Beneath the Bleak New Moon

by Debra Purdy Kong

  She tried not to make much noise, but he glanced over his shoulder, hesitated, then kept going. Casey ran until she caught up with him. When he stopped, she noticed the gold hoop piercing his right earlobe. Oh, hell. The witness had mentioned a gold hoop worn by the passenger in the hit-and-run vehicle.

  “Hi,” she said, trying to appear friendly. “I saw you watching the funeral and just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Confusion creased his brow. The guy was Asian, possibly Chinese, late teens or early twenties, and his fingers twitched. “I . . . uh . . .” His voice faltered.

  “Did you know Beatrice?”

  “N-no English.”

  His gorgeous leather jacket, gold watch, and large jade ring suggested wealth. The kid resumed walking, but at a faster pace. If he hopped into a car, she wanted the plate number. When he glanced over his shoulder and saw her following, he bolted. Casey took off after him, wishing the police were as interested in this kid as she was. Her job had given her plenty of practice chasing suspects in heels and tight skirts, but speed and stamina were always obstacles. The guy darted across an intersection as the light turned red. One motorist blasted the car horn, but the kid kept going. By the time the light changed in Casey’s favor, he had reached the next intersection, turned left, and vanished.

  “You handled that pretty badly,” someone said from behind Casey.

  Casey turned around to find the South Asian woman smirking. Was she a cop? “Excuse me?”

  “You lost him.” The pink crystal stud in her nose sparkled against her brown skin.

  “Who are you?” Casey asked. “And why are you following me?”

  “I’m Danielle Carpenter.”

  Whoa. This was a surprise. “You write for the Vancouver Contrarian.” Given the maturity of her articles, Casey had assumed the reporter was older.

  Danielle’s smile revealed perfect teeth. “You’ve read my work?”

  “Yeah, it’s really good.”

  “Thanks, and you’re Casey Holland.”

  “How do you know my—”

  “I overheard the Dunnings introduce you to people. I also know what you do for a living, and how you tried to save Beatrice’s life.”

  Casey started to walk back to the cemetery. Beatrice’s friends and relatives, red-eyed and sniffling, had thanked Casey for her heroism—a word that made her want to sink through the floor. Whatever she’d done, it obviously wasn’t enough.

  “What did you want with that guy?” Danielle asked.

  “To see if he knew Beatrice. He’d been watching the funeral from a distance.”

  “Damn, I wish I’d seen him.”

  “You might have, if you hadn’t been so busy looking at me.”

  “I was waiting for a chance to talk to you,” Danielle replied. “What did the guy say?”

  “That he doesn’t speak English.”

  “But you didn’t believe him, or you wouldn’t have kept following. So, what’s up?”

  Part of Casey wanted to discuss his nervous manner and speculate about his presence, but she didn’t want to wind up in print with her opinions taken out of context. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, something about him bothered you.”

  “No, I was just curious.”

  “You were there when Beatrice was hit, so you must have heard talk about the racers. Do you think he’s connected?”

  “No idea.”

  “But you were wondering?”

  “The thought occurred to me.”

  “Racers are cowards at heart, Casey. I doubt any of them would take the time to actually show up at a victim’s funeral. All these punks care about is the next race, though they might go underground for a few weeks.”

  Casey opened the cemetery gate.

  “Had you realized that Beatrice was too far gone while you were doing first aid?”

  Lou and Denver were the only ones who knew she had feared the worst. “How long have you been with the Contrarian, Danielle?”

  “I’m not with them,” she answered. “I’m freelancing.”

  “Oh.”

  “I submitted articles to the big papers on spec, but they wanted wimpy, watered-down shit, and it shouldn’t be when people are losing their lives.” Danielle’s voice rose. “Everyone pretends street racers are dumb kids who will outgrow the need for speed, and a lot do, especially after one too many close calls. But there are also hardcore freaks who don’t care who they hurt as long as they win, and they need to keep winning over and over again.”

  “You’re preaching to the converted.”

  “Sorry.” Danielle shrugged. “It just pisses me off.” She watched the mourners begin to leave. “Have you seen other races while you’ve been riding buses?”

  “Nothing like what happened Wednesday night.” Casey walked slowly, in no hurry to catch up with the mourners. “One of your articles mentioned a sharp increase in racing over the past year, but you never explained why.”

  “New drivers are on the scene, as are some rich assholes who’ve been placing huge bets on races. It’s just another facet of a subculture that’s worth billions. Hell, even corporations cash in by selling new products to the racers who gave them the ideas in the first place. And don’t get me started on the auto shows selling high-performance parts.”

  The vehemence in Danielle’s voice prompted Casey to change the subject. “Are you going to the reception?”

  “No. What about you?”

  “No.” Casey hadn’t been invited, which was fine. She needed to put all this sadness behind her.

  “Did Beatrice say anything to you while you were helping her?”

  “No.” Enough questions. She didn’t want to be interviewed. “With all the articles you’ve been writing, aren’t you worried that street racers will decide you’re too nosy?”

  “Hell, I want to give them something to worry about, and I’m just getting started,” Danielle replied. “You see, I know who killed Beatrice.”

  FOUR

  DANIELLE CARPENTER WAS EITHER A headline-seeking liar or playing games. Either way, Casey wasn’t impressed. “Let me get this straight. You actually know who ran her down?”

  “More or less.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Danielle switched her large, vinyl bag from her right to left shoulder. The picture on the side was of a woman hang-gliding. The caption beneath said BORN TO FLY. “The racers could be part of a group who’ve been chance racing.”

  Liam MacKenna had used the same word at the accident scene. Casey had wanted to ask what chance racing was, but the guy had been too busy interviewing witnesses. “What’s chance racing?”

  “It’s when drivers race in high-traffic areas. Sometimes it starts spontaneously with two jerks revving engines at a stoplight. Now that gambling’s part of it, most races are planned in advance. The thing is, the drivers have ramped up the danger by racing early at night and on heavily used thoroughfares.”

  Casey shivered as the damp November air penetrated her clothing. Mourners were driving away. “Whatever happened to plain, ordinary drag racing?”

  “It’s still around, along with hat racing, which is all about distance.”

  “Hat racing?”

  “It’s when guys race right across the city or to a designated point in the burbs, usually late at night.”

  “Do you know who these chance racers are?”

  “One called himself Eagle, but I think they’re using numbers instead of names online, now.”

  “The police could track them down.”

  “Before how many more people die?” Danielle shot back. “I told VPD about these guys weeks ago, but all the stupid asses cared about was the name of my source, which I wouldn’t give.”

  If she’d been uncooperative and blunt, Casey understood why things hadn’t gone well. She stopped at Beatrice’s grave. White roses covered the shiny casket. She prayed for Beatrice, and for justice.

  Once Casey started to move on, she said
, “Do you think Wednesday’s race was spontaneous or planned?”

  “I didn’t hear about any prize money on it and the cars’ descriptions weren’t familiar, so they were either just two guys at a stoplight or wannabes, or maybe even hardcore racers trying out new cars,” Danielle answered. “Those guys are obsessed with driving bigger, better, faster. Half of them are rich kids whose parents are dumb enough to buy them luxury vehicles. The other half hold down two or three jobs to raise the cash for parts to build souped-up cars.”

  “How much prize money is offered?”

  “Thousands per race, and I hear the purse keeps growing.”

  “How many hardcore racers are in this group of chance racers?”

  “Five on the A team, a few more on the B team, and a bunch of wannabes.”

  “Quite the hierarchy.” The Dunnings’ limousine pulled away. Casey felt bad for not saying goodbye.

  “Someone named Leo was organizing races, but I haven’t seen his name in a while,” Danielle said. “He’s probably using a number too.”

  “What does your source say about this tragedy?”

  “He claims he doesn’t know what’s going on, but I think he’s lying. Anyway, I tracked down a witness who said the passenger in the hit-and-run car wore a gold earring and red bandanna. Was the guy you tried to talk to wearing a gold earring?”

  Casey hesitated.

  “Shit, he was, wasn’t he?” Danielle grabbed Casey’s arm. “Tell me.”

  “Lots of guys wear gold earrings, and let go of my arm.”

  As Danielle did so, she said, “I need a detailed description.”

  Casey recalled the kid’s wide cheekbones and suspicious expression.

  “Please, Casey.”

  This girl was far too intense. Casey stepped back to distance herself from all that angst. “He could just be an innocent bystander.”

  “Come on, think about it. A kid with a gold earring happens to show up at the funeral, then runs away when you try to talk to him. Do you honestly believe it’s a coincidence?”

  Casey wished she hadn’t let that kid get away. A dozen vehicles followed the limousine along the narrow, curving road out of the cemetery. Casey looked over her shoulder. The groundskeepers would soon be tucking Beatrice in for good, and she didn’t want to be around when they started. Casey picked up her pace.

  “My ride’s gone,” Danielle said. “Can I get a lift?”

  “Where do you need to go?”

  “The main library on Georgia, but anywhere within a few blocks is fine.”

  Casey unlocked the passenger door to her old Tercel. “More research?”

  “Yep. My laptop crashed and I can’t afford to fix it.” Danielle looked the car over. “I take it MPT doesn’t pay well. No union?”

  “Not yet.” It was a sore point with some employees. “And I don’t like spending money on cars. I plan to drive this one into the ground.”

  “Then your shoes must be grazing the asphalt.”

  Casey inserted the key in the ignition. “Do you have a car?”

  “I’m saving up and looking for something that reflects me.”

  “Bold and saucy, then.”

  Danielle laughed and unzipped her plum ski jacket. She glanced at the backseat. “Do you live in your car?”

  “I occasionally do surveillance work. The sleeping bag and pillow come in handy.”

  Danielle rummaged through her enormous bag until she removed a plastic container and folded paper towel. “Want half of an egg salad sandwich?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’ve got granola bars and the best homemade pecan squares you’ve ever tasted. My mom’s a fabulous baker.”

  “Lucky you.” Casey missed Rhonda’s scrumptious cakes, cookies, and muffins. “Do you live at home?”

  “For now. My girlfriend wants me to move in, but I’d rather have a steady job first.”

  No car, no computer, and living at home. Hmm. “When did you graduate from journalism school?”

  Danielle pulled the lid off the container. “A few months ago.”

  “I take it the Vancouver Contrarian doesn’t pay well either?”

  Danielle barked out a laugh before biting into her sandwich. Casey rolled down her window and tried not to gag on the smell of hard-boiled egg. She cruised down the narrow, winding road and saw another funeral in progress.

  “There’s going to be another race soon,” Danielle said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Upcoming races are posted in coded language for the gamblers. The info’s up only a couple of days, then deleted. I cracked the code because my source blurted something out.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “Of course.”

  “I thought you said the racers might go underground.”

  “Maybe not. If the hardcore racers weren’t involved with Beatrice’s death, they may want to try another race in a different part of the city. The prize money is too enticing and the need for speed too addictive.” Danielle unwrapped a pecan square. “The group gave itself a name. I never wrote about it because I don’t want them, or the gamblers, to realize how much I know.”

  “What is it?”

  Danielle’s dark eyes gave her a long look. “Roadkill.”

  FIVE

  AS THE M7 BUS PULLED up, Casey shivered in the chilly November air. The southbound Granville and Broadway stop was crowded with folks waiting to board. Teenagers scampered inside, while a couple of seniors cautiously stepped onto the platform, their gnarled hands gripping the rail. Tucking the latest issue of the Contrarian under her arm, Casey boarded last and paused when she saw Adrianna’s tense expression.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’m cramping up a bit.”

  Uh-oh. Adrianna was only in her fifth month of pregnancy. “You want me to take the wheel? My license is still valid.”

  “Thanks, but it’s not that bad, and I’ve called for a replacement. He’ll meet us at the Thirty-Third Avenue stop.” Adrianna checked her mirrors and merged back into Granville Street’s southbound traffic. “My husband will be there too.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to take over?”

  “I’m fine, really. There’s been no pain for ten minutes, and if I focus on driving, I won’t worry so much.” Adrianna attempted a smile. “By the way, those snotty twins were in horrible moods when they boarded this afternoon.”

  “Did they break any rules?”

  “No, but they were swearing a lot and complaining about school.”

  Casey found two unoccupied seats, one behind the other. It was just after eight and the bus was two-thirds full. Most of the passengers looked exhausted and glum. She sat behind the first empty seat. The huge volume of transit users along this corridor was the main reason both MPT and TransLink buses serviced this route. Boutiques, bistros, art galleries, and other retail outlets contributed to the congestion, but after Sixteenth Avenue, when the area became more residential and Granville Street widened, traffic moved a little faster.

  If the twins were on schedule, they would be boarding shortly. Casey flipped through her paper and found Danielle’s byline on page three. She’d written about the people whose lives Beatrice had touched and her legacy as a teacher. Casey slumped back in her seat as sadness again swept over her.

  The M7 stopped for the twins, who stomped down the aisle with their usual bags of food. The tantalizing smell of french fries made Casey’s stomach rumble. Tonight’s chicken salad supper hadn’t been filling.

  Pink-haired Lara scowled when she noticed Casey. “Oh look, it’s Deputy Dog, the overpaid babysitter.”

  “Have a seat, girls, before you fall.”

  The only free seat was in front of Casey. As they plunked down, she smiled.

  “Shouldn’t you have a better job at your age?” Paige opened her food bag and retrieved a handful of long, thick fries.

  “I like my work,” Casey replied. “Do you like yours?”


  “How do you know we work?” Lara asked, her eyes narrowing.

  “Because you stick to a schedule and always bring the same food on board. It’s logical to assume you work in a restaurant.”

  “It’s not really a restaurant when they only serve burgers,” Paige remarked.

  Lara lifted a double-patty burger with lettuce and tomato. Creamy mayonnaise oozed out of the bun and plopped onto the wrapper. Casey inhaled deeply. Lord, it smelled good. Over the past three months she’d stepped up her quest to eat less fatty food. Tonight she was regretting it.

  Nearing Granville and Thirty-Third, Adrianna slowed the bus. When they stopped, she stood and winced.

  Casey hurried up to her. “Are you okay?”

  “Another cramp . . . intense.”

  Adrianna’s husband filled the doorway and helped Adrianna outside. Casey had met him at a couple of office parties but couldn’t remember his name. She was about to wish Adrianna good luck when the sight of the replacement driver constricted her throat.

  “Hi, babe, how you doin’?”

  Casey held back a nasty reply. What the hell gave Greg the right to call her that? They’d been divorced for over three years, and she’d hardly seen him in months. “Medical leave’s over, huh?”

  “Back’s better since the surgery.” His gaze swooped up and down her body. “You look great.”

  As if his opinion mattered. Greg, however, had gained a ton of flab around the middle. His face was rounder and the blossoming second chin did nothing for his appearance. What had happened to the slim, muscular, fifteen-hundred-meter runner she used to admire? She headed back to her seat.

  Paige turned and swallowed her food. “Why did you look at that guy like he’s a giant worm? He treat you like shit or something?”