False Witness (13 page)

Alex looked out the window at the cobalt-blue morning sky as he sipped his second refill of coffee. Like the hash, he hadn’t tired of the
Twin Peaks
joke he’d been telling himself every morning.
Damn fine coffee.
He managed to keep himself from asking the pretty waitress if they had any cherry pie, but it was an effort each time. She might be old enough to get the reference, but he didn’t want to risk it and end up having her give him a blank stare, or worse, roll her eyes at him.

Today would be another scorcher. The white summer sun beat down on hapless tourists as they slowly roasted on the beach that was across the street from just about every place in town. Even the little composite school was within spitting distance of the water, which no doubt caused more than a little teenage daydreaming a month ago when the kids were trapped in their classrooms, studying for final exams. Moms and dads, kids, the occasional retired couple, all of them would sit in the baking heat until they couldn’t take it anymore. When that time came, they’d wade into the crystal waters to cool down, slowly inching their way into the depths, waiting as each body part acclimated to the ball-shriveling glacier water. Inevitably, someone who was already safely adjusted to the temperature would yell out, “It’s not bad once you get used to it!” Alex thought that sentiment could pretty much sum up life in Canada.

It was crazy, but damned if the charms of Lost Lake didn’t wash away the greasy film of fear and confusion he’d been wearing since Chuck Palliser and Richie Duff were killed.
Let’s be honest, since the trial began
. He was amazed at how little the town had changed since he was a kid. A few of the names were different now – Irma’s, for instance, had been the Dolphin Drive-In when he was young – but there were only a handful of new buildings and houses. The town had somehow managed to fly under the radar of the army of condominium developers that had descended on the Kootenays in the late nineties and early years of the twenty-first century, slapping up featureless one- and two-bedroom lakeside suites wherever they could scratch out a piece of shoreline. None of the people who’d gotten rich off selling their family land felt the need to stick around, it seemed. They all moved to Victoria or Vancouver, which, ironically, is where most of the new condo owners were from. Maybe Lost Lake was too far off the beaten path, or maybe condominiums just wouldn’t grow in the soil here. Whatever the reason, Alex was glad the town had somehow held fast to the charm he’d fallen in love with years before.

It was a much-needed tonic. In the handful of days since he arrived, he’d managed to collate the notes he compiled during his pre-trial prep with Chuck Palliser and Leslie Singer, plus the relevant court transcripts, and bang out a rough outline for his book. His trusty Macbook almost seemed to sing under his fingertips as he sat at the little oak table in his motel room, taking him effortlessly to that otherworldly place where the words flowed without effort.

“Another cup, Agent Cooper?”

Alex jerked around with a quiet yelp, knocking his cup over and sending it sailing to the linoleum floor, where it clanked noisily but didn’t shatter. Luckily, the thick Pyrex cup was empty, so his golf shirt and cargo shorts remained unstained, but he still felt a hot blush rising in his newly-smooth cheeks.
Awesome
, he thought.
Just a standard case of Jumping Tourist, folks. Nothing suspicious here, go about your business.

He glanced up at the waitress, trying to look nonchalant as he picked the cup off the floor. She was trying to look contrite, but Alex saw she’d curled her lips into her mouth in an effort to keep from laughing. It was a good try, but her trembling torso gave her away. “I’m sorry!” she blurted. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Alex grinned sheepishly. “It wasn’t you.” He pointed out the window at a leathery woman in her sixties wearing a bikini and eating a soft ice cream cone. “I thought for a second she was going to take off her top.”

That sent the waitress over the edge. She giggled wildly, prompting the handful of other patrons in Irma’s to cast sidelong glances at her. After a few moments, Alex started laughing, too. The girl’s face was transformed by her laughter into something almost irresistible. If he hadn’t been attracted to her before, he sure as hell was now. It felt surreal, like the time he and Palliser had lost it in Leslie Singer’s office.

That triggered a thought. “What did you call me?” he asked.

“What?” The waitress had herself under control again, but just barely.

“When you asked me if I wanted more coffee. Did you call me
Agent Cooper?
”

She blushed and waved a dismissive hand. “Sorry, that was just a stupid joke,” she said, reflecting his own sheepishness. “See, there used to be this old TV show where an FBI agent goes to a small town, and he always goes to the diner and orders – ”

“Damn fine coffee,” Alex finished for her. “
Twin Peaks
, I know. I was actually going to say it myself, but I didn’t think you’d get it, and I didn’t want to look stupid.” He picked up the coffee cup and grinned crookedly. “That worked out great, didn’t it?”

She gave him a stern look and nodded. “Coop would understand.”

“You know, I think he probably would. But aren’t you a little young to be a
Twin Peaks
fan?”

She sized him up. “Aren’t
you
?”

“Touche. It was my mom’s favorite show when I was a kid. I remember watching it with her every week, thinking in my little adolescent way that Coop was cool and Audrey was hot, but I had no clue what the hell was going on. To be honest, I doubt my mother did, either.

“I don’t think the
writers
knew what the hell was going on.”

Alex laughed. Like everything else in Lost Lake, this was almost too good to be true. Too
easy
. “So give. How did
you
get hooked on the weirdest show in TV history?”

She shrugged. “Netflix. Out here in the boonies, you only get three channels, unless you’ve got satellite, but who can afford that? A few years ago, the government decided to spend some money to run high-speed Internet lines into all the small towns around here. Funny, hey? I can barely get a signal on my cell, but I can get all the high-speed streaming video I want. So when your choice is curling on the CBC or old TV shows online, guess who’s sitting in front of her computer screen trying to figure out who killed Laura Palmer?” She cocked her thumbs towards her face. “
This
chick!”

Alex laughed again and shook his head. “This town is full of surprises.”

The waitress smiled. “Just like Twin Peaks.”

“But without the murders, I hope.”

“Well, there
have
been rumors about tourists who don’t tip going missing in the woods . . .”

“But you wouldn’t know anything about that. I have a feeling your tip jar is overflowing.”

She surprised him by blushing and looking at the floor. The sun from the window picked up the gold highlights in her hair. When she looked back at him, her smile was all big teeth and full lips. “Well, thank you,” she said quietly.

“What’s your name?” It was out of his mouth before he even realized he was thinking it.

“Angie Dawson.” She reached out a hand.

Alex took it. It was soft and smooth and warm. “Alex.”
Dunn
, he almost said, which was enough to make his heart give a little adrenaline-fueled
thump
in his chest. “Alex Wolfe.”

Angie giggled. “Looked like you forgot your own name there for a second.”

“I’m sure I’m not the first guy you’ve had that effect on.”

She blushed again. Alex grinned.
Nice one. Maybe it’ll be enough to keep her from thinking too much about how the stranger in town can’t remember his own fucking name.

They looked at each other awkwardly for several moments before Angie broke the silence. “So where you from?”

So much for the moment
, Alex thought. He had worked out an elaborate back story for Alex Wolfe on the long drive to Lost Lake (and discovered he had an untapped talent for fiction that he might have to explore in the near future – maybe it would help him get rid of the quotation marks around “bestseller”), had even looked forward to using it for the first time. Wolfe was thirty-three, single, a creative writing instructor at a small college in Washington state, taking advantage of the summer break to find a little peace and quiet in an out-of-the-way spot where he could write the great Canadian novel. It was just close enough to the truth that, like his new name, it wouldn’t be too hard to remember.
In theory, anyway
, he thought. And it explained why he chose Lost Lake over the many other resort towns in the area. But here, now, Alex thought
The Story
seemed less like a story and more like a lie. “I live just outside Olympia these days, but I’m originally from Saskatchewan. You know the old saying – it’s a great place to be from. I’m here for at least the next several weeks –”

Angie gaped at him. “You live in
northern Washington
? You’re kidding, right?”

Alex felt a brief slash of full-on panic. Was he really that bad an actor? He’d barely given her the tip of
The Story
iceberg, and she was already calling him on it. Was it really that flimsy? He stared at her for a moment, feeling the sweat pool in his armpits and soak into the fine mesh of his golf shirt.

“I – I don’t,” he stammered.

Angie grinned and raised her eyebrows. “
Twin Peaks
?”

A cool breeze of relief blew over him. He smacked his forehead with the heel of his palm. “Duh. Sorry, sometimes I’m not too swift on the uptake.”

She gave him a measured look that caused more than a little blood to rush toward his groin. “Cute, though.”

“Angie!”
a voice barked from the other side of the diner. Alex turned to see a woman standing behind the counter. She wore a short-order cook’s whites, looked about fifty-five years old and about five feet square, with a salt-and-pepper crewcut. “Stop makin goo goo eyes with the tourists and get back to work.”

Alex leaned closer to Angie. “Let me guess – she’s Irma?”

“Uh-huh,” Angie said, rolling her eyes. “Her bark’s worse than her bite.”

“I can only imagine. Well, it was good to officially meet you, Angie.”

“Same here, Alex Alex Wolfe.” She picked up his plate and dropped off his bill in one deft movement. “See you again tomorrow?”

“Count on it.”

He watched her sweep back to the counter, drop his dishes into the bus tray, and head out for a round of coffee fill-ups. He turned back to look out the window at the brightness of the day, the brightness of the happy people milling around downtown, buying air mattresses and sno-cones and laughing. For this moment, all was right with the world.
Too good to be true
, he thought.
But I’ll take it
.

Angie was taking another customer’s order when Alex walked up to the counter a few minutes later. Irma was working the cash register. She took his twenty and handed him a five and three loonies in change. He handed it back to her.

“That’s for Angie.”

Irma fixed him with a cool look. “Huh. Wouldn’t want to tip the gal who actually made yer food, just the hotpants who serves it to you.”

Alex took that as a cue. He grabbed another ten out of his wallet. Why not? He had no shortage of money these days. “You didn’t let me finish. This is for you.”

She looked stunned for a moment, then her tiny black eyes narrowed. “Look, mister – ”

“No, seriously. You deserve it. Your hash is the best I’ve ever had.”

Alex couldn’t read the look she gave him, but he chose to take it as grudging gratitude, or at the very least a slight warming trend. He flipped his wallet closed and dropped it into his back pocket. As he turned to leave, Irma’s meaty hand closed around his bicep.

“Just a sec,” she said. Alex thought she sounded like Popeye with slightly better diction. She handed him a small Styrofoam container. “Angie said to give this to you.”

“What is it?”

“What am I, Kreskin?” She waddled back into the kitchen, leaving him alone at the counter. He glanced up in time to catch Angie looking his way. She dropped a wink and went back to chatting with her customers.

He walked out into the sunshine and felt the heat envelop him like a blanket. The sudden glare after the cool semi-darkness of Irma’s make him squint. He flipped open the lid of the Styrofoam container.

Inside was a generous slice of Irma’s homemade cherry pie.

#

A half a block up the street from where Alex Dunn stood smiling down at his pie, a pair of binoculars observed him from the shadow of an enormous willow tree. After a few moments, Alex crossed the street and strolled in the direction of the Bluebird Motor Inn. The person behind the binoculars stepped out from the tree’s umbra and followed at a discreet distance.

If there was one thing Sam Wash hated about his job, it was waiting. Waiting in police commission meetings, where wannabe politicians droned on about pointless bullshit in the vain hope it would help them get elected into city council, or maybe even the provincial legislature someday. Waiting on hold as corporate communications people stonewalled him on sensitive issues and ate up his cell phone minutes. He especially hated waiting on cops, who invariably left him sitting in an uncomfortable chair while they searched through their seemingly endless files in search of an answer to the simplest goddam question.

Today, he was sitting on a park bench instead of a cheap plastic chair in the cop shop, but waiting was still waiting. He used the time to compose smartass comments to throw at Darcy Flowers, the cop he was waiting for. Flowers was one of just a handful of good sports Sam had encountered in the Calgary Police Service since he started at the
Chronicle
three years earlier. He’d discovered that there really was a code of silence among the members of the thin blue line; maybe not quite the Italian mob’s
omerta,
that played such a big role in the movies, but enough that any reporter worth his salt knew that, when you walked away from an interview, you’d only been given half the story. Cops were masters of bafflegab, using words like “individuals” instead of “gangbangers” and “restrained” instead of “beaten down and arrested,” and “person of interest” instead of “dirtbag.” And, of course, the old standby, “I can’t comment on that at this stage of the investigation,” which was cop vernacular for “go fuck your hat.” You might come away with the bare bones of what had happened at a crime scene, but they made sure there was no flavor whatsoever to the story. Cops would give you the chicken, but they kept the eleven herbs and spices to themselves.