Death's Last Run (4 page)

RICHIE

Richie Lebar tapped his fur-lined boot against the police station floor. He saw a tiny tear on the suede at his toe, which annoyed him. He didn't like leaving his boots in Jana's foyer — she just threw her stuff everywhere, no regard for anything of hers or anyone else's.

Inspector Norris was taking forever to read the suicide note. His thin lips pushed in and out from his face like a goldfish in a tank, slow and stupid. Finally, the little inspector looked up. “Thank you for this. You're free to leave.”

“I promised Jana I'd bring the note back.” As Richie held out his hand, he wondered if maybe he should lose a few of his gold rings. Less bling might make people take him more seriously as a businessman when he became Wade's partner in the bar. On the other hand, nothing said confidence like personal style. Richie had to make sure he stayed true to his real self, even while he tweaked his image to fit into the business world.

Norris smoothed the note on the desk in front of him. “Jana's going to have to find another memento to clutch in her sleep. This is evidence.”

Richie shook his head. For a cop on the criminals' payroll, Norris didn't seem to understand who was in charge. But the little cop had real control issues — probably why he became a cop — so Richie had to tread lightly, not undermine Norris in an obvious way.

“Do you have anything else with Sacha's handwriting?” Norris slid the note into a large machine that looked like it served triple duty as a copier, printer, and scanner. Maybe a fax machine, too. He pressed a couple of buttons and two pages came out. He handed one to Richie — the photocopy. “Give this to Jana. I'll log the note as her official property so when we close the case, it will belong to her. Tell her
you're welcome.
She's about eleven days too late for a thank you
.
”

Richie's gaze wandered to the certificates on the wall, commemorating Norris' graduation from police academy and completion of various officer training. Richie was pretty sure this was why cops were always two steps behind criminals — they stopped to commemorate things while criminals just got on with business.

“How's your kid?” Richie said.

Norris' whole body seemed to relax into a smile. “Zoe was invited to play in the junior string orchestra with the Vancouver Youth Symphony.”

“I take it that's a good thing.” Richie couldn't help but smile back. If he ever had kids, he was taking a page out of Norris' book.

“Zoe's going to have the musical career that I never . . . that she deserves.”

“Good for her,” Richie said. Then he had a thought: “You loved that band, huh? Avalanche Nights?”

Norris frowned.

“Why don't you revive the group? You're all still here — you, Wade, Chopper — you're all still talented.” Richie was clutching at straws maybe. But if he could get Avalanche Nights back together onstage, and especially if he got credit for it, it could be the final in he needed. His goal was clear: Richie wanted to run this town — legitimately.

“I'm not a dreamer. That part of my life is over.” Norris gave a short shake of his head. “You can go now.”

“Sure,” Richie said. “Just give me that original note, and we're good. Pretty sure I'm not getting laid until I get it back into Jana's hands.” Totally not true. Jana never stayed angry. But Richie would lay money that Norris' wife was the type to withhold sex in an argument, so he said, “You know, man to man.”

“Man to man,” Norris said, “does Jana not understand this is a death investigation?”

Richie shrugged. “She's messed up. Thinks she can talk to Sacha beyond the grave.”

Norris shivered. “You believe in that ghost shit?”

“No,” Richie said. “Not that it matters. Any faith looks like craziness to those outside it.” Richie had learned that from Bob Billingsley at a success seminar in Toronto.
Never let someone shake your faith in where you're going
, Bob had said, preaching from his book,
The Religion of Success
.
People will think you're crazy — they might even call you crazy — but you'll be crazy all the way to the bank.

“All right, so tell Jana if she gets me a second piece of Sacha's handwriting — preferably from this side of the grave — this note will be back in her hands all the sooner. If it's a match, we can close this case, put the
RCMP
's resources toward more productive uses.”

“And send the
FBI
packing?”

“In a perfect world, yes.” Norris scrunched up his face. He looked like he was constipated and confused about it. “Jesus, I wish the
FBI
would tell me who their damn undercover is.”

“I know,” Richie said with a smirk. “It's so unfair that they don't trust you.”

“Fuck off, Lebar.”

Richie grinned. “Yeah, fair. I got one more run I need to make. Tomorrow, to Seattle. Sacha was supposed to make it, but, well . . . anyway, I got it covered.”

“No,” Norris said. “I mean, I'd like to say yes, but we can't take any chances. You're going to have to cancel.”

“Can't. The Mountain Snow is sold — meaning heavy penalties for non-delivery.”

“So stall. In a perfect world, it will only take a day or two for this note to work its magic.” Norris held the original suicide note and waved it briefly in the air.

Richie glanced at Norris' heavy wooden bookcase. Mostly it held police manuals and other boring-as-shit-looking hardcovers. But from a middle shelf, Zoe glanced out.

“You're doing all this for her, huh? Because a cop's salary can't finance the kind of music education you think she should have?”

Norris scowled. “With all due respect, I don't ask you your reasons for breaking the law.”

“I break the law because it's what I grew up thinking I was good for. But I'm changing all that. I'm soon gonna be a legitimate businessman.”

“Are you?” Norris met Richie's eye. “You're a weirdo, Lebar.”

CLARE

“Lucy, have you seen my December
Snow Betty
?” Jana was standing in the doorless doorway between the living room and kitchen. Her thick dirty blond hair fell around her shoulders and one hand was on her hip.

“Is that a magazine?” Clare took a long sip from her bottle of amber-colored local beer. It wasn't Bud, but it wasn't bad, either.

“Yeah. I'm not mad if you borrowed it. There's an article I need that tells you how to use a scarf or a sock as a cock ring.”

Clare curled her legs up on the deep blue sofa. Her duffel bag was only half-unpacked, but that could wait. She'd been at the apartment for a couple of hours and she still had no clear read on Jana. “You might have an easier time with a scrunchie. Or a sweatband.”

“Hey, good idea. You want to smoke a joint with me?”

“Sure.” Clare didn't, but she had to take the in. “I haven't smoked pot in ages, so forgive me if I cough a lot. I've been dating this straight-laced dude who thinks two beers is a wild night on the town.”

“Are you still dating him?”

“No. We broke up for good when I left Toronto.” It was easy enough for Clare to rep this emotion — all she had to do was think of Noah. Minus the fact that she and Noah were neither broken up nor together. “God, I can't wait to get laid by someone who's actually fun.”

Jana opened a small wooden box on the coffee table. She plucked out a joint that was as fat as a cigarette, if not quite as perfectly round. “You want a tourist. No drama — fun for a day or two, then they go home. Or an Australian. The town is full of them. They're here to party and they don't get attached.”

“Sounds perfect. You know where I can find either of those?”

“They're everywhere. Coffee shops, bars, gondolas. Australians are easy to spot because they talk funny — they say
oy
and
no worries
and
the dingo ate my baby
.” Jana's accent was actually pretty good. “Tourists are easy to spot, too — they're walking through the village in the
après
hours with lost looks on their faces. They want to hang with locals because we know where the sickest parties are. We sometimes let them — the ones who aren't too gorby.”

“Oh.” Clare assumed
gorby
came from
GORB
— Geek On Rental Board. She didn't want to ask, though — that would be gorby. “Are you local, then? You grew up around here?”

Jana shook her head. “Salt Lake City. But I've lived up here over a year. So I'm, like, more local than a weekend warrior, or even someone with a condo who only uses it for holidays.”

“Right,” Clare said. Sacha had lived in Whistler for around a year, too.

“But you have to be careful right now. Australians should be good, but maybe don't hang with tourists for the next week or two.”

“Why not?”

“Um. I'm not supposed to say.”

Clare's eyebrows shot up. “What? You can't tease me like that.”

“My roommate died. My boyfriend told me not to trust any strangers for the next little while. He says he'll tell me when things are clear.”

Clare wasn't sure how to react. She'd been briefed on Jana's boyfriend — a local drug dealer, Richie Lebar. She met Jana's eyes with sympathy.

“Anyway, if you see the December
Snow Betty
, let me know.” Jana set down the joint without lighting it. She stood up and went to the kitchen.

Clare took a chance and followed. “I'm sorry about your roommate. Are you okay?”

Jana opened the freezer and pulled out a tub of ice cream. “Want a sundae? I always have one before I go out partying. I use organic chocolate sauce. It gives me energy.”

Clare eyed the Breyer's carton and was tempted to explain that ice cream did not give you energy — even with organic chocolate sauce. But there were too many other conversations going on, all of which were more relevant to her job. “I'm happy with beer, but thanks. Where's the party?”

“Just, around. I figured I'd start at Avalanche — I work there, so I get half-price drinks. Then I'll see what other people are up to. You want to come?”

“You don't mind?”

“No, it's cool. You know you look like Sacha?” Jana peered at Clare. “You could be her sister. Not her twin, though. Sacha was prettier. She had these perfect chiseled cheekbones. No offense.”

“None taken.” Clare was happy in her Lucy costume — no makeup, messy hair, baggy jeans and a flannel shirt. Amanda had shopped well. It was like getting paid to stay in pajamas all day.

Jana brought her sundae into the living room. Clare followed again and they sat together on the couch. Jana set down the sundae, untouched, and picked up the joint.

After Jana had inhaled a few tokes and Clare had pretended to do the same, Jana said, “I miss her like crazy. It's like half of me is gone.”

“You and your roommate were close?”

“We used to talk without talking. Have you ever had a friend like that?”

Clare thought of Roberta, the way they could work together on a car engine, sometimes go hours without saying a word, just passing parts and tools to each other like they were sharing the same brain. “Yeah,” Clare said.

“Except she never told me she was going to kill herself.”

“Your roommate . . . um . . . she killed herself?” Clare didn't have to feign shock — there was something about hearing it through the mouth of a grieving friend that made any death feel freshly tragic. “Was she depressed?”

“No, and she wasn't a drug addict, either, which is the reason the stupid cops are trying to give.” Jana took a deep draw in, held the smoke in her mouth for several seconds. “I'm surprised you haven't heard of her. Her death has been all over the news. Sacha's mom is a bigwig American senator.”

Clare shook her head. “I don't watch the news much.”

“Hm.” Jana frowned, like she thought she was more famous than this. “Maybe in Toronto, it's not that big a story. It's on all the big American news stations. I've been interviewed by Fox News,
CNN
,
MSNBC
. . .”

“It's sad,” Clare said. “I guess she was a really cool person?”

“The coolest. Anyway, the reason you have to be careful with tourists . . . oh shit, I promised I wouldn't say anything. Here, you better smoke some of this before I lose all my senses.”

Clare wondered if the cliffhanger was intentional. She lifted her eyebrows in what she hoped was a conspiratorial way and said, “Oh, come on. I love gossip.”

“Me, too! Okay, but this is top secret.” Jana peered into Clare's eyes.

“Who would I tell? You're my only friend in town.”

“Good point. There's apparently a cop in the village, like an undercover with the
FBI
, and Richie told me I have to watch everything I say. That's why you can't sleep with tourists right now — we don't want to give the undercover any ins. Cool?”

“I promise.” Clare tried not to lose the beat as her brain raced into rapid fire. “Not a word about the undercover and I'll let you vet my hook-ups.”

“Good. I mean, we'll probably spot him a mile away. We had a cop in town before. A narc. I would have known even without Richie saying anything.”

“How?” Clare doubted Jana could spot a cop unless sirens were blazing, but she was curious what she thought the tells might be.

“He never inhaled.”

Clare took a deep drag and made sure it went into her lungs.

“You know the one thing a cop would never do? Drop acid. Richie even agrees.”

“Why not?”

“They just wouldn't. Anyway, that's why we came to Whistler. Sacha dragged me up here for the acid.”

“
LSD
?”

Jana nodded. She fingered the jagged blue crystal that hung from her neck.

“Like, the Magical Mystery Tour drug? The one that was in style in the same decade as this wallpaper?” Clare nodded at the living room walls with their bright orange and lime green floral design.

Jana grinned. “Kind of retro, huh? I've had some crazy nights tripping to these walls.”

“Seriously though, that's pretty rad. You came to Whistler because Sacha heard the drugs were good.”

“Better than good. There's this tab called Mountain Snow. Purest high she'd ever had.”

Clare laughed. “So because this tab is called Mountain Snow, Sacha wanted to live at a ski resort? Was she high when she made that decision?”

“No, silly. The drug is made here. Sacha tried it in New York when some guy who had just been to Whistler gave her a tab he brought home. But it wasn't available in the States. I mean
isn't
.”

Score another point for Amanda — she'd been smart about landing Clare this roommate. Clare let the wasn't/isn't slide — for now. There was obviously something illegal — something more than casual pot smoking — that Sacha's friends were involved in. Or they wouldn't be so concerned that an undercover was coming to town.

“Um . . .” Clare had a zillion questions. “So you lived in New York, too?”

“Yeah, we went to college there. Sacha finished her degree a semester early, and I was just ready to get the hell away from school. I only need three courses to graduate.”

“What did you study?” Clare asked, mostly to be polite, but you never knew what would be relevant.

“Hotel and tourism management. Sacha's degree was in international relations. We met at a frat party and clicked hard. There was no separating us after that. So when she said she was coming up here, even though I wasn't
quite
finished school, I thought
yeah, that's kind of perfect.
Because where better than Whistler to finish my education about tourism?”

Right. As long as she could, you know, find a way to get credit. But Clare wasn't here to be anyone's guidance counselor.

“Last time I took Mountain Snow — like, a week ago — I asked the universe to bring Sacha back into my life. The very next day, I put the ad on Craigslist for a new roommate.” Jana set down the joint and grabbed Clare's hands in hers. “We have to do Mountain Snow together. How about tonight?”

Clare gulped. “I've never done acid. I'm actually kind of afraid to.” That, and there was no way Amanda would let her. Because Jana was right about one thing: an undercover cop would not drop acid on assignment.

“Come on. How else will I know if you're Sacha?”

“What?”

Jana pulled the sundae bowl toward her. “I brought two spoons. You want some now, right? I always want ice cream when I smoke pot.”

Clare took a spoon and dug in. The chocolate sauce and vanilla ice cream tasted amazing — cold and rich and soft against all sides of her mouth. She felt like she was biting into Wonderland. Except Alice was dead.

Clare had definitely inhaled.