by Robin Spano
“Both organizations are extremely interested in the drug smuggling.”
“Is that my new assignment, then?”
“It’s all part of the same investigation. No need to change the assignment. But yes, please do gather information about the smuggling operation.”
“My pleasure. Here’s more good news: Norris is for sure dirty.”
“How is that good news?” Amanda scraped the carrots into a large salad bowl and started grating a hard, smelly white cheese.
“Norris is the guy Chopper and Richie paid for my name. So now that we know that, we can feed him disinformation — like a false name to answer his query.”
“I’ll think about that,” Amanda said. “But like I’ve said, it’s hardly necessary when only the six people I mentioned know who you are. Six very secure individuals.”
“And Noah.”
“Noah from poker?”
Clare nodded.
“Are you still dating him?”
“Yeah. And before you jump down my throat about breaching security, Bert cleared me to talk to Noah about the case. Noah’s working on it from the New York end.”
“How’s that going? The relationship, I mean.”
“Fairly fucked up, thanks. How’s your love life?”
“Still engaged,” Amanda said.
“Same big shot you were dating last year? The corporate lawyer who never has time for dinner?”
“Same one. What’s wrong between you and Noah?” Amanda put the smelly cheese into the salad.
“Noah challenges my brain. He knows my quirks and doesn’t care — he even kind of likes them.”
“But?”
“But he makes me insecure. Like if only I were someone slightly different, things could work out so much better.” Clare had no idea why she was confiding in Amanda. Probably because she was the only person in Whistler she could talk to about her real life.
“So he’s wrong for you.”
Clare stared at the orange shag carpet. She poked at some of its hairs with her big toe. “It’s not really fair for you to say that. You’ve never met him.”
“No, but I’ve seen his file.”
“Really?” Clare looked up. “What’s in his file?”
Amanda glanced away. “I can’t tell you that.”
“I won’t tell anyone if you break one rule. Norris takes bribes and he still has a job.”
Amanda laughed. “That’s not the professional logic I like to employ.”
“Seriously, it’s not fair to tease like that. I’ll find the information somehow.”
“Yes, I’m sure you will. Okay. When you encountered Noah on the poker tour last year, his employment security was tenuous.”
Clare sensed that now was not the time to complain about Amanda’s gratuitous use of big words. “What do you mean by ‘tenuous’?”
“He’d botched up a case massively. The FBI figured Canada was a good place to breathe him while they decided if he was going to stay or go.”
“Love it,” Clare said. “Canada as exile. Is that why I’m here?”
“No, you’re here because you’re Canadian and FBI; plus your age fit the profile.”
“So how did Noah fuck up?”
Amanda rifled through a drawer. She pulled out a small paring knife and peered at it before trading it for another slightly larger one. She pulled a tomato on the counter toward herself and began to slice it into bright, pulpy wedges. She set the knife down on the cutting board with a sigh. “Six months before you met him, Noah killed an innocent person.”
Clare felt cold inside, though the gas fire was on full blast. “Man or woman?” was for some reason the question she asked first.
“His cover character’s girlfriend. But he was cleared of any charges.”
Clare was quiet as she tried to take this in.
“Noah had done a wonderful job befriending and seducing the daughter of a Mafia boss. He’d been dating her for six months when she invited him on a family boat trip. He should never have gone, but the file suggests that he might have actually fallen in love with the woman.”
Clare blinked hard.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Amanda looked up from spinning the lettuce.
“It’s cool,” Clare said. It wasn’t cool at all. Who was Noah, that he’d killed a girl and kept it secret from her? How could Clare trust someone who would hide such a big part of his past from her?
Amanda smiled sadly. Clare appreciated her silence; it felt kind.
But she needed to know more. “What happened with this girl? Why did he kill her?”
“At some point when the boat was at sea it became clear to Noah’s handlers that his girlfriend’s father wasn’t duped. That Noah had been invited on that weekend so he could have an accident.”
“They couldn’t get him the message?”
“They got him the message. Noah was lowering the lifeboat when the girlfriend tried to stop him. From his perspective, she was a threat. Turns out, she probably had no clue about Noah’s identity. But as Noah testified in court, he couldn’t know that her struggling with him to prevent him from escaping wasn’t the girlfriend colluding with her father — she was likely just confused herself.”
“How . . . how did it happen?” Clare heard herself stuttering. She frowned. She never stuttered.
“He stabbed her. In the chest.”
“What?” Clare closed her computer. This was so completely fucked. “Why didn’t he just stab her leg? Immobilize her so he could get away?”
“His emotion was involved, most likely. Clouded his brain. On the record, he said he felt betrayed.”
Clare went to join Amanda at the kitchen island. If she was honest with herself, it was because she needed to be physically closer to another human being. Apparently Amanda counted. Clare pulled up a stool and sat down. “What’s the moral of the story? Should I run from Noah because killing this girl is going to leave him fucked up for a long time? Or should I understand if he’s skittish and maybe try to coax him back to feeling okay about women?”
“Yeah,” Amanda said with a faraway frown. “One of those, I think.”
Amanda took a handful of raisins from a bag and sprinkled them onto the salad. Which was fine — Clare could politely eat this so-called meal and grab a slice of pizza later.
To distract herself from thinking about Noah, Clare said, “The recording also confirms what you suspected: Sacha was smuggling Mountain Snow across the border. They’re desperately trying to find a replacement transporter for a new shipment they want to deliver this week.”
Amanda glanced up at Clare.
“Should I volunteer?”
“Absolutely not.” Amanda pulled some froufrou dressing from the fridge. Ginger soy, or some such yuppie delicacy. “A cop would jump at the chance to play a role in a cross-border drug deal. As soon as you said yes, it would red flag you to the criminals.”
Clare wrinkled her mouth. Amanda was right. “Okay,” she said, “but by the same token, a cop would never drop acid. I totally get why you think it’s too dangerous. And honestly, I’m not keen to try the drug. But if I end up having to drop, and I keep my phone on, you’ll know where I am at all times.”
“Your phone’s GPS wouldn’t tell me if you’re alive or dead.”
“Maybe I could wear a discreet wire?”
“You wouldn’t have your faculties, Clare. What if you ended up naked and rolling around with your new boytoy, and he found the wire? Then you haven’t only killed the case, you’ve put your life in jeopardy.”
A timer dinged and Amanda opened the oven. She pulled out a baking tray with bread.
“I didn’t know you ate carbs.” Clare eyed the fresh loaf hungrily, even if it was covered with oats and other extraneous grainy things.
“I don�
��t, normally. But this mountain air makes me famished.” Amanda opened the fridge and pulled out a tray of cold cuts. “Did you think I would serve you just salad for lunch?”
“I don’t know,” Clare said. “I have trouble figuring you out.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
RICHIE
Richie looked down the Blackcomb Glacier. He remembered when this run used to scare the shit out of him. Cold and steep, it looked like the jagged edge of the world. Now it gave him power. The metal blade of his snowboard chiseling lines in the glacier made Richie feel like he was slicing edges off his fears and carving his niche in the world at the same time.
Nicki Minaj’s “Fly” was in his earbuds. He felt the tune lift him. Though he’d die before admitting it out loud, the song always made him feel okay about shit for three minutes and thirty-two seconds.
Richie took the glacier slowly, grooving halfway down the run before plonking his ass on the hill. It was cold. He imagined all the layers of ice and snow beneath him. It was a wonder this glacier didn’t slide off the mountain and take all the skiers and snowboarders with it. Maybe one day it would.
He didn’t know the exact spot where Sacha had lain. But Norris had shown him the photo. All that blood — bright red against the white snow.
Why the fuck did Sacha have to breach security? She was so damn proud of herself — smuggling drugs was a lark to her. A fun way to get back at her big shot war-against-drugs mother. Get back at her for what, Richie had no damn clue. He wondered if Sacha even knew what she was doing.
Richie felt his eyes moisten. He growled and willed them to dry up. He missed Sacha, straight up. He used to tell her shit he’d never told a soul — like how he’d bought his first gun at fifteen after watching his father hit his mother one too many times. He never pulled it out at home, but knowing the sleek metal nine millimeter was there in the drawer beside his bed gave Richie the confidence to stand up to his old man. Sacha didn’t give him any sentimental girly response. She’d just shaken her head and said, Parents. They should feed kids and leave them the hell alone. We’d be better off all raised by wolves.
“Jesus, Sacha,” he said aloud, tracing a glove in the snow. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Oy! Richie!” Richie heard Chopper’s shout before the big yellow ski suit skidded to a stop beside him.
Richie quickly pulled his goggles off, wiped his eyes, and replaced the goggles before turning to face Chopper. He was glad he’d worn his tinted pair. “I think I have a leak in these,” Richie said. “They were fucking expensive, too — Oakley.”
“Are you freaked being up here? It’s my first time on Blackcomb since Sacha bailed.” Chopper slid his skis back and forth, like he was running in place.
Richie said nothing. He hoped Chopper would get the point and ski away.
“It’s like, she’s gone, but she’s not, you know?”
“No.” Richie flicked a chunk of snow off his board. “It’s like she’s gone. The end. What are you doing on groomers, anyway? Second time I’ve seen you here this week.”
Chopper shrugged. “Avalanche warning’s been crazy high. Back country’s dangerous with all this new snow. Is this the place? This spot where you stopped to . . . defog your goggles?”
Richie wanted to throttle Chopper. Interrupt his grief and then call him on it? “This is the run.”
Chopper nodded, was silent for a moment, and said, “I talked to Norris. He told me we absolutely cannot make this delivery to Washington.”
“You tell him about the million bucks if we don’t?”
“He doesn’t care. Not only will he not make the drive; he says he’ll bust us if he catches us trying.”
“What?” Richie pooled some saliva and spat at the ground. “Does he understand that he doesn’t get to be bent one minute and toe the line the next?”
Chopper shook his head. “This is bad, Rich. There’s something going on with Norris. Says it’s bigger than we know, bigger than all of us. But he won’t elaborate.”
“Shit.”
“It could be nothing,” Chopper said. “Norris is scared for his job, his rep in town. He’s always been a worrier. I think the risk of being caught is way exaggerated in his mind.”
Caught for what? Richie wanted to ask. He tapped a gloved finger to his mouth. “What if one of the Seattle crew recognized Sacha — figured out who her mom is — one time when she was down in Blaine for the delivery?”
Chopper squinted, pulled his tinted goggles back over his eyes to block the sun. “What are you talking about?”
“I mean, yeah, Sacha’s mom’s famous. Powerful, even. But for the FBI to go outside their jurisdiction — pretty sure they’d need more than just a murder case. You know?”
“Um . . . no.”
“What if someone in the Seattle crew thought he could make a quick buck selling that info, about Martha Westlake’s daughter as part of a smuggling ring?”
“Who would they sell it to?”
“Maybe to the DEA? More likely, though . . .” Richie tapped his mouth some more. “More likely they would have sold it to someone who would pay a lot of money. Like one of Westlake’s opponents in Washington who could use the information for political leverage.”
“Heavy,” Chopper said. Which meant he was too stoned to think too hard.
Richie’s wheels were spinning. “Sacha Westlake smuggling drugs would be some juicy information in the wrong hands. The question is whose hands?”
Chopper’s eyes sharpened, like his mind was finally on this. “You think Seattle ratted Sacha out to some politician? And that’s how come the FBI’s so interested? Not because of her death, but because of the drugs?”
“Yeah,” Richie said. “That’s exactly what I think.”
“Shit. I gotta go see Norris again.”
Chopper kicked off and did a few stylish 360s on his trick skis before disappearing around a curve on the hill.
THIRTY-EIGHT
CLARE
Clare strapped on her left binding and pushed off. She tried to keep the fear off her face as Jana glided toward the double black diamond — double black meaning it wasn’t just challenging, it was a run that only insane people took.
“You good?” Jana yelled up the hill.
“Are you kidding?” Clare shouted. “I learned how to snowboard two days ago. I am not jumping off a cliff.”
“You said Chopper wanted to show you some jumps.”
“Yeah, and I told him to get lost.”
Jana put a hand on the hip of her baggy snowboard pants. “Please? This was Sacha’s favorite run.”
Clare rode down and stopped beside Jana so she could talk without shouting. She stared at the trees and the near-empty slope. It was four-forty-five. The last chairlift had just taken them to the top of the Blackcomb Glacier. It was almost dark. Almost exactly like the day Sacha had died.
“I’m not Sacha.” Clare peered over the edge. It looked more like a cliff of certain death than a run someone would go down on purpose.
Jana shrugged. “You kind of are the same. You’ll totally get it when we trip on Mountain Snow.”
When, not if. Clare hadn’t felt peer pressure like this since she was thirteen.
“Are you working tonight? I didn’t see you on the schedule.”
Clare shook her head under her balaclava. It had been a sunny day, but now a bitter wind was picking snow up from the hill and whipping it around like a fresh blizzard. Clare looked forward to being back inside, curled up with a hot chocolate. Or maybe one of those craft beers she was actually coming to like.
“I’ll bail on my shift if you drop with me. I have two tabs in my pocket.” Jana patted her pink plaid jacket. “It would be so perfect if we take them now. We’ll be coming up on the trip by the time we reach the village. We’ll have the whole evening to enjoy the natural
wonder.”
“You sound like an ad for Grand Canyon Travel.” Clare’s legs ached from how she was leaning, but she didn’t know how else to stay upright on her snowboard.
“Good comparison,” Jana said. “On this drug you’ll go places that will make you contemplate your own insignificance. At the same time, you’ll feel beyond empowered.”
“Cocaine makes people feel empowered,” Clare said, “and yet I have no desire to try that, either.”
Jana laughed. “Mountain Snow won’t turn you into an asshole. I’m talking real empowerment — the world will open up and you’ll see it more clearly. You’ll learn to take control of your destiny.”
“Is that what Sacha learned?” Clare immediately wished she’d kept that thought to herself.
“Way to bring the mood down. That’s totally a question a cop would ask.” Jana pushed off and snowboarded away down the easier of the two runs, the one coded blue — not the cliff, which Clare appreciated.
Still, as she followed, Clare got worried. Was Jana accusing her of being a cop?
Halfway down the run, Jana skidded to a stop. Clare stopped beside her.
“Why don’t we do LSD some other time?” Clare said. “With Chopper. He wants to drop with me, too.”
Jana pulled her gloves off and held them with her teeth. She unzipped her pocket and pulled out two tiny squares of paper. “Now. How else will I know you’re not a cop?”
Clare laughed too loudly — she hurt her own ears. “Doesn’t a cop have to say they’re a cop if you ask them?”
“Yeah,” Jana said. “I’ve heard that, too. Is it true?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a cop.”
“You’ll always be an outsider, though. Until you drop with us, we’re not going to trust you. But maybe you don’t care. You can find other friends here. I’m sure there’s a goody-two-shoes club you can join. Spend evenings baking muffins with the Bible as your guide.” Jana put her gloves back on, pushed off, and rode straight down the hill for several feet before stopping and waiting again.
Clare pushed off, too. The hill was getting icier. All the fresh snow had been packed down, and Clare thudded onto her ass the first time she tried to turn. She understood now why powder days were so sought after. She edged down to meet Jana.
