” Ted said. “And don't worry — voters disagree with Kearnes, if your new popularity is anything to gauge by.”

Martha willed herself not to comment on the absurd stupidity of that statement.

“But . . . and this is bad . . . I called Hillier's office half an hour ago to make sure things are still good, that we still have his endorsement . . .”

“And?”

“He took the call personally. Says he hasn't made up his mind.”

Martha clenched her hand tighter around her phone. If Hillier took the call personally, it was a good sign and a bad one. It meant he was still open to backing Martha. And it meant that he wanted something.

“Kearnes is offering a cabinet post.” Ted's voice was flat.

“Hillier told you that?”

“No — that's through the grapevine.” Ted's code for
you don't want any more details.

“A reliable grapevine?”

“Yes.”

“Motherfucker,” Martha said. “Let him go, then. Let Hillier endorse whomever he chooses.”

“I wish that was an option,” Ted said. “But we can't win Michigan without him.”

“So we lose Michigan.” Martha didn't see the big deal. There were more states.

“We can't lose Michigan, or Kearnes will have enough delegates to win the nomination.”

“Officially?”

“Effectively — unless you plan on taking him in his home state. But trust me — Michigan is easier. All we need is Hillier and we should have it.”

Martha tried to care — she
should
care — but she didn't. “I'm not giving a cabinet position to anyone with a religious background.”

“You have to give him something. He's already out on a limb, supporting the only Republican campaigning on the separation of church and state.”

“Meaning?”

“
Reverend
Hillier has a congregation to keep happy. He needs to take them something positive — something to make them understand why you as president is best for their self-interest, even if you are a heathen.”

Martha snorted. “We've been through all this, Ted. Three weeks ago, my education plan and the war on drugs were enough for him. And to be frank, I don't care that much anymore. Losing Michigan — giving up this race — is looking tempting.”

“Forget about it,” Ted said with a nervous laugh. “Your team won't let you fall. Anyway, I called because I need your approval on a statement before we release it to the press. It's loosely aimed at Hillier, but there are others who could use their confidence in you rejuvenated. We want to talk about your grief — how Sacha's death knocked you down — and we'll focus on your bereavement as inspiring your rebirth as a stronger, more compassionate world leader.”

“Rebirth? Is that in case I have one lone supporter left from the religious right?”

“Look, you have the moderates, independents, and coastal conservatives locked tight. But it doesn't hurt to use the odd bit of churchy language as a bone to throw to the evangelicals. Like it or not, we will need them eventually.”

Martha smiled as she recalled Sacha, age fifteen, saying,
You know that seventy percent of Republicans don't believe in evolution? You're too smart to align yourself with these idiots. Or is it the low taxes you like? Does the Republican ethic work for you because you're rich and you want to keep it that way?

Ted was still talking. “The idea is for Hillier and the rest of the party to see you as not only a viable candidate, but a better candidate for having gone through this turmoil and come out on top.” Poor Ted. He was a smart enough kid when he wasn't trying to prove how smart he was.

“I don't like it. A news release reeks of excuses when it's obvious to anyone with a brain why I'm not at full strength.”

“We have to act, though. If we lose Michigan or Arizona, the battle will be too far uphill. Washington is yours, Alaska isn't significant, but taking Kearnes in Georgia is going to be next to impossible. Unless we can find a prostitute in his closet, or even a blow-up cocker spaniel — but so far no luck on either.” Ted paused. “You still say no about bringing up the affair, right? I know it was over twenty years ago, but Kearnes was married; you weren't. We could blow him out of the race with one piece of evidence.”

“Yes, I still say no.” Martha's head was spinning with the rapid-fire speed of Ted's talking. Her own words felt slow and sluggish in comparison. “Arrange a lunch with Reverend Hillier. I'll tell him face to face that I still plan to win this. Was there anything else?”

“Um, the
FBI
has been in touch. You cleared them to talk to me, right?”

“Yes.”

“They're training an undercover to send to Whistler.”

Martha's head began to pound. “When do they think he'll be ready?”

“He's arriving in Whistler this evening. Um, Martha?”

“Yes?”

“I don't think it was suicide, either. Sacha was strong. She loved being alive.”

Martha clicked off her phone before she could tear a strip off Ted that he didn't deserve. It wasn't Ted's fault he was twenty-six in Washington.

RICHIE

Richie Lebar leaned in the doorway between Jana's kitchen and living room. Outside the dirty window, snow was dumping on the village.

Past some other apartment buildings and houses in the Upper Village, Richie saw the Fairmont Chateau Whistler, nestled on its own at the foot of Blackcomb Mountain. Though it was at the base of the hill, that hotel was the peak for Richie. He liked to take Jana there, sit in the bar and order a bottle of Cristal and just lounge there sipping it, living the life. It showed him how far he'd come, how different he was from the rough guy he used to be. With snow cascading down upon its turrets, the hotel looked like a fairytale castle, straight out of Germany or Switzerland.

He wished Jana would hurry up and eat. He wanted to hit the slopes, feel his board glide through powder, burn off some of the nasty energy that had been eating him up for over a week.

“Sacha Westlake was no angel.” Jana poked her spoon violently into her Mueslix. “How come every time someone young dies, they're suddenly an honor student with a heart of gold?”

Richie laughed, which felt good because not much was funny these days. “True, that. In high school, my friend got shot. He was an evil mofo — had his eight-year-old brother selling meth for him 'cause the kid was too young for juvie. Day after he dies, there's a picture in the paper of my friend singing in the church choir when he was, like, five years old. The headline was
Choir Boy Slain.
”

Jana lifted a spoonful of cereal from the bowl and frowned at it. She set her spoon back down. “Seriously. Sacha was awesome, but the press has to stop sticking her on this tragic pedestal. I want to tell the next reporter who calls that she was fucking her married boss and selling
LSD
into the States.”

“Yeah, but you won't, right?” Richie flicked his tongue against the back of his mouth grill — the gold and diamonds that decorated his teeth and told the world he had money.

“Of course not. I'm not going to throw you and Chopper under the bus. Maybe I'll say the married boss part though. Let Wade squirm.” Jana nudged her green-rimmed glasses up on her nose. They were cute on her. Richie wished she'd wear them out of the house sometimes.

Richie looked past Jana out the kitchen window at the heavy falling snow. First powder day since Sacha died — like the sky was trying to tell them to move on. “Are you planning to eat your cereal, or play with it until it turns to mush?”

“I'm out of Smarties. It tastes boring with just seeds and oats.”

“So add bananas. But speed up.”

Jana pushed back her chair and pulled a banana from the bunch on the counter. “Go without me. I feel like a lazy morning.”

Richie frowned. Since Sacha's death, he didn't like to leave Jana alone. “Keep the door locked.”

“Aw. Are you my big black bodyguard?”

Richie flinched. He knew she wasn't racist, but sometimes it kind of felt like Jana was dating him to piss off her parents, some kind of extended teenage rebellion. Maybe he was being oversensitive. “Is your new roommate coming today?”

“Tonight,” Jana said.

“Be careful with her. Don't let this get out, but there's an undercover coming to town. Maybe already here.”

“And you think it might be my new roommate?”

“Probably not. They say it's a guy. Still . . .”

Jana glanced at him. “How do you know?”

“Norris told me. But hush. It's not for everyone's ears.”

“So I can't smoke drugs with my new roommate? Man, this is going to be fun.”

“You can smoke pot. But play it safe with the shit you say. No mentioning Sacha's extracurricular activities, for example.”

“You mean her trips to the States with a knapsack full of acid?”

“Yeah.” Richie grinned. “Things like that.”

A chunk of banana splashed into Jana's bowl, sending drops of milk flying. It grossed Richie out that she didn't grab a cloth, just let the droplets land wherever.

“I should never have put that ad for a new roommate up so soon,” Jana said. “Sacha's mom is paying her rent until the end of March, so it's not like I need the new girl's money.”

“You should tell Sacha's mom to stop paying.”

“I should, right? But she's rich. I kind of figured it didn't matter.”

Richie normally found Jana's full figure attractive. He liked that she had meat he could grab and an ass that wasn't bony when he squeezed it. But this morning, she looked fat and selfish, like a cat who thought all the cream should be hers.

Jana toyed with the tiny braid in her otherwise loose long hair. “What's the undercover here for? Drugs?”

“No. He's here for Sacha.”

“What? Why?”

“Her mom don't think —” Richie cringed from his own grammar. “
Doesn't
think it's suicide
.
”

“Her mom should get a grip.”

“You think Sacha killed herself?” Richie picked up his ski pants, which he'd slung over the back of a chair the night before.

“I know she killed herself — that's why I'm so mad at her. She wrote me a letter before she went up Blackcomb.”

“She left a note?” Richie wondered why he didn't know this already. Norris should have told him; things were supposed to be transparent between them. Unless Jana was making shit up again.

Jana was tearing up, which Richie wished he had more patience for. If they'd actually been best friends, it would be one thing. But that was all in Jana's fucked-up head — to Sacha, Jana had just been someone fun to party with.

“Have you shown the note to the cops?” Richie asked.

Jana shook her head. “I miss her too much to give up the last thing Sacha gave me.”

Richie dropped his ski pants back over the sofa. He was starting to think there really was a note. “You have to show me.”

“No. It's private.”

“Jana.”

Jana wrinkled her mouth. “This is about your business, isn't it? You think if you show the cops the note, the undercover will go home and you'll be able to keep selling drugs.”

Richie lifted his eyebrows, meaning
Duh.

“So this note is worth a lot of money.”

“You want me to pay you for it?” Richie wanted to slug her, but kept calm. Hitting women was not in his repertoire — he'd left Scarborough behind, and all his father's ways with it. “How much?”

“I don't know. What's it worth?”

To Richie at that moment, it was worth fifty grand or so — maybe more — if the letter could send the
FBI
guy away. “I'll give you a thousand bucks for it.”

“No shit?” Jana's eyes lit up. “I'd rather keep the letter, but cool that it's worth so much.”

“We have to show the police — especially now that it's a murder investigation.”

Jana laughed. “A lecture from a drug dealer about how to help the cops. Good one.”

“You want your supply to dry up? That's what's gonna happen while the
FBI
is here. Chopper's going to stop production, too — so no more Mountain Snow.”

“Fine.” Jana pushed back her chair and stomped into her room. She came out with a piece of paper that she thrust into Richie's hand. “But I'm not selling it. I want this back by tonight. I've been sleeping with it under my pillow.”

“A-ight,” Richie said, and then kicked himself.
So ghetto.
Why did he keep slipping today? That part of him was supposed to already be dead.