Sea to Sky (11 page)

Hunter shrugged. “The wife wouldn’t be my first choice, but it is a possibility. That’s one thing I learned about working homicides. Always keep an open mind. Tunnel vision on the part of the police has put a lot of innocent people in jail, and even one is too many.”

Sorry looked up from his Caesar salad. “Especially if it’s you.”

After they finished their lunch and Hunter handed Sorry the keys to his Freightliner, along with a hand-drawn map of where he was to pick up the trailer to take to California and an admonition not to smoke in the truck, it was after twelve o’clock. Hunter headed back up the highway to Whistler to meet with Meredith Travis, the woman who had originally introduced herself as Stella, but he wasn’t sure whether it would get him any closer to the truth about what happened to Mike Irwin.

She had approached him about joining forces to investigate Mike Irwin’s death. Hunter wasn’t sure how to take it. She could just be trying to divert suspicion away from herself or her client, but then again, wasn’t he doing exactly the same thing to get himself off the suspect list? He had told her that he would consider her suggestion, and meet with her when he got back from Squamish with his decision.

He was trying to determine if there was a down side to working with her, and weigh it against what she could bring to the investigation that he couldn’t. She had pointed out that she was in a position to talk to others at the conference without arousing suspicion, since she was ostensibly one of them. He would certainly like to know what she could pick up about Brent Carruthers and the young woman he’d been having breakfast with, the one Mike Irwin had threatened to expose. And maybe Meredith could find out just how serious a threat it was, given that Carruthers was openly spending time with the woman in the hotel. It couldn’t be totally clandestine if they weren’t trying to hide their relationship, although they had arrived for breakfast separately.

What was her motivation for cooperating with Hunter? To plant information was the first possibility that occurred to him. Misinformation. If not, what did she think he could do that she couldn’t? Perhaps she saw an advantage in his RCMP background and his connection with the investigating officers because of it. Perhaps it was his relationship with Alora.

What relationship? He hadn’t seen Alora since she’d effectively kissed him off the night before, but Meredith Travis didn’t know that.

Hunter had decided to play along with her and see where it led.

He parked the Pontiac in a free lot and made his way along cleared paths through Whistler Village to the arranged meeting place, the lobby of a small hotel not far from the Coast Peaks. The icy cold of the concrete and cobblestones penetrated the thin soles of his cowboy boots and he paused in the entrance to stamp his feet, more to encourage circulation to his frozen toes than to shed the clumps of snow clinging to his heels.

Meredith was seated on a sofa near the front of the lobby, and stood when he approached. He had seen two versions of her on Friday night, and a third version Saturday evening. Sunday’s version appealed to him the most. She wore jeans and a leather bomber jacket with a fur lined hood, a combination that showed off the slender curve of her hips. Lace-up snow boots hugged her calves, almost to the knee. No noticeable makeup, just a fresh healthy glow and glossy lips.

“Want to grab a coffee?” she asked.

He shook his head, then changed his mind. A hot drink would be good. “Maybe a hot chocolate or something. Is there a cheap spot…?”

She nodded and motioned him to follow before he could finish his sentence. He was relieved to see that it was a casual, cafeteria-style location frequented by skiers fresh off the slopes. The downside was that the only empty chairs were at a window counter near the outside entrance, with cold skiers regularly passing by accompanied by an invisible cloak of cold air. Dozens of spirited conversations clashed in the room, almost guaranteeing that their own quiet words would go no farther than their own ears. Hunter picked up a hot tea for her and a hot chocolate for himself. It still cost him the better part of a ten dollar bill, almost sixty miles worth of diesel for his Freightliner at 1997 prices.

“Well?” she said as he settled himself onto a wooden stool to her left.

“You make a good point,” he said, stirring some sugar into his mug. “You’re already perfectly set up to investigate his industry ties.”

“Not only that,” she said. “I already have some background on the guy.”

“What’s in it for you?” He looked at her sideways as he took a cautious sip of hot chocolate.

She waited for a laughing trio of snowboarders to pass before replying. “Credibility. I’m an outsider. I was, for all intents and purposes, stalking the victim prior to his death. I am here under an assumed name. You think the cops will be eager to believe any self-serving information I can provide them with?” She raised her eyebrows as if to say, “Well, do you?”

He shrugged.

“I saw you with the security boss at the GM that night,” she said. “You’re tight with him. He’s tight with the cops. You vouch for me, and I’ll give you information you can use.”

“How can I be sure you’re not setting me up?”

“Meaning?”

“I’m the dupe feeding misinformation to the police?”

She smiled at the window. “The being sure part is up to you. You want some references? Maybe a polygraph?”

It was Hunter’s turn to smile. Risk versus reward. He would have to take a chance on her or find another way to get inside information.

“Got any questions for me?” she asked. “Go on. Give me a try.” She winked at him as she raised the mug of tea to her lips.

“Were you following him yesterday morning?”

“No such luck.” She smiled ruefully. “He left the hotel before I was ready to tail him. Try another question.”

“Brent Carruthers,” he said. “That stud Irwin threatened to expose to his boss. You were there that night. What’s the story?”

She looked sideways at him. “It just so happens that I ran into his little blonde friend in the hot tub yesterday afternoon. It’s a great way to relax after a day’s skiing. We struck up a conversation, as women tend to do, about the men in our lives. I told her I had a hush-hush relationship with a wealthy married man in Florida. She informed me that she had come to join her fiancé here while he was out of town and it was great to be able to spend time together. She said they had to be more discreet when they were back in L.A., because her fiancé worked for her dad’s company and they weren’t ready to tell her father about their relationship.

“I asked her why it would matter. She said her boyfriend was an older man, twice divorced, and had a bit of a reputation, but that he was a changed man since he met her.”

“According to him?”

“Precisely.” She smiled and nodded. “He’d given her an engagement ring — she showed it to me, a moderately priced diamond — but they didn’t want her dad to find out about their relationship until the time was right.”

“Did she happen to mention how they met?”

“I happened to ask her just that.”

“And?”

“A fundraiser art auction. Her father’s pet charity. She was there with her father and mother. It seems that Brent — she actually called him ‘my Brent’ — was passionate about Rwandan refugees as well.” She sipped her tea. “She and Brent were admiring the same piece of art, and he complimented her on her good taste.”

“Did he buy it for her?”

She made a face at him. “Of course not. Brent’s not quite in their league, financially. Her words. That’s why her father isn’t likely to approve, until he gets to know Brent better, of course. He’s such a talented and compassionate human being, after all.”

Hunter smiled. He liked her. She was sharp as a tack and had a good sense of humor. He leaned toward her and held out his hand.

She smiled back as she shook his hand. “Okay, partner. Tit for tat. Who’s the woman?”

“When did you start investigating Mike?”

She frowned, but didn’t object. “About six weeks ago.”

“What did you find out about his ex-wife?”

“Her maiden name was Alora McGuire. They were married only briefly. She took out a restraining order against him when they split up some years ago, and reapplied for one just last summer under her new name of Alora Magee. I just didn’t get around to finding her photo.”

“You already know more about her than I do.”

“So she
is
Alora Magee.”

He nodded.

“Did she know Irwin was going to be here?”

“She says not.”

“She says not,” repeated Meredith with a series of small nods. “I expect she was pretty tired of the bastard. She thought she was free of him, started this great new career, and suddenly he turns up again — like dog shit on a shoe.”

Hunter leaned back and crossed his arms, looking up at her from under his brows. “I expect she was.”

Meredith Travis was looking at him sideways again. “So, Mr. Chivalry Personified.” She paused, a half smile playing on her lips. Before he could protest, she added, “Don’t forget, I saw you in action coming to her defense when he started using foul language. Twice!” She held up two fingers, then turned her hand around and pointed one finger at his chest.

“So-o-o, partner. Still think it’s me who’s setting you up?”

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SEVEN

Sundays were usually quiet business-wise at Watson Transportation, but they had a charm of their own. Elspeth Watson habitually started the day out with a couple of Egg McMuffins from McDonald’s, accompanied by hash browns and a large coffee, while her little black half-Spitz, Peterbilt, ate his breakfast. He’d always look up at her as he crunched a mouthful of kibble, his curled tail wiggling as if he were saying “Thanks for the grub, Mom.” She turned on the local country music station, JR-FM, so it played quietly in the office and louder in the warehouse.  If there were no pressing phone calls to and from drivers and it wasn’t raining too hard, she would usually take little Pete for a wander outside in the truck yard before settling down to paperwork. Sundays were great for catching up on filing and bookkeeping, since there weren’t many interruptions.

The drivers kidded her about her devotion to work, and her answer was always the same. “It ain’t work if you’re having fun.” And she
was
having fun. She loved the sight and sound of big diesel rigs, loved the banter with the drivers, and loved the rush when she secured a new load. She thrived on the stress of handling calls from customers when deliveries were late, and the challenge of working out schedules so she could get the trucks there on time. The whole trucking business was a game she loved to play, more than she’d enjoyed the tedium of sitting in a truck as a driver. The drivers were the chess pieces, the dispatcher was the player. Her office wasn’t fancy and the warehouse had seen better days, but it was her domain.

El knew a lot of the drivers figured her for a butch dyke, but she had no interest in women. She worked in a man’s world and it would have been stupid to dress in girly clothes, wear makeup or have some fussy hair style. Besides, she was a big boned gal, just a couple of inches shy of six feet and close to three hundred pounds, a comfortable mix of muscle and fat as far as she was concerned. She could lift heavy boxes and climb over skids when she had to. With her job and her size it would be silly to dress up. Even when she’d started out as a driver, she liked being ‘one of the guys’, joking with the drivers and the boys in the warehouse. Life was good.

Hunter Rayne had been one of her drivers for a few years now, and she considered him a friend. She bossed him around like she did all of the drivers — she had to; it was the only way to keep their respect and no dispatcher could afford to let a driver call the shots — but she had a lot of respect for the guy. He seemed to possess an inner strength and an outer confidence that few people in her world had, probably from being a cop for so many years. When he asked for her help getting information, she was tickled pink and eager to get started.

“Blue Hills Industries,” she muttered to herself. She fired up her computer and started a search through her database of customers, green characters scrolling on a black screen. “Bantam … Barnhart … Bentall … Blackwater … Bluebird … ah-ha! … Blue Hills.” She moved the cursor to highlight the probill number beside the name and brought up the particulars of the shipment. It had been about a year and a half ago, and was a collect shipment consigned to one of her regular customers in Abbotsford. She could tell by the truck number that it had been handled by a U.S. based driver that didn’t do much work for her. She didn’t expect to get much information from him, but the customer could be a different story.

And the customs broker, she realized. The consignee’s broker was Hastings & Toop, and she had a good friend there by the name of Marilyn Jenkins, or MJ. Sunday was not a good day to call a customs broker, and neither was Monday morning. Monday mornings were crazy for El as well, so she resigned herself to following up with MJ on Monday afternoon. MJ was always up for a rum and coke after work, and El would do her best to free up her own schedule to make it happen.

She kept on clearing up paperwork until her stomach reminded her it was long past lunch time. She had some tinned soup for emergencies, but decided to stave off her hunger with a handful of roasted nuts and a mug of instant cocoa. Just one driver to get out on the road and she could call it quits for this Sunday and go grab a proper meal. She swallowed the last few mouthfuls of cocoa in a hurry as Peterbilt started dancing around her chair, a sure sign that he needed to do his ‘business’. El shrugged on her jacket and began humming along with Toby Keith and “Dream Walkin’” as she accompanied Pete out behind the warehouse.

The little guy had tucked his butt under him and was just laying a couple of neat turds in a patch of weeds beside the chain link fence when she heard a car with a hole in its muffler round the corner into the yard. It only took a couple of seconds for El to recognize the battered yellow Volvo that belonged to Dan Sorenson.

“About fuckin’ time!” she hollered as Sorry pulled up beside The Blue Knight, Hunter’s workhorse of a 1991 tandem axle Freightliner. It was a no frills truck with a basic sleeper, but Hunter kept its 350 Cummins in good running order. She always thought it suited him. Modest on the outside, powerful on the inside.

“Don’t park your fuckin’ jalopy where the trucks park! Four wheelers over there!” She pulled a hand out of the warmth of her jacket pocket and pointed to the area designated for driver parking. “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t see your wife. Hello, Simone.”

Simone smiled and gave her a cheerful little wave. “Hello, El. So nice to see you again. How’s little Pete?” She stepped out of the passenger side of the Volvo and walked around the back of the car, then crouched so she could scratch the little dog’s ears. Simone was a slender and graceful woman with a musical French Canadian accent and a gentle nature, and it always amazed El that such a beautiful girl seemed so happy to be Sorry’s wife. The back door opened and two young children scrambled out to join her.

“Oh, shit!” El covered her mouth with her hands. “Your kids, too. Me and my big mouth.” Sorry was now standing beside her, and she punched his shoulder. “You shoulda said something, you big lug.”

“If you would just shut the heck up for five seconds and let me speak, woman!” boomed Sorry. “Sasha. Bruno. Say hello to the big lady.”

The two kids looked up briefly from petting Peterbilt and said in unison “Hello, big lady.” One was a little girl about seven years old, the other a little boy of about five. They were both as blonde as Sorry.

“Her name is Miss Watson,” Sorry said.

“Hello, Miss Watson,” they chimed together again.

“You prick,” El said under her breath to Sorry. “Hi, Sasha. Bruno. You can call me El.”

“Back in the car,” Simone said to the two kids. “Vite! Dans la voiture. Il fait froid.” Then to Sorry. “Get your bag, mon coco. We should let you go to work.”

“Hang on. Come for a kiss, kids.” Sorry squatted and held his arms wide, and the two children tumbled into his hug. He planted a noisy kiss on each child’s cheek. “You be good for Mom, now. I’ll see you in a few days.”  He grabbed a big duffle back out of the trunk of the Volvo and dropped it on the ground, then wrapped his arms around his wife. “Bye, Mo. I’ll call.” They exchanged a tender kiss.

Looking away, El scooped up Peterbilt and gave him a hug.

“Love you guys,” Sorry said, throwing a series of big kisses at his wife and kids as Simone backed the Volvo into a turn. “Bye.”

“You know where to pick up the trailer?” El immediately got down to business. Sorry was the kind of guy who needed a firm hand. “You need a map of Redding?”

“Yes, boss lady. No, boss lady.” He pulled some keys out of his pocket and unlocked the Freightliner’s door, climbed up to the cab and tossed his duffle bag over the seat.

“Fire it up, buddy.” El put Pete back on the ground and turned toward the office. She yelled back at Sorry over her shoulder, “Let the engine warm up while you come in for your paperwork.” She could hardly wait for him to leave the yard. Somewhere in New Westminster was a pepperoni, mushroom and green pepper pizza with her name on it, and she knew just where to find it.

After Meredith Travis left the restaurant, Hunter felt a need to speak to one of the investigating officers about the case, although he wasn’t sure it would help. He pulled Shane Blackwell’s card out of his wallet and punched in the number but it went straight to voicemail. He left his number, and zipping up his sheepskin jacket, headed back outside. A wind had come up, so he pulled his collar up over his neck and plunged his hands deep in his pockets. By the time he reached his car, his toes and ears were so cold they hurt.

He’d had enough of sitting around in Whistler hotels and restaurants, and it was too cold to sit in his car, so he headed back to Tom Halsey’s chalet, letting himself in with the key Tom had given him. Tom would be back in Whistler around dinner time, he knew, bringing his wife back with him. Hunter had expected to be back on the road before Tom’s wife got home, and wasn’t feeling real comfortable about extending his stay. He couldn’t afford a hotel, and going back home to his basement suite in North Vancouver was an unattractive option, given it would involve several hours of travel daily on the Sea to Sky highway in winter conditions if he wanted to continue looking for answers in Whistler.

He turned on the gas fireplace in the living room and pulled a chair up close to it before he tried Shane Blackwell again, and this time the burly staff sergeant answered on the first ring.

Hunter identified himself and said, “I realize this is a little unorthodox, but I’d appreciate the opportunity to go over some of the circumstances surrounding the last days of Mike Irwin’s life. Obviously, I’d like to be taken off the suspect list as soon as possible, but I’m also developing a personal interest in finding his killer. I would hate to see the wrong person accused.” This morning he would have wanted to see Alora ruled out as a suspect as well, although Meredith Travis had given him pause. What were the chances he could have been set up? Was it possible that Alora had learned of Mike’s planned conference before she’d called to invite him to Whistler?

The detective on the other end of the line cleared his throat. “Hunh. Can you be at the station in fifteen minutes?”

“I’m on my way.”

Hunter switched the fireplace back off and, his jacket still on anyway, was on the road in less than a minute. It was a ten minute drive to the RCMP detachment on Blackcomb Way. Fortunately there was parking just outside and Hunter was at the reception counter pretty much on time. He wasn’t waiting long before Staff Sergeant Shane Blackwell had him shown into an interview room. Hunter sat at one side of a small nondescript table, and Blackwell pulled up a chair with his back to the door. Hunter turned his chair so his back was to the wall.

“Okay, shoot,” said the detective, leaning back in his chair.

Hunter leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I’d like to help,” he said. “I know it sounds unorthodox — maybe downright unacceptable — but I’d like to help find Mike Irwin’s killer.”

The big man snorted, then began to laugh. “What makes you think I’d invite a suspect to help in a murder investigation?”

Hunter nodded. “I know,” he said. “Look. I spent a lot of years in your position, and I have no doubt that my reaction to the idea would have been the same as yours. All I can ask is that you imagine yourself in my position.”

Blackwell opened his mouth, but Hunter held up a hand.

“Think about it. A few years down the road, you’re retired from the force, you unexpectedly find that you and a friend of yours are suspects in a murder investigation. You’re not under arrest, but you’re under a cloud of suspicion and have been told you can’t resume your normal life until you’ve been cleared. You know, of course, that you’re innocent. Do you think, with your training and experience, you’d be able to sit back and twiddle your thumbs until the police had the right man — or woman — in custody?”

Blackwell tilted his head, his eyes focused on a point somewhere beyond the corner of the ceiling, his thumb idly stroking the edge of his jaw. Finally he sighed.

“Wait here,” he said, and left the room.

Hunter sat back and looked around the room. He knew he was on camera, quite possibly being watched at the moment. Although he felt restless enough to pace up and down the small floor, he just stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and began to tap his feet.

Almost twenty minutes later, the detective opened the door of the room and motioned for Hunter to follow him. Soon Hunter was seated in a more spacious room with a big metal desk and matching credenza. A window behind the desk showed that the daylight was beginning to fade. Blackwell moved to sit on the other side of the desk, while Sergeant Colin Pike stood and extended his hand to Hunter before taking a chair to Hunter’s right.

The two detectives exchanged glances, then Blackwell pursed his lips and cleared his throat before speaking. “This is completely off the record,” he began, looking straight at Hunter. “You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Colin,” he nodded at the tall young officer, “has made some phone calls. He checked with your former commanding officer, as well as several members that he was aware you’d been in contact with since your resignation, including Staff Sergeant Al Kowalski of the Burnaby detachment. Colin?”

The young man started speaking with a serious look on his face, but a twinkle in his eye. Hunter reflected again what a likeable man Colin was. “They speak very highly of you. They said that in addition to being a very skilled detective during your years on the force, you always had the utmost respect for the law. They were quite convinced that you would never take vigilante action, and that you most certainly were innocent of the murder of Mike Irwin. Al Kowalski’s comment was that if you had killed the man, he had no doubt that you would have promptly shown up at the detachment to turn yourself in.”