by Robin Spano
“I’m not a squirrel collecting nuts.” Clare knew her voice was verging on extremely rude, but at least she wasn’t sharing how she really felt.
“You’re not the detective — you’re the probe. A squirrel collecting nuts is actually an excellent metaphor. My job is to get information from you, not share down from above.”
Clare wanted to strangle Amanda when she talked about above and below like that. But she couldn’t change Amanda’s hierarchical mindset any more than she could bring Sacha back to life.
“Whatever,” Clare said. “What’s the deal with Chopper?”
Amanda pursed her lips. “All right, I will share this: Senator Westlake’s office thinks Chopper may be involved with the LSD smuggling.”
“They’re right. Jana told me. Chopper makes the acid.”
“That was easy,” Amanda said. “Do you know how old Chopper is? I haven’t been able to look him up because no one can find his real name.”
“Late thirties? His last name is MacPherson, if that helps. I don’t know if it’s Mc or Mac — or his real first name.”
Amanda pulled her notepad toward her on the table and wrote McPherson/MacPherson on the lined page. “Can you get to know Chopper better?”
“Yeah. He flirts with me relentlessly. I wouldn’t mind sleeping with him — you know, for the cause.”
Amanda frowned. “You’re an agent, not a prostitute.”
Ugh. First Noah, now Amanda. “If a man sleeps around, no one calls him a whore. They assume he’s having a good time.”
Amanda arched her eyebrows.
“I love this job, and I love getting right into role. Lucy would fuck Chopper in a heartbeat.”
Amanda still said nothing.
“Well?” Clare said.
“Well, you’ll do what you like, as usual.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re my handler — do you think it’s a good idea or not?” Conflict aside, Clare valued Amanda’s opinion. She felt like she’d be flying blind without it.
“You know what I think. Chopper is a person of interest, so it’s great if you can get close to him, socially. But that doesn’t have to involve sex. I think you equate the two too often.”
“Fine,” Clare said. “I’ll only drop acid with him.”
“Now that I do forbid. No LSD at all, with Chopper or anyone.”
“I think I should play that by ear. This peer group you’ve dropped me into, they’re all such acid heads — Jana, Chopper, Sacha when she was alive. I think it might help me understand them.”
“Have you ever taken acid?”
“No. Have you?”
Amanda made a face and Clare knew she wouldn’t answer from her own experience. When she spoke, her tone was clinical. “It makes you lose touch with reality for approximately eight hours. You’ll hallucinate, there’s no telling what you might say or do, and if you run into trouble, you won’t have the mental capacity to protect yourself.”
“Are you stupid?” Clare’s contempt bubbled up to the surface. “You tell me to investigate Chopper — a drug smuggler who wants to sleep with me. I suggest sex, you call me a whore. I suggest drugs, you forbid it? Maybe you want me to hold Chopper’s hand and skip across the village cobblestones until he confesses that he murdered Sacha on the mountain?”
“No LSD, Clare. It’s not safe.”
“Sacha died on the ski hill drugged up on Ambien.” Clare knew she should tone down her derision if she wanted to change Amanda’s mind, but it was too hard to hold back. “Not on LSD at Chopper’s house. I think if he had it in for me, he’d find a way to kill me during one of our snowboarding lessons.”
“You want me to forbid you to take lessons from him?”
“See, now you’re not even being reasonable. Is this because I called you stupid?”
Amanda didn’t seem to know that answer.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Gather information. Anything you can find without putting yourself at risk.”
“I’m an undercover FBI agent. I’m not paid to run from risk. Down in the States, they don’t childproof the job. It’s probably why they get better results.” Clare was pleased with herself for making her point without swearing. “I just had a thought. To run a drug operation large scale, do you think Chopper would need the cooperation of the Whistler cops? Or even American cops?”
“It’s possible. You got angry last time I said this, but we are very deliberately not sharing your identity with the local RCMP for reasons just like that one. Or with the FBI at large.”
“You didn’t know Chopper made drugs, though, when you made the decision not to share information with the local cops.”
“No,” Amanda said. “And I’m sure there’s more we don’t know. Would you like to stay here and argue with me, or would you like to go out in the field and find out what that is?”
TWENTY-FIVE
MARTHA
The Detroit diner was loud with a blue-collar energy Martha enjoyed. Nothing false in the clanging plates, in the orders being shouted down the line, in the screaming baby two booths over with food dribbling down his chin.
“How’s your chicken?” Reverend Hillier said. “Not too greasy, I hope.”
“It’s greasy.” Martha pushed her plate aside. She wanted to finish the drumstick and thigh combo, if only for political reasons, but her stomach was already protesting. “Tasty, though. I can see why this place is your favorite.”
“It’s my favorite because it’s my congregation’s favorite.” Hillier waved at a man in a neighboring booth, gave him a warm smile. “I never forget the people who gave me my power.”
Martha would have thought influence or responsibility were words more behooving a religious leader, rather than power. Or maybe, like the clanging plates, there was no point in pretending.
“My assistant tells me you’re thinking of backing Geoff Kearnes. I’m sorry to hear that. I thought I could count on your support.”
Hillier pulled grease off his fingers with a wet nap. “I’m keeping my mind open until I make my call publicly.”
“Kearnes offered you a cabinet post.”
“I’ll make the best call for my congregation. Please don’t insult me by suggesting otherwise.” Hillier opened a second wet nap and dabbed around his mouth, paying special attention to his tidy black mustache.
Martha smiled grimly. “What does your congregation need that you’re worried I can’t provide?”
“They need a strong leader. You’ve been absent from public life for nearly two weeks. I want to know that if I throw my weight behind you, it will take you all the way to the White House.”
“I’m here to win, Reverend.”
Hillier asked the waitress for the pie list and waited while she recited it. He chose lemon meringue. Martha nearly asked for mint tea, but at the last second got sensible — no need to get a reputation for highfalutin’ demands in lowfalutin’ places — and asked for black coffee.
“My chances of winning have soared since our last conversation,” Martha said when the waitress had left. “So statistically, you should have more confidence in me now than ever.”
“Statistics.” Hillier gave a disgusted snort. “Statistics say my congregation’s youth will end up as criminals and dropouts, and still I believe in their potential for success. I see good people dealt a bad hand. I see my job as to improve that hand, to pull them up and help them shine like I know they can.”
Martha wanted to vomit from the rhetoric — or maybe it was the chicken. “That’s an admirable mandate. One I hope to help you pursue.”
“A cabinet position could allow me to help them in ways I can’t now.”
“I’m not setting up my cabinet as a reward box for political favors.”
“I admire your ethic,” Hillier said. “But I don�
�t want to turn down an opportunity that could help my people rise up.”
“I can understand that.” Greed was what Martha understood. But she smiled and said, “I think you’ll find my new anti-drug policy will do wonders for inner-city congregations like yours.”
Hillier’s mouth moved in an expression Martha couldn’t read. “New policy? You’ve been head of the senate drug committee for years. I would have thought your position on narcotics was snug by now.”
Martha watched the waitress cut the pie behind the counter. When she had transferred the enormous piece onto a dessert plate, the waitress ran two fingers along the pie lifter and licked them off. She was still smacking her lips when she dropped the piece of pie in front of Hillier.
“It’s amazing,” Martha said, “how two weeks away from work will clear up your vision.”
“So what’s this new vision?” Hillier asked with an amused look before tucking into his pie.
Martha frowned. “The old model is broken. It’s time to put away the hammer and pull out the scalpel — starting with opening our minds to legalization.”
Shit. Those were not smart words to say out loud. Especially not without developing the platform, working on the talking points with Ted. Martha leaned back in the booth, hoping she had done no harm. It was an argument she’d had a million times with Sacha — except suddenly Martha had switched sides and taken her daughter’s position.
Hillier’s second forkful of lemon and meringue hung over his plate, its motion toward his mouth suspended. “You want me to support a bid for legalization?”
Martha smiled, though she felt more like kicking herself — hard. “Not necessarily implementing it — just looking seriously at the legislation Colorado and Washington State are endorsing, and maybe adopting that on a federal level, instead of rejecting the option out of hand like we’ve been doing for the past forty years. I want this country to be healthy, Reverend. It isn’t, at the moment.” She pointedly eyed her plate, which the waitress hadn’t cleared despite the crumpled paper napkin in the center.
“I knew you didn’t like that chicken.”
Martha smiled thinly.
“Look, Martha. I’ll admit it: I’m a conservative. The mere possibility of legalization makes me want to run screaming. With a cabinet position, of course, I could work on the policy with you — ensure that the changes would be good for my people.” He shoved the bite into his mouth, catching some meringue on his mustache. Martha wished she had a camera.
“I’m afraid I can’t play this game, Reverend. I believe I’ll be an excellent president. My daughter’s death did temporarily knock me down. But I’m back. With a fresh perspective that I think this country needs. I plan to look at every issue with clean eyes. And I’m not offering a cabinet post to anyone with religious affiliation.”
“That’s not very Republican.”
Martha resisted a snort. “The separation of church and state is one of the principles our country was founded upon. It’s the most Republican of Republican values.”
“You’ll forgive me, then, if I back Geoffrey Kearnes.”
“No.” Martha stood up. The noises in the restaurant were jarring now. She wanted to muzzle the screaming baby, clean up his face with a cheap napkin. “I won’t forgive you. But I’ll understand what that says about your character.”
TWENTY-SIX
CLARE
Clare stood at the bar as Jana prepped the drinks for her order. Clare thumbed the plastic bug in her pocket. She needed Jana’s back to turn so she could stick it onto the beer glass she was about to serve Chopper. He was talking to Richie and their voices were low. Clare could tell the conversation was significant.
“I don’t like these limes.” Jana squinted into the dish on the bar. “They look mushy. I think they were cut yesterday.”
Okay, Clare said in her head. So go to the fridge and get more.
Jana frowned. “No, they’ll be okay. It’s that guy’s third drink. He would have complained by now.” Jana added a vodka tonic to Clare’s tray and studied the two order chits to see if there was anything left to make.
“Plus a Heineken for Richie,” Clare said.
“Oh yeah.” Jana smirked. “We always forget the ones we love, huh?”
Clare studied the full pint glass on her tray, the dark ale for Chopper. The logo was probably the best place, where the sticker would be most invisible.
Clare slipped the tiny clear sticker from her back pocket. It wouldn’t take long to attach it to the glass, but Jana was weirdly observant. Especially of anything Clare did.
As Jana bent over to pull a Heineken from the fridge, Clare glanced to make sure Chopper and Richie weren’t looking her way. She peeled off the backing and pressed the miniscule bug onto the beer glass. While Jana popped the cap off the Heineken bottle, Clare held the sticker firmly for a few seconds so it wouldn’t fall off from moisture.
“You’re holding that glass pretty tight,” Jana said.
“I am?” Clare tried to keep her breathing steady. What had Jana seen?
“You are. You think maybe you have the hots for Chopper?”
“Maybe.” Clare gave Jana a weak smile. “He’s not my normal type, but maybe that’s exactly what I need.”
Clare walked slowly through the room. This would be the wrong time to spill her first tray, though she felt wobblier than ever. She set Richie’s bottle and Chopper’s pint glass on their table.
The receiver was in Clare’s bag behind the bar. If all went well, she would leave tonight with an audio recording of Chopper and Richie, deep in conversation.
TWENTY-SEVEN
RICHIE
Richie smiled as he surveyed the bar. The waitresses would look hot in their new uniforms — which should be white, not black, in keeping with the name Avalanche. Drink prices could go up a few cents. But mostly this place was damn decent. He liked the sloped ceilings, the wooden beams, the funky lighting, the view of the mountain. Not bad for an entry-level business. Not bad at all.
But first, Seattle.
“We’re officially overdue at midnight,” he said to Chopper.
Chopper glanced at his watch. “We’d have to run the batch down ourselves to make it in time. Are you suggesting we . . .”
“No, man. Way too risky. Norris and I already agreed that we should wait this out a few days, eat the hundred grand penalty. And you know how rare it is for Norris and me to agree.”
“What about one of your sub-dealers? The kids you wholesale pot and shrooms to.”
“Can’t trust them,” Richie said. “If they make the run successfully, they have shit on me. If they get busted on the drive, I’m the first name they’ll sell out.”
Chopper checked his watch again. “Seriously, we can hop in my truck now and make it.”
“No. We have to play this right. There’s always an optimal solution if you look at a problem from the right angle.” Richie hoped this was true — the stress buzzing inside him was making him doubt the Bob Billingsley line he’d just quoted.
Chopper tilted back on two legs of his stool. “I paid Norris the ten grand. The wheels are in motion to get the undercover’s name.”
Richie leaned forward. “You want to talk quieter? Walls have ears. Even Wade’s walls.”
“Should I use my inside voice?”
“Use your fucking inside a library voice.”
Chopper grinned. “I’ve never fucked inside a library. You think it would be hotter with the librarian while she’s on shift, or with another chick, trying not to get caught by the librarian?”
“This is serious.” Richie crooked a finger to get Chopper to stop tilting and come closer. “How long did Norris say it will take to get this name?”
“Dunno. I gave him the cash and he couldn’t get away fast enough.”
“Better be soon, or I’m asking fo
r a refund.”
“Chill, Richie. This is going to come together.”
“Chill. Yeah. Easy for you to say. You’re stoned all the time.”
“Not all the time.” Chopper smirked, and Richie wanted to punch the expression off his face.
He settled for clenching his fists below the table.
“What about Norris, for the run?” Richie said. “I bet the UC’s not looking in his direction.”
Chopper nodded slowly. “I like that. Plus it sounds like he could use the cash.”
“He’s getting docked ten grand off the top,” Richie said. “For the money he extorted today.”
“We’re not docking anything until the case is closed and the undercover has gone home.”
“Fine. Where’s he spending all his cash, anyway? You think it’s for real, that a cello for his kid could cost that much? Must have been nearly two hundred grand we’ve given him the past ten months.”
“Yeah, it’s sadly real.” Chopper’s finger picked at the embossed logo on his pint glass. “Norris wanted a career in music so bad, it’s like he’s transferred his dream to his kid — like it’s okay for him to fail as long as he helps her succeed.”
“Norris should grab a guitar and hit the road. He should do it soon.” Richie flicked his tongue along the back of his grill. For whatever reason, the gesture calmed him — like the adult version of sucking his thumb.
“We need Norris. You want some RCMP chief who isn’t sympathetic to our cause?”
“Might be easier. The guy’s going rogue on us. Which makes me wonder who the hell he’s working for.”
“He’s scared,” Chopper said, still thumbing the logo on his glass. “Nothing more sinister. I’ll ask him about making the run.”
“What about Wade?” It killed Richie to suggest it — he wanted to solve Wade’s cashflow problems by being his partner, not by giving him a job — but this was way more important.
“No.” Chopper was suddenly not chill. He stopped playing with his glass and sat up straight. “I’m sure he’d take the deal. But his boozing is out of control these days. We can’t take chances with him being sloppy.”