Death's Last Run (23 page)

MARTHA

Martha banged on Fraser's apartment door. Yes, she could use the buzzer, but banging felt better. She would need to be rushed through security to make her flight to Michigan on time, but this stop could not be postponed.

Was it true that Sacha thought Martha wanted her to be someone else? If so, she could not have been more wrong. God, what Martha wouldn't give for one more conversation.

Fraser answered the door in his housecoat. Red velvet, like he thought he was some British lord in another decade — or century. Maybe he and Daisy were playing twisted sex games. Martha remembered Fraser liking to get twisted — but that had been years ago.

“I need to speak with your wife.” Martha pushed past Fraser and went inside the apartment.

Fraser lifted his eyebrows. “I'll get Daisy.”

“Hurry, please. I'm on my way to the airport.”

Fraser tossed her an odd grin. To his credit, he walked quickly toward the bedroom.

Martha helped herself to Fraser's coffee and sat at the round kitchen table. While she waited for Daisy to change out of her chambermaid costume, or whatever, Martha looked out the window onto the typical New York scene: more apartments. The Upper East Side wasn't too different, visually, from the Upper West — through various windows, two girls doing lines of cocaine, a naked man walking around his apartment while talking on the phone, a brunette in her forties screaming at her husband. Though she'd grown up in the city, it never failed to baffle Martha how little people in Manhattan cared for privacy. Like having an audience of ten million somehow equaled anonymity.

Martha pulled her iPad from her purse and loaded Lorenzo's latest post.

Daisy shuffled into the kitchen, pouting like a teenager who'd been woken early on a weekend. Fraser was close behind. He'd changed into his work clothes — a suit and a striped green tie.

Martha slid the iPad in front of Daisy.

“What?” Daisy wrinkled her nose, as if she found the device distasteful.

“I'd like you to read this. If you come to any long words, feel free to ask for help.”

“Fraser, why did you let her in?” But Daisy picked up the tablet. Her eyes flickered briefly as she read. After a couple of minutes, Daisy shoved Martha's iPad back across the table. “The bitch is obviously lying.”

“I don't think so.”

“You think I dropped acid with your daughter?”

Martha tilted her head in the briefest of nods.

“This is ridiculous. You believe some random blogger and one of Sacha's drug friends over me? Fraser, talk sense into her.”

“This is not some random blogger,” Martha said. “This is Lorenzo Barilla.”

Fraser looked startled. “The kid Sacha sponsored?”

“Yes. And now he's keen to find Sacha's killer. Unless, of course, he is the killer — a theory one police officer has presented.”

Fraser shook his head. “Martha, when are you going to give this up? Sacha killed herself. Even her best friend thinks so.”

“Not according to the police. Whistler
RCMP
issued a press release this morning.”

Fraser had obviously not turned on his
TV
. Which made sense, given his and Daisy's appearances.

“New evidence,” Martha said, “points definitively to murder.”

Fraser's mouth opened and shut a couple of times. He looked like he didn't know what to address first. He turned to Daisy. “Did you do
LSD
with Sacha?”

“What do you care?” Daisy said. “She wasn't your daughter.”

“Which Daisy also told Sacha.” Martha lifted her eyebrows and watched Fraser's eyes grow dark. She remembered that look from the few times he'd taken a stand in their marriage.

Fraser said to Martha, “What if the blogger isn't
actually
Lorenzo?”

“Of course it is. Lorenzo and Sacha maintained correspondence throughout her high school years.”

“That wasn't Lorenzo.”

Martha froze. “What are you talking about?”

“I don't know if I was right or wrong, but I hated watching Sacha pour her soul into those letters, hearing nothing back from that ungrateful kid she was supporting. After two years — I think Sacha was ten — I told her I'd mail her letters from work to save her the hassle and postage. Only instead of mailing them, I gave them to one of the girls in the secretary pool — nice kid, wanted to be a writer. She read Sacha's letters and responded as Lorenzo.”

“But — when Sacha left for university . . . ?”

“‘Lorenzo' wrote to say that his address was changing. Sacha began mailing the letters herself, to a post office box I intercepted.”

“That's a lot of work, Fraser.”

“I helped,” Daisy said. “I was Lorenzo through her university years.”

“You . . .” Martha hated the thought of Daisy knowing a part of Sacha that Martha never had. It was bad enough that Sacha had confided in Daisy about the drugs. But this . . . this was worse. It was part of Sacha's childhood.

“I asked her for help,” Fraser said. “The secretary changed firms, and Daisy's studying psychology — I thought she'd be able to get behind Lorenzo's eyes to write convincing letters. Plus she knows Sacha.”

Martha was too angry to comment, or to correct Fraser's verb tense.

Fraser chuckled. “I didn't think they'd keep it up for so long. Do you know they were still corresponding when Sacha was in Whistler?”

“It was good for Sacha,” Daisy said. “Even though she went off the rails a bit, and I didn't want her around my baby, I would have continued to write the letters, to keep Sacha connected to her childhood.”

Martha ignored Daisy and addressed Fraser. “What about the real Lorenzo? Did he never get Sacha's letters?”

“He got them for the first two years,” Fraser said. “If he existed. But since he never wrote back, I don't feel bad for him.”

“I'm going to have to tell the
FBI
. So they know Lorenzo and Sacha weren't truly in contact. And I'm going to mention Daisy's involvement.” Martha shot Daisy a dagger-filled look.

“Mention away.” Daisy shrugged.

Martha said to Fraser, “God, I hope that awful blogger isn't involved in Sacha's death. I can't believe I sat with him in the airport, confided about Jules.”

“Don't shoot yourself, Martha. You loved her. You haven't done anything wrong.”

Martha needed to leave. Her car was idling outside. Or maybe driving around the block, by now.

“I miss her,” Fraser said. “I miss her sitting at this table telling me I'm a shallow sellout for working on Wall Street and not using my intellect to effect change in a positive way.”

Martha snorted. “I miss her telling me I'm a self-interested Republican who wants to rule the world by maintaining the status quo instead of using my influence to change it for good.”

“I miss Sacha, too,” Daisy said. “She was really fun to party with.”

Fraser and Martha cracked up simultaneously.

“Well, she was.”

They laughed harder.

“You two don't make any sense.” Daisy touched Fraser's arm. “Are you okay, babe?”

Fraser shook off her touch. He said to Martha, “I'm sorry I doubted you about the suicide.”

CLARE

Amanda handed Clare a chunky pottery mug from her vacation rental kitchen. “What part of ‘Don't do
LSD
' was unclear?”

“Um.” Clare took the mug. She had no idea how Amanda knew, or if she was only guessing. Maybe the little pink chisel Clare sent had reached Amanda. Clare nearly laughed out loud at that thought — there was no way Amanda was attuned to psychic messaging. Clare nearly laughed again, because at least part of her own brain must still be high to be thinking that way. Thankfully, she kept a straight face through this entire thought process.

“You texted Chopper last night. Would you like me to read you what you said?”

Clare swallowed. Of course Lucy's phone was being monitored.

“Your message was surprisingly coherent.”

Clare could lie and say she'd faked the trip, but why? “It's a surprisingly coherent drug. In fact, I'd say
LSD
is safer than smoking pot.”

Amanda perched on an armchair, like she wasn't planning to stay long. “The
RCMP
is unimpressed, Clare. I'm recommending that you be sent home immediately.”

“That's extreme,” Clare said, as a tracer shot past the fireplace. “I didn't drop acid for fun — I did it for work.”

“Clearly, you didn't. The directive you were given was to
not
drop acid.”

“Why are you being so uptight?” Clare realized the question was rude, so she softened her tone. “I took your suggestion to avoid the drug seriously.”

“Suggestion.”

“Yeah.” Clare wasn't going to budge on the issue of who she was working for. She would be friendly and professional — when she remembered to be — but not a drone. “I know it was dangerous, but I assessed things carefully. I thought — still think — that the benefits of dropping Snow were worth it.”

Amanda's eyelashes fluttered. “Just because you're dressed like a snowboarder and you smoke pot on your assignment doesn't mean the chain of police command doesn't apply to you. And it certainly doesn't give you creative license with direct orders.”

“What police command? I work for the
FBI
— that's who I take orders from.”

“I made it clear that I was your direct liaison on this case. That means you take orders from me.”

“Not in my books.” Both friendly and professional seemed to have fallen out the window. Clare tried again. “I value your input; you're smart, and I appreciate the ins you created for me. But this whole assignment is creative license — on everyone's part.”

“That's not how this works and you know it.” Amanda's straight blond hair was dank — because she hadn't washed it yet, or because she was hormonal? Clare decided not to ask.

Clare took a deep breath in and said, “I understand why you said no — and you were right, if this case existed in a test tube, dropping acid would be a mistake. But I'm in, now — they trust me. No one thinks I'm a cop anymore.”

Amanda strode over to the fireplace and turned the gas up a setting. Even with dank hair and in yoga pants, she looked more put together than most women Clare knew. “Same old Clare, huh?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you do what you like, regardless of orders. I can't work like this.”

Clare wrinkled her mouth, shifted the conversation to what would hopefully be safer ground. “I see you guys overturned the suicide verdict.”

“Yes.” Amanda perched again on her chair opposite Clare.

“Why?”

“Inspector Norris came to his senses and agreed with the rest of us that this is looking more like foul play.”

The news pinged in Clare's brain in an odd way. “You're not suspicious about his timing? A suicide note gets found, and suddenly he's calling the case murder?”

“Head office is officially accepting the new verdict.”

“Sacha was making a documentary,” Clare said. “About the drug trade. I watched footage of her crossing the border with a knapsack filled with
LSD
.”

Amanda's eyes narrowed. “Why haven't you told me this before?”

“It's what I came over to tell you. And guess what — I learned it because I dropped acid.” Okay, the smug tone wasn't needed — Clare made a self-edit note for the future.

“Really? This isn't some last-ditch attempt to save your job?”

“All I can do is my best. If the
RCMP
prefers a drone, they should hire one.” Maybe not the most conciliatory words Clare could have chosen. “I think it has something to do with those papers I found in Jana's closet. The ones I emailed you. Do you know anything more about those?”

“Tell me about the documentary.”

Clare warmed her hands on the mug. She liked the way its lines grooved in her skin, almost like a massage stone. “I could look in Jana's closet again — I was just hoping not to have to, because why take an unnecessary risk?”

“This won't be your case in a few hours, most likely. Those papers mean nothing to you.”

Clare breathed. In and out, willing herself to wait a few beats before speaking. “Look, I learned shit last night — and I don't mean transcendental shit, though that was cool, too.”

Amanda laughed — bitterly, but Clare thought she heard some mirth mixed in. “What did you learn? About the case, not the universe.”

“Can you please just tell me what the papers were?”

“Irrelevant minutes from a classified meeting about the U.S. drug trade.”

“Who was meeting?”

Amanda sighed. “Martha Westlake and some South and Central American political leaders. It was just a conversation, Clare. The Latin leaders wanted the U.S. to soften their policy on narcotics — some suggested legalization — and Martha Westlake said no way.”

“Why is that classified?”

“I have no idea. Our best guess is that Sacha liberated the pages from her mother's office. We don't know why.”

“Well, I can guess.” Clare met Amanda's gaze levelly. “Sacha's documentary about the
LSD
ring was designed to take down her mother.”

Amanda pursed her lips. “I'll need you to send me the footage you found.”

Clare shook her head. “I think someone lifted the memory stick from our place last night. Either Chopper or Richie.”

“Maybe if you hadn't been high, you might have seen who took it. Or even better — you might have taken the memory stick yourself.”

Clare set down her coffee and met Amanda's eyes. She couldn't believe she was being dropped from the case because of one bad decision — a decision that had yielded good results. “No wonder the rest of the world laughs at the
RCMP
. You prefer to dwell on protocol, rather than clues. I'll go pack.”

“Your dismissal is not official yet. You're still expected to perform until you're formally let go.”

“Fuck off, Amanda. And then take a look at yourself — you'll see that you're ridiculous.” Clare regretted the words immediately.

Amanda's calm face didn't crack even an inch. “Why do you hate authority so much?”

Clare stood up. “Because it always lets me down.”