Death's Last Run (21 page)

CLARE

The doorbell rang. Clare and Jana jumped.

“Who's there?” Clare asked Jana. She was playing with Jules' ear, which suddenly reminded her of their mission to see what was inside him. For the past hour, she and Jana had been absorbed by the
Muppet Movie
soundtrack, analyzing the lyrics for hidden clues to the secret of the universe. They'd already found several.

“I don't know,” Jana said.

“Don't know what?”

“Who's at the door. Should we check, or pretend we're not here?”

Chopper's voice came from outside. “We can hear you guys talking. You can pretend you're not there, but we won't believe you.”

Clare and Jana burst out laughing.

“Let's hide,” Jana said. “So they won't know where we are.”

“How will they get in? Anyway, who's they?”

“Me and Richie,” Chopper said. “Come on, you guys. We're freezing.”

“Oh, fine.” Jana got up and let them in.

The guys took off their outside gear and joined Clare and Jana in the living room. Chopper shared the couch with Clare. With blond hair against a white shirt, he looked like a polar bear. Not the kind that would growl and eat her up, but a big goofy nice one, like the kind from the Coke commercials. She leaned into his body and he wrapped his furry arms around her.

Richie looked like a tiger — or maybe a cheetah — Chester Cheetah — strutting around in designer baggy duds like a man on a mission. He didn't look scary, either. More like he wanted to look scary.

“We found a camera inside Jules,” Jana said. “But we don't know how to watch it.”

“For realz?” Richie asked as he slid into an armchair.

Jana laughed. “There's no Z on the end of real if you're outside the ghetto.”

Richie rolled his eyes and muttered, “Whatever. You're cute when you're high. Too bad you're probably not horny.”

“Sex on acid rocks.” Chopper picked up Clare's hand and squeezed it. It felt juicy, like he was pumping positive energy into her hand. “We should try some later.”

Jana wrinkled her nose. “Don't listen to him. Richie's right. It feels like robot sex.”

“That's the beauty,” Chopper said, walking his fingers up Clare's arm and giving her an awesome tingly feeling. “It's like two minds merging on this sick astral plane. Which Jana wouldn't know about, because she's never been up there.”

Clare met Chopper's eyes and felt a line form, pulsing from her eyes to his and back again. It was blue, like electricity. Like they were shooting thoughts back and forth. She wondered if Chopper could feel it, too.

“Man, I wish I was high with you,” Chopper said. “You seem like you're telling me something important, but without the drug, I can't receive the message.”

Clare wasn't sure what he meant, but she thought she knew. She nestled into him and felt safer than she'd felt in years.

“So what's with the Jules cam?” Richie asked. “You have it here, or what?”

“Yeah,” Jana said. “But me and Sacha — I mean, me and Lucy are way too stoned to figure it out. Lucy, show him Jules.”

Clare thought this was a terrible idea, sharing their clue with two more prime suspects. Even if they were a polar bear and a tiger-cheetah, you couldn't rule anyone out until it was over. But she turned back into Lucy, who wouldn't share those concerns. She unzipped Jules and handed him to Chopper. Chopper looked inside and tugged with his free hand. The memory stick came loose and he pulled it from the stuffed bear.

Jana and Clare locked eyes and burst out laughing.

“Does one of you have a computer we can use?” Chopper asked.

“My laptop.” Jana got up and retrieved it from the kitchen.

Chopper pulled his arm away from Clare, making her feel like her fire had just gone out and she was sitting alone in the cold. She gave him a look to let him know he'd abandoned her.

“Sorry.” Chopper patted her shoulder.

“That's okay. I think you're nice.” Clare laughed inside at her own lame words. She would never speak them sober — or if she wasn't being Lucy.

“I think I'm nice, too.” Chopper opened the computer on the coffee table and turned it on. “Is this Sacha's laptop?”

“Yeah,” Jana said. “I've been using it to remind me of her. Mine's so old and slow.”

“Um, yeah. I'm sure she doesn't miss it. But wouldn't this have been, like, evidence?”

“Oh my god.” Jana rolled her eyes. “You're not even a real scientist, and you have to be so technical about everything. I gave the police her desktop and her phone. That's all they asked for.”

Chopper plugged in the memory stick and clicked the first icon in the folder that popped up on the screen.

A video started playing. Sacha came to life.

RICHIE

Richie roughed up Jana's hair. She was on the floor in front of his armchair, snuggled against his legs. Maybe if his business plan worked out, he could ask her about moving in together. He knew she didn't want a conventional rich guy who wore a suit to work and pretended to know about wines, but she wasn't going to settle down with a drug dealer, either. Which was a good thing — Richie wanted a good life for her.

On the tape, Sacha was driving Chopper's big red truck. Her hair was messy, like she wore it around the house. She said, “This is my official documentary into the heart of the American drug smuggling trade.”

She sounded far away — the microphone wasn't the greatest. But her little lithe movements, that sparkle just behind her eye — it was like she was in the room with them.

“My mother is one of America's biggest fighters in the War on Drugs.” Sacha leaned closer to the camera, like she was telling it a secret. Jules must have been sitting on the center console. “Except she isn't fighting. Not really. She's been presented with creative solutions that would reduce the power of the cartels. She met Ernesto Zedillo at Yale. Can you believe that? This guy is a genius, a free thinker who wants to eradicate drugs from the world using methods that might actually work, and she won't listen to him. Instead, my mother keeps playing politics — choosing the policy that will win her the next election over the one that will actually work.

“My goal with this Whistler project is twofold: To show how horrible cartels are by working with one of the worst, based in Seattle. And to open the public mind to legalization.

“I'm worried that I won't be here much longer. I think someone wants me dead.” Sacha had clearly done editing work on the film, because dark music played for four beats or so. It was almost hilarious, except Richie was seething that his friend had deceived him so thoroughly.

Sacha — the traitor — continued: “Yesterday, I took Jules along on an acid trip — to show how much fun it is, and how educative it can be if you treat the drug with respect.

“Today, we're on a road trip. Across the border with a knapsack filled with
LSD
. Street value: two million dollars. But I'm only planning to collect two hundred grand — there are a lot more middlemen who will be paid out before this hits the streets.” Sacha's hand came toward the camera and the view shifted so it was facing forward, toward the border station at the Peace Arch. “Stay tuned to see how easy it is to get across.”

Chopper paused the recording. “Fucking Sacha. I can't believe she'd sell us out like this.”

Richie gritted his teeth. He wanted to tell Chopper to shut the fuck up around Lucy. And really, they shouldn't be watching this video around her at all. What he said was, “I think we should get these girls outside for some fresh air. The best way to come down from Mountain Snow is surrounded by mountain snow.”

“So right,” Chopper said, maybe getting the point or maybe just wanting to feel his new toy, Lucy, squeezing him from behind. “You girls in the mood for a sled ride?”

Lucy's face lit up. “Always.”

Richie took that as a good sign. If Lucy was the cop, she'd want to keep watching the video.

“Yeah,” Jana said. “Let's get out of this place. I'm pretty sure Sacha's mad at us.”

Richie waited for the other three to head toward their winter coats before slipping the memory stick into his pocket.

“Damn, I forgot I have to meet Wade,” he said as Jana locked the door behind them all. “You guys have fun. I'll catch up to you later on your trip.”

WADE

Wade tried to remember what ingredients were in a Singapore Sling. He knew it was orange with a red floating liquid . . . he went with orange juice and cherry brandy. There should probably be another liquor involved — rum? Gin? Vodka? Maybe another juice, too. He texted Jana to find out.

She texted back quickly:
Gin. But u can get away with whatever — as long as color is right most customers have no clue.

If she wasn't so damn good at her job, he'd fire her in five seconds flat.

It was busy for the middle of the week. A young couple was slamming back shooters at the video game machine — pumping lots of coin in, which was good. A recently divorced regular was drinking beer in his suit and tie — he would have three or four more pints before stumbling home to his newly empty condo.

Wade's nerves were on fire as he watched Georgia and Richie, deep in conversation at a high-top table. They were both smiling.

After fifteen minutes or so, they shook hands and Richie walked out the door. Still wearing her office clothes, Georgia sauntered over on her high-heeled snow boots to join Wade at the bar. Watching her movement as she came toward him, he couldn't help but remember the twenty-four-year-old copywriter he'd met at his first advertising job. She'd been intense, sure — she loved her job and was great at the networking that went with it — but the Georgia of the past had also been funny, quirky; she could laugh at herself, and did often. Now everything was so heavy.

“So?” Wade put a new glass of white wine in front of her, as well as the veggie plate she'd ordered.

“So it's a no-go,” Georgia said.

“What? Things looked like they were going so well.”

“Richie's a smart guy. Charming. Like you said. I told him I'd think about it.”

“And you've already finished thinking?”

“He's a drug dealer. I don't want to be in business with him.”

“Jesus, Georgia.” Wade grabbed the Laphroaig bottle from the top shelf. Might as well drink the good stuff before he had to abandon the bar along with all its liquor. “I thought at least you'd go into the meeting with an open mind.”

Georgia eyed Wade's pour, like she was critiquing how full his tumbler was. She sipped her sauvignon blanc — her second glass, so she had no right to be judgy. “My hairdresser told me about this blogger.”

Fuck. This was the last thing Wade needed. He seized on the word
hairdresser
. “You had your hair done? It looks great. New color?”

“Highlights. And about three inches shorter. Wade, I didn't want to have this conversation at your work. But I read the post this afternoon, and it's making me crazy.”

Wade took a long gulp of Scotch.

“The blog said you were cheating on me.”

“Are you serious?”

Georgia nodded. She looked small and sad, like the young woman he'd fallen in love with.

Wade shuffled his feet on the rubber floor mat. “Why would he invent such an awful lie?”

“Is it a lie?”

“Of
course
.” Wade reached across the bar to hold Georgia's hand in his.

Georgia pulled her hand away and picked up a carrot stick, which she used to poke a piece of celery. “I can handle the truth. Things have sucked with us lately.”

“I know. I've been stressed, a crappy husband. That's why I want a partner in Avalanche — so I can be married to you, not to work.”

“Is it true that Sacha had a teddy bear?”

Wade wanted to find that bear and tear him into shreds, starting with his missing eye. Seriously. Fuck Jules. “I don't know. How would I?”

“It's in the blog.” Georgia's eyes flickered to life. She reminded Wade of the kids in the
Scream
movies — it was all so exciting until they got killed by a psychopath. “If you cheated, Wade, we'll get past it. I just need to know. I miss that honesty, from the beginning. Remember when we were so excited to tell each other every tiny detail from our days?”

Wade knew it had been there once, but could only remember feeling that way about Sacha. “Of course I remember. And of course I didn't cheat with some scraggly snowboarder waitress.” Wade nearly choked to talk about Sacha that way, but he needed Georgia onside. “You know that murderers do sometimes lie?”

“Murderers? I'm talking about a blogger.”

“A blogger who cares a bit too much about this death. I don't think we can discount him as the killer.”

Georgia looked down at her veggie platter, then up again, her eyes alight like she was caught up in something dark and interesting.

Wade came around the other side of the bar and wrapped his wife in his arms. “Maybe I
will
close this bar, if it's tearing us up like this.”

“I'm doing my best to help, Wade. But sometimes you have to cut your losses.”

“I know.” Wade touched a strand of Georgia's hair and wished it was straighter and darker, like Sacha's.