Death's Last Run

by Robin Spano

  “I think you two should stay here for a while,” Chopper said. “Overnight, and maybe longer. I don’t like the thought of two women alone in an apartment.”

  No — much better to be alone with two prime suspects.

  “We’ll lock our doors,” Clare said. “We won’t do any midnight skiing.”

  “Lucy, trust me on this. Stay here tonight.”

  Clare met Chopper’s gaze and tried to figure out what lay behind it. “You’re scaring me.”

  “You’re scaring me, too,” Jana said.

  “Good. Listen, I have a suspicion that doesn’t make me happy, but if I’m right, you could both be targets if you’re in town.”

  Clare didn’t like the guessing game. “A target for who?”

  “I’m not saying more until I have proof. I’m worried it’s a friend.”

  Norris or Wade.

  “I need to take my contacts out,” Jana said. “And get a pair of glasses. I can’t stay up here overnight without them.”

  Chopper nodded. “That’s cool. We can mix up some saline with boiling water and salt. I did that for a girl once.”

  “I can only wear contacts for five or six hours. My eyes are already starting to sting.”

  “So be blind for one night. You don’t need eyes up here.”

  “I’m not staying without my glasses, Chopper. You’re the one with the whack theory that we’re safer up here. If you’re wrong, I’d like to have my vision in good working order.”

  Chopper’s forehead wrinkled. Clare watched his eyes glance in a few different directions before saying, “Okay. I’ll take you back into town. Lucy, you want to follow on my extra sled? I think that’s safer than three of us taking the one.”

  The three of them had come up the hill on one snowmobile — not a three-seater, but an ad-hoc arrangement that had only sort of worked.

  What Clare really wanted was the chance to scope out Chopper’s place alone. Maybe even poke in his woodshed if she could get in. But she had to play that cautiously. “I’m baked from that joint. Not sure I should be driving anything.”

  “Jana, you want to ride the extra?”

  “Yeah — but I’ve never driven a sled and I’m baked. So Lucy’s a way safer option.”

  “I’ll crash on your couch,” Clare said. “I could deal with listening to music and staring at the falling snow right about now.” Clare was sober. She’d figured out how to actually not inhale, unlike her first couple of attempts. Either that or she was getting used to being stoned.

  Chopper hesitated. Clare wasn’t sure if the pause was for her security or his own. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be all right. Just lock the doors. And call me if anything happens.”

  “What could happen? You said all the bears are asleep.”

  “Please, Lucy. Take me seriously. Keep your phone close to you. We’ll all be fine if we look after each other.”

  Clare hoped that was true. She liked Chopper. She didn’t want him to be guilty. Jana, she could go either way on. The police had questioned Jana at length that morning before Clare had arrived at Richie’s body — Clare would go over the transcripts with Noah later.

  Clare waited until Chopper’s snowmobile had zoomed off into the distance and she could no longer hear its engine.

  She was about to light a cigarette when she thought about her father, clinging to life in some stupid hospital bed. Was she horrible for not wanting to go running to his side? She didn’t want to end up like him — rasping and gasping and all his own stupid fault.

  Clare grabbed her cigarette pack from the coffee table, wet them from the tap so they couldn’t tempt her later, and tossed the pack into the garbage can.

  Then she eyed the coffee table — the pirate-style treasure chest with the piece of glass on top. The chest was locked. Didn’t people realize that a lock was the best way to tell someone where to look? Clare planned to find her way inside.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  MARTHA

  Martha caught Ted’s eye across the convention hall floor. He was deep in conversation with a pretty young blond whom Martha recognized as the assistant to one of her less awful opponents. She hated to interrupt budding romance, but she crooked her head to let Ted know she wanted to speak with him.

  Within seconds, he was at her side.

  “That was nice work, kid.” Martha felt strangely giddy, like she wanted to give Ted a high five. “Great idea, prepping that post in advance. I’m glad you’re on my team.”

  “I could never replace Sacha.”

  “Of course not.”

  Ted’s face flushed bright red. He gave a small laugh. “I don’t mean in your life. I mean, Sacha’s been the best influence on this campaign.”

  Martha didn’t want to speak to that.

  “I got the name of the undercover, if you’re interested,” Ted said.

  “The FBI agent? I guess it’s not as highly kept a secret, now that he’s off the case.”

  “He’s a she — and she’s still in Whistler.”

  “Do I want to know how you know this?”

  “Probably not. Her name’s Clare Vengel. Twenty-four-year-old Canadian, moved to New York less than a year ago. I only saw a head shot, but she looks a lot like Sacha.”

  “Why would the FBI tell us they’d pulled their man out?”

  “I don’t think it was us they were trying to misinform. Looks like the village cop is dirty. Stu Norris.”

  “Is the village cop a suspect?”

  Ted wrinkled his mouth. “Don’t think so. I’ll let you know when I know more. My NYPD friend is risking his job to stay on top of this case. I’m going to owe him big time.”

  “Thank you, Ted.” Martha reached over and gripped Ted’s hand. It felt odd, so she pulled her hand away. “I wish Sacha could be here today.”

  “We all do.” Ted glanced at his brightly polished loafers. Martha remembered Ted and Sacha together. They’d squabbled like brother and sister, bantered about politics with affectionate confrontation. He must miss her, too.

  “No,” Martha said. “I wish she could be here to see the look on Kearnes’ face at this very second. One guess what he’s reading on his phone.”

  SEVENTY-THREE

  CLARE

  Clare’s chest felt hollow, like it needed a cigarette. She’d been dumb to ruin her pack, especially when she needed to focus on the task at hand. She thought about pulling the wet smokes from the trash, drying the tobacco by the fire. She could re-roll the dried tobacco with Chopper’s Zig-Zags. Might not be delicious, but it would kill the craving.

  But she thought of her father, gasping for breath in a hospital ward with her mother stressing beside him, and she didn’t want to be anything like that pathetic man.

  Still, the craving was brutal. It was grabbing at her lungs and her hands and her mouth, telling them they were missing something, they were empty without nicotine. And her agitation wasn’t helping her pick this damn lock.

  Her tools at home would have made short work of this trunk. But of course when you traveled undercover, you didn’t get to bring your cop kit with you. Clare was working with her tiny purple Swiss Army knife — the most complex tool that could conceivably belong to Lucy.

  Shit. A snowmobile was coming. Clare scrambled to put the glass top back onto the trunk with all its things in place. As she set down a dish of keys and other random items, she saw the memory stick from Jules. At least she was pretty sure it was the same stick — black with a red stripe. Clare slipped the memory stick into her pocket and tried to guess which way the January Snowboarder Magazine had been facing.

  She heard the motor stop outside the cabin. She couldn’t remember the magazine’s orientation, so she flopped onto the couch and pretended to be engrossed in an article about some Australian half-pipe superstar.

  There was a
loud knock at the door.

  Which was weird, because Chopper had a key.

  Clare tiptoed to the door in her socked feet and wished like hell that Chopper had built in a peephole.

  She peered out the window to where Chopper parked his sleds. The spare snowmobile had been joined by a black-and-green sled — not Chopper’s. Clare moved silently toward the kitchen and picked up the key to the spare from the counter. She stuffed it into her pocket with the memory stick.

  On her way back to the door, she saw a small, thin man walking around outside. Inspector Norris. He was looking in the window at her.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Chopper had told her to call him if anything happened. But Norris looked friendly enough. He smiled at Clare, motioned to the door.

  Clare picked up her phone and dialed Chopper. Norris was still staring at her. He pulled something from his pocket — his police badge — and held it open so she could see it. He pointed again to the door. Still smiling. Shit, maybe he was nice.

  Clare pointed to the phone in her hand and held one finger up, to say she’d be with Norris in a minute. But Chopper wasn’t picking up. She called Noah.

  Norris was getting visibly annoyed. He pointed a third time to the door then started walking toward it. He pounded three times, hard.

  Clare had no idea whether she should answer it or find a way to run. She had one eye on the door as she heard Noah answer his phone.

  “Hey, Lucy.” It felt weird, Noah addressing her by her cover name when they were alone. But of course it was protocol.

  “I can’t talk. I’m at Chopper’s. Just listen, okay?”

  Clare slipped the phone into her pocket and hoped like hell Noah would be able to help her if she needed him.

  She opened the door for Inspector Norris.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  WADE

  Avalanche was packed. The tables were full and the bar was three people deep. Wade was pulling pints and mixing cocktails as fast as he could to help his staff keep up with demand. As Jana had said, no one knew what was in a Singapore Sling as long as it was the right color. Wade hoped the same was true of a Dark and Stormy. Cheap rum and ginger ale would have to do.

  Chopper sat across the bar, sipping a pint of dark ale. “It’s like New Year’s Eve in this place.”

  “Nothing like a murder to make people want to congregate,” Wade said. “You know how many tourists today have asked me, Is this the bar? Is this where Sacha Westlake used to work?”

  “What do you tell them?” Chopper asked.

  “I say yes. Even though I know the next question is going to be, Are you Wade Harrison? Sacha’s boss she used to sleep with? I say no to that one, naturally.”

  “Tourists asking about Richie?”

  “A few,” Wade said. “One weekend warrior asked where he was supposed to score his drugs now. Like I’m the tourist information booth.”

  Chopper grinned. “Have you seen Norris? He’s not answering his cell, and his wife says he’s not at home.”

  “Probably still at the crime scene,” Wade said. “He’s kicking himself hard for Richie’s death. Thinks he sucks as a cop.”

  “He kind of does,” Chopper said.

  “Seriously, I think he’s on the verge of suicide, or something.”

  “I think he’s on the verge of murder.”

  “What?” Wade glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to hear them.

  “You heard me. Jana better get back here soon. I left Lucy alone at the cabin. I’m not too thrilled about that.”

  Wade poured six shots of Jägermeister for one of the waitresses’ orders. He poured two extra shots for himself and Chopper. “Are you worried she’ll poke around your things?”

  “Nah, everything’s locked away tight. I’m more worried for her safety.” Chopper frowned. “You know Norris stole Richie’s phone. Richie did pull a Sacha — recorded the three of us talking, which is completely whack when we’re all in this together — but still. It’s weird to just pickpocket someone’s phone.”

  Wade could feel his forehead furrow as he dragged his memory for details. “Did Richie’s phone have a black case with a sparkly skull on the back?”

  “Yeah.” Chopper smirked. “I told him it was girly; he said he didn’t care.”

  “Norris pulled that phone from Richie’s pocket.” Wade hesitated, wondering if he should have said so. Then he felt the bloom of the liquor unfold in his chest, and he plunged ahead: “This morning. Stuck it in an evidence bag and gave it to his guys.”

  Chopper’s forehead creased. “Is there any way Norris could have been palming the phone — making it look like he was pulling it from Richie’s pocket but really it was in his hand to begin with?”

  “I don’t know,” Wade said.

  Another guy entered the bar. Floppy dark hair, ripped jeans, and a scowl on his face. He walked straight up to Chopper and said, “You the guy who’s been banging Lucy?”

  Chopper’s eyebrows lifted. “Who are you?”

  “Her boyfriend.” The newcomer cocked his head to beckon Chopper away from the bar. “I want to talk to you alone.”

  Chopper followed the guy to the wall by the hot peanut machine. Wade watched them exchange a few urgent-looking words before Chopper returned to the bar.

  He picked up his truck key, phone, and gloves from the bar, and dropped ten bucks on the counter for his beer.

  Wade wanted to tell him to keep his money — friends bought friends beers, after all, especially on bad days, especially when they owned the goddamn bar — but he let the bill rest there. “What’s up?”

  “If you see Jana, tell her I couldn’t wait.”

  “And if I see Norris?”

  “Text me. And don’t let him out of your sight.”

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  CLARE

  Clare smiled awkwardly at Inspector Norris.

  “Who was on the phone?” Norris’ eyelids fluttered, like he had dirt inside one of his contacts.

  “My aunt. Is there something in your eye?”

  “Sure it wasn’t your handler?”

  Clare froze in place. “What?”

  “I think you should hand me your phone, Clare.”

  Clare’s mind raced ahead of her nerves, checking her options. Denying it would be pointless, since he clearly knew her real name. Getting angry would be stupid. It could jeopardize her chance of working together — if there was a chance. Cooperation seemed like her only bet. And mollification, because Norris looked damn mad. Come to think of it, he looked a lot like Clare would look if the situation were reversed. She said, “You’re Inspector Norris, right? I’ve been hoping to meet you.”

  “Why?” Norris peered at her. “So you can feel important because you’re looped in on a higher level than me?”

  “Not at all,” Clare said. “You’re in charge of this case. You’re probably the only one who knows anything useful. I wanted to pool notes from day one, but I wasn’t allowed.”

  Norris shook his head like he was shaking off Clare’s stupidity. “What would we pool notes about? Your whole job is make-believe. Dropping acid with your new buds. Shredding the pow and calling that a work day.” Norris pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.

  Clare nearly asked for a cigarette, too, but she was eyeballing the front door — she wanted to get the hell out of there. It was strange, Norris coming here. He hadn’t even asked if Chopper was home. She felt the sled key in her pocket and contemplated the smoothest escape route.

  “The FBI doesn’t value you,” Norris said. “You’re a chess piece they move around so the important players can get to where they want to go.”

  “I know.” Clare tried to sound agreeably irate. “It’s what sucks about the job.”

  “And if you’re hoping that one day you’ll be one of the chess players
, you haven’t got a prayer. I looked you up — you have no education except Orillia OPP training and twenty weeks in Quantico. Without at least one academic degree, you’re not destined for any brass on your lapel.”

  Clare wrinkled her nose at the thought of working in an office. “Good. I’m happy in the field.”

  “I hate the field.” Norris cringed. “They’ve been promising me a management job in a big city. But now they’re yanking that promise away. All because of little Alexandra the Great. You figure out who killed her yet?”

  Clare was about to ask who Alexandra was, then remembered it was Sacha’s given name. “Honestly, until Richie’s body was found, I thought Sacha had probably killed herself.”

  “So you are as dumb as you look.”

  Clare frowned.

  “Sacha Westlake didn’t kill herself. The body was an obvious pose. I only called it suicide to lull the killer into thinking he’d gotten away. To keep him in town.”

  “You know the killer is a he?” Clare said.

  “I do now. No thanks to the FBI’s interference.”

  “Who is it?”

  Norris shook his head. “Why would I tell you? So you can go running to your boss and take credit? Save yourself the years and leave the bureau now. You’re a mediocre cop at best, and that’s all you’ll ever be.”

  Clare tried not to show Norris that his words cut. She thought she was getting better at her job, but if Norris had already solved the case, clearly she wasn’t good enough. Maybe she should pack it in, ask Roberta for her job back in the auto shop. Fixing cars might not be the most thrilling job in the world, but Clare was good at it. She wouldn’t spend so many hours suffering from self-doubt.

  Yeah. And maybe she should crawl backward in time into a life with absolutely no excitement.

  “How did you find my name?” Clare asked.

  “A contact I have. He’s been keeping me informed.”

  “A contact in the FBI or the RCMP?”