Death's Last Run (20 page)

Jana grabbed Clare's hand and yanked her up. “Come on. We're changing rooms.”

“Why?” Clare let herself be led into the living room.

“We all have dark spots in our lives. Don't dwell on them or you'll depress yourself.”

Had Clare been talking? Shit. Amanda was so right — she should not have trusted herself to take this drug. She was going to blow her cover in no time. “Um, was I talking?”

Jana laughed. “No. But I know Mountain Snow. Here, sit on the couch; it's the most comfortable place in the room.”

Clare sat on the couch. It was blue, like the ocean. She felt kind of seasick, but not bad enough to stand up. She just rode the waves, pretending she was skippering a sailboat, pulling at ropes to keep the sails taut and the course true. Noah was on the boat, but he was being lazy. His feet were up on an overturned bucket as he reclined in a deck chair. Clare wanted to tell him to get up and help but there was no point — he looked like he might even be asleep. She put a hand to her forehead and scanned the horizon. And then she
was
the boat — way more fun — chopping through and feeling salt water lap at her hull. She was carrying Noah — which suddenly felt right — navigating for both of them and leading Noah to a safer place, where he could deal with having killed a girl and forgive himself for it. And then Jana appeared and Clare was Clare again. And Lucy.

Jana put Jules in Clare's hands and bent down to study the stereo. “We need happy music,
STAT
.”

From the speakers, a guitar started strumming, and soon Kermit the Frog began singing “The Rainbow Connection.”

The song made Clare smile. The lyrics were sweet and hopeful, making Clare feel like Sacha had written in her note — that wherever she ended up, she was on the only path that made sense to her. She still felt weak, like she was recovering from a vicious virus that had attacked her whole system. But she also felt strong, ready to take on what came next.

“Are you ready to see what's in Jules?” Jana unzipped the bear's back, stuck her hand in, and wiggled it around. She frowned. “This memory stick is lodged in here. I don't want to ruin Jules, but I don't know how to get it out. I wonder if scissors would help.”

“We could wait until tomorrow,” Clare said. “Or until the acid wears off. I don't want to ruin Jules, either.”

“We have to act now.”

“Okay.” Clare stroked Jules' plush ear, silently telling him she wouldn't let any scissors come near him.

MARTHA

From the midtown fortieth floor, Martha looked out upon nighttime in New York. Below, the East River's murky waters rushed down the length of the city. Part of her wished she could hop onto a working barge, ride it out to sea, and drift indefinitely. But the largest part of Martha was focused on this party.

She smiled at a terrible joke that a man in a well-tailored suit had just told — something about a bear and a beer in a bar. She sipped her gin and tonic. She made an equally lame but friendly reply.

“We're so glad you came out tonight.” The Wall Street baron hosting the soiree touched Martha's arm. “When your assistant called to cancel last week, we thought we were going to have to invite Geoff Kearnes.”

The man spoke lightly, so Martha laughed — though she felt the serious undercurrent. The host was a friend of Fraser's; Martha had known him socially for years. But it was hardly the time to fall back on familiarity. His endorsement was to New York what Reverend Hillier's was to Michigan. The nomination would likely be clinched before a New York primary happened, but she couldn't afford to lose his support. “Back in full swing,” Martha said. “I'll never stop missing Sacha. But I'm pushing forward, fresh each day.”

“Good, good. Here, there's someone I'd like you to meet.”

As Martha was led away, her phone rang with Ted's distinct ringtone. Ted knew her schedule — he wouldn't interrupt unless it mattered.

“Sorry,” Martha said. “I need to take this.”

The host frowned. “I hope you're not long.”

Ted was breathless. “Remember the blogger who interviewed you at LaGuardia?”

“Yes.” Martha hoped this was important enough for her to have snubbed the host.

“He knew Sacha as a kid.”

“Yes.” Martha, of course, already knew this. Though the photograph in Sacha's box was still nagging her. Could skin color lighten as someone aged? She thought of Michael Jackson and realized that anything was possible.

“The blogger is trying to solve the case through the Internet. He knows about the suicide note, but he doesn't believe Sacha killed herself.”

“I'm at a party, Ted. For work. Can we talk about this tomorrow?” But Martha's mind had kicked into gear — how could Lorenzo already know about the suicide note?

“Sure,” Ted said. “Sorry. I forgot you were doing that. The soiree still shows as canceled in your calendar. I'll email you the link to this latest blog post. You can check it out whenever.”

Whenever
might as well be immediately. Martha slipped into the bathroom and pulled out her BlackBerry. She clicked the link Ted had emailed her.

On The Case

by Lorenzo Barilla

Sacha Westlake has been dead for 13 days and Whistler police are nowhere near finding a lead.

Maybe that's because they're not looking.

Yesterday, I interviewed Martha Westlake. She had the most to gain from Sacha's death. Or is that the most to lose if Sacha remained alive?

Martha wished she'd brought her drink into the bathroom — she could use a heavy glug.

Today, I interviewed Wade Harrison, owner of the bar where Sacha worked.

Here are some facts I learned:

1. Wade and Sacha were sleeping together.
   
2. Wade is in the middle of a descent into financial ruin.
   
3. Wade's wife is the legal owner of the bar.
   

Did Wade kill Sacha to keep his wife from finding out he'd been cheating?

Did Georgia Harrison kill Sacha out of jealousy?

Did Senator Westlake murder her daughter for political gain?

Or is the killer someone whom I have yet to interview?

If you have information that could help me find Sacha's killer, please add your comment below.

Because yes, Sacha left a note. But this was no suicide note: she left it because she knew she was about to be murdered.

Martha held her phone in her hand and stared at it. As if her world wasn't already upside down enough. She drew a long breath, plastered on her cocktail smile, and went out to find the host.

RICHIE

Norris squirmed in his armchair in Chopper's cabin. Richie watched Norris, wondered what was going on inside that small, tightly wound head of his.

Chopper bridged his hands in the air and said, “You need to let us in, Stu. What's this big secret eating you?”

“I'm not cleared to say,” Norris said, making Richie want to leap across the coffee table to punch him.

Richie's phone, nestled in the pocket of his raw denim Levi's, was recording this conversation. He couldn't hold back from saying, “I don't think you're cleared to take bribes from drug dealers, either.”

“Look, I know that. And I wish I never helped you guys.” Norris sounded like a six-year-old who maybe thought magic could erase his past actions, or that pouting would make people care. “I made a mistake taking your money. I should have just turned a blind eye and left it there.”

Chopper shrugged. “A blind eye still deserves a piece of the action.”

“But the money makes it official — it makes me complicit. And the fucked-up thing . . .” Norris pounded his fist against the soft leather arm of his chair. “The fucked-up thing is I don't even want the money.”

Richie wanted to call bullshit on that, but he kept quiet.

He was glad when Chopper said, “If you don't want the money, why did you ask for ten grand for the undercover's name?”

Norris' lip twitched. “Because I didn't have the cash.”

“Because of the cello?”

Norris shrugged. “And my wife. I take her to nice restaurants, give her extra money for shopping — she doesn't question it.”

Chopper cocked his head, like he was trying to see his friend from a different angle. “But you're the careful one, the guy who always has a reserve fund and another one to back it up.”

“I still have my
RSP
s. But they're the one-year cashable kind. I couldn't exactly wait to wire the money.”

Wire the money where?
Richie wanted to ask. But Chopper met Richie's eyes and shook his head slightly, and Richie knew he was right: Norris wanted to talk, but he was so skittish. It made more sense for Chopper to take the lead, coax what he could out of his old friend.

“You said this is bigger than us, Stu,” Chopper said. “What does that mean?”

Norris pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Can I smoke in here?”

“Yeah, why not? Normally I say no tobacco, but Lucy's been lighting up like a little chimney.”

Norris' hands were trembling so hard that he tore the first cigarette he tried to pull from the pack. He tossed both pieces in the ashtray, pulled out a second cigarette, and fumbled with the lighter until it was lit.

“First,” Norris said. “You guys have to know you're protected. Wade, too. I have that in writing. None of you are going down when this is over.”

“So who is going down?” Chopper asked.

“Your friends in Seattle.”

“That's not a bad thing. How can I be of assistance?” Richie said it like a joke, but he meant it. He had no loyalty left toward Seattle.

“You can help by not even contemplating taking this batch across the border. If the
FBI
gets wind of this — and I'm sorry to say it, Chopper, but your name has come up on their red flag list — then the whole operation to bust the Seattle cartel could get blown. The immunity deal I negotiated for the three of you would be off the table.”

“Not much good you having a signed agreement then, is it? If they can change the rules whenever they please.”

Chopper shot Richie a sharp glance that said,
I'll take it from here.
“Stu, who are you negotiating with? The
RCMP
, the
FBI
. . . ?”

Norris' shoulders slumped. His little gut pushed out — Richie hadn't noticed him having one before. “You guys swear this stays right here?”

“Of course.” Chopper's tone was warm and level. Richie saw that he could learn a lot from Chopper about how to talk to people in business, how to get them to relax and open up.

“I've been working with the
DEA
,” Norris said.

An electric glance shot between Richie and Chopper.

“You little motherfucker. You sold us out?” Richie said, before he remembered to be nice.

“Of course not.” Norris glowered at Richie. “They got in touch with me. They knew everything — Chopper's manufacturing, your dealing, Sacha's drug-running. They wanted — still want — our help in nailing the Seattle cartel. But they can't have the
FBI
see us, or they're worried the operation will get botched.”

“Fucking Sacha,” Chopper said. “She could never keep her mouth shut.”

Richie wasn't so sure the leak was from Sacha, but he wouldn't say a word until he knew just who it
was
from. Too many people were friends with each other in this strange little town.

Norris' eyes were wide, pleading forgiveness.

“I should have told you guys way sooner, I know. Like as soon as the
DEA
got in touch. I thought I could keep control of this.”

“So they knew about you, too,” Richie said. “About your taking bribes. Otherwise, how would they know you'd work for them so willingly?”

“If they don't bust Seattle, they're telling the
RCMP
everything. My life and career here would be over. I'm thinking seriously of bailing anyway, taking my family and getting out.” Norris hauled hard on his cigarette, like the nicotine could somehow protect him.

“The run pays twenty grand,” Richie said, more worried about the Seattle cartel than a couple years in prison if Norris happened to be right about the
DEA
. “You want to get out of town, why not take your family in Chopper's truck and catch a plane out of Bellingham to somewhere sunny — somewhere that doesn't extradite. You can make up for your fuck-up and save your ass at the same time. It's not often life hands you a win-win like that.”

Norris' mouth wrinkled. “If the run pays twenty grand under normal conditions, I'd need at least fifty to make it worth my while now.”

Fifty?
Richie met Chopper's eyes. Chopper nodded.

“But,” Richie couldn't help saying, “you just said you don't want the blood money.”

“I didn't need it before. Now, it's my ticket to a new beginning.”

“Fine,” Richie said. “Fifty grand is half the take, and this is all your goddamn fault, but fine.” Even if Norris made off with the whole hundred grand, and even if they never got Chopper's truck back, it was saving Richie and Chopper a million in debt. Like Billingsley said,
Cut your losses quick to give your profits room to grow.
He'd followed it up in the book with a tomato plant analogy for readers who were too dumb to get his drift.

Richie's phone beeped with a text from Jana:
Got Lucy 2 drop. Yay me.

“You know what else is nagging me?” Norris took the tiny end of Chopper's joint and sucked back hard before squishing the butt into the ashtray.

“Your wife?” Richie texted back:
Good 2 know. Still b careful what u say.

“There's a blogger on the case, so to speak. Interviewing so-called suspects, trying to find out who killed Sacha. He knows things, like that Wade was cheating on Georgia with Sacha. What if he has eyes in town and follows me to the States?”

Richie thought this was taking paranoid to a whole new level, but Chopper said, “Richie or I could follow you as far as Squamish, make sure no one's on your tail.”

“Even still . . . Look, if I were single, I wouldn't be this cautious. But if I'm in jail, or if I'm dead, I'm no good to my family.”

Richie wished his own dad had had even a fraction of that attitude. He said, “The blogger is nothing to worry about. I've been reading the posts with Jana, and I'm pretty sure the blogger and Sacha were friends back in New York. He's gone all emo about losing her, but it's not some deep mystery why the guy knows she was fucking Wade. It doesn't make him a genius detective with eyes into our living rooms.”

“Au contraire, my friend.” Chopper reached forward and pulled his open box of marijuana supplies toward himself. He pulled out a Rizla and some pot, and started rolling a new joint. “I've been reading, too, and this blogger is emotionally invested. He might not be here now, but he'll find a way into our living rooms. He'll find eyes here, little spies. He won't rest until the verdict's overturned and Sacha's been cleared of suicide.”

“But she
did
kill herself,” Norris said. “The suicide note only compounds the evidence.”

“So why can't you close the case?” Chopper's eyebrows lifted, challenging.

“
RCMP
head office says the suicide note isn't clear enough. They're petrified of American scorn if we get it wrong.”

Richie looked at Norris. “Can you go the other way? Change the diagnostics and call this a murder case?”

“Why would I do that?” Norris pushed his little chest out. “I truly believe Sacha killed herself.”

“I don't. But that's not the point. A murder verdict might make the
FBI
and the blogger go away quietly. Their objection is to Sacha being labeled a suicide — not that we haven't found a killer.”

“They're not going away until Sacha's death has been vindicated.”

“You think?” Richie said. “Because even if only one of them leaves, that's one less wolf at our door. We could maybe get away with this one last run before we pack up and find a town with less heat.”

“You forget that the
DEA
is watching, too.”

“But they
want
us to make the run. Just not while we're being watched.”

Norris wrinkled his small nose. “Even if a murder verdict made the blogger
and
the
FBI
leave — which I'm not convinced it would — it would attract more press. We'd have just as many eyes on us, if not more.” He looked to Chopper. “What do you think?”

“Richie's right,” Chopper said. “You should change your official position to murder. You don't have to actually find a killer.”

Norris was quiet as his eyes moved back and forth between Richie and Chopper. “I'll change the verdict,” he said finally. “But until the
DEA
gives me the all clear, I'm not helping move those drugs across the border.”