Death's Last Run (29 page)

MARTHA

Another airport. Another chai latte. And another death in Whistler.

Martha sat on the hard row seat near her gate, longing for the privacy of the first-class lounge — where even if she was recognized, she was unlikely to be bothered. But she'd already launched her new brand: accessibility. A camera catching her entering one airport lounge would throw all that off.

So instead of reclining into a massage chair with a bad cappuccino and a great view of the runway, she was staring into a big fuzzy microphone that had materialized in front of her face.

“I'm intrigued by your blog, Senator Westlake,” a gray-haired woman said. “Particularly your post this morning about your daughter smuggling drugs into Washington State from Canada. Was that difficult to write?”

“Astonishingly, no.” Martha stood to meet the woman's eyes; she couldn't decide if she liked what she got back.

“Were you responding to the other blogger — the one who hinted at Sacha's activity up in Whistler?”

“No,” Martha said. “My team and I have been working on my post for two full days.”

“In your post, you imply that Sacha was smuggling for a higher cause than money. Can you elaborate?”

“No. At the moment, there's too much conjecture, not enough proof. We'll share everything with the public once we've made sense of all the pieces.”

“Of course you will.” The woman's eyebrows lifted. “I've heard that Geoffrey Kearnes has been known to resort to dirty politics. Do you think he might be implicated in the murders?”

Martha laughed mirthlessly. “Are you asking if I think my political opponent murdered my daughter?”

“No. I'm asking if you think your ex-boyfriend did.”

“Which news station did you say you worked for?”

“
WKCR
.”

“The Columbia University radio station?” Martha couldn't keep the surprise from her voice. The woman seemed old for such a gig.

“A television station upstate.” She named a town Martha had never heard of.

“Ah. Well, to answer your insightful and sensitive query, I highly doubt Geoff Kearnes or any of my other opponents — or ex-boyfriends; god, that was so long ago — were involved in either murder.”

“Could the killer have been someone from your own campaign? Maybe someone who knew about Sacha's smuggling and wanted to make sure that it didn't hurt your campaign?”

Martha smiled blandly and said, “I'm no detective, of course, but my office has been buzzing dawn to dusk. There's not a member of my team who has had a decent sleep in weeks. Not only would they have no reason to murder my daughter if they care about me winning this election, but they have not had time to skip off on a ski trip to Canada for any reason.”

The woman took two small steps backward. “I'm sorry if the question was too forthcoming.”

“No worries.” Martha continued to smile winningly in case anything she said got pulled for a news bite. “Now why don't you go interview Geoff Kearnes? Ask him the same question.”

CLARE

Clare shoved off from the top of Whistler Mountain. Next stop: Richie's body.

In her earbuds, her phone rang. She touched the tab on her earpiece to answer. “Hello?”

“You sitting down?” her friend Roberta back in Ontario asked. “Noah gave me this number. Sorry to bug you at work.”

“It's fine,” Clare said. “I've been meaning to call you back; I just never remember at a time when it's convenient.”

“'Course you don't. You're avoiding me.” Roberta had known Clare since she was twelve. The downside was she could read Clare like a book.

“I'm not avoiding you.”

“No? What's different?”

Clare gave a small laugh. “Fine; I'm avoiding you.”

“I forget if you said if you're sitting down.”

“Did my dad die?”

“No.”

“Then I'm fine standing up. I'm snowboarding, actually.”

“Snowboarding? That for work or pleasure?”

“Work. And I don't have much time.” Clare felt a bit bad being short with her, but she had a dead body to ride down to.

“You never have time for your dad.”

“So it is about my dad.”

“His new lung is failing.”

“Why doesn't he call me himself?” Clare knew that was mildly unfair — it would be hard to talk without a lung.

“Because you don't answer his calls.”

“Because he lies. He told me once, when I was about to take a job with the Thunder Bay police, that he had cancer of the everything — that it had invaded his entire body and he had, like, a month to live. So I turned down the job and, lo and behold, his diagnosis was reversed the next week. A real medical miracle.”

“And thus you ended up with the job in Toronto that has taken your career to places you never dreamed it could.”

Clare adored Roberta, but sometimes she could severely miss the mark. “How's the shop?”

“Business is good,” Roberta said. “Though I could have used your nimble hands this morning. I had the most finicky carburetor to clean.”

Clare laughed. “You know I like more complicated problems.”

“Yeah? You should be pleased to come home and see your dad, then.”

“So his new lung is failing. Maybe that's because he's smoking it black like his first pair. How long does he claim he has to live?”

“A week or two.”

Clare edged harder into the snow. “He's lying, though, right?”

“I wish he was, kid. He's in Barrie on a respirator. I've spoken with his doctors. He needs a new lung to survive outside the hospital, and he's not being considered for a transplant because they know he's still smoking. Or was, until he got admitted last week.”

Clare was nearing the Mid-Station. “I have to go. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

Always when she was busy. Her father had a knack for creating massive drama right when Clare had no time to come running. And what would she do with her mother if he died? Would Clare have to visit more, pretend that they had shit in common?

It felt like a test — one she had no hope of passing.

WADE

Wade sipped brandy from his metal flask, but it didn't warm him. A crowd had gathered — snowboarders gaping at the body because this was all so fucking interesting. They were smoking cigarettes and joints, littering the hill, and ski patrol wasn't stopping them. Wade had ridden up on the first lift he could after Norris phoned with the news. He didn't know why he was there, but really, where else would he be?

He watched Norris unzip Richie's inner jacket pocket and pass one of the crime scene workers a cell phone and some earbuds. From another pocket, he pulled a thin wad of cash.

“That's it?” Norris said as he passed the bills to one of his evidence crew. “You'd think a drug dealer would carry more money around.”

Wade agreed. Richie's wad was normally three times as thick.

“There are still more pockets,” a young cop said. “Snowboard gear is made with hidden zippers everywhere. Maybe check the pants.”

Norris put his gloved hands into Richie's baggy nylon pant pockets, passed the team more items to bag — keys and coins and a couple of gum wrappers. “You know what I'm thinking? This killer probably liberated some cash for himself.”

Once the pocket search was exhausted, Norris walked over to join Wade.

“You want a cigarette?” Norris held his pack open to Wade.

“You bought a pack?” Wade took one.

“Can you believe I didn't smoke for ten years, and this pack I bought yesterday is nearly gone? Here, walk with me. I have to stay where I can see the scene, but let's head over to those trees where we can talk in relative privacy.”

Wade followed.

“I wasn't made for this job,” Norris said, once he'd found them some seclusion.

Wade smiled sadly. “You're a good cop. You just need a town where you're not friends with all the criminals.”

“If I was a good cop, I'd be thriving now — called to action like this. All I can think about is keeping my wife and kids from suffering this same fate.”

“What's wrong with you, man?” Wade peered at Norris, like maybe squinting would help him see inside his friend. “You're a ball of fucked-up nerves ever since the
FBI
came to town. So the
DEA
's involved. Big deal — that's probably what's going to save your ass in the end.”

Norris sighed. “It's the pressure. I've never felt anything like this. Man, I wish I could have a long sip from your flask right now.”

Wade took a sip himself, then extended his flask to Norris.

Norris waved the flask away. “No, I have to look professional. Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course.” Wade was great at keeping secrets. He had a secret stash of booze in every room of his life.

“I think . . . I might have been tricked.”

“Tricked.” Wade's tongue flicked at the word. He liked the feeling in his mouth, warm booze mixed with cool air.

“I'm not convinced anymore that it was the
DEA
I was talking to. Anyone can make up an email address, right? Even if it ends in ‘
DEA
dot com.'”

Wade didn't know what a real
DEA
email address would look like. “I guess.”

Norris looked like he had more he wanted to say, but wasn't. “This is bigger than us. It's invisible and I don't know what's behind it.”

“You keep saying that, Stu. But if it's not
DEA
— then who the hell wanted —”

Norris threw his cigarette into the snow and stomped it out. “Look, I have a death investigation to get back to.”

“Stu, I know you. You need to get this out, whatever secret you're keeping, or you'll make yourself insane.”

Norris pushed his lips together and out, like he always did when he had something big to mull over. “You gotta keep this super quiet,” he said finally. “I haven't decided how to handle this, professionally. Which organization to tell first.”

“Okay.”

Norris pulled his pack from his pocket, lit himself a new cigarette. He glanced at Wade, but he was only halfway through his first one. “Geoffrey Kearnes is involved. At least, his campaign is. That's who's been giving me orders — not the
DEA
.”

“Shit.” Wade didn't know what else to say.

“Yeah, shit is right. Someone slipped up, forgot to block a phone call. So I traced it — a cell phone paid for by the Kearnes campaign.”

Wade knew U.S. campaigns could get dirty, but something about Norris' theory didn't jive. “You think this is connected to the murders?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

Wade put a hand on Norris' shaking shoulder. He was surprised when Norris relaxed into the gesture. “I've written some new songs. I was hoping you and Chopper and I could record them.”

“For what? Our grandchildren to throw away when they're clearing out our attics?”

“You don't need a big label anymore. Anyone can put a song up on YouTube or iTunes. If people like it, maybe the band could get going again — I mean commercially, not just gigs here and there for free beer.”

“We're all a bit old to think we're Justin Bieber.”

“We're not even forty. Chopper's up for it.”

“It's a nice fantasy, Wade. Fill that flask up a couple more times.”