by Robin Spano
Martha smiled blandly and said, “I’m no detective, of course, but my office has been buzzing dawn to dusk. There’s not a member of my team who has had a decent sleep in weeks. Not only would they have no reason to murder my daughter if they care about me winning this election, but they have not had time to skip off on a ski trip to Canada for any reason.”
The woman took two small steps backward. “I’m sorry if the question was too forthcoming.”
“No worries.” Martha continued to smile winningly in case anything she said got pulled for a news bite. “Now why don’t you go interview Geoff Kearnes? Ask him the same question.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
CLARE
Clare shoved off from the top of Whistler Mountain. Next stop: Richie’s body.
In her earbuds, her phone rang. She touched the tab on her earpiece to answer. “Hello?”
“You sitting down?” her friend Roberta back in Ontario asked. “Noah gave me this number. Sorry to bug you at work.”
“It’s fine,” Clare said. “I’ve been meaning to call you back; I just never remember at a time when it’s convenient.”
“’Course you don’t. You’re avoiding me.” Roberta had known Clare since she was twelve. The downside was she could read Clare like a book.
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“No? What’s different?”
Clare gave a small laugh. “Fine; I’m avoiding you.”
“I forget if you said if you’re sitting down.”
“Did my dad die?”
“No.”
“Then I’m fine standing up. I’m snowboarding, actually.”
“Snowboarding? That for work or pleasure?”
“Work. And I don’t have much time.” Clare felt a bit bad being short with her, but she had a dead body to ride down to.
“You never have time for your dad.”
“So it is about my dad.”
“His new lung is failing.”
“Why doesn’t he call me himself?” Clare knew that was mildly unfair — it would be hard to talk without a lung.
“Because you don’t answer his calls.”
“Because he lies. He told me once, when I was about to take a job with the Thunder Bay police, that he had cancer of the everything — that it had invaded his entire body and he had, like, a month to live. So I turned down the job and, lo and behold, his diagnosis was reversed the next week. A real medical miracle.”
“And thus you ended up with the job in Toronto that has taken your career to places you never dreamed it could.”
Clare adored Roberta, but sometimes she could severely miss the mark. “How’s the shop?”
“Business is good,” Roberta said. “Though I could have used your nimble hands this morning. I had the most finicky carburetor to clean.”
Clare laughed. “You know I like more complicated problems.”
“Yeah? You should be pleased to come home and see your dad, then.”
“So his new lung is failing. Maybe that’s because he’s smoking it black like his first pair. How long does he claim he has to live?”
“A week or two.”
Clare edged harder into the snow. “He’s lying, though, right?”
“I wish he was, kid. He’s in Barrie on a respirator. I’ve spoken with his doctors. He needs a new lung to survive outside the hospital, and he’s not being considered for a transplant because they know he’s still smoking. Or was, until he got admitted last week.”
Clare was nearing the Mid-Station. “I have to go. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Always when she was busy. Her father had a knack for creating massive drama right when Clare had no time to come running. And what would she do with her mother if he died? Would Clare have to visit more, pretend that they had shit in common?
It felt like a test — one she had no hope of passing.
SIXTY-EIGHT
WADE
Wade sipped brandy from his metal flask, but it didn’t warm him. A crowd had gathered — snowboarders gaping at the body because this was all so fucking interesting. They were smoking cigarettes and joints, littering the hill, and ski patrol wasn’t stopping them. Wade had ridden up on the first lift he could after Norris phoned with the news. He didn’t know why he was there, but really, where else would he be?
He watched Norris unzip Richie’s inner jacket pocket and pass one of the crime scene workers a cell phone and some earbuds. From another pocket, he pulled a thin wad of cash.
“That’s it?” Norris said as he passed the bills to one of his evidence crew. “You’d think a drug dealer would carry more money around.”
Wade agreed. Richie’s wad was normally three times as thick.
“There are still more pockets,” a young cop said. “Snowboard gear is made with hidden zippers everywhere. Maybe check the pants.”
Norris put his gloved hands into Richie’s baggy nylon pant pockets, passed the team more items to bag — keys and coins and a couple of gum wrappers. “You know what I’m thinking? This killer probably liberated some cash for himself.”
Once the pocket search was exhausted, Norris walked over to join Wade.
“You want a cigarette?” Norris held his pack open to Wade.
“You bought a pack?” Wade took one.
“Can you believe I didn’t smoke for ten years, and this pack I bought yesterday is nearly gone? Here, walk with me. I have to stay where I can see the scene, but let’s head over to those trees where we can talk in relative privacy.”
Wade followed.
“I wasn’t made for this job,” Norris said, once he’d found them some seclusion.
Wade smiled sadly. “You’re a good cop. You just need a town where you’re not friends with all the criminals.”
“If I was a good cop, I’d be thriving now — called to action like this. All I can think about is keeping my wife and kids from suffering this same fate.”
“What’s wrong with you, man?” Wade peered at Norris, like maybe squinting would help him see inside his friend. “You’re a ball of fucked-up nerves ever since the FBI came to town. So the DEA’s involved. Big deal — that’s probably what’s going to save your ass in the end.”
Norris sighed. “It’s the pressure. I’ve never felt anything like this. Man, I wish I could have a long sip from your flask right now.”
Wade took a sip himself, then extended his flask to Norris.
Norris waved the flask away. “No, I have to look professional. Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course.” Wade was great at keeping secrets. He had a secret stash of booze in every room of his life.
“I think . . . I might have been tricked.”
“Tricked.” Wade’s tongue flicked at the word. He liked the feeling in his mouth, warm booze mixed with cool air.
“I’m not convinced anymore that it was the DEA I was talking to. Anyone can make up an email address, right? Even if it ends in ‘DEA dot com.’”
Wade didn’t know what a real DEA email address would look like. “I guess.”
Norris looked like he had more he wanted to say, but wasn’t. “This is bigger than us. It’s invisible and I don’t know what’s behind it.”
“You keep saying that, Stu. But if it’s not DEA — then who the hell wanted —”
Norris threw his cigarette into the snow and stomped it out. “Look, I have a death investigation to get back to.”
“Stu, I know you. You need to get this out, whatever secret you’re keeping, or you’ll make yourself insane.”
Norris pushed his lips together and out, like he always did when he had something big to mull over. “You gotta keep this super quiet,” he said finally. “I haven’t decided how to handle this, professionally. Which organization to tell first.”
“Okay.”
&nb
sp; Norris pulled his pack from his pocket, lit himself a new cigarette. He glanced at Wade, but he was only halfway through his first one. “Geoffrey Kearnes is involved. At least, his campaign is. That’s who’s been giving me orders — not the DEA.”
“Shit.” Wade didn’t know what else to say.
“Yeah, shit is right. Someone slipped up, forgot to block a phone call. So I traced it — a cell phone paid for by the Kearnes campaign.”
Wade knew U.S. campaigns could get dirty, but something about Norris’ theory didn’t jive. “You think this is connected to the murders?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
Wade put a hand on Norris’ shaking shoulder. He was surprised when Norris relaxed into the gesture. “I’ve written some new songs. I was hoping you and Chopper and I could record them.”
“For what? Our grandchildren to throw away when they’re clearing out our attics?”
“You don’t need a big label anymore. Anyone can put a song up on YouTube or iTunes. If people like it, maybe the band could get going again — I mean commercially, not just gigs here and there for free beer.”
“We’re all a bit old to think we’re Justin Bieber.”
“We’re not even forty. Chopper’s up for it.”
“It’s a nice fantasy, Wade. Fill that flask up a couple more times.”
SIXTY-NINE
CLARE
Clare spotted Jana behind the police tape. Jana’s body was heaving; tears were streaming down her face. Clare made her way through the crowd to her and put her arm around Jana’s bulky shoulders. She felt awkward, but she guessed this was what she was supposed to do.
Clare looked over at the Mid-Station and saw Chopper waving. She hoped her text to him, Feeling fucked up, come hang with me, hadn’t been too wussy. She’d played the needy card to get him there, because Bert was right: Clare should see as many reactions to Richie’s death as possible.
Inspector Norris was standing apart from the investigating crew. He was with Wade. Their conversation looked heavy, and they were passing a flask back and forth. It was hardly professional, but then Clare wasn’t one to judge.
Chopper arrived at Clare’s side and squeezed her hand. It felt good. Really good. If she’d asked Noah to be there, he would just grunt and watch the action, maybe make a few snide comments like I forgot these guys were your friends. She looked up at Chopper. “Thanks for coming.”
He ruffled his other hand against Clare’s toque, looked at Jana, and frowned. He leaned into Clare’s ear. “She stoned or sober?”
“Um, sober, I think.” Clare hadn’t thought to wonder.
Chopper left Clare and moved around to Jana’s other side. He said something to Jana that Clare couldn’t hear. Jana nodded, still sobbing, and allowed Chopper to lead her away toward the lift. He looked back at Clare and beckoned with his head for her to join them.
She wasn’t sure where her energy was better spent — watching the crime scene, studying Norris and Wade and the others who had gathered around the body, or following Chopper and Jana back to wherever they were going.
What would Lucy do?
That made things simple. She’d go with Chopper and Jana. Clare picked up her snowboard and followed them to the Mid-Station to ride the gondola down to the village.
SEVENTY
MARTHA
Martha felt her stomach twist as she saw her opponent approaching in the large Flagstaff convention hall. “Geoffrey.” She did not extend her hand.
“Ah, Martha.” Kearnes’ suit was so slick it looked oily. His styled gray hair matched his silver voice. “Riding economy. Legalizing marijuana. Have you thought about crossing party lines, maybe seeing if the Democrats will have you? Actually, you might be too far left for them.”
“Now why would I look for another party?” Martha felt like a child at a playground. She had a big smile on her face that was only half phony. “You know you’re the one I want to beat.”
Kearnes leaned in close. Martha thought she smelled sausage on his breath. Or maybe that was sauerkraut. “We should have a conversation later. I have an attractive offer if you’d like to pull out of the race.”
“Let’s have the conversation now. The answer is no.”
“My offer could save your family a lot of embarrassment.”
Martha laughed. “My family? You mean me?”
“And, posthumously, your daughter.”
“This morning, I revealed that my daughter was smuggling drugs into America. Which I understand you were about to leak to the press yourself. I don’t think I can do much more damage to her reputation.”
“Why would I leak that?” Kearnes frowned. “You think I knew about your daughter’s smuggling before I read about it on your blog?”
“Don’t give me that, Geoffrey. Your game has always been dirty — since you were twenty years old working on your father’s campaign. You’d prefer to dig up dirt on your opponents than try to win votes on your own steam.”
“My own steam has me on top of the polls right now.”
“Well, have fun up there. Just don’t fall.”
“Back out, Westlake. Before you force my hand.”
“Jesus, Geoffrey. What do you have?”
“You want to hear this here, where prying ears might be listening? Or would you like a discreet meeting later?”
“I would like to hear now.”
Kearnes shrugged. Still, he lowered his voice before saying, “I know Fraser Westlake is not Sacha’s father.”
Martha raised her eyebrows. Did her best to look fearful. The stupid thing was, in no other country would this be a big enough scandal to cost someone the presidency. But America loved both its Bible-thumping ethics and its Schadenfreude — watching a political figure go down for less than perfect family values was almost as fun as a good football game. Unless Martha spun it correctly.
“Is that a yes to a discussion?” Kearnes gave a toothless smile.
Martha chewed her lip. “Your office or mine?”
“Oh, I’ll come to you,” Kearnes said. “I’ll have to do some glad-handing in New York, now that it’s winnable territory. Plus I wouldn’t want to put you out. Traveling coach isn’t such a wonderful experience.”
“You’d be surprised,” Martha said. “It’s led to some excellent conversations with constituents.”
“I’ll stick with private. But I’m glad you’re having fun.”
When Kearnes had wandered off to smirk at some more voters, Martha whipped out her phone and sent Ted a text: Go public with the affair.
SEVENTY-ONE
CLARE
You guys, this is mental.” Jana was curled into Chopper’s big fuzzy armchair, scrolling quickly on the screen of her phone. Her tears had dried, but she seemed to still be frantic, looking for distraction in whatever form she could find.
“What’s mental?” Clare asked.
“Did you know Sacha’s mom had a blog?”
Of course Clare knew. But she was more interested in why Jana still cared after what had happened that morning with Richie. “What kind of blog? American politics?”
“Maybe normally. But in this one, she admits that Sacha’s dad isn’t her dad. You want to hear?”
When neither Clare nor Chopper responded, maybe because there were about ten zillion more pressing issues at the moment, Jana started reading:
You know what I hate about politics? It’s never about the issues. You don’t hear candidates saying “Vote for me because I’ll make education more accessible,” nearly as often as you hear “Don’t vote for that guy. He cheated on his wife. And definitely not that other guy. He got caught having sex in a rubber fetish suit.”
As in many areas of this campaign, I’d like to do things differently.
Rather than wait for an opponent to find this and cast a sinister spin on my enti
re political platform as a result, I’d like to reach into my closet and drag out the one secret that would be gold to my opponents. You can forgive me or not, but at least you’ll hear it in my words — and know that I am honest with constituents.
Twenty-four years ago, I dated Geoffrey Kearnes. We were working on his father’s campaign. He was running it, I was an intern. It was a high-strung campaign — hard work, hard play.
We had fun. Our minds worked well together and the heat of the campaign kept things sizzling. We dated for several months until I overheard him asking another intern to dig up dirt on the candidates who were in second, third, and fourth place so we could use it to secure his father’s lead. This happens all the time — I wasn’t naive about that — but somehow I’d believed that Geoffrey was above the dirt. I stormed off the campaign with the righteous indignation of a 22-year-old.
What I didn’t know when we split was that I was pregnant.
I had a rebound relationship with Fraser Westlake. When I found out I was pregnant, I assumed — perhaps because I wanted to — that the father was Fraser. We were married shortly thereafter, shared twenty lovely years together, and until last week I believed he was Sacha’s biological father.
Since I now know that he isn’t — I’ll spare you the science, but trust me: I know — the only possible father Sacha could have had is Geoffrey Kearnes.
As Jana finished reading the blog post aloud, her voice wobbled. Tears were falling from her eyes again. They were quieter tears than earlier, on the hill. Clare wished she could go over, make it better somehow. But she didn’t have the first clue what she’d do.
In the kitchen, Chopper cracked one of his giant craft beers and poured it evenly into three glasses. Clare checked her phone for messages and was shocked to see it was already two p.m. The day had been such a strange haze, her father’s health and Richie’s death fighting for top spot in her mind.
