Death's Last Run

by Robin Spano

  Jules had witnessed the border crossing, the knapsack filled with LSD changing hands. Jules caught the faces of the guys who collected the knapsack. They looked scary. Clare hoped this tape helped take them down.

  Norris was caught in a few different clips — with Richie, with Chopper, in Wade’s office at Avalanche where Sacha had left Jules sitting through some of her shifts. This video would have busted him for several years on corruption charges alone.

  And Wade — Jules had seen Wade taking cash from Chopper and Richie, cutting them paychecks for some of that money and passing Norris’ end to him at separate meetings. Unfortunately for him, the conversations Jules recorded made the transactions clear to anyone: he was laundering for Chopper and Richie, and delivering Norris hush money.

  Only Jana seemed immune. She was caught on tape using drugs of all kinds, but in Canada that was barely a misdemeanor. She could maybe get done for complicity — knowing about the crimes and not saying anything — but only a real prick of a prosecutor would go after her. More likely she’d be bullied into testifying against her friends.

  What Clare hadn’t found was any way Norris might be connected to one of Sacha’s parents, a way that he might know — and use — her childhood nickname.

  Irrationally, she glanced at her apartment door to make sure it was locked and chained. It was.

  On her lined notepad, she wrote the names of her four top suspects:

  Martha Westlake

  Ted Mitchell

  Fraser Westlake

  Daisy Westlake

  She just couldn’t see murder.

  But a nickname didn’t have to be confined to a parent. It could be an aunt, a grandmother, a close friend. Maybe Kearnes had known he was the father — maybe Sacha knew, and had confronted him, and he wanted her out of the way so his campaign could be scandal-free. Maybe it was someone in Whistler? It would have to be someone who knew Sacha well.

  Jana Riley

  Wade Harrison

  Chopper MacPherson

  Geoffrey Kearnes

  Fuck, there were way too many suspects. Clare gulped her coffee. She had to take them one by one.

  Martha had gained politically, but anyone could see she was grieving horrendously. Yes, a killer could have remorse. But Clare didn’t see a killer when she looked at the senator on TV.

  Ted Mitchell — the assistant — was a young hotshot idiot, according to Noah, who had stopped by Martha’s campaign office and met him. But Noah could be a hotshot idiot himself; Clare could see their personalities clashing. It wouldn’t make sense to murder someone’s daughter if you wanted them to win an election. A lot of people in Martha’s position would have dropped out of the race, not stayed to fight it.

  Fraser? Clare didn’t see Sacha’s father as the motivating force behind the murder. From his press interviews, he seemed kind and bland — strangely perfect for a killer. But why would he want her dead? Clare didn’t know enough about him, so she put a question mark beside his name.

  Daisy had been clear about wanting Sacha out of the family, out of the will — out of the way. Chopper and Jana had both told Clare that. But still — people who were clear about their intentions weren’t likely to be backhanded as well. People normally played on one level — on the surface, or below it. It took intelligence to play both levels. Daisy didn’t seem quite that clever, but maybe she was just that good.

  Jana knew Sacha well. She was mildly deranged — probably because of all the drugs she did. If she had killed Sacha, it would have likely been spontaneous and drug-induced — not an elaborate scheme to set Norris up to do the deed. Also, Norris was paid. Jana did not seem to have money beyond the tips she made slinging drinks after singing provocative karaoke tunes at Avalanche.

  Wade’s motivation would have been to prevent his wife from finding out about their affair. But again, the elaborate scheme involving Norris made no sense. Wade was a drunk — meaning sloppy. There would have been holes in his plan that would have exposed him long before this. Clare was confident Wade was not to blame.

  Georgia? Clare wished she’d gotten to know her, somehow, in Whistler. But she added her name to the list.

  Chopper. Easily smart enough. He sure knew Norris well enough to know what would get under his skin, what would compel him to commit murder. Could he have disguised his voice on the phone so his friends wouldn’t have recognized him? Maybe he used voice-changing technology. Clare wasn’t sure how he would have made a phone call look like it came from Kearnes’ campaign, but if anyone could do that, she’d give Chopper the credit.

  Maybe it wasn’t such a good thing that he’d ridden into obscurity.

  But if it had been Chopper, why had he let Clare live?

  Kearnes. Too far-fetched? It didn’t feel right to Clare, but she couldn’t scratch him off yet.

  Clare stared at her list and felt like she was still at square one.

  She felt dull at the thought of the perpetrator being one of Sacha’s parents, possibly because she herself hadn’t gotten close to them in this investigation, but she knew that was the most likely scenario. Family killed far more often than strangers did.

  She pressed play on the next video in her queue.

  Sacha walked into her mom’s office and set Jules on the bookshelf. Ted was seated, working at the desk.

  “Ted,” Sacha said. “How come you’re in my mom’s chair?”

  “I need something on her computer.”

  “Does she know?”

  Ted threw Sacha a smirk. “I set up her password. Pretty sure she’s cool with me having access.”

  “Whatever. I’m going out. Tell my mom I’ll do my own thing for dinner.”

  “I’m not your messenger. If you’d like, you can write it down and put the note in her inbox.”

  “God, Ted. You’re going to see her, right? Can you just tell her for me?”

  “Fine. But it’s a favor, not my job.”

  “Yes, it’s a favor. I’m so very grateful. If I can ever return it — you know, give my mom a message for you — I’d be thrilled to even things out.”

  “I said fine.”

  “What’s up with you lately?” Sacha said. “You’re acting like the annoying older brother I luckily never had.”

  A strange smile crept onto Ted’s face. “I guess I’m going to miss you. When you go to Whistler.”

  “Yeah? That’s kind of sweet.”

  “Why don’t you stay here? Marry me instead.”

  Sacha laughed.

  “I’m not joking. We’d be the perfect couple. I’ll go into politics and that will leverage you to do all that community service you love, but with a super-high profile. The nation will love us.”

  “But we won’t love each other.”

  “We get along well in bed,” Ted said.

  Sacha wrinkled her nose.

  “You don’t think so?” Ted didn’t seem hurt, just curious.

  “Yeah. I mean, we have a good groove together. Especially that time in Georgetown at your condo with all those confidential files spread out. I felt like we were in a spy movie.”

  Ted seemed to twig. “You were fucking me for files.”

  Sacha shrugged. “We both had fun. Who cares?”

  “I mean it. Marry me.”

  “I have to go to Whistler. Maybe after. We’ll see.”

  “What’s in Whistler? Some orphans to rescue? Some children you need to teach literacy to?”

  “You’re right that it’s community service,” Sacha said. “But its more like the unconventional kind.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Not a chance. But the whole world will know soon. I’ll only be gone for a year. Two at the most.”

  “You have to tell me what you’re doing. I run your mom’s career.”

  “Yeah. My mom’s career. Not my l
ife.”

  “She’s planning to run for president next year. Everything you do is public — and that’s only going to be more true as the campaign gets underway.”

  “Anyway, you don’t run my mom’s career.” Sacha laughed. “You work for her. You’re an employee.”

  “Is that why you won’t marry me? You don’t think I’m important enough?”

  “I won’t marry you because we’re not in love.”

  “You’ll sleep with me for files, but you won’t marry someone unless you’re in love with them?”

  “Yeah,” Sacha said. “And I slept with you for fun. I could have gotten those files another way if I’d wanted to.”

  “Do you even like me?”

  “You’re like a brother to me. Like I said, the annoying kind. But the kind I love anyway.”

  Sacha walked toward Jules, gave him a little wave, and left the room.

  Clare stared at her computer. She watched the conversation a few more times. She’d need more proof — or Bert would, before making an arrest — but she was pretty sure she had her answer.

  She grabbed her phone and called the number Norris had traced back to Kearnes’ campaign. A male voice answered, scratchy from sleep, but professional even at four-fifteen in the morning. “Geoffrey Kearnes campaign headquarters. How can I help you?”

  “Sorry to wake you. I have some questions that can’t wait,” Clare said.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “I’m calling from the FBI. Is Ted Mitchell a friend of yours?”

  “Ted’s one of my best friends. Is something wrong?”

  “Not necessarily. Have you seen him recently?”

  “We were out for a drink maybe a week ago.”

  “Where?”

  “You sure you’re FBI?”

  Clare frowned. “I can give you a callback number if you like. You can verify that you can trust me.”

  “No, that’s fine. This isn’t secret. We were at the King Cole Bar. Fifty-fifth and Fifth.”

  Clare had had a drink there once with Noah; she’d found it pompous beyond belief. “Do you remember what night that was?”

  “I could look it up in my calendar.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “My calendar’s in my phone. One sec.” In less than a minute, he said, “It was Thursday, February 16. We met at ten, stayed maybe two hours. Maybe three.”

  “Business or pleasure?” Clare asked.

  “A bit of both. Pleasure mainly, but we’re both married to our jobs and it’s a hot time in both of our careers, with our bosses both running for the Republican nomination.”

  “Indeed,” Clare said. “You’d think you wouldn’t meet at all, in the heat of such opposition.”

  “Okay.”

  Clare realized she’d sounded more confrontational than she wanted to. “Did you, at any point in the evening, lend your phone to Ted so he could make a call?”

  “Um . . . yeah. Yeah, I did. He was checking his email all night. I mean, he’s normally glued to his phone, but this night more than ever. Then his battery died. He asked to borrow my phone. He apologized — said it was a long-distance call. Like I gave a shit — I have unlimited North American minutes and my job pays for it, anyway.”

  “Thank you,” Clare said.

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  She called Bert. His voice was, naturally, groggy.

  “Vengel, you need to change your clock back to New York time.”

  “I know who arranged Sacha’s murder. Can you hook me up with one of our hackers? I need to get into the banks and other security footage — if possible, I’d like to get evidence before Westlake leaves for Phoenix in the morning.”

  “Just give me what you have,” Bert said. “I’ll figure out how to deal with it.”

  “Please?” Clare said. “Hook me up with one of the computer gurus on the team — they’re up all night anyway; they live for this kind of shit. In the morning I’ll pass you everything I know.”

  “We can’t just hack, Clare. We’d need a warrant.”

  “I’m only asking for a phone number. Forget I said anything else. I want to call these tech guys socially.”

  Bert laughed. “Yeah, fine.”

  EIGHTY-EIGHT

  MARTHA

  Martha held her office door open for two uniformed FBI officers and a tall man in a gray suit. She motioned to some chairs, which they opted not to take. For lack of a better idea about where to place herself, she returned to her desk chair, opposite Ted.

  The two uniformed officers — one male, one female, both around five-foot-six — stood on either side of the door, like the cement dogs she and Fraser once had at their country home. They had expressionless eyes, which Martha was used to now, with Secret Service following her all around.

  The tall, sturdy man pulled up a seat beside Ted and said, “Edward Mitchell?” Martha was pretty sure this was Bert — she recognized his calm, low voice from the phone.

  Ted twisted his neck to stare at Bert. “That’s me.”

  Martha inhaled slowly. This was real; this was happening.

  “You’re under arrest for solicitation of murder for the death of Alexandra Westlake.” Bert nodded toward the female officer.

  In a rough, robotic voice, the uniformed woman recited the Miranda rights Martha had only heard on TV and in movies. Nothing else about this moment felt like television.

  Ted’s eyes shot wide open. “That makes no sense. Why would I want Sacha dead?”

  “Do you understand your rights?” Bert asked Ted. “You can say whatever you like, but we can use it against you in court.”

  “I understood the first time.” Ted thrust his chin forward. “And I’m not worried. I have a friend with the NYPD. Maybe we can call him, he can help sort this out.”

  Bert chuckled like a patient grandfather. His graying hair made him look gentle, too. “This the same friend who introduced you to Inspector Norris?”

  Ted’s face whitened a shade or two.

  “Same friend who paid high-tech geeks ten thousand dollars to hack the FBI computers, find the name of my undercover agent?”

  Ted stayed quiet, and Martha focused on her breathing. She had a role to play, it was coming up, and she hoped like hell she didn’t botch it.

  “You don’t wonder how we know this?” Bert’s brow furrowed, like he was pretending to look puzzled.

  “You don’t know anything. Everything you’ve just said is a lie.”

  “Hm.” Bert wrinkled his mouth. “Your friend on the Kearnes campaign, Lester Banks, has been brought in for questioning. Says he has nothing to do with this.”

  “Oh, good. And you can trust him, because most murderers raise their hand and say I did it to the first cop who comes around asking.”

  “So you think Les is a murderer?”

  “No — in fact I thought you had your man. That bent cop in Whistler.”

  “Stu Norris.” Bert nodded. “He’s the reason I’m here, actually.”

  “Really.” Ted smoothed his notepad on the large mahogany desk. He picked up a pen and tapped at the page, as if he were reading his notes.

  “Yes. It was Norris who figured out you’d been framing the Kearnes campaign — that they, in fact, are free and clear of any wrongdoing.”

  “Right,” Ted said, tapping his pen and looking at Martha, like they really should be getting back to work. “Like I said, it’s good to trust a killer when they tell you something. They almost never lie.”

  In a fluid, gentle movement, Bert reached forward and plucked the Mont Blanc from Ted’s hand. He placed it in his jacket pocket.

  “You can’t steal my pen,” Ted said. “That cost more than you make in a week.”

  “I doubt that,” Bert said, taking the pen out of hi
s pocket and scrutinizing its matte black finish. “Nice, though.” He set it down on the desk, but out of Ted’s reach. “Lester Banks is happy to testify about you borrowing his phone the other night.”

  “Awesome. Throw me in jail for stealing minutes. Oh wait — he lent me his phone, so I guess even that’s not a crime.”

  “Your cop friend in Queens — he’s been arrested. Asked for immunity right away. We gave it to him — he’s talking pretty freely.”

  Martha breathed. In, out. She could do this.

  “Why would you arrest a lousy street cop?” Ted said. “What could he have to do with such a high-profile case?”

  “He had friends in high places,” Bert said, “like the office of a future U.S. president.”

  Ted’s chest pushed forward. “I’m sorry if my buddy was involved in Sacha’s death. He’s been jealous of me ever since I got into Georgetown. I guess he thought I’d stay in Queens, maybe join a trade, keep playing ball with him forever. My strong recommendation is that you find a way to reverse his immunity.”

  “Thanks for that,” Bert said. “Your recommendation means a lot to us.”

  Ted’s brow lowered as he studied Bert. “Are you FBI?”

  Bert nodded.

  “You’d do well to be less smug. Your organization has messed this case up massively.”

  “Mistakes have been made,” Bert surprised Martha by saying. “But the biggest one by far was made by you.”

  Ted laughed — nervously, like a schoolboy unsure if he’d been caught pulling the fire alarm.

  “Something funny, Mr. Mitchell?”

  “I’m curious what you see as my alleged huge m-mistake.” Ted’s stutter on mistake was nearly imperceptible, but Martha was listening closely.

  “Several wire transfers were made from the Westlake campaign’s bank account to a numbered account in Switzerland. Seventy-five thousand dollars in total.”

  “Are you saying there’s corruption in the campaign? That surprises me — we have good people working for us — but it wouldn’t be an American first.” Ted was smooth again, his polish back in place.