Sea to Sky (13 page)

“Nonsense,” said Beth, always the strong and cheerful grandmother. “You go ahead. We’ll get Jordan and Correna ready for bed, and stay in your suite until you get back. It’ll do us all good.” Beth had turned to Correna and tousled her hair. “Wouldn’t that be fun, Sweetie? How about you, Jordan? Want to watch a video with Grandma and Grand-da?”

“It does nobody any good to sit around together moping about Mike,” said John. He put down his fork and Kelly realized that none of them had eaten much dinner. She guessed that a death in the family had that affect on the appetite. “We’ll have lots of evenings in Seattle to remember the good times. It’ll be good for you to visit with old friends right now.”

Back in the room after dinner, she felt like a school girl when she called Alora up, saying, “Mike’s parents say I can come.”

Alora was waiting in the lobby for her, and gave her a big hug when she arrived. “I feel like your big sister,” she said with a grin. “I guess it’s because we have an abusive family relationship in common, although it was a husband instead of parents.”

“He wasn’t all bad,” Kelly found herself saying. Tender moments with Mike came unbidden to mind — him calling her ‘my beautiful princess’ on their honeymoon, how reverently he held his newborn children — and she began to regret coming.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Alora’s face grew serious, and she hugged her again, gently, and led her toward the lounge. “Let’s talk about it.”

And now this man had arrived. For some reason, she hadn’t yet spoken to anyone except the police about who could have killed Mike — the topic seemed to be taboo around Beth — and she had told the detective that she had no idea who it could be. In her mind the killer was a nameless, faceless man in black, like something out of a crime thriller movie — but it occurred to her that the man pulling up a chair and sitting down at their table, the man who had been with Alora on Friday night, was a suspect, and she had a surreal feeling that she was now a part of that movie.

“The RCMP will want to speak with you again, Mrs. Irwin,” he said. He had a nice voice, deep and somehow soothing, like a doctor with a good bedside manner.

“My name is Kelly.” She spoke almost involuntarily, with a sudden insight that she didn’t like being called Mrs. Irwin. She tried to bring back the tender feelings for Mike, but Alora distracted her by speaking.

“Why are you here?” Alora asked the man, but instead of answering, he extended his hand to Kelly.

“My name is Hunter Rayne,” he said. “I’m a former homicide detective with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and became involved in the investigation of your husband’s murder due to my relationship with Alora.” He nodded toward Alora, then turned and spoke to her. “I apologize for intruding here. I know I wasn’t invited to sit down, but I felt it was important that I bring you up to date.”

Kelly could see Alora’s jaw muscles working, as if she were trying to control her anger. She guessed the two of them had some kind of argument. Perhaps he wasn’t her boyfriend after all. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, but his face was stern, as if he were still with the police and on the job. Just then the young man who had taken their order arrived at the table and set down two glasses of white wine. They had both ordered an unfamiliar wine from British Columbia, although there were good California wines available by the glass.

“What can I get you?” he asked the uninvited guest, who shook his head and said he was fine, thank you.

“The detectives are now going through the process of ruling out anyone who could be considered a potential suspect in Mike’s death. At this point, there is evidently no one who can vouch for the whereabouts of either of you between eight o’clock and ten o’clock on Saturday morning.”

“You know where I was,” said Alora, picking up her wine and setting it back down. “I was in my hotel room at the Chateau Grand Montagne waiting for your call.”

Kelly could hear the tension in Alora’s voice.

“Where were you?” Alora glared at Hunter.

“I won’t go into details, but I think you should know that I am
not
a suspect,” he said. “You don’t know me, Mrs. … Kelly, but I do have an extensive background with the RCMP. I don’t know how much Alora has told you, but she and I haven’t known each other long. We were just getting to know each other, but it appears that Alora has had enough of me already.” He smiled a sad sort of smile, but didn’t seem upset. “I’m sorry about that,” he added, turning to Alora.

Alora started fiddling with one of her earrings and looked away.

“How about you, Kelly? Who were you with Saturday morning?”

Kelly took a sip of wine. It was a pleasant pinot gris from a local winery with a French name. Mike always ordered red wine for them both, so it was a treat to order white. She wasn’t sure she should be speaking to this man who wasn’t really a detective, but Alora, too, looked like she was waiting for Kelly’s answer.

“I… I was with my two children in the hotel room.” The kids were already up and playing when Mike left the room. Kelly had pretended to be asleep, but had opened one eye just enough to watch him leave. He’d picked up Correna and given her a big smooch, then patted Jordan on the head, holding a finger up to his lips and whispering, ‘Let Mommy sleep in, okay?’ She doubted that he was being kind. More likely he was in a hurry and didn’t want to waste time telling her where he was going, or maybe he didn’t want her to know.

“Did you order room service? What did you do for breakfast?”

Kelly wondered what her mother-in-law had told the police. “I wasn’t hungry. I usually just have coffee in the morning, and there was a coffee maker in the room.” Of course, the kids had to eat. “Beth and John — Mike’s mother and father — wanted to take the kids out to McDonald’s for breakfast. She picked the kids up at…“ Kelly paused, trying to remember. “I don’t remember what time, exactly. You’d have to talk to Beth.”

“So you waited for them in the hotel room?”

Kelly couldn’t believe anyone would seriously think she could have killed her husband. Would it be better for her to lie about leaving the hotel, or tell the truth? If they actually started to investigate her movements, it would be better if she told the truth, she decided. There could be video surveillance in the hotel. Perhaps someone remembered seeing her leave. “I went for a walk,” she said, her hands clasped in front of her on the table, as if she were praying. “It’s been a long time since I had a chance to go for a walk in falling snow. A quiet walk by myself is always a treat. If you were a mother of small children, you’d understand.” She lifted her chin and tried to smile.

“How long were you gone?”

“Let her alone, Hunter.” Alora reached across the table and covered Kelly’s hands with her own. “Listen, Kelly. You don’t have to answer anyone’s questions, especially his. He’s not a cop. If you want, I’ll be your lawyer. Just say the word.”

Of course. Mike’s ex-wife was a lawyer. Why not? “Yes. Yes, I would like that. Thank you.”

Hunter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Kelly expected him to argue, maybe ask a different question, but he just said, “Okay. Alora is absolutely right.” He turned to Alora. “I’d like to buy you a drink later, if you’d be willing. I’m sorry I upset you yesterday, and I’d like a chance to talk about it.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Kelly looked from one to the other, feeling like a voyeur.

Alora frowned and opened her mouth to speak, but Hunter held up a hand to stop her. “Think about it,” he said. “You’ve got my cell number. Just give me a call.” He stood up and returned the chair to a nearby table, then gave a nod to each of them in turn. “Thank you for your time. Sorry for the intrusion.”

And he was gone.

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   EIGHT

In spite of a twenty minute lineup in the truck lane, Dan Sorenson cleared the border without any difficulty. Simone had packed some sandwiches for him, but he’d eaten most of them while inching forward in the lineup. He drank two bottles of Coke and finished off his last sandwich between the border and Seattle, so he had to make a pee stop in a rest area somewhere south of Olympia. It was quiet except for the sound of traffic on the I-5 and he was tempted to stop for a nap, but the thought of getting both Big Mother Trucker and Hunter mad at him made him fire up the engine. He yawned and stroked his moustache as he waited for another eighteen wheeler to go past before he could pull out into the access road.

Sorry wasn’t normally averse to speeding — what biker was? — but El had warned him about the fuckin’ fifty-five mile an hour speed limit for trucks. You could usually go sixty without getting pulled over. He had to be at the customer’s dock by six a.m. on Tuesday, and Redding was almost thirteen hours of driving time away. According to the hours of service regulations, he could only work for fourteen hours straight, or actually drive the truck for eleven hours, before laying up for a full ten hours. El had written it all down, so he couldn’t plead ignorance. He’d picked the trailer up just before six o’clock, so between then and Monday at six p.m. he could only drive eleven hours, then he needed a rest of at least ten consecutive hours before he could drive again. Fuckin’ stupid, but that was the law.

The night was black and wet, not so much a rain as a steady drizzle that left the asphalt slick and glossy, so there wasn’t much to see except the lines on the highway and the lights of the other vehicles. Sorry yawned again and cranked up the radio. He’d lost his favorite Vancouver station, JR-FM, around Bellingham and had to scan the stations now and then to find decent music. Rock, country — it didn’t matter as long as it had a beat and some wicked guitar licks. He felt around in the duffel bag beside him for his pack of smokes and lit one up. If he kept the window rolled down when he smoked, Hunter would never know.

Hunter’s Freightliner, The Blue Knight as El called it, wasn’t a bad truck, but Sorry had driven better. It didn’t have the bells and whistles some trucks had — only a bunk, no microwave or TV — plus at six years old it was already past its prime. The rig was a bit like Hunter himself: no frills, hard working, a decent friend but not someone to party with. Still, it had a reliable 350 horsepower Cummins engine and ten near new tires. And he was getting paid to drive this big puppy south, out of the rain. Not a bad deal.

He was hungry again soon after he got back on the highway, and famished by the time he pulled into the Rebel Truck Stop near Kelso to fuel up and get something to eat. He jumped down from the cab, jacket in hand, and double checked that the doors were locked, then headed straight for the can. He threw his leather jacket on the sink counter, and sashayed up to the urinal, in a hurry to get to a table and order food.

The door opened and somebody walked in, so he twisted his neck to get a look. You always gotta watch your back. It was two pimply kids, and one of them was eyeing his jacket. The kid was wearing a dirty jeans jacket that was two sizes too big for him and was bareheaded, with strings of brown hair falling in his eyes. The other one had a puffy black jacket with sleeves too short for his skinny arms. He wore a Cleveland Indians cap that had seen better days. They both looked wet and cold, and carried grimy canvas duffle bags.

“HEY!” Sorry’s voice came from deep in his chest and made both boys jump. He jiggled the drips off his dink and tucked it back in before turning around. “Don’t even think about it.”

The boys looked at each other, and they backed out of his way as he zipped up his jeans and walked over to the sink. It had been nice and toasty in the truck, so he was just wearing a plain black tee shirt. He sniffed his fingers and checked the state of his hands — they were smeared with road dirt from touching the truck — so he figured he should wash up before eating. Soaping his hands he made sure to show off the cobra tattoo that wound up his right forearm and the Harley tattoo on his left bicep. The boys were respectfully quiet and had dropped the duffle bags and stuck their red hands under running water.

“Where you boys from?” They didn’t look like the kids in the pictures he’d brought Hunter, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. When they didn’t answer right away, he said, “Hey! I asked you a question. You with the hat. Where you from?”

It was the one in the jeans jacket who answered. “Minnesota.”

“Yeah. Fuckin’ Minnesota,” said the other one.

“Where in Minnesota?” If they were lying, this could take them a while.

“Thief River Falls.” They spoke in unison, without looking at each other.

“Why’re you all wet?”

“Guy dropped us off in the middle of nowhere. We been walkin’ for hours.”

“Yeah. We’re fuckin’ cold.”

“Hitchin’?” There were no paper towels, just one of those damn blower things, so Sorry dried his hands on his jeans.

They both nodded. “We’re meeting somebody in California.”

Sorry looked them up and down, stroking his moustache. “California’s a big state. I hope you got a city picked out.”

The one with the cap smiled, showing crooked front teeth. The other one thrust his hands under the blower and it started up. Sorry figured he was still trying to warm them up. The kids looked too young to be out in the world by themselves.

“How old are you? You run away?”

“Eighteen.”

“Nineteen.”

Sorry laughed. “Good try. Fifteen’s more like it. You run away?” he asked again.

They just shrugged. Sorry thought about his boy, Bruno. Bruno was just a little tyke, and he couldn’t imagine Bruno growing up, let alone growing up and running away.

“You boys got money?”

The boys looked at each other, then the one in the jeans jacket shook his head. “We… uh… spent it already.”

Sorry shook his head. “Shit.” He picked up his jeans jacket. “Look at you. Skinny as a fuckin’ stick.” He patted his own massive chest, “You could fit the both of you in one of me. You boys clean yourselves up a bit and then come find me.” He motioned out the door toward the restaurant with his chin. “I’ll buy you a couple burgers.” He didn’t have a lot of spending money himself, but he figured he could spare a few bucks.

Sorry didn’t get many more words out of the boys until after they had wolfed down their burgers. Kids that age eat like gorillas. He could tell their hunger was far from satisfied, but he couldn’t afford to give them more. He ordered a coffee to top off his steak and spaghetti, then broke down and ordered hot chocolate for the boys. He found out that the kid with the jeans jacket was Peter, and the one with the Indians cap was Conner. The town they were from, Thief River Falls, was small and fuckin’ cold in the winter. Peter called it a hick town.

“You going south?” asked Conner.

“Go home,” said Sorry.

“What?”

“I said, GO HOME. You kids made a mistake. Admit it. Wait till you can afford a car. And gas. Call your folks and ask them to send you a bus ticket home.”

Both boys looked down at the table. Conner played with his fork, stabbing at a piece of tomato that he’d pulled out of his burger.

“Eat that,” said Sorry.

“I don’t like tomatoes.”

“So what? You’re fuckin’ starving. EAT IT!”

The kid put it in his mouth, made a stupid face as he chewed it, an even stupider face as he swallowed it. “My dad will kill me if I go home,” he said.

“Really?” Sorry directed the question at his buddy, Peter.

Peter shook his head. “I don’t think Mr. Lipfert believes in punishing his children. He’s a psychologist.”

“Fu-uck,” said Sorry, shaking his head. “So that’s his problem. How about
your
dad?”

“I don’t have one. He died when I was three.”

“Then borrow his dad.”

They looked at each other as if he were crazy.

“Listen. I’m serious. You kids should go home. Or your mothers will never know what happened to you until some guy walking his dog comes across your skulls in twenty years or something.”

Sorry looked at his watch. He’d already been here longer than he intended. “I gotta go. Good luck to you guys. But take my advice.” He leaned down and spoke right into Conner’s face. “Go HOME.” He reached in his jeans pocket and pulled out a handful of change, then realized it was all Canadian money, so he stuffed it back inside and peeled an American ten off his small stash. “Here,” he said, throwing it on the table. “Spend it on a phone call. Call his dad,” he jerked his chin toward Conner as he stood up, “and get him to send you two bus tickets.”

The one named Peter closed his hand around the bill, and the two kids looked at each other for a few seconds. “Thanks,” they said in unison.

Sorry shrugged into his jacket and walked away. But he wasn’t thinking about the two boys from Thief River Falls, Minnesota, nor the two runaways from Calgary that Hunter was looking for, and he wasn’t even thinking about his little son, Bruno. He was thinking about a man named Henrik Edvard Sorenson, owner of Hank’s Hardware in Yreka, California, and wondering whether, some twenty five years ago, Hank would have sent his runaway son Daniel a bus ticket home.

Hunter didn’t expect to hear from Alora for a while, if ever. He considered seeking out Mike Irwin’s parents to see if they would consent to talk to him and confirm Kelly’s story, but he was reluctant to interrupt the couple in the midst of watching a movie with their grandchildren, a small respite from thinking about their son’s murder. He liked Mike’s father John, and regretted having to cut their conversation short the way he had.

With the business side of Mike’s life being investigated by Meredith Travis, Hunter pulled the envelope Sorry had brought him out of his jacket pocket and took a closer look at the faxed photos of Adam Marsh and his friend, Nathan. He had an old friend with a law office in the Gastown neighborhood of Vancouver. It wasn’t uncommon for homeless youth to gravitate to the downtown neighborhoods and Gastown was one such neighborhood. It was an area popular with tourists and safer than the east side of downtown. Hunter decided to fax a copy of the photos Helen Marsh had provided to his friend, Joe Solomon, and ask him to pass it on to contacts in the neighborhood. Hunter brought up Legal Joe’s number on his cell phone and made the call.

Legal Joe was a full blooded member of the Tsilhqot’in First Nations, from whose name the region of British Columbia’s interior known as the Chilcotin was derived. They were a people known for their hunting skills, and Hunter hoped Joe was no exception. As he waited for Joe to answer, Hunter turned to the second page of photographs. Again, there was a photo of Adam and Nathan together, this time holding electric guitars and smiling at the camera, but the photo that immediately grabbed Hunter’s attention and wouldn’t let it go was of Adam and his mother. They were both dressed in shorts and tee shirts, smiling and squinting slightly into the sun, and she had her arm over his shoulder. They were in the foreground, standing in what appeared to be a parking lot, and in the far background was a massive dinosaur that dwarfed the cars and trucks parked near its base.

Helen hadn’t changed. Perhaps there were a few more lines in her face, and her cheeks were a little fuller, but it didn’t matter. The grey shadings of the two dimensions captured in the photograph were transformed into three dimensional color in his imagination. He saw the honey highlights in her hair and the rose blush on her tanned cheeks in the summer sun, the blue of her eyes bright with unshed tears that pooled above the lower lids. His finger traced the outline of her neck and shoulder.

“Hello? Who’s calling? Hello?”

Hunter blinked and gave his head a quick shake. ``Joe? It’s Hunter.”

“Hey! Good to hear from you! What’s up, Kemosabe?” Hunter had never been sure if Joe called everyone Kemosabe, or reserved the name just for him. Ironic that he felt more like the Lone Ranger since he’d left the RCMP than he’d ever done before.

“I might need a lawyer, Joe. The RCMP suspect me of a murder.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Only partly. I definitely was a suspect up until today. Maybe I still am, but I’ve been told that I’m in the clear.” He filled Joe in on the story surrounding Mike Irwin’s murder, then said, “That’s not actually why I called. I need a favor.”

“Are we talking unbillable hours?”

Hunter laughed. If there was any lawyer who thought less about billable hours than Joe Solomon, he had yet to meet one. Working from a small office not far from Vancouver’s downtown east side, Joe was a champion of the city’s down and out First Nations people, or as Joe facetiously called them ‘us injuns’, who were unlucky enough to find themselves on the wrong side of the law. “You betcham. What would you need money for anyway?”

“Gambling and women.”

“Is that all? You’ve sworn off drugs and drink? I’m calling about Helen Marsh.” Joe had also been a friend of Ken’s and had helped Helen out with legal issues connected to Ken’s estate after his death. “Her son Adam has run away from Calgary. She thinks he was headed for Vancouver.”