Death's Last Run (27 page)

RICHIE

Richie pushed off from the top of the hill. The madness in town couldn't touch the magic of the mountaintop. He looked out at the neighboring peaks of windswept snow and felt like he was on top of the world. “Gangsta's Paradise” was on his iPod — since his phone had been stolen, Richie was stuck with his playlist from a few years back. But it was cool; he could groove out to this until Chopper got his phone back from Norris.

He kicked off with his snowboard. Man, nothing felt as good as looking down an empty run and feeling the hill with his legs, with his whole damn body. Conditions were crap — gray sky, and the snow packed hard like a bullet. But it was the right kind of snow for riding hard. Richie carved some tight edges and before he knew it, he was more than halfway down the hill at the Mid-Station.

He hooked onto Lower Fantastic — an easy blue run — and smiled at the whole damn world.

Fuck, and all at once Richie knew he must be drugged — his head was lagging and the view looked very foggy.

But what had he taken? And when? Suddenly Richie was sitting on the hill, staring at the snow and the trees, wondering why it wasn't cold.

He laid his head on the snow. Still not cold; just damn comfortable. Why had he never slept outdoors before? The wind felt like a blanket, fluttering over him. The sky was getting dark and he had the wide open run to himself.

Richie felt his arm being gently lifted. It felt nice, so he kept staring at the sky. The lingering rays of sun made him feel like he was melting into the hill.

Ouch
; then he felt a sharp pain, like something had sliced against his wrist. Sharp, or cold — maybe it was snow. With all the energy that remained in him, Richie lifted his head to see — and feel — a familiar figure slicing his other wrist.

Motherfucker.
But he couldn't even say the word, could only watch his own life being taken. It was late — well after the last gondola had stopped taking passengers. He doubted he'd be found before morning.

CLARE

“Ugh.” Clare slammed her tray onto the bar and started loading it up with drinks. “My stupid ex followed me to Whistler.”

“Really?” Jana wrinkled her nose, like she didn't approve of this development. She glanced at her phone. “Where the hell is Richie? I've texted him, like, seventeen times.”

“Maybe his phone's off.”

“It's never off. It's his lifeline to his business. So where's your ex staying? Does he want to crash with you?” Jana's eyes said she hoped not.

“Don't worry. He might want to, but I'm not letting him. He's staying in some hotel in the village. Close to the hill, he says, so we can go snowboarding together.”

“Is he rich?”

“No, he just spends his money like an idiot.”

“Are you happy to see him?”

“Do I sound happy?”

Jana laughed. “No.”

Clare shook her head. “He's here for a two-week holiday. He thinks that's all it's going to take to win me back. Asshole even bought me a return ticket to Toronto.”

“He sounds like he's really into you.”

“Only when I'm living a better life without him. I hope Chopper comes by tonight. If Nate shows up, I'd really like to be in the arms of some other hot guy.”

“So your ex is hot?”

“Extremely. But in the exact opposite way from Chopper. Nate has short dark hair that always falls into his face. Man, all I want to do is brush it away, but it's so cute the way it sits there, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jana said. “Because you're still in love with him.”

“Fuck off. I'm not.”

Jana grinned. “It's fine. Fuck Chopper instead. So when do I get to meet Nate?”

“He's probably coming by the bar tonight. Ugh.” Clare saw Noah push through the entrance door. “There he is.”

“Lucy!” Noah grinned and waved, like this was all so fun for him.

Clare rolled her eyes — this part of the acting was easy, at least — she was genuinely not pleased to see Noah. “Nate, meet Jana.”

“You're one of Lucy's new friends? Great to meet you.”

“He
is
hot,” Jana said to Clare. “You should jump back into his arms before someone else takes him.”

“Oh my god, you can have him. Have each other. Have a blast.”

Noah wrapped his arm around Clare's waist and gave her a long kiss that she wished she didn't like so much. “I came to win you back. I've been an asshole back home — I mean that for real. You leaving made me see that.”

Clare glowered at Noah. She wished she knew which part of his lines — if any — were sincere.

MARTHA

Martha closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the campaign bus seat.

“You were great tonight,” Ted said from across the aisle. “You were the strong Martha we all remember, plus the newer, more enlightened Martha that's the face of your new campaign.”

“Thanks, kid. I have a good team propping me up. Shame the ratings aren't supporting that. We still in fourth?”

“Hovering between third and fourth. Social media seems to be pulling some youth vote that's previously belonged to the Democrats.”

“Are we in danger of funds drying up?” Martha asked.

Ted pursed his lips. “Borderline.”

“Shit. Suggestions?”

“We go harder after the youth vote. They don't donate as much — a college student put a dollar on his Visa this afternoon. Said he had no money to spare but he wanted you to know you have his vote.”

“That's very nice,” Martha said.

“Yeah, and in the meantime three heavy Wall Streeters have pulled out to back Kearnes.”

“Ah.”

“We can get by on the funds we have until the Michigan and Arizona results. If we lose either one — which I have to say looks very likely — we'll have to reassess.”

“So there's no harm in my going all-out radical.”

Ted shot her a glance. “What do you mean?”

“Why don't I fly economy for a while? Be so accessible it hurts.”

Ted's eyebrows lifted.

“Bad idea? I have the Secret Service for security.”

“Could be a great idea.” Ted walked to the back of the bus and helped himself to a Red Bull from the fridge. Apparently he planned to get no sleep that night. “You want something? A Scotch?”

“Pellegrino,” Martha said. “Thank you.”

Ted brought back a couple bags of mini-pretzels with their drinks. Martha noticed that he was so used to the rocking of these tour buses the kid didn't even falter as he navigated the aisle. “My friend found something interesting. About Sacha.”

“Your police officer friend?”

“Kearnes' assistant. They found hard proof of Sacha's drug smuggling. Video evidence.”

Martha felt numb. “Video from what? Border security?”

“Sacha was making a documentary about the
LSD
importing trade.”

Martha smiled. For the first time in two weeks, a real smile. Of course Sacha wasn't a degenerate smuggler, trying to make a quick buck at the expense of the public good. She had larger goals. But Martha darkened again quickly. “So we know, now, why she was killed.”

“I guess.” Ted reached across the aisle to put a hand on Martha's shoulder. She didn't like it there, but she let it rest; she knew Ted was trying to be sweet. “Kearnes is contemplating how and when they want to break it open.”

“I don't follow. Why would they break this open now?”

“They won't unless you start climbing back to a competitive position in the polls. But since that's clearly still our goal, we have to be prepared.”

Martha exhaled. “So what do we do?”

“I really think the blog post is the way to go. The one where you write about Sacha from a mother's perspective, outing her activities up in Whistler as if you're trying to make sense of them. I forwarded you the draft.”

Martha turned on her laptop. “How is this going to help?”

“Mainly, it steals Kearnes' thunder. He doesn't have much of a story if you've already told it — he certainly can't spin it like it's a scandal. Second, we paint you as someone people would want in their homes — compassionate, willing to listen and change. Third, if we make sure it's written right — Christy and Melissa will go over it again after you've put your spin on it — we strengthen your new platform by showing where it came from.”

“I don't want Sacha to look like a common criminal.”

“She won't,” Ted said, “because she wasn't.”

Martha hoped like hell that was true.

CLARE

Clare stretched her legs out on Noah's hotel suite's plain brown sofa. The kiss Noah had given her at work several hours ago still lingered on her lips, but she didn't want to ask if it was real or he'd been acting.

Noah glanced at her sideways. He'd been looking at her strangely all night, since Clare had arrived at the end of her shift. Outside, drunk party sounds continued in a steady, raucous stream.

“Has it been like this all night?” Clare asked.

“So far,” Noah said. “It's like being back in college.”

Clare realized with a start that Noah and Sacha had both gone to
NYU
. And Jana. “You didn't know Sacha or Jana at school, did you?”

“No,” Noah said with a smirk. “You don't know John Smith from Canada, do you?”

Clare rolled her eyes. “I meant, I hope Jana doesn't recognize you. But I guess you were a few years ahead of her. And why are you looking at me funny?” she asked.

“How am I looking at you?”

“Like you're worried I'm going to pull out a gun and start shooting up the walls of your hotel.”

“I, uh . . . I don't want to say the wrong thing. In case I piss you off.”

Clare set her beer down on the plain wooden coffee table. Noah had invited her to spend the night, but she still wasn't sure if she wanted to. “We're fine as long as you don't call me a slut.”

Noah laughed tentatively. “Okay, noted. So what's your take on Wade, working for him?”

Clare grabbed a handful of pretzels and chomped on them while she contemplated. “He's not an idiot, and he's a pretty good boss. He was probably cool before booze got him.”

“Can you see what Sacha saw in him?”

“Chopper said he was a project. Sacha figured she could help Wade get clean and sober. Not sure where his wife was going to figure in, long term. But I don't get the sense that Sacha thought through her do-gooder master plans all that carefully.”

Noah groaned. “Women always think they can help a man.”

“I don't,” Clare said, and wondered which other women Noah meant. His mother? His ex-girlfriends? Clare was dying to ask him about the girl on the boat, but it was better to let him bring that up in his own time. If he ever decided he could trust her with it.

“You think Wade could have posed Sacha on the hill?”

“Sure,” Clare said. “He doesn't snowboard, though, or ski. So I can't see Wade choosing that location. People who know him would find his being there odd.”

“Jana likes the hill, though,” Noah said.

“Loves it.” Clare picked up her beer. Noah had stocked his place with Bud for her, but for some reason tonight it didn't taste like it had much flavor. She was surprised that she wished she had one of those darker craft beers Jana and Chopper preferred. Clare asked, “Did you learn anything from your interview with Jana?”

“Yeah. One of Jana's church group friends from Salt Lake City sent an email to the account we set up in Lorenzo's name. Said back in the day, Jana went kind of Single White Female on her.”

Clare felt her eyebrows lift.

“The friend said Jana had a problem with reality.”

“Anyone who reads the Bible has a problem with reality,” Clare said.

“That's not
totally
fair.” Noah had gone to Hebrew school, taken Judaism as far as his Bar Mitzvah, where he'd made a bunch of money from his relatives then decided the religion wasn't for him. “A lot of people study religion for metaphorical truth. Doesn't mean they believe the magical stories.”

“Whatever.” Clare thought of her father, dying in some hospital bed because he preferred to lie about his problems than to try to fix them, and on the flip side, the lengths Clare went to to forget that he even existed. “We all tweak our reality to help us live in the world. Jana just makes more adjustments than most people.”

“Any idea what Sacha saw in her? They were best friends, right?”

Clare had been thinking about this a lot. Externally, it seemed like a terrible match — Sacha thought of others, Jana of herself. But hearing about Sacha's home life, Clare was starting to put shape to the friendship. “Jana loved her. No conditions, no logic, just dog-like devotion.”

“And Sacha liked that?” Noah fiddled with his Bud label, frowning. “Personally I'd find it oppressive.”

“Because your mother was oppressive. Sacha's parents ignored her, put their own lives first. She would have craved Jana's unconditional adoration.”

Noah stood up and paced to the window and back again, twice. He stopped and looked at Clare. “So who's next? Who's your top suspect of the people we haven't blogged about? Richie? He likes to snowboard.”

“Yeah.” Clare wasn't sure how she felt about Richie as a suspect, though. He made sense intellectually — the drug dealer, the fact he probably knew Sacha had ratted them out to Daisy. But he didn't feel right. “What do you think of Chopper?”

Noah's eyes narrowed. “Is he the one you're sleeping with?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you can probably guess what I think.”

Clare saw the pain Noah was in, and for a moment she felt terrible for causing it. She wanted to cross the room and touch him, make it better. But she remembered that he was the one who wouldn't make their relationship exclusive, and she scowled.

“Would you feel weird helping me write a post about Chopper?”

“No.” Clare was annoyed by the question. “I'm investigating Chopper like I'm investigating everyone else. The fact that we have good chemistry is a bonus.” She supposed she could have left the chemistry part out, but she wanted Noah to be jealous, to realize that they
should
be exclusive, outside of work.

“Clare . . .” Noah's forehead creased. He sank into one of the armchairs across the coffee table from her.

Clare barreled forward. “But I think we should write about Norris.”

“Fuck, I'd love that.” Noah's mouth corners shot up, like the thought of exposing a dirty cop excited him. “Before I wrote Wade's post, my suggestion was the Band of Brothers — a look at Wade, Chopper, and Norris, and how their friendship turned to crime.”

“That's actually good,” Clare said. “Especially since they were in an actual band together. Why didn't you write it?”

“Worthington and Bert want to leave Norris alone for a while. He's losing his job at the end of all this, obviously, but they think it would be too disruptive — all the suspects would scatter — if he gets exposed too soon.”

“Fair enough. So we're writing about Chopper?”

“Yeah,” Noah said. “You have his phone number?”

“Um. You want to call him?”

“Yeah. That's how the posts work.”

Right. Of course it was. “What are you going to ask him?”

Noah shrugged. “That's where you come in. What do you think I should ask him?”

Clare took her lower lip between three fingers and started playing with it, strumming it like a guitar. She pulled her fingers away to say, “You want to expose his drug manufacturing, right?”

“If you think it will lead to good comments. You want me to grab you a T-shirt or something? You can't be comfortable in that awful work uniform.”

“Thanks,” Clare said. “I don't think I'll stay overnight, though.”

“Why not? We've got it covered so it looks natural.” Noah's eyes flickered down to his hands and stayed there.

“Because.” Clare tried hard not to notice how sad he was. “I need you to be in love with me — to want a real relationship. Otherwise we're just going to keep fighting.”

“You know I want a real relationship.”

“Yeah,” Clare said. “But you want it with someone I'm not. Come on, let's work on this post. Let's nail Chopper.” She managed a small grin. “You know you want to take him down.”

Noah gave her an even smaller grin back.

“Make sure you block your number. I think we should lie with the truth.”