Death's Last Run (31 page)

MARTHA

Martha caught Ted's eye across the convention hall floor. He was deep in conversation with a pretty young blond whom Martha recognized as the assistant to one of her less awful opponents. She hated to interrupt budding romance, but she crooked her head to let Ted know she wanted to speak with him.

Within seconds, he was at her side.

“That was nice work, kid.” Martha felt strangely giddy, like she wanted to give Ted a high five. “Great idea, prepping that post in advance. I'm glad you're on my team.”

“I could never replace Sacha.”

“Of course not.”

Ted's face flushed bright red. He gave a small laugh. “I don't mean in your life. I mean, Sacha's been the best influence on this campaign.”

Martha didn't want to speak to that.

“I got the name of the undercover, if you're interested,” Ted said.

“The
FBI
agent? I guess it's not as highly kept a secret, now that he's off the case.”

“He's a she — and she's still in Whistler.”

“Do I want to know how you know this?”

“Probably not. Her name's Clare Vengel. Twenty-four-year-old Canadian, moved to New York less than a year ago. I only saw a head shot, but she looks a lot like Sacha.”

“Why would the
FBI
tell us they'd pulled their man out?”

“I don't think it was us they were trying to misinform. Looks like the village cop is dirty. Stu Norris.”

“Is the village cop a suspect?”

Ted wrinkled his mouth. “Don't think so. I'll let you know when I know more. My
NYPD
friend is risking his job to stay on top of this case. I'm going to owe him big time.”

“Thank you, Ted.” Martha reached over and gripped Ted's hand. It felt odd, so she pulled her hand away. “I wish Sacha could be here today.”

“We all do.” Ted glanced at his brightly polished loafers. Martha remembered Ted and Sacha together. They'd squabbled like brother and sister, bantered about politics with affectionate confrontation. He must miss her, too.

“No,” Martha said. “I wish she could be here to see the look on Kearnes' face at this very second. One guess what he's reading on his phone.”

CLARE

Clare's chest felt hollow, like it needed a cigarette. She'd been dumb to ruin her pack, especially when she needed to focus on the task at hand. She thought about pulling the wet smokes from the trash, drying the tobacco by the fire. She could re-roll the dried tobacco with Chopper's Zig-Zags. Might not be delicious, but it would kill the craving.

But she thought of her father, gasping for breath in a hospital ward with her mother stressing beside him, and she didn't want to be anything like that pathetic man.

Still, the craving was brutal. It was grabbing at her lungs and her hands and her mouth, telling them they were missing something, they were empty without nicotine. And her agitation wasn't helping her pick this damn lock.

Her tools at home would have made short work of this trunk. But of course when you traveled undercover, you didn't get to bring your cop kit with you. Clare was working with her tiny purple Swiss Army knife — the most complex tool that could conceivably belong to Lucy.

Shit
. A snowmobile was coming. Clare scrambled to put the glass top back onto the trunk with all its things in place. As she set down a dish of keys and other random items, she saw the memory stick from Jules. At least she was pretty sure it was the same stick — black with a red stripe. Clare slipped the memory stick into her pocket and tried to guess which way the January
Snowboarder Magazine
had been facing.

She heard the motor stop outside the cabin. She couldn't remember the magazine's orientation, so she flopped onto the couch and pretended to be engrossed in an article about some Australian half-pipe superstar.

There was a loud knock at the door.

Which was weird, because Chopper had a key.

Clare tiptoed to the door in her socked feet and wished like hell that Chopper had built in a peephole.

She peered out the window to where Chopper parked his sleds. The spare snowmobile had been joined by a black-and-green sled — not Chopper's. Clare moved silently toward the kitchen and picked up the key to the spare from the counter. She stuffed it into her pocket with the memory stick.

On her way back to the door, she saw a small, thin man walking around outside. Inspector Norris. He was looking in the window at her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Chopper had told her to call him if anything happened. But Norris looked friendly enough. He smiled at Clare, motioned to the door.

Clare picked up her phone and dialed Chopper. Norris was still staring at her. He pulled something from his pocket — his police badge — and held it open so she could see it. He pointed again to the door. Still smiling. Shit, maybe he was nice.

Clare pointed to the phone in her hand and held one finger up, to say she'd be with Norris in a minute. But Chopper wasn't picking up. She called Noah.

Norris was getting visibly annoyed. He pointed a third time to the door then started walking toward it. He pounded three times, hard.

Clare had no idea whether she should answer it or find a way to run. She had one eye on the door as she heard Noah answer his phone.

“Hey, Lucy.” It felt weird, Noah addressing her by her cover name when they were alone. But of course it was protocol.

“I can't talk. I'm at Chopper's. Just listen, okay?”

Clare slipped the phone into her pocket and hoped like hell Noah would be able to help her if she needed him.

She opened the door for Inspector Norris.

WADE

Avalanche was packed. The tables were full and the bar was three people deep. Wade was pulling pints and mixing cocktails as fast as he could to help his staff keep up with demand. As Jana had said, no one knew what was in a Singapore Sling as long as it was the right color. Wade hoped the same was true of a Dark and Stormy. Cheap rum and ginger ale would have to do.

Chopper sat across the bar, sipping a pint of dark ale. “It's like New Year's Eve in this place.”

“Nothing like a murder to make people want to congregate,” Wade said. “You know how many tourists today have asked me,
Is this the bar? Is this where Sacha Westlake used to work?
”

“What do you tell them?” Chopper asked.

“I say yes. Even though I know the next question is going to be,
Are you Wade Harrison? Sacha's boss she used to sleep with?
I say no to that one, naturally.”

“Tourists asking about Richie?”

“A few,” Wade said. “One weekend warrior asked where he was supposed to score his drugs now. Like I'm the tourist information booth.”

Chopper grinned. “Have you seen Norris? He's not answering his cell, and his wife says he's not at home.”

“Probably still at the crime scene,” Wade said. “He's kicking himself hard for Richie's death. Thinks he sucks as a cop.”

“He kind of does,” Chopper said.

“Seriously, I think he's on the verge of suicide, or something.”

“I think he's on the verge of murder.”

“What?” Wade glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to hear them.

“You heard me. Jana better get back here soon. I left Lucy alone at the cabin. I'm not too thrilled about that.”

Wade poured six shots of Jägermeister for one of the waitresses' orders. He poured two extra shots for himself and Chopper. “Are you worried she'll poke around your things?”

“Nah, everything's locked away tight. I'm more worried for her safety.” Chopper frowned. “You know Norris stole Richie's phone. Richie did pull a Sacha — recorded the three of us talking, which is completely whack when we're all in this together — but still. It's weird to just pickpocket someone's phone.”

Wade could feel his forehead furrow as he dragged his memory for details. “Did Richie's phone have a black case with a sparkly skull on the back?”

“Yeah.” Chopper smirked. “I told him it was girly; he said he didn't care.”

“Norris pulled that phone from Richie's pocket.” Wade hesitated, wondering if he should have said so. Then he felt the bloom of the liquor unfold in his chest, and he plunged ahead: “This morning. Stuck it in an evidence bag and gave it to his guys.”

Chopper's forehead creased. “Is there any way Norris could have been palming the phone — making it look like he was pulling it from Richie's pocket but really it was in his hand to begin with?”

“I don't know,” Wade said.

Another guy entered the bar. Floppy dark hair, ripped jeans, and a scowl on his face. He walked straight up to Chopper and said, “You the guy who's been banging Lucy?”

Chopper's eyebrows lifted. “Who are you?”

“Her boyfriend.” The newcomer cocked his head to beckon Chopper away from the bar. “I want to talk to you alone.”

Chopper followed the guy to the wall by the hot peanut machine. Wade watched them exchange a few urgent-looking words before Chopper returned to the bar.

He picked up his truck key, phone, and gloves from the bar, and dropped ten bucks on the counter for his beer.

Wade wanted to tell him to keep his money — friends bought friends beers, after all, especially on bad days, especially when they owned the goddamn bar — but he let the bill rest there. “What's up?”

“If you see Jana, tell her I couldn't wait.”

“And if I see Norris?”

“Text me. And don't let him out of your sight.”

CLARE

Clare smiled awkwardly at Inspector Norris.

“Who was on the phone?” Norris' eyelids fluttered, like he had dirt inside one of his contacts.

“My aunt. Is there something in your eye?”

“Sure it wasn't your handler?”

Clare froze in place. “What?”

“I think you should hand me your phone,
Clare.
”

Clare's mind raced ahead of her nerves, checking her options. Denying it would be pointless, since he clearly knew her real name. Getting angry would be stupid. It could jeopardize her chance of working together — if there was a chance. Cooperation seemed like her only bet. And mollification, because Norris looked damn mad. Come to think of it, he looked a lot like Clare would look if the situation were reversed. She said, “You're Inspector Norris, right? I've been hoping to meet you.”

“Why?” Norris peered at her. “So you can feel important because you're looped in on a higher level than me?”

“Not at all,” Clare said. “You're in charge of this case. You're probably the only one who knows anything useful. I wanted to pool notes from day one, but I wasn't allowed.”

Norris shook his head like he was shaking off Clare's stupidity. “What would we pool notes about? Your whole job is make-believe. Dropping acid with your new buds. Shredding the pow and calling that a work day.” Norris pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.

Clare nearly asked for a cigarette, too, but she was eyeballing the front door — she wanted to get the hell out of there. It was strange, Norris coming here. He hadn't even asked if Chopper was home. She felt the sled key in her pocket and contemplated the smoothest escape route.

“The
FBI
doesn't value you,” Norris said. “You're a chess piece they move around so the important players can get to where they want to go.”

“I know.” Clare tried to sound agreeably irate. “It's what sucks about the job.”

“And if you're hoping that one day you'll be one of the chess players, you haven't got a prayer. I looked you up — you have no education except Orillia
OPP
training and twenty weeks in Quantico. Without at least one academic degree, you're not destined for any brass on your lapel.”

Clare wrinkled her nose at the thought of working in an office. “Good. I'm happy in the field.”

“I hate the field.” Norris cringed. “They've been promising me a management job in a big city. But now they're yanking that promise away. All because of little Alexandra the Great. You figure out who killed her yet?”

Clare was about to ask who Alexandra was, then remembered it was Sacha's given name. “Honestly, until Richie's body was found, I thought Sacha had probably killed herself.”

“So you are as dumb as you look.”

Clare frowned.

“Sacha Westlake didn't kill herself. The body was an obvious pose. I only called it suicide to lull the killer into thinking he'd gotten away. To keep him in town.”

“You know the killer is a he?” Clare said.

“I do now. No thanks to the
FBI
's interference.”

“Who is it?”

Norris shook his head. “Why would I tell you? So you can go running to your boss and take credit? Save yourself the years and leave the bureau now. You're a mediocre cop at best, and that's all you'll ever be.”

Clare tried not to show Norris that his words cut. She thought she was getting better at her job, but if Norris had already solved the case, clearly she wasn't good enough. Maybe she
should
pack it in, ask Roberta for her job back in the auto shop. Fixing cars might not be the most thrilling job in the world, but Clare was good at it. She wouldn't spend so many hours suffering from self-doubt.

Yeah. And maybe she should crawl backward in time into a life with absolutely no excitement.

“How did you find my name?” Clare asked.

“A contact I have. He's been keeping me informed.”

“A contact in the
FBI
or the
RCMP
?”

“Neither,” Norris said. “Not that it's your business.”

“You think you're a sheriff in the Wild West?” Clare wanted Chopper to come back — or to know for sure that Noah was listening. “Inventing your own laws, taking envelopes from criminals. Oh wait — maybe you mixed up
The Dukes of Hazzard
with
The
Sopranos.
”

“As opposed to you, thinking you're Charlie's next Angel?” Norris snorted. “Look at you. A man has just died, and you're holed up in your new boyfriend's cabin, miles away from the crime scene and any of the suspects.”

Norris advanced toward Clare, handcuffs dangling from his belt. Clare noticed that the belt end of the cuffs was open — he could slide them off and restrain her in seconds.

Clare thought about the possible reasons Norris might want her in handcuffs. She felt the snowmobile key on its puffy orange keychain in her pocket.

Norris was blocking Clare's route to the door. Maybe intentionally, maybe not.

Clare didn't know what Norris wanted, but she needed to buy time until she could figure it out. “Can we stop acting like we're on opposite sides? I know our organizations both suck, but that doesn't mean you and I have to be enemies. We're after the same killer, right?”

Norris' puffed chest seemed to deflate a bit. “Look, kid, this makes me sad. Chopper and I have been friends since we were teenagers. But I'm pretty sure he's behind both of these murders.”

Clare felt her stomach sink. “Why?”

Norris held up three fingers on one hand. “Three people are involved in a drug export operation.” He pushed two fingers down. “Two are dead.” He waved his remaining index finger. “One is left standing. Pretty easy to spot the killer.”

Clare wondered if it really was that simple. She didn't see anything to be gained by Chopper wiping out his partners.

“Listen,” Norris said. “I have an idea. You want to help me out?”

Clare had no idea if she wanted to help. How could she, until she heard the idea? Still, she nodded.

“Okay. Get into these handcuffs. I want to stage an arrest, trick Chopper into a confession when he comes back.”

Clare backed a step away. Norris still hadn't asked if Chopper was home — which meant he came to the cabin knowing full well he wasn't. “How will that trick him?”

“Get in the cuffs and I'll explain it. We don't want to miss our window while Chopper's away.”

“I'll hear him coming from literally a mile away. Have you heard his sled? It's louder than a helicopter. Plus, I mean, you're a cop, you'll understand this: I need to know more before I let myself become immobilized.”

“I shouldn't be saying anything.” Norris shook his little head. “But okay, I'll give you this: the
DEA
's involved now, too. They're actually the ones who suggested this experiment.”

“Experiment?”

“To get a confession. I'm wired up to their offices right now.” Norris patted his chest, implying wires under his shirt.

“The
DEA
,” Clare said. “Is that who gave you my name?”

Norris frowned, nodded slightly.

Clare would ask to see the wires, but she was pretty sure they weren't there. “Okay,” she said. “I'll play your game. Stage the arrest.”

“Excellent.” Norris advanced toward Clare with the handcuffs.

“But first, I want to show you these papers I found.”

“Papers can wait,” Norris said. “Chopper will be back any minute.”

Clare wanted to ask how he knew that — if it was even true. “These are significant. I don't know how, but maybe you'll be able to help make sense of them. The
DEA
is mentioned a lot. I think Chopper might have immunity.”

“Chopper . . .” Norris' jaw fell.

Clare hated this part — creating doubt in strong friendships — because what if neither one was guilty?

“Where are these documents?” Norris glanced around the room, like maybe they were pinned to the walls.

“In that trunk.” Clare pointed. “The one that's doubling as a coffee table. I picked the lock and took photos of all the documents inside. It burned me to do it, because Chopper's a really cool guy. In another circumstance I could really have gotten to like him.” Clare was rambling; she was nervous as hell.

Norris took a step toward Clare. She tried not to flinch. “Show me on your phone, if you took photos.”

Clare shook her head. “I deleted them after I emailed everything to my boss. It's probably overcautious, but I don't like to leave evidence on my phone, even with an unlock password.”

Norris squinted at Clare, like he couldn't decide if she was smart or stupid.

Clare nodded at the coffee table. “It took me a while to pick the lock — all I had was this lame Swiss Army knife — and I've already closed it back up again. But since I've done it once, the second time should be faster. Or maybe you have better tools?”

Norris brushed past Clare to study the coffee table.

“The lock's on the side by the fireplace,” Clare said. “Under the glass — you need to crouch down to see it. You want help moving the table top?”

“I'm fine. Thanks.”

When Norris was as far from the door as possible, in as awkward a position as possible, Clare bolted. Outside, she grabbed the key from her pocket, threw her leg over the spare snowmobile, and pressed the electric start button.

Which would have been perfect, but the sled gave back no juice. The engine coughed, sputtered, and stalled. Clare opened the choke and tried again. Same thing. Once more and the same. And now she'd likely flooded it.

Of course Norris was close behind. He pushed out the door and headed straight for Clare. She rammed the throttle all the way open, willing the carburetor to open up quick so the engine would start.

“What's wrong with you?” His voice hovered between frantic and reasonable. “Five seconds ago you were showing me evidence. Now you're running like I'm something to be afraid of. Did I spook you? Come back inside and work with me.”

Clare pressed the ignition one more time and got power. She hadn't ridden a snowmobile in a few years, and even Chopper's “old” machine was newer than the sleds she'd ridden around Muskoka with her friends. But she gave it as much throttle as she could and bolted the hell away.

The wind was cold and Norris was right behind her. Clare couldn't hear what he was shouting over the roar of the two machines, but she could see his mouth moving in her side mirror.

She had no idea where to drive in these woods. The only route that made sense was back down to the highway. Problem was, she had already started to go the other way — up into mountainous no-man's-land — and Norris was behind her. Turning around was impossible. Clare realized too late that she should have stayed in the cabin, kept Norris talking longer. Even if he'd gotten her in handcuffs, someone would have arrived, eventually, to rescue her.

Or maybe she would have already been dead.

Clare zoomed along, knocking branches away and smoothing the ground, which unfortunately blazed a path for Norris to easily keep pace. She looked for something she could throw, something to catch in Norris' sled skis or even block his vision. A scarf would be ideal. Or a chunk of something hard. But she'd bolted so fast from the cabin that she wasn't even wearing a winter coat.

She could see her hands getting red with no gloves on. They'd have frostbite soon, for sure. But Clare could only feel the pain vaguely.

The trees cleared and Clare arrived at a logging road covered with snow. She had no time to think, so she turned right to head downhill, figuring — hoping — this road would eventually connect to the highway. The problem with a wide road: Norris' sled was more powerful. It took him no time to zoom up ahead of her and block her from passing.

Norris skidded to a stop in front of Clare. She slowed her machine and turned the steering as far as it would go to the right, to avoid crashing into him. Off the sleds, she would stand no chance. Norris had grown up here — he knew the woods and the mountain. Clare didn't even have her Swiss Army knife as a weapon — that was back in Chopper's warm, cozy cabin.

Clare's machine banked nicely — it gave her the angle she needed to avoid crashing into Norris. But just before she was clear, Norris reached out — probably to grab her arm, but he caught the left side mirror instead. Clare's front end tilted onto one ski as she gunned the throttle to full.

Fuck.
Clare's machine jerked forward hard and Clare saw she'd lost the mirror. She leveled her sled and zoomed back uphill, because Norris was still blocking the downhill direction. In her remaining mirror she saw Norris toss the mirror away and gun his own throttle. He didn't lose too many seconds getting back on her tail.