by Robin Spano
“Wow,” Joe said. “I can see you have a strong sense of justice.”
NINETY-ONE
CLARE
Clare slunk down the hallway, which was ridiculous because if someone saw her slinking it would make her look even more suspicious. She straightened up and walked like a normal person. She came to George’s room, slipped a new note under his door, and hurried for the stairwell.
She practically leapt down the two flights of stairs to Mickey’s room. She hoped the killer wasn’t Mickey, but you couldn’t run an investigation based on who you’d like to see in jail. She slipped his note under his door and rushed toward the stairs once more.
The next room was T-Bone’s, one level down. This filled Clare with dread, because despite her bravado, she was scared of the man. Even in his seventies, he looked like he could squish her with his muscles. So when Clare left the stairwell and saw him swaggering away down the hallway, she hurried back inside and held her breath.
She looked at the envelope in her hand and tucked it inside her jeans. She counted to a hundred and figured that T-Bone must be either inside his room or in the elevator on the way to somewhere. She heard a door open somewhere above her in the stairwell.
She pushed into the hallway once more. Thankfully T-Bone was nowhere to be seen. But she didn’t know what to do. Her escape route was blocked — she couldn’t go back into the stairwell, because someone was in it, and she couldn’t afford the time to wait for the elevator. But she didn’t want to give up on the plan — what if T-Bone was the killer, and this was the note that solved everything?
She saw T-Bone’s room, across from the elevators. She pressed the Down button and waited for the elevator to arrive. When it came — thank god — there was no one in it. Clare slipped the note under the door, ran into the elevator, pressed G, and stood away from T-Bone’s peephole’s sightline.
When the elevator dropped her in the lobby, Clare was drenched in sweat, but her breathing had returned to normal. Not trusting herself to say anything to anyone, she made a beeline for the cab line and headed to Noah’s nearby hotel.
He’d given her a room card. She let herself in and called him.
“I’m three seconds away,” he said, before opening his door. He ended the call and eyed Clare up and down. “You look fucking terrible.”
“I have makeup with me. How did your end of the note drop go?”
“Good, I think.” Noah lit a smoke. “The boat was fucking hard.”
“Hard as in difficult?”
“Hard as in stressful. They were having sex in a stateroom. Sorry if you thought what you had with Joe was special.”
Clare felt stupid for even beginning to stress about her own close encounter. “Thanks for taking the hard part.”
“It’s all the hard part. And Oliver’s room was a piece of cake. I saw him leaving the lobby before I even went upstairs.”
“Is there anyone we’ve forgotten?” Clare asked.
“The only other two are dead.”
NINETY-TWO
GEORGE
George watched the girl who wasn’t Fiona setting up her microphone. This was the best the network could do on short notice? She was short, frumpy, and if she had any personality, it was well-hidden inside her cheap navy pantsuit. George normally liked women in glasses, but this girl wore hers with chunky frames and zero intelligence.
Today’s game would be short. There were twenty players left and they’d stop when it was down to ten. The final ten would play for the grand prize the following morning. They could have played it all out today, but some organizing genius had opted for the late start. George wondered if the delay was to keep people around so the cops could do their work before the suspects dispersed.
The notes George had received were bothering him. The first one about stirring the shit around, okay. George had known he was playing with fire, stalking the ice machine, writing the “novel.” He’d even included a couple of suspicions on his blog, which in retrospect had probably not been wise.
But the second note was plain strange: Introducing Nate Wilkes as your Dealer. Did that mean that Nate, or someone else, was bringing the Dealer’s identity into the open? Or was Nate being introduced as the new Dealer on the scene? That would add up, with Fiona receiving the apparently contradictory notes. Would someone else — the “old” Dealer — soon be showing up dead? Or were they already dead? Jesus, maybe Fiona had been lying to him — it wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe Fiona had been the Dealer all along. Or maybe whoever had broken into Fiona’s room had taken the notes so they could replicate them. Was the original Dealer even still alive?
George had all the pieces — he knew he did — but they weren’t coming together.
“George Bigelow?”
He heard the voice, but when he spun around, he couldn’t find the source.
“Are you George Bigelow?” The young uniformed cop was trying to move into George’s line of sight, and eventually the two connected.
“Yes.” George felt dizzier than he should have from turning around a couple of times.
“I need to ask you some questions,” the officer said, moving slightly to one side as if he expected George to accompany him.
“I . . .” George faltered. “I spoke with someone yesterday.”
“This regards new information. Would you come into the interview room?”
George followed the young cop into a conference room the police had commandeered from the casino. Another — larger, older — cop was seated behind a desk. Inspector Smyth. The same man had interviewed George the previous day. A third officer stood against the wall.
George sat in the seat he was offered.
Smyth asked if he could tape the interview.
George said fine.
“Maybe there’s something you forgot to tell us yesterday.”
George thought for a few seconds. They probably had him, but why should he give it away? “What did I forget?”
Smyth slammed his fist on the desk. “You forgot that you borrowed a fucking Supercar, or, what the fuck is it really called?” He consulted his notes. “Zipcar, drove across the border, murdered your ex-girlfriend, and drove home in time for breakfast.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Which part isn’t true? You didn’t have breakfast? She wasn’t technically your girlfriend?”
“I didn’t kill Fiona.”
“So what happened? You found her dead and didn’t say anything?”
George knew his story was going to sound lame. Whoever said the truth was supposed to set you free was living in a naive wonderland. “I borrowed a Zipcar.”
Smyth waited.
“I drove across the border.”
No expression.
“I went to a diner in Bellingham.”
“Let me guess,” the cop said. “You paid cash.”
“All I had was coffee.”
Smyth shrugged.
“I bought cigarettes.”
“Also cash?”
George nodded. It was the first time he’d smoked in ages, and he felt like a failure for caving, but cigarettes were his quickest comfort when life was overwhelming.
“Please answer verbally so the recording includes your response.”
“Yes,” George said. “I paid cash for the cigarettes.”
“So you bought coffee, you bought cigarettes. What next?”
George took a deep breath. “I drove up the Mount Baker highway.”
“Why Mount Baker?”
“Fiona was there. She was scared. I wanted to protect her.”
“Did she tell you she was there? Did she ask you to join her?”
“No. That’s why I didn’t knock on her door.”
The cop shook his head, like now he’d heard them all.
“I sat in the parking lot. I didn’t k
now what room she was in. I had her cell number, so I could have called to find out. She would have let me in. If she was still alive when I was there.” George looked at Inspector Smyth. “Was she still alive then?”
“She was alive when you arrived,” the cop said. “That’s how murder works. When you left, because you killed her, she was dead.”
“I didn’t kill Fiona.”
“Okay,” Smyth said. “So let’s humor you and say your story checks out. We’ll pretend it’s not in either the give-me-a-fucking-break or the does-this-guy-think-my-asshole-is-my-brain category. Did you see anything when you were sitting in the parking lot? Any other human activity?”
“Yes.” George suddenly remembered the hitchhiker. This was going to sound even crazier, and for sure the inspector wouldn’t believe it, but if the weird guy with the black hair had anything to do with Fiona’s murder, maybe someone listening to the tape would use it to find the real killer. He told Smyth what he’d seen.
“Right,” Smyth said, in the exact tone George would have predicted. “You just remembered. This white guy with dreadlocks walks onto the motel grounds, dials a number on a cell phone, knocks on a door, enters the room of a person you can’t see, leaves five to ten minutes later, and thumbs his way, in the middle of the night, back down the highway. You know the hitchhiking part because . . .”
“I passed him as I left. He had his thumb in the road.”
“Did you pick him up?”
“No. Obviously.” George wished he hadn’t added the “obviously.”
The cop nodded. “You understand we’re going to arrest you?”
George shrugged. Of course he understood. Nothing really mattered anyway, with Fiona dead.
But he felt fire in his veins when he thought of Fiona’s killer going free. He remembered what Mickey had seen in the hallway the morning Loni died.
“Can you get security camera footage from the casino?” George said to the inspector.
“Probably.”
“Check the hallway outside T-Bone Jones’ room the morning his girlfriend was killed. He claims he was downstairs playing poker all morning, but a friend thinks he saw T-Bone going back to his own room.”
Inspector Smyth said nothing.
“I understand,” George said. “Arrest me. Fine. But I have more information. About a cheating ring that might be linked to the murders. I’ll share it with you. I want the real killer found.”
“Okay, buddy.” The big cop nodded to two younger officers, who had been in the room but silent during the interview. They came forward now. The one who had led Geoge into the interview room put him in handcuffs while the other read him his rights.
“Do I really need handcuffs?” George said. “I told you I’ll go willingly.”
Inspector Smyth nodded to the young officer, who seemed to understand this as the signal to uncuff George.
“Okay,” Smyth said. “Before we take you in, tell me what you know about this cheating ring.”
“Can I negotiate?” George asked. Maybe not the strongest way to lead into the discussion, but he knew he had something valuable.
“What for?”
“The information I give you. I want something in exchange.”
Smyth shook his head very slightly. “I don’t think so. What do you want?”
“I want to keep my computer in jail. Or the holding cell, or whatever you call the place you’re going to keep me. And I want a room to myself.”
The inspector leaned forward, rested his chin in his hand, seemed to contemplate the request. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Okay,” George said. “Based on your success securing those things, I’ll see what kind of information I have.”
“Are you fucking kidding? You have to share what you know. If you don’t, you’re impeding an investigation.”
George shrugged. Fiona was gone, his freedom was going. “I don’t have anything more to lose.”
NINETY-THREE
CLARE
Clare knocked on Mickey’s door. He’d had an hour to process the note she’d left him.
“I know we don’t have lessons scheduled,” Clare said when he opened the door.
“You gotta leave this scene, kid. It’s getting too dangerous for all of us.”
“I know.” Clare hoped her look was innocent.
“Look, I know you’re not involved. You can’t be — you came on the scene too late. But don’t tell me you’re blind to the fucking dead bodies that keep popping up everywhere.”
“I’m not blind,” Clare said. “I’m scared.”
Mickey’s eyes scanned the hallway. “Come in if you want. We got time for some peanuts.”
Clare sat at the table while Mickey grabbed two Cokes from the minibar.
“You gotta get on a plane,” Mickey said. “Like outta here, tonight.”
Clare shook her head. “I still have chips in the game. Are you leaving?”
“I can handle myself one more night. And then fucking right I’m leaving,” Mickey handed her a Coke but continued to pace around the room. “I can’t believe I stayed so long, thinking I was immune to his rope. Things are back on with your boyfriend, huh?”
“Nate? He’s not my boyfriend. But yeah, we’re talking.”
“You shouldn’t fucking trust him,” Mickey said, ticking a finger in Clare’s direction.
“Why not?”
“Just take my word for it and sleep alone tonight.”
The note Clare had left Mickey had been the same as the one she’d left George: Introducing Nate Wilkes as your Dealer. So naturally Mickey would be suspicious.
“You think you can do that? Sleep alone for one night?”
Clare looked up at Mickey. “Don’t you think I’m safer sleeping with someone than alone?”
“That theory only works if you’re not sleeping with a killer.”
“There are hundreds of people milling around this scene,” Clare said. “Why Nate?”
“Just take my fucking word for it.”
Clare wrinkled her mouth, trying to look puzzled. “It’s your word that he’s the killer?” She looked up quickly, as if she was finally putting it together. “Are you a cop? Nate said there are probably a lot of cops on the scene, with all the murders that have been happening.”
Mickey grinned. “No, kid. I’m not a cop. I’m someone who’s concerned for your safety. Here, have some peanuts.” He unscrewed the cap like he was a Chinese businessman offering her tea from the top shelf.
Clare thanked him, and it was only as she was chewing that she remembered what her parents had told her when she was five and she’d first walked to school on her own: never take food from strangers.
NINETY-FOUR
NOAH
“I want to talk about Clare,” Noah said to Bert on the phone. “I think we should make her a job offer.”
“You’re joking.”
Noah looked out his window at the Fraser River. He missed the Hudson. Hell, he even missed the East River. But the thought of going back to New York without Clare made him feel bizarrely bereft.
“In the middle of one of the biggest potential goat fucks I’ve ever seen from an operative, you want me to take your hiring advice?”
“She’s good,” Noah said. “We went with her plan and we’re waiting for players’ reactions. I think it’s going to work.”
“George Bigelow has already been arrested.”
That didn’t work for Noah. He waited a beat before asking, “Why?”
“The usual reason: authorities think he’s the killer. He crossed the border the night Fiona Gallagher died.”
“Shit,” Noah said. “He used his real name and everything?”
“Apparently.”
“Hm.” Noah’s mind was racing. “Don’t you think a killer who’s been murderin
g successfully for this long would know enough to not use their real identity at the border?”
“People screw up all the time,” Bert said. “Some more than others, but criminals are human. Most times we’re lucky enough to be working with a dumbass who fucks up near the beginning of their enterprise. With the smart ones, it’s a waiting game. They’re going to do something stupid eventually. In this case, the bad move was crossing the border with a real name. Anyway, it’s not our case. Your job here is done; just play this game out and come home.”
Noah grinned. “You just told me I’d goat-fucked this up. Now you’re saying mission accomplished?”
“Your fuck-up is your leaky mouth. Case success aside, that’s a problem for me, Walker.”
“That’s fair,” Noah said. “But here’s the thing: the killer isn’t George Bigelow.”
There was a pause on Bert’s end of the line. “How can you know that?”
“I don’t. Not for sure. But this game has taught me to think in odds, and I’d lay six to one it’s not Bigelow.”
Bert sighed. But he didn’t shut Noah up.
Noah took in a breath and continued. “Someone else may have taken a trip across the border that night. I was in the high stakes room for a bit. Joe was at the poker table all night — well actually, he fucked Clare, then dressed up as Snow White and played cards for the rest of the night. But T-Bone left the same time George did. He seemed particularly interested in Fiona’s departure.”
Bert stayed quiet.
Noah said, “Clare and I have another idea. Use facial recognition software — we’ll send you our primary suspects — to see if someone crossed under a false name.” Noah picked a T-shirt up off the floor. He was about to fold it and put it into a drawer when he remembered he’d be leaving the next day. He folded it and put it into his suitcase, instead.
“It’s ‘we’ now, huh?”
“She’s new,” Noah said. “You could get her cheap, which I know appeals to you.”
“You’re hot for the girl and you want to negotiate a crap deal for her?”
