Death's Last Run (3 page)

CLARE

Clare passed the final customs checkpoint at the Toronto airport. It was weird being so close to her hometown and only stopping long enough to grab a coffee and a new identity. She chewed her lip as she searched the crowd for her ex-handler, Amanda.

“Clare!” Amanda smiled broadly and approached. She was struggling with an old hockey bag that was almost the size of her tiny frame. Clare was impressed that she could carry it in heels.

“You should probably start calling me Lucy.” Clare took the bag from Amanda and nearly dropped it to the floor. “Is this my luggage?”

“I know it's bulky.” Amanda pointed the way to an escalator. “But Lucy is a seriously casual chick. And there's a snowboard in here. You'll have to send it as oversized luggage. I had fun shopping for your wardrobe.”

“Oh, I'm so glad.” Clare was trying to be polite. It was just hard. Amanda was one of those girly girls who thought a woman was incomplete without her nails done.
Seriously casual
probably meant dry cleaning was optional.

“Don't worry,” Amanda said. “There's nothing pink.”

They reached the top of the escalator and emerged at the departures level. Amanda dealt with the self-serve check-in. She discreetly handed Clare her new passport before they went through domestic security.

Clare had done this before, and of course she wasn't doing anything illegal, but it always taxed her nerves, clearing security under a false name. They didn't even ask for
ID
at this stage — all they cared about was the boarding pass — but what if a guard sensed something off about Clare, like they were trained to do? This felt like a test, like if Clare couldn't pass security, she wouldn't pull off her new identity in the world she was about to enter. She tried not to show her relief when she had her bag again, her new phone and laptop packed back into place, and Amanda led the way to the gate for Clare's plane to Vancouver.

At the gate, Clare was pleased to see Tim Hortons — her favorite Canadian coffee chain, which she'd missed, since there was only one that she knew of in New York and it was in crappy touristy Times Square. She was even more pleased when Amanda headed for its lineup. Clare needed a caffeine injection. It was eleven a.m., and she'd been up since five so she could spend time with Noah. In retrospect, she should have slept in.

They loaded up with coffee and found a seating area with a cool view of the runways.

Amanda pulled a thick envelope from her soft leather handbag. She passed it to Clare. “I'll trade you.”

Clare lifted her knapsack to her lap and pulled her passport and wallet from the front pouch. She handed it to Amanda. “This always freaks me out. Saying goodbye to my identity in some random airport or café. I always wonder, will I get my real self back?”

“I think you'll be fine. We're not going deep into Communist Russia. Do you know how to snowboard?”

“No.” Clare slid her new wallet into her knapsack. It was about as ratty as her old one — maybe there was hope for her new wardrobe.

“That's fine. I've arranged a lesson for tomorrow. You don't have to be a pro on the slopes when you get there. The snowboard is a hand-me-down from Lucy's older brother. The hockey bag is from her younger brother.”

“I get to ride a guy's snowboard?”

“Thought you'd like that. You'll want to get up to speed as fast as you can. Sacha loved snowboarding and her peer group spends most of their downtime on the mountain.”

“I've been studying snowboarder lingo,” Clare said. “On UrbanDictionary.com, and from movies and stuff. So I'll have a clue what they're talking about.”

“Good work,” Amanda said.

“Thanks,
boss.
” Clare sounded sharper than she'd meant to. But whatever; it was true that Amanda wasn't in charge. “Sorry. I mean, I know I'm on your turf, and I'll cooperate. But I work for the
FBI
now.”

“Ac-tu-al-ly . . .”
Amanda let the word trail so it sounded like it had about six syllables. She tapped a slender finger against her lips, as if she was trying to break some terrible news and was secretly gleeful about it.

“Actually what?” Clare glared.

“We agreed that the
FBI
could send an operative, but the
RCMP
insists on running you jointly.”

“Running me.” As if Clare were a dog, or a car.

“I'm not a handler anymore, but because you and I have worked together, we all agreed that I could step into the role again. I'll report to both organizations. Your team leader in New York will have your contact info and he can call you for an update anytime. And you can contact him.”

“Gee, thanks. I can talk to my boss while I'm working.” Clare had to rein this in. She felt like she was visiting her parents — riled to act like a teenager all over again despite everything she'd learned in the world since leaving home.

“Come on, Clare. I'm looking forward to working together.”

Clare stared into her coffee. Tim Hortons wasn't as good as she remembered it. “I've learned a lot in the past year.”

“I'm sure that's true,” Amanda said. “But I'm not your obstacle, despite what you seem to believe.”

Clare looked out the window at the runway, wet with Toronto winter slush. In the distance, a plane took off. Half of her wished she was on it, heading back to Noah and her life in New York instead of about to jump on another plane that would take her even farther away. She was glad Amanda was traveling on a different plane so they wouldn't be seen arriving together. “So what
is
my obstacle?”

Amanda pursed her lips, as if trying to decide how much to share. Finally, she said, “You know that Inspector Norris with the Whistler
RCMP
wants to close the Westlake case as a suicide.”

“Uh, yeah. This has all been in the news.”

Amanda sighed. “If you prove Norris wrong, his credibility comes into question.”

“If
I
prove him wrong? Is he going to blame me if it turns out Sacha was murdered?”

Amanda tilted her head to one side, which Clare took as a yes.

“Can I meet with him? Maybe in person I can let Norris know I'm not hostile.”

“I don't think that will help.”

“Why? I can be diplomatic if I have to. I told you I've learned a lot.”

“I don't think he'll appreciate a twenty-four-year-old trying to placate his professional concerns.”

Clare flashed a super-fake smile. “I love it when you use big words
and
belittle me all in one sentence.” Okay, that wasn't a great start in the maturity direction.

“More important,” Amanda said, “Inspector Norris doesn't know your name. He knows you'll be arriving — for some reason, one of my colleagues saw fit to loop him in that far — but he doesn't know who you are or where you'll be staying.”

“So we're not on the same team?”

“We are . . .” Amanda frowned. “But Norris grew up in Pemberton. That's thirty minutes up the highway from Whistler. Two of his high school friends are prime suspects in this case. The decision from above is that the less he knows, the better.”

Clare threw her hands in the air. “Of course the fact he's local should be a point against the man. No sense treating that as an asset. No wonder he doesn't want me here. His employers already treat him like garbage.”

“It's an obstacle, Clare. Don't turn it into a roadblock. I requested you for this job because I'm impressed by your open mind.”

“You requested me?”

“I think you have the right character to immerse yourself in this culture. You'll want to add a couple of traits to help you blend in — like an eco-friendly mindset and an appreciation of organic food.”

“Are you asking me to be a vegetarian?”

“No.” Amanda smiled. “Just, if you're picking up potato chips, grab the hippie kind, with the biodegradable packaging. And drink local craft beer rather than Bud. It's not a culture of extremists, but they do have a sensibility about preserving the environment. They love the outdoors.”

“Sounds okay,” Clare said.

“You'll have to watch the marijuana, though. We don't want you so stoned that you're not in control of your reactions.”

“I don't smoke pot. So that won't be a problem.”

Amanda frowned. “Actually, I think you
should
smoke, at least a little. It's an unconventional directive, but your new peer group smokes marijuana liberally.”

“Fine,” Clare said, a small grin tugging the corner of her lips. “But you can't make me inhale.”

WADE

Wade's head throbbed. It had been throbbing most mornings lately. His throat was dry and so was the water glass on the bedside table. He thought vaguely about cutting back his smoking but really, why? It wasn't like he wanted a long life.

A ray of sun pierced in from the skylight, hitting the snow on the mountain and reflecting directly into Wade's eyes. Even nature wouldn't leave him alone.

Wade recalled a distant past when he used to love waking up. It was a very distant past. Before he owned a bar. Before he was married. Maybe it was a false memory.

He shuffled out to the kitchen and was surprised to see Georgia there, also in a robe, waxed legs stretching down to her spa slippers. She looked like she was in
Perfect Housewife
magazine. Wade wanted to close the page.

“Isn't it Monday?” Wade said, meaning,
Why aren't you already at that desk in Vancouver you love so much?

“Nope. Sunday. Would you like me to squeeze you some juice?”

Wade wrapped his arms around his wife's waist from behind. He tried to figure out how he could slip a shot of vodka into the juice without her seeing. “You squeeze the oranges; I'll squeeze you.”

“Maybe not at the same time.” Georgia uncoiled Wade from around her.

Wade shrugged and took a stool across the double-wide counter. The vodka was in the cupboard beside him, but he'd wait until Georgia left the room. He pulled that day's newspaper toward him, hoping — and not hoping — for a new article about Sacha.

“You still read that?” Georgia said. “I was thinking of canceling the subscription.”

“I read it sometimes,” Wade said. “I like that it comes to the door.”

“We're leaking money.”

“It's a dollar a day.” Wade flipped as casually as he could to the national news section. Or would the story be in international, since Sacha was American? “Fine. Cancel the subscription.”

Georgia pushed an orange half onto the machine, taking over the kitchen with noise. When she'd finished, she handed Wade a half-full glass of juice.

“I don't even rate a full glass?”

“Oranges are expensive. When we figure out what's happening with Avalanche, I'll squeeze you a full glass of juice.”

“Ouch.” Wade was tempted to reach for the vodka openly. But it wasn't even eight a.m. Georgia could be really judgmental about morning drinking.

“You know I don't mean to stomp on your dream. But it drives me insane that I'm making more money than ever before and I still have to pinch pennies when I'm shopping for a pair of shoes.”

Wade's dream? Oh, right. She meant the bar. “I have an investor for Avalanche,” Wade said. “We're getting close to a deal.”

“You sure it's a real investor, not some nosy businessman who wants you to show him the books so he can open his own bar?” Georgia popped the top off the juicer and took the dirty parts to the sink.

Wade casually opened the cupboard. Georgia's back was to him. When she turned on the water, he'd have a few clear seconds easily. He aimed for a conciliatory tone when he said, “I know the past few people I've talked to have been disappointing. But this guy's for real. I already know him.”

“You do?” Georgia turned back around to face him. Her eyes moved to the open liquor cupboard door and fixed pointedly on it. “Do I know him, too?”

“Maybe. Richie Lebar. Nice guy. In his late twenties and smart. I think he'll go far.”

“You mean the drug dealer. The one who looks like Jay-Z.” Georgia returned to face the sink, where she started banging juicer parts around in soapy water.

In one swift movement, Wade unscrewed the vodka cap and poured a healthy two ounces into his juice glass, which was still a quarter full. Since Georgia had already seen the open cupboard door, he didn't bother shutting it when he put the bottle away.

When she'd finished washing up, Georgia walked over and took Wade's hand. “I can see why you're tempted — I know how hard you've been working to get Avalanche off the ground. But I don't want to be in business with a drug dealer.”

Wade finished the juice in one gulp and set the glass on the counter. “That was good. Thanks.”

“Did you add booze to your juice?”

Wade lowered his brow, trying to look baffled by the question.

Georgia shook her head. Wade remembered when he'd loved to look at her long, mussed-up hair in the morning, before she showered and made it all perfect.

“Look, Georgia, you can't treat me like I'm a five-year-old with my first lemonade stand. I'm supposed to be your partner in life.”

“You think I like this role?” Georgia's eyes were tearing up.

“Of course not. I appreciate the fashion sacrifices you've made to help me launch Avalanche.”

“Jesus. Have another shot.” Georgia started pulling out bottles from the cupboard at random. “What would you like? Whiskey? Grand Marnier?”

“A vodka would be fine,” Wade said. “It would help me deal with your irrational rage.”

“
I'm
irrational?” Georgia grabbed the vodka bottle and free-poured into Wade's dirty juice glass. She stopped just before the glass was brimming over. “Here, Wade. Here's your fucking medicine. Too bad you never made it as a rock star; your alcoholism would have worked for your public image.”

Wade took a sip.

Georgia's eyes bugged. “You're actually
having
that? It's not even eight in the morning.”

Wade took a larger sip — more like a gulp.

“Think about it, though.” Georgia's tone softened into something sad. “We close the bar, then it's just you and me, living like we used to. We can move back to the city, wander into Stanley Park and have weekends like normal people.”

“Maybe have some kids.”

“I'm too old to have children.” Georgia shivered like a ghost had just passed through her.

“You're only thirty-six. You want to condemn us to a childless old age?” Wade said, feeling bleaker than ever. He was thirty-eight, which at the moment felt ancient.

“Jesus, Wade, do you have to be so melodramatic when life doesn't do what you want it to?”

“I'm just trying to find something to make my life worth living.” Because Sacha was gone, and Wade wasn't sure anything was left.

“Now you have nothing to live for.” Georgia grabbed a towel and began fiercely drying the juicer parts from the dish rack.

Shit. Wade had to get her onside, to agree to the partnership with Richie. “We used to have so much fun together. Remember Morocco?”

Georgia smiled, but it was short-lived. “We were in our twenties. We didn't know what stress was.”

“I'm taking Richie's offer. It's a fair price, and he'll help pump young blood into the place.”

“No.”

Wade glared at Georgia. Their eyes locked in what felt to Wade like hate.

Georgia shook her head firmly. “I know I said I wouldn't exercise my signing authority. But this is a hard no. You get partners like that, you're only asking to get raped. I love you too much to see that happen.”

“That's not love, Georgia. That's control.”

“My name is on that lease, and I have a professional reputation to maintain. I can't have my name dragged through the mud.”

“Don't you get it? The landlords are taking back the bar if I don't give them forty-five grand in two weeks. Partnering with Richie solves that —
plus
it gives the place a cash infusion to really get it pumping.”

“I'm fine with closing the bar. I'm not fine being in bed with criminals.”