Death's Last Run (8 page)

RICHIE

Richie grooved around his all-white living room, past the sofa and club chairs, dance tunes in his ears. He was trying to pick up his mood, find a positive head space where he could get some clarity on his massive fucking problem.

Great choices he had. Take the drugs to the States, and maybe get busted. Or play safe with the law and get into indefinite debt with one of the scariest cartels in the States. What the fuck would Billingsley do?

He looked at his couch — white, leather, pristine — and remembered Sacha lounging with her feet up on the arm. Even in clean socks, there was no way Richie would have let anyone else put their feet there. Not even his mother.

He picked up his snowboard, turned the volume up on Flo Rida, and opened his door to leave. He dug this song, “Wild Ones.” It made him think of Jana, always ready to go with some crazy new bedroom idea. Man, that chick made Richie's head spin.

It was raining in the village, but Chopper had texted to say it was dumping at the peak. The slopes would clear his head — whooshing down, fighting the wind and the snow, letting rap and dance music impart their wisdom through his earbuds.

Except when he was about to step out of his apartment, he didn't see an empty hallway. He saw Norris, the little inspector, standing a full head shorter than Richie in his I'm-so-important black trench coat.

Richie yanked his earbuds out, gestured for Norris to come in.

“I left Sacha's handwriting sample with your receptionist,” Richie said. “I assume that's cool, since it's official police business.”

“It's fine. I've faxed the sample to head office. That's not why I'm here.”

Richie shut the door and remained standing in his gear. “How long for the handwriting analysis?”

“Couple days,” Norris said. “Do you have a cigarette?”

Richie was getting hot in his snow clothes, but he didn't want to unzip his jacket in case Norris took that as an invitation to stay awhile. As much as he wanted to keep things on good terms with the inspector, Richie had energy to burn — he wanted at least one good run before his meeting with Chopper at the peak. “I don't smoke. I didn't think you did, either.”

“The stress is making me start again. I'd buy a pack, but my wife would freak if she found it.” Norris smiled sheepishly, like he was embarrassed to acknowledge he was like every other married man: whipped.

“Man, I hear you,” Richie said, meeting Norris' eyes with a grin.

Norris shifted his feet, like he wanted to pace but he'd have to get past Richie to do it. Richie didn't move.

“Look, I came to see you because . . . for ten grand, I can get the name of the
FBI
agent.”

“Ten grand?” Richie felt his eyebrows rocket sky-high. “What happened to all the cash me and Chopper have already given you?”

Norris glanced at the sofa but Richie stood firm, blocking his entrance past the alcove by the door.“We bought Zoe a cello. A Leon Bernadel, which that kid deserves, but it damn near broke our bank. I'd go to the poorhouse if it meant she could follow her dream.”

“She's ten,” Richie said. “Next year the only dream she'll want to follow will be an eleven-year-old boy.”

“I wouldn't expect you to share an understanding of classical music.”

“Hey, no disrespect, Norris, but Chopper and I pay you to protect us from prison. This ten grand is yours to pay.”

“You pay me not to arrest your asses.”

Richie liked that line. He wished he was recording this conversation.

“I'll talk to Chopper,” Richie said, keeping his voice even despite the rage that was beginning to boil just below the surface. “If nothing else, maybe he can better explain to you how our arrangement is supposed to work.”

“Don't forget which one of us will look better in court. Me in my tailored suit, you in lovely orange coveralls . . .” Norris tossed this out with a smile, but you couldn't say a thing like that without meaning it at least a little.

“Come on, man. You're threatening me?”

“Of course not.
No disrespect
, Richie. I'm just reminding you how things lie.”

Richie was tempted to put Norris in his place, but the cop worked better if he thought he was the man in control.

MARTHA

The heavy apartment door opened to reveal a tall blond in gray yoga pants that she must have had painted onto her legs. Daisy's pregnancy was early — barely past the three-month safety mark — so she didn't have much of a bump. If anything, her body only looked more luscious.

“Can you nurse from silicone?” Martha said. “Or will you have to use formula?”

Daisy frowned. “Are you meeting Fraser for something? I thought he was at work.”

“He probably is.” Martha pushed past Daisy and left the younger woman standing with one hand on the door. “I've just left him in the financial district.”

Daisy remained in the doorway. She nodded to the two Secret Service men in the hallway. “Are they coming in?”

“No,” Martha said. “I've told them it's not necessary. You're not planning to kill me, correct?”

After Martha stood staring at her for a long moment, Daisy shut the door slowly and asked, “Did you, um, want a cup of tea?”

“Coffee would be better.”

“Oh. Well. Fraser drinks the coffee. I'm not even sure how to work the machine. But I've just boiled the kettle.”

Martha stared. No wonder things hadn't worked between her and Fraser. Clearly he'd been lusting after geniuses the whole time. “I can work the coffee machine.”

Daisy's top lip curved slightly over her bottom one. She looked like she was trying to find an alternative to inviting Martha into her kitchen. After a few seconds, when apparently no inspired solution came to her, Daisy pushed through the swinging kitchen door. Martha followed.

“You must be gutted.” Daisy pulled grounds down from a high shelf. Martha would have needed a stool. “About Sacha and everything.”

“Yes. Fraser mentioned you were psychoanalyzing my grief.”

“Um. I know I'm supposed to be an expert in psychology by now. And I have learned a lot of stuff — like did you know that our minds and our bodies are connected? For example, if you get the flu, it's probably because you're stressed, not because you've been around a virus?”

Martha wondered how Ebola patients would respond to this sage observation.

“But — and please don't tell Fraser; he's spent a fortune on these courses — I feel like the lessons never prepared me for Sacha's death. The stuff in the textbooks is too simple for all the complicated emotions floating around right now.”

“That's the most intelligent thing I've ever heard you say.”

“It is?” Daisy brightened, turned to face Martha, and frowned again. “Oh, you mean because you think I'm really dumb.”

Martha slid the filter drawer out from the side of Fraser's coffee maker. It
was
a funny machine — it had taken Martha awhile to figure out, the first time she'd used it.

“I meant to ask, how long are you staying?”

“Is that what you asked Sacha? How long she planned to stay? In Fraser's life, that is.”

“Oh.” Daisy took a seat at the round wooden table that Martha had found at a Connecticut craft fair. “You want to have
this
conversation.”

“I didn't come to learn about the human brain.”

Daisy twirled curly blond hair around her finger. “Sacha would have been welcome in our home anytime as a guest. She could have kept her key.”

“Oh good. A tiny metal key would compensate for taking away Sacha's sense of belonging.”

“I didn't drive Sacha to suicide. You can't make this my fault.” Daisy pulled a sparkle-covered phone from her pocket and glanced at it. “I have to meet a friend in SoHo. And I need to change clothes — I'm not pregnant enough that I can get away with bad fashion. So, um . . . I guess I'll see you out?”

Martha started the coffee machine and sat at the round table with Daisy. “You might want to cancel with your friend.”

“You can't tell me to cancel my social life. You're not senator of this apartment.”

“Sure I am. This apartment is in New York, no?”

Daisy's shoulders fell. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you're the only person I know who visited Sacha in Whistler, who saw firsthand what her life was like leading up to . . .” Martha felt her words begin to falter. Stupidly, she felt closer to tears in this horrible kitchen than she had in the past eleven days. But she steeled herself. “Leading up to her death.”

Daisy reached a hand toward Martha and touched her arm. “I guess that's a fair question. You want to piece together why she killed herself. But it had nothing to do with family. Sacha's life in Whistler was complicated.”

“Sacha did not kill herself.” Martha lifted Daisy's hand from her arm and placed it gently on the table. “But how was her life complicated?”

“I don't want to betray her friends' confidence.”

Martha inhaled deeply so she didn't strangle Daisy. She could not understand the bond between her intelligent daughter and this trivial piece of fluff — and she didn't want to admit that she cared. “These
friends
could be involved in her death. I would expect your loyalty to be with Sacha rather than with some Canadian snowboarding slackers.”

Daisy pushed her chest out even further than she normally did. “No wonder Sacha never shared private details of her life with you. All you do is criticize.”

Martha felt her cheeks tighten, maybe because her teeth were clenched inside them. “I want you to pretend for five seconds that you have one intelligent brain cell. Okay? Are you imagining that? I want you to use that one cell to analyze this situation: your stepdaughter is dead. You have information that might shed light onto why. Do you (a) use that information to help find her killer or do you (b) withhold the information to protect the identity of some degenerate ski bums?”

“For someone who wants information, you're sure not asking very nicely.” Daisy leaned back in her chair and stuck out her chin. “I think I'm going to ask you to leave.”

Ugh
. Martha was tired and the coffee was starting to smell good. “Forgive me. I know I should be nicer. This is not a normal week for me.”

“Yeah, but you're not normally nice to me, either.” Daisy rested her hands on her tiny belly.

“Look, you're right — I've never fully forgiven you for your affair with Fraser while he was married to me.”

“But you've forgiven Fraser.” Sharper than she looked, this one.

“We have a child together.”

“You don't, though. Isn't that why you're here?”

“Look, Daisy, this isn't about you and me. It's about what we can both do for Sacha.”

“Sacha's dead. We can't do anything for her.”

The coffee machine was gurgling to say it was nearly ready, and Martha sat quietly, listening to it. “Please, Daisy, tell me what my daughter was involved in.”

“Why? So you can tell the
FBI
? Fraser called me after his lunch with you.”

The table was big enough for four, but Martha felt suddenly claustrophobic. It was the same feeling she'd had earlier in the restaurant. She might be getting a fever — Daisy's head seemed cartoonishly large. She wished she'd impressed the need for silence upon Fraser — as in
please don't tell your bimbo wife about the
FBI
involvement —
but she'd thought it was obvious.

“That's top secret information, Daisy. Fraser trusts you with it, clearly. But it's vital that you don't tell a soul about the
FBI
being in Whistler.”

Daisy smirked. “Or what?”

“Or Sacha's killer might go free.”

“Oh. For a second I thought you were going to tell the truth and admit that it could ruin you politically.”

“For Sacha, can we not be on the same side?”

“If I tell you what I know, will you leave? I hate being late for appointments. It stresses me out and throws off the rest of my day.”

“Yes. I'll gladly go back to the ten million other things I have to do if you tell me what you know.”

“Your daughter was running
LSD
across the British Columbia–Washington border. Now can you see why I didn't want her influencing my baby?”

Martha rolled her eyes. “There is no way Sacha would get involved in drug smuggling.” And Sacha on crack would be a better influence on a baby than Daisy would sober, but Martha kept this thought to herself in order to get the rest of the information.

Daisy shrugged. “Believe what you want. She was really mad at you.”

“At me?”

“She thought you were a hypocrite. Your hard line on drugs especially. She figured if the system was corrupt, she might as well profit from it.”

Martha shook her head. “That's not even logical.”

“Whatever. I've said what I know. You can leave now.”

“I want the names of her friends. I presume you hung out with them when you visited.” Martha drew out the words
hung out
very slightly, to imply that she thought of Daisy as little more than a teenage layabout.

Daisy either missed that or ignored it. “Do you think poking into this is smart? We can't bring Sacha back, but if word got out about what she was doing, it could hurt your career.”

“I hope that when your child is born, you realize how stupid that sounds. There is no career that could possibly be more important than my daughter.”

“Really?” Daisy snorted. “Fraser said that when Sacha was a kid, you guys had nannies and didn't usually make it home from work until well after she was asleep. He wants it to be different this time. He wants his real child to know real love.”

Martha pulled her briefcase toward her and pulled out her laptop. “Incredible how you can just bring your work with you anywhere these days. I could sit here for hours, and not worry one bit about missing something important.”

“Chopper,” Daisy said. “That's the friend you want to look at.”

“Does Chopper have a last name?” Martha's finger hovered above the power button. She was tempted to get up and pour herself a mug of coffee, but she hoped she'd be leaving too soon to have more than a sip or two — and besides, it was fun to make a point.

“I'm sure he does. But I don't know it. He's a snowboarding instructor and he makes
LSD
in some remote mountain lab. It sounds really cool, actually. Still, not something I want around my baby.”

Martha put her computer into her briefcase and stood up. “Thank you for the coffee.”