Death's Last Run (26 page)

RICHIE

Chopper exhaled slowly and passed Richie the last of the joint. Richie hadn't been smoking lately — too damn paranoid — but he felt chill in Chopper's cabin. He liked the way nighttime folded itself around the place, like some blanket he could reach out and hold onto while sucking his thumb.

He'd been dumb to confront Norris. No matter how Richie played it back for himself in his head, he couldn't get a version where his carnival act wasn't a mistake. Still, Norris had agreed to make the run — so technically Richie had achieved a good result.

“You're
sure
Norris said yes.” Chopper leaned into his coffee table, more intense than usual.

“Yeah,” Richie said. “But the thing is . . . I kind of had to threaten him.”

Chopper looked half-amused and half-alarmed. “With what?”

“I played a clip from Sacha's documentary. Scared him into thinking he better be on our side until the end.”

“Must have freaked him right out.”

“I also told him I have some conversations recorded — him and us in the cabin last night, to be specific.”

Chopper shook his head. “I don't like blackmail, Rich. Yeah, we're up to our waists in this shit, we have to scramble for any shovel we can find. But Stu Norris is my friend.”

“Here.” Richie reached in his jeans pocket and pulled out the memory stick. “I've downloaded Sacha's videos onto my computer. You should do the same — and password-protect it, in case one of our places gets raided. Then store the stick somewhere good.”

Chopper waved the small black and red memory stick in the air. “Anything here that could put us away? You and me, I mean.”

“Yup.”

“So why do we want this info around? My vote is to stomp the shit out of the memory stick and bury its remains deep on Cougar Mountain.”

“I think Norris could turn on us,” Richie said. “We need ammo if that happens.”

“I've known him over twenty years, man. He won't fuck us over.” Chopper stubbed out the joint in a clay ashtray that was shaped like a bear claw. “He's being weird because he's paranoid. Thinks his bosses know his every move. He should have never got bent — his mind is too weak for this shit.”

“I should email the audio recordings to you, too. In case something happens to my phone. Norris tried to confiscate it today. Like I was going to hand it over because he told me to.” Richie fished in his jacket pocket for his phone. “Fuck.”

“Already gone?”

Richie walked over to his parka hanging by Chopper's front door. He unzipped every pocket and came up dry. “Little fucker must have picked my pocket. I knew he was slippery, but I never thought he was a street thief.”

“You did kind of threaten his career.”

Richie felt in his jeans pockets again. “
Damn.
I should have watched that chihuahua like a hawk.”

“Not to mix animal metaphors.”

“A hawk could kill a chihuahua.” Richie spread his arms and came down for the kill on one of Chopper's couch cushions, which he held up and started shaking fast so it looked like Norris. “Gimme your phone; I'm gonna make that fucker pay.”

Chopper grabbed his phone off the coffee table and clutched it tightly. “What are you going to say?”

“I'm gonna tell him I already emailed you a recording.”

“Fuck off. Then he'll steal my phone, too. You want to antagonize Norris, or you want him eating out of your hand?”

Chopper leaned back on his couch and basked like a cat in the moonlight. His phone beeped. He looked at it and smiled broadly.

“Booty call?” Richie tried to grin, but his heart was beating overtime. What else was on his phone? At least it had an unlock password. But Norris had a cop shop at his disposal. He probably knew how to crack a stupid four-digit code.

“I'm starting to dig this chick.” Chopper's smile spread wider.

“Not Lucy again. You've known her four days.”

“Maybe that's why I still like her. I'm gonna hit the trail, go pick her up in town.”

Richie looked out the window at the black night. He felt a sudden urge to get back to the village where the action was. This isolation could eat your brain, if you let it. “I'll ride down with you.”

WADE

“Georgia, I have to level with you.” Wade had played out various scenarios and this had won out.

“Now? I'm leaving for work in less than five minutes.” Georgia froze where she had finished putting in one earring. The other gold hoop lay on the kitchen counter next to her purse and car keys. “Wait, is this about your affair?”

“I wish it was as simple as an affair.”

Wade noticed Georgia eying the clock on the microwave. Five to seven. She reached out for her half-finished coffee and took a slow swallow.

He reached for the pot and refilled the cup for her.

“If I don't take Richie's deal — if I have to close Avalanche — I'm worried that I'll end up in jail.”

“Jail?” Georgia's eyes bugged. She patted her smooth wavy hair, as if feeling for flyaways that weren't there. “What have you done?”

“I feel like an idiot.”
Lie with the truth
, Sacha had once said. “Chopper asked me for a favor a year ago. He's been my buddy forever. I felt like I couldn't say no.”

“Oh god.” Georgia pulled out a stool from the counter. “Tell me you haven't been laundering money for Chopper's drug deals.”

Wade hung his head. He was also kind of shocked. “How did you guess?”

“It's only the most obvious crime for a bar owner with drug dealer friends. I'm surprised the cops haven't figured it out, if it took me three seconds.”

“The cops — well, Norris — he's involved, too.”

“Does his wife know?”

“No, and please don't tell her. He didn't want to get involved, it's just that Chopper's so persuasive . . . Look, I know I should have let Avalanche go long ago, before your parents invested, when it was clear it would never be profitable.”

“But . . .”

“But I guess I was clinging to the stupid dream of turning it into a music haven, reviving Avalanche Nights and getting other local musicians playing there.”

“You never took one step in that direction.”

“I let the stress get to me.” Wade wondered if she'd recognize these as the lines she'd been spouting to him, the little criticisms she'd worked into her sentences every day for the past few years. “I made some colossally bad decisions. And I've been drinking too much.”

“You can say that again.” But she did seem relieved to hear him say the words.

Wade smiled thinly. “Here's the thing: Revenue Canada is suspicious now. They've just told me they're going to audit.”

“And they'll find this?”

“Richie's been on the books as a manager. If he buys in as a partner, that legitimizes his role.”

“And Chopper? And Norris?”

“Chopper's getting paid, too. He'll have to come in and do a few shifts to prove he works there. No big deal. Norris has been off the books — cash only.”

“I don't like this.”

“I don't either. I've been careful with the accounting software — justifying everything as well as I could.”

“So why is Revenue Canada suspicious?”

“I don't know.” Wade was starting to worry himself, until he remembered the audit was a lie. “Maybe the same reason you were.”

“I don't like this, Wade. It makes things worse, not better. I'd rather close the bar than let Richie in as a partner, especially if he's been complicit in all this . . . activity.”

“If we close now, it looks really suspicious. Avalanche turns a profit, gets told it's being audited, then suddenly closes? Auditors are pencil-pushing rule junkies. Their biggest thrill in life is busting someone who's been breaking the rules. Their eagle eyes would be on me in five seconds.”

“I guess I see what you mean.” Georgia gave Wade a lopsided smile. It was actually pretty cute. “If I sign with Richie, will you go to rehab?”

“Rehab? For what?”

“For your drinking.”

Wade sighed. Georgia had never understood the bar owner's lifestyle. “I can stop anytime. With Richie working nights, I won't drink half as much.”

“That's my offer,” said Georgia. “My signature for
AA
. I'm frankly petrified to be in business with a criminal, but if it will get you back to me in one sober piece — and keep you out of jail — it's a risk I'm willing to take.”

“Fine,” Wade said. He could go to a few meetings and stop. “Deal.”

CLARE

Clare knocked on the door of the room where Amanda told her Bert would be staying. Seemed like a nice hotel — not too ritzy, a clean alpine look, smack in the heart of Whistler Village. Clare would love to be staying so close to the lifts, not to have to drag her snowboard on a fifteen-minute walk each morning.

But instead of Bert opening the door, Noah answered.

Clare did her best to control the violence inside her. She wasn't ready to see Noah. She hadn't decided how she felt about him killing that girl, and she certainly wasn't ready to address it. Plus — and she hated this part of herself — she was jealous. She wanted the case to herself. Noah was a better cop than her, in all the traditional ways. If they solved this together, Bert would think it was more to his credit than Clare's.

“Seriously?” Clare heard herself say. She was on autopilot; she didn't bother wishing she was being nicer. “Bert brought you with him? Are you his new little acolyte?”

“Come in, it's great to see you.” Noah shut the door behind Clare.

“Where's Bert?”

“No hug?” Noah reached for Clare, pulled her close against his body.

Clare returned the hug limply. “Where's Bert?” she said into his shoulder.

“New York.”

“No.” Clare's body slackened even more against Noah's. “You cannot be my handler. There's, like, no chance I'll answer to you.”

“We're still equals, don't worry.” Noah pulled away, his eyes moist and present.

“Is Bert okay?” Clare realized this should have been her first question.

“He's fantastic. He thought it made more sense for your contact here to be a studly young guy than a middle-aged man. So we can hang out in public if we have to. Or you could spend the night here.” Noah's voice was flat, like he now knew Clare wasn't going to jump at that chance.

“I already have a studly guy here I spend nights with,” Clare said, to confirm it for him.

“Is there a business connection, or are you with this guy for pure pleasure?”

“Did you bring your ex-girlfriend, or did her chick flicks not fit in your suitcase?”

Noah sighed. “For someone who gets along so well with subjects on assignments, you can be a real prickly bitch to your friends in real life.”

“Is that why you liked Tiffany better?”

Noah walked toward his kitchenette — because of course he was staying somewhere great while Clare was stuck with a slob psycho roommate. “Would you like a beer? A Coke? I can make tea or coffee.”

“Coke.”

Noah took two red cans from the fridge. “Why would you say I liked Tiffany better?”

“Because my Tiffany costume included makeup and designer jeans.”

“If I liked you better then, it's because you were nicer to me, not because of what you were wearing.”

Clare took a long glug of soda. The sugary bubbles felt great against her throat. “You know how horrible it is to be with someone who always talks about your relationship like it could end any day?”

Noah sat on the brown fabric sofa. “As horrible as being in love with a woman who gets pleasure from sleeping around in her land of make-believe.”

“You're not in love with me.” Clare pulled out a dinette chair and sat, too.

Noah met her eye hard. All Clare wanted was for him to contradict her. Instead he said, “We're here to work. You can tell people I'm your ex-boyfriend who's followed you to town to torture you.”

“They couldn't come up with a cover story?”

“They did. I'm Lucy's ex. From Toronto.”

“Oh, good one. You think you can pretend to come from somewhere so backwater? If you're talking to anyone, Toronto does have the Internet now. Running water, too.”

Noah grabbed a handful of popcorn from a bowl on the coffee table. “Bert's worried that you're not safe.”

“Of course I'm not safe. There's a killer in town. And you know there are probably
GMO
s in that popcorn you're eating, which is almost as scary.” Clare had clearly been spending too much time with Jana — she was actually beginning to care about this natural food stuff. “Why is Bert extra worried?”

“I guess because the
RCMP
can't keep their damn mouths shut. My opinion is they should pull you, your cover's so precarious. But I don't call the shots.”

“Anyway,” Clare said. “I guess it's good you're here. You can get better interviews for your blog.”

“What?” Noah's eyes shot wide open. “How did you figure out I was the blogger?”

“I recognize your cocky style.” Clare rolled her eyes and held them upward. The ceiling had ugly yellow water stains.

“Shit. I tried to add stilted grammar here and there — so it would look like English was my second language.”

“The real tell was when you wrote the piece on charity and resentment — you know, right after our conversation on the same topic. What if the real Lorenzo comes forward?”

“Can't. He died in a gang fight when he was thirteen.”

“And the foundation kept taking Sacha's money?” Clare wasn't sure why she was outraged — or even surprised.

“They say it's not their policy to turn down donations. They redirected Sacha's money to the administration of other children's accounts.”

“I'd like to go undercover in that organization one day. I'd love to expose their hypocrisy.”

Noah smiled. “Don't like to choose your battles, do you? Just want to fight them all.”

Clare wanted to cross the living room floor to sit beside Noah on the couch, to lean into that smile and return one of her own. Instead, she said, “What are you blogging for? Are you trying to get leads through the site, or unsettle the criminals?”

“Both,” Noah said. “Bert said this method sometimes works — like a tip hotline, kind of, but for the younger crowd. People Sacha's age.”

“Have you been given lots of leads?”

“A lot of random oddballs, like
Maybe Jules is made of
LSD
and
I met Sacha once, in another life in Mexico.
”

“Why Lorenzo? Why not some guy no one's heard of?”

“We want Sacha's parents following this. They're both still suspects. Even if they know Lorenzo died, they'll wonder about someone blogging under his name.”

“You think the blog could work against you? Spook the killer into bailing the country or killing again?”

“It could if we're not careful,” Noah said. “Bert's vetting each post and so is Paul Worthington. Worthington's actually a really smart guy.”

“You're working directly with Worthington?” Clare was annoyed to find she was even more jealous.

“You want to blog with me? Help me unsettle these people into showing us their colors?”

“Really?” Clare felt herself smiling for the first time since she'd arrived at Noah's hotel.

“Yeah. I think it would be fun to do this together. Maybe even stop us fighting.”

Clare exhaled. “I'd love to.”

“Good. Who should we interview next?”

“I think Richie.”

“You like him for the killer?”

Clare tapped a finger against her lip. “No. I'm liking Jana, Chopper, Wade — maybe Norris, but I haven't figured out a way to be in contact with him. Ditto for Georgia — I've seen her at my work, but it would look weird if I got too chatty with the boss's wife.”

“So why Richie?” Noah asked.

“I like Richie for the guy who stole the memory stick from Jules.”