Death's Last Run (6 page)

CLARE

Clare slipped into the seat opposite Wade. The chair was hard and the office was cramped and stark, but she felt groovy in her new skin. She wore loose jeans and a soft cotton shirt with a logo that said
Haters Gonna Hate
.

“What brings you to Whistler?” Wade asked.

Lucy was supposed to lack confidence. She had dropped out from life to find herself. Clare leaned forward in her chair, shoulders hunched. “I'm . . . well, is it awful to admit that I came because I need to figure some shit out?” Clare clapped a hand to her mouth. “I mean, some stuff out. I won't swear in front of your customers, don't worry.”

Wade took a large gulp of coffee. “What needs figuring out?”

“My entire future. I finished university six months ago and every job I apply for makes me miserable before I walk in the door.”

“I see.”

Wade seemed all right. Not cute exactly — no one with a mullet could really be called cute — but like a good guy to work for. He looked like he was around forty, but he also looked tired, so maybe he was younger and just looked old.

“Does the thought of working at Avalanche make you miserable?”

Clare shook her head. “I love restaurant jobs — or anything, really, where I'm active and working with people. It's when I walk into an office and I see all the cubicles and I think I might have to punch computer keys all day and all year and maybe all my life . . . During one interview, I was so nauseous I thought I'd spew the sandwich I'd just eaten all over the guy who was interviewing me. Another time, this woman with a tight bun and a pencil skirt asked me why I wanted the job, and I was so scared of becoming like her, I told her I didn't. Sorry, I'm totally rambling.”

“I'm afraid I'm not hiring now,” Wade said. “I did have an opening, but a few of my part-timers have asked for more hours.”

Shit. Clare had gone overboard with the insecurity. And this was the job Amanda wanted her to land — it was where Sacha had worked and it was the hub of her peer group's social action. “I'm happy with one shift a week,” Clare said. “Or whatever's extra. I was hanging out here last night for a bit. I like the vibe of this place.”

“You could pay your bills on one shift a week?”

“No, but . . . I have some savings. I'd rather be working, because that's a good way to meet people when you move somewhere new.”

“Great.” Wade groaned.

Clare wrinkled her nose. She was having trouble nailing Lucy. She closed her eyes for a moment and channeled a slacker, but a responsible one, someone she'd want to hire. She smiled and said, “Sorry. I can see how that was the wrong thing to say.”

“I'm not running a community center. I have enough staff who treat their shifts like optional social engagements.”

“I understand. But I'm a really hard worker. I throw my whole self into every job I have. I hate standing around. A shift goes by so much faster when you're productive.” Still rambling, but hopefully in a better direction.

“Thanks, Lucy. I'll keep your résumé, and I'll call you if something comes up.”

“I'll train for free,” Clare said. “Then when your opening comes up, I'll be ready to slide right in.”

Wade smiled at that, like he found her a little bit crazy. “Do you snowboard? Ski?”

“I skied a bit as a kid. My first snowboarding lesson is right after this interview. I'm a bit nervous — can you tell?”

“You could skip the lesson. There are already too many snowboarders in the world.”

“Do you not like snowboarding?” Clare glanced around the office again, this time with cop's eyes. Wade had a desktop computer — an old model — but no laptop in sight. His cell phone on the desk looked old, too, and it wasn't a smartphone. He must be cash-poor.

“I like the sport of snowboarding just fine. What I don't like are the idiots who push in front of you in lift lines and whiz by with two inches to spare on the hill. No offense to you, but your generation has no manners.”

“None taken.” Clare smiled. “I agree. We're all rude assholes.”

The filing cabinets were cheap metal. The posters were all of seventies bands — the Grateful Dead, the Doors, the Rolling Stones.

“And what I truly abhor is staff who call in sick — or late — on powder days.”

“I can promise I'll never do that.” Clare eyed the giant ashtray on the desk. She wanted a cigarette, but she couldn't afford another mistake in this interview, so she decided to wait until she was outside. She didn't like her cover roles to resemble her real life too much, but she figured this was important. She said, “I worked for my dad growing up. I know how important it is for a business owner to be able to count on their employees. And, well, if I'm trained on your computer system, I can fill in for the people who do call in sick. Or late.”

Wade looked like this was hard for him, and Clare wondered what the dilemma was. Wade finally said, “Come in tonight. You can shadow an experienced waitress, and we'll take your future schedule from there.”

Clare clapped her hands quickly, like she was so excited for this bar job.

RICHIE

Richie slid his finger down the screen of his phone until he found the Seattle phone number. He did the breathing exercise he'd learned at the Bob Billingsley seminar — the deep inhaling that helped you take back control in a stressful situation. He couldn't get relaxed, though. He dreaded making this call.

“Yo,” came the answer.

Richie was tempted to tell his American colleague that he'd go further if he lost the street vocab. Instead he said, “We have to hold back today's delivery.”

Silence from Seattle.

“You there?” Richie said. “I'm not talking holding back indefinitely. Just . . . we've hit a snag.” Richie should have dealt with this a week ago, should have made this call, postponed the batch. He'd known in his heart when Sacha had died that it wasn't smart to continue taking drugs across the border, not until the investigation had officially been closed. But this new news — this goddamn
FBI
secret agent — it turned a routine crossing into a suicide run.

“This'll cost you,” said Seattle.

“Cost me what?” Richie was prepared to pay a penalty. Of course he was. He'd demand one himself in the Seattle crew's position.

The sound of clucking teeth preceded: “How late is the shipment gonna be?”

Richie sighed. He should play this straight. There were too many variables circling around as it was. “Our transporter was murdered. We have to postpone indefinitely.”

Seattle whistled. “Indefinite, huh? That could be a long time.”

From his skylight, Richie could see a snowy peak. He focused on that — his goal, to be above all the bullshit, looking down from the top.
Always have your eye on the prize
, said Bob Billingsley in
The Religion of Success
.
If you know where you're going, you're far more likely to get there.

“Anyway, I thought your transporter killed herself. That's what the papers say.”

Richie wondered how Seattle knew that. Certainly no one had advertised that the Mountain Snow courier had been Senator Westlake's daughter. “Cops are still sniffing. We're playing safe until we know.”

“Tell you what: you get me the shipment by next Monday, I'll pay half-price.”

Richie's teeth clenched. “Come on, man. I wouldn't screw you this way if I was wearing your damn shoes.”

“Because you don't got the muscle on your side — just some tweaked-out ski bums, who I'm guessing won't have your back when things get messy.”

“Guess again.” But Richie was bluffing — he had no muscle; he was at the Americans' mercy. “Anyway, I'm canceling. You want me to let you know when it's safe to deliver?”

“Hm.” Seattle was quiet for a moment. Richie could picture the calculator in his head crunching numbers and spitting them out on an imaginary paper feed. “Mountain Snow is a quality product — I'd like to keep things friendly. But a supplier has to have supply, or the demand will go elsewhere. I gotta ask myself, what would Walmart do?”

“Jesus, you have to pick the least ethical company in all of America? Why don't you ask yourself, what would Microsoft do?”

“Walmart does some good charity work. You get the Snow down here today — okay, tomorrow, because I'm feeling charitable, too — I'll give you two hundred grand, as per usual. Any later, up to a week, it's half-price. More than a week, I'm gonna have to call a default. You don't want me to call a default.”

Richie willed his voice to sound reasonable — contrite even — when he said, “How about I wire you some cash as a sign of good faith? Then I'll bring the shipment down when everything's clear. Say twenty grand as a penalty — I can get that to you in an hour — and we talk again when things are cool.”

Seattle snorted. “Say two million bucks as a penalty. What the shipment is worth at street value.”

“Come on, be reasonable.”

“All right, one million — we'll split the difference. Look, I got your product sold already. I was supposed to start filling orders today. You don't deliver, it costs me about a million in lost profit.”

“Is there a human option?” Richie said. “Like, based on understanding that the world doesn't always work like clockwork?”

“Nah. We don't got a human option here at Walmart. That's a good one, though.”

Richie ended the call and stared at his phone. He finally understood what Billingsley meant when he warned against rapid expansion. Mountain Snow was a phenomenal product and demand across the border had been shooting through the roof. Which was great when things were smooth, because everything was profit. But Richie had ignored one of Billingsley's tenets:
Always have a reserve fund commensurate with your level of production. Either that, or great insurance. If your factory catches on fire, you don't want the whole operation to go up in flames.

Well, the factory was burning. And since Richie didn't have a million bucks to spare, and he didn't relish the thought of the bodily harm these Seattle guys were capable of delivering
or
of being their bitch for years while he worked off the debt, he was going to have to get those drugs across the border.

Richie stared out his window at the white peak of the mountaintop, which now looked impossibly far away.

CLARE

“So there's good and there's bad.” Clare kicked some gravel in the parking lot as she spoke to Amanda on the phone. “I got the job at Avalanche. But it's probably moot, because Sacha's friends know the
FBI
's in town.”

“They what? Clare, that's not good.”

Clare was tempted to respond sarcastically, but didn't have the heart. “You want me to pack up and bail?”

“Not necessarily,” Amanda said. “What have these friends said specifically?”

“Jana thinks the undercover's a man.”

“Good. We told Inspector Norris it was. And Senator Westlake's assistant. Only three people in each organization know your name. In the
FBI
, it's you, your team leader, and Paul Worthington. In the
RCMP
, it's my two direct bosses and me.”

And Noah
, Clare thought. She said, “Can we trust all those people?”

Amanda hesitated. “I trust my colleagues. You?”

“I trust Bert — my team leader.”

“Not Worthington?” Clare heard the implied criticism in Amanda's voice, like Clare should automatically respect the head of the
FBI
because of his exalted position.

“I've never met him. Hard to know if you trust someone if you haven't looked them in the eye.”

“Fair,” said Amanda. “And there's obviously a leak somewhere. But I'd say the fact they think you're a man is a good case for the leak being
outside
the inner circle.”

Clare had to acknowledge that was true. Unless Jana was lying.

“Where are you?” Amanda asked.

“Walking home from my job interview. On a detour through the all-day parking lot so I could talk without being overheard. Do you want me to come to your condo?”

“Go back to your apartment for now. And go to your snowboarding lesson this afternoon as planned. This is bad, but at least you found out before they found you.”

“And after the lesson?”

“Do whatever Lucy does. You're still on the case until further notice.”

“Where do you think the leak is?”

“I'll make some calls. But it's a good thing that Jana confided in you. It means she doesn't think you're the agent.”

“Or she thinks I am, and she's trying to warn me off the case.”

Clare passed a family of four loading ski gear into their car. They looked happily exhausted after a weekend of simple recreation. Clare wondered if she was insane for wanting a job with so much subterfuge. Simple recreation looked damn good to her.

“Leave this with me,” said Amanda. “I'll look after it.”