“Pee break,” I announced as I pulled into a self-serve gas station.
The girls went into the convenience store attached to the service station, bopping to the beats of their respective Walkmans. Bobbi stretched her legs while I topped up the tank.
“I think we’re being followed,” Bobbi said.
“What?”
“That white car,” she said, pointing to a white Buick Century parked at the pumps of the gas station across the road. “It’s been behind us since we passed Lions Bay.”
“What makes you think it’s following us?” I asked. The driver wasn’t paying any attention to us, seemed to be studying a map as the attendant filled the tank.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But why didn’t he pass? You’re driving like you’re afraid the wheels are going to fall off any minute.”
“Maybe,” I said, “he’s just a timid driver.”
“Why did he stop when we did?”
“I never realized you had such a suspicious mind,” I said.
I’d noticed the same white car in the rear view mirror some time back, but it hadn’t occurred to me that it might have been following us, despite the driver’s reluctance to pass, even on the three-lane passing sections. I was at least half sure it was a coincidence, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to take a better look, see if he was missing any fingers. I opened the back of the Land Rover to get out one of the cameras and a telephoto lens.
“False alarm, I guess,” Bobbi said as the Buick pulled out of the gas station and sped north toward Whistler.
I watched it disappear around a bend. I didn’t bother to mention that there was a high probability that most of the cars on this road were going to Whistler and you could just as easily “precede” as “follow”.
From Squamish we continued on Highway 99 along the Squamish River for a few kilometres before it branches off and snakes along the Cheakamus River gorge for the climb into the Coast Mountains. It’s a spectacular drive in any season and there are numerous lookouts along the road. The Buick was parked in the second one we passed, nose against the guard rail, the driver sitting behind the wheel.
Bobbi looked at me. “Well?”
“He’s taking in the view.”
She looked sceptical.
A few minutes later I saw the distinctive front end of the Buick in the rearview mirror. It slowly caught up until it was about five or six car lengths behind us. Bobbi kept glancing at the passenger side mirror and soon saw it too.
“Pull off,” she said. “Let him pass. Let him know we know he’s there.”
Hilly and Courtney seemed to be asleep, both with their Walkman earphones still socketed and issuing tinny, far off sounds. I slowed for a sharp turn. The Buick come within a couple of car lengths. There was an Avis sticker on the front bumper.
“If he’s following us,” I said, “it doesn’t look to me like he cares whether we know it or not. Either that or he’s not very good.”
She opened a Photo Life magazine. “Maybe you’re right about me having a suspicious mind,” she said and began to read.
Was it the mysterious Two-Fingered Man? I wondered, trying to drive with one eye on the road and the other on the rearview mirror and damned near piling into the back of a Maverick bus as a result. Or was it simply a cautious driver, like us, going to Whistler? I tried to forget about it before I killed us all.
* * * * *
We arrived in Whistler Creek a little before noon and watched as the white Buick continued toward the main village of Whistler a few kilometres farther along Highway 99. When in Whistler I usually stayed at the Mountain Haus bed and breakfast about midway between Whistler Creek and Whistler Village. But the proprietors, Joanna and Bill Selkirk, were visiting Joanna’s parents in Kansas or Oklahoma or Nebraska, so I’d rented a condo in Whistler Creek for four days. After checking into the condo and lunching at Boston Pizza, Bobbi and I dropped the girls off in Whistler Village to fend for themselves for the afternoon and hurried to the two o’clock meeting with the client and the people from the agency to go over the shooting schedule.
I consider myself a good photographer, technically competent and moderately creative, but hindered somewhat by a tendency toward verbal rather than visual thinking. Bobbi is better. She is the artist. What I have to work at comes naturally to her. To see us on the street you wouldn’t mistake either of us for bank employees or insurance company executives, but neither would you say to yourself, these people are obviously creative, look at the way they are dressed.
There was no mistaking that Nigel Lewellyn-Smith was creative, though. A red neon sign suspended over his head flashing the words “I am Creative” would have been redundant. Everything about Nigel, from the silk cravat and tinted glasses to the fake British accent to go with the fake British name and equally fake homosexual affectations, screamed CREATIVE. The thing of it was, though, he was very, very good at what he did.
“Thomas,” he said, offering me his hand as though he expected me to kiss it. “Dear boy.”
“Nigel,” I said, barely touching his fingertips.
He hugged Bobbi. “Are you two doing it yet?” he asked her.
“Every chance we get,” Bobbi said.
The first time we’d worked with Nigel, he had decided that Bobbi and I were made for each other. He claimed he could not understand how she and I could work together effectively without sleeping together. I think he was kidding.
“You’re a liar,” Nigel said, “but I love you. So, are you both ready to work your chaste little asses off.”
“Just because we’re not fucking each other,” Bobbi said, “doesn’t mean we’re chaste.”
“I’m chaste all the time,” I said. “Just never caught.”
“Haw,” Bobby said.
“Let’s get this tedious business over with,” Nigel said. “Then we can go out get laid.”
* * * * *
In the evening Bobbi took Hilly and Courtney to the movies and I headed for Tapley’s Neighbourhood Pub to see if I could track down Wes Camacho. The waitress had hair the colour and texture of straw and was sunburned despite her tan. I asked her if she knew Wes.
“Yah,” she said. “I know Ves.” She sounded like Arnold Schwarzennegger.
“Have you seen him tonight?”
“He vass here a vile ago,” she said. She left to get my beer.
Wesley Camacho ran a one-man helicopter operation and I’d bartered services with him from time to time. He was also tapped into most of what went on in Whistler. Tapley’s was his home away from home. A few minutes later, he dropped his lanky frame into the chair across the table from me.
“Hey, Flash. Long time no see.” He thrust out a powerful hand. “Bobbi with you?”
“At the movies,” I said. “How are you?”
“Same,” he replied. “Still flyin’ and getting laid regular. You here for business or pleasure?”
“Business,” I said. “A brochure promoting Whistler as a summer resort. Skiing on the glaciers, hiking, mountain biking, golf, sail-boarding, all that stuff.”
We played catch-up for a minute or two, then he said, “You’ll never guess who I saw a coupla weeks ago.”
“Carla Bergman,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, disappointed I’d ruined his surprise. “I took her and her boss – ” he came down heavily on the word “ – for a fly-about over Rainbow Mountain. I dunno what I did to offend her, man, but she was colder’n Dracula’s dick. Called me Mister Camacho.”
“Ouch,” I said. “And after all you two meant to each other.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean any harm,” he said. “You know me, Flash. It’s just part of my shtick. The ladies expect it and it gives them something to tell their friends about when they go back home to Mississauga.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. He shrugged. It was his most common expression. “What was your impression of Ryan?” I asked.
“Can’t say I liked him much. A bit snakish. Came
on friendly enough, but I wouldn’t turn my back on him in a business deal.”
“He was supposed to be working on some big development project up here. Know anything about it?”
“There’s always somethin’ goin’ on,” he said, “The most interesting rumour makin’ the rounds these days is that there’s some serious money, mostly Hong Kong and Japanese, behind a plan to open Rainbow Mountain to development. Some local boys-made-good types are frothing at the mouth and lining up to buy into a piece of the action. But,” he added with a shrug, “if there’s anythin’ to it, it’s way out of my league.”
Despite his flamboyant flyboy demeanour, Wes was a shrewd businessman who’d invested well and wisely in half a dozen local enterprises, from real estate to limousine services to launderettes. He still flew, but only because he liked it and, he claimed, it was a great way to meet women.
“How about Ryan?” I asked. “Is it out of his league too?”
“Unless my take on him is way off, yeah, I’d say so. He talks big, but he’s little fish. Why you asking? You’re not thinking about getting into anything with him, are you?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing like that.”
“If you’re looking to invest your money, Flash, I got a few things you might find interesting. Nothing too risky. You’re a friend.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I think I’ll stick to nice, safe mutual funds. That is, if I had any money to invest in the first place.”
Wes shrugged, downed his beer, and stood up. “Got an early gig,” he said. “Don’t be a stranger,” he added, sticking out his hand. “Give my love to Bobbi.”
* * * * *
Hilly and Courtney were blurry-eyed and yawning with fatigue by the time we got back to the condo. They headed straight for bed. They were sharing one of the small upstairs bedrooms, Bobbi had the other, and I was consigned to a hide-a-bed in the living room.
Over a couple of cold Kokanees we’d picked up earlier in the day, Bobbi and I talked over the next day’s shoot, biking, hiking and glacier skiing on Blackcomb Mountain. By ten she was stifling yawns and rubbing her eyes.
“Go to bed,” I said. “I don’t want to have to carry you up the stairs.”
She stood up. “Tom?”
“Mmm.” I noticed that she hadn’t called me “Boss.”
“I know I haven’t been very good company lately and that you’ve been carrying me, and, well, I want you to know I really appreciate it, your patience and all that, I’ve had a lot on my mind and I promise I’ll have it all sorted out soon, I just wanted to say thanks.”
“Bobbi,” I said, “if there’s anything I can do, all you have to do is say so. I think you know that.” She nodded. “I hate to see you like this, but if you don’t want to talk to me about it, I understand. Would you like the names of, ah, some people you could talk to? I mean, if that’s what you think you need.”
She shook her head, long brown ponytail swishing. Her eyes were dark fathomless pools. “No, it’s nothing like that,” she said. “It’s just some personal stuff I have to sort out for myself.”
She went upstairs.
I brushed my teeth in the downstairs bathroom, folded out the hide-a-bed, undressed and climbed between the cool sheets. Through the open window I could hear voices raised over loud rock music. Whistler is a year-round party town. And here I was in bed at eleven o’clock. The exciting life of a single.
I thought about Francine, which was a mistake.
Chapter 28
The next day’s shoot went well. Hilly got a kick out of being on the glacier in shorts and a T-shirt, was only mildly disappointed that corn snow didn’t make good snowballs. Courtney tried hard to be blasé about it, but squealed with delight at the antics of the hot-dogging skiers and snowboarders we’d hired for the shoot. After Bobbi lent them one of the spare cameras, an old ruggedized Canon, plus a couple of rolls of film, and gave them a quick lesson on loading and using it, we didn’t see very much of them until it was time to leave.
* * * * *
As I turned into the big day parking lot across from the main village complex, the white Avis Buick pulled in behind us. The sun was reflecting off its windshield so I couldn’t make out the driver’s face. I found a space between a battered pickup and a Mercedes with two pairs of skis and a sailboard on the roof, probably golf clubs in the truck. The Buick continued down the row and, failing to find a free space farther on, went around the end and came back up the next row. Very casual.
“Stay here,” I said to Bobbi and the girls. Jumping out of the Land Rover, I moved to intercept the Buick, hoping to get a better look at the driver. He saw me coming and increased speed, jouncing through the potholes. I ran. He stomped it, spitting gravel. The car skidded around the end of the row and sped toward the exit.
“Well?” Bobbi said when I got back to the Land Rover.
“I know. You told me so.” I found a pen and wrote the licence number on the pad of yellow Post-its I keep stuck to the dash. “I got the licence number,” I said, “but I don’t know what good it’s going to do.”
Bobbi peeled off the Post-it. “Can’t hurt to try,” she said, getting out of the car.
The Avis office was in the Blackcomb Lodge. The clerk was a slim, balding, well-tanned man of about thirty. His name tag read Clint. He had a cast on his left arm.
“Hey, Clint,” Bobbi said as though he was her best friend in the world.
“G’dye,” he replied. “What can I do for you folks?”
“Clint, this is my boss, Tom McCall.” We shook hands. Bobbi introduced Hilly and Courtney, then said, “I was wondering if you could do us a favour.”
“Name it,” Clint said agreeably.
She handed him the Post-it. “If you typed this licence number into your computer,” she said, “could you call up the name of the person who rented this car?”
“Ah, yes, I can do it,” Clint said. “But I’m not supposed to unless I have a request from the police.”
“It’s important,” Bobbi said.
“We’re being followed,” Hilly blurted out.
“Followed?”
“Well, maybe,” I said. “We’ve been seeing the same car almost since we left Vancouver. A white Buick Century with an Avis sticker on the bumper.”
Clint looked at Bobbi.
“I don’t want to get you into trouble,” she said, hitting him with a megawatt smile. “But it sure would mean a lot to me if you could help us out.”
He didn’t have a chance. With a bemused expression, he shrugged and tapped his keyboard. He watched the screen for a few seconds, then said, “The car’s rented to a William Henderson, 1424 Hillcrest Circle, Thornhill, Ontario.”
The name meant nothing to me, of course. I wrote it down anyway.
“You want his driver’s licence number?” Clint asked.
I nodded and he read it off the screen. I added it to the name and address on the Post-it.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I owe you one,” Bobbi said. She handed him a business card. “Call me.”
“Too right,” Clint said.
* * * * *
Tuesday was Prime Rib night at Tapley’s and it was not to be missed. For ten bucks you got an inch-thick slice of rare prime rib, mashed potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, gravy, broccoli with a cheesy sauce (okay, so nothing’s perfect) and horseradish guaranteed to clear your sinuses. We placed our orders with the straw-haired waitress, I gave her my last name, and when our order was ready, they called my name over the PA system. We picked up our meals from the service window by the entrance.
“I can’t eat that,” Courtney said, staring aghast at her heaping plate. Hilly was already digging into her mashed potatoes and gravy.
“Eat what you can,” I said.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Courtney said.
“There was meat in the spaghetti sauce last night,” Bobbi said.
“That’s different. Spaghetti sauce doesn’t look like meat. This isn’t even co
oked,” she added, poking at the pinkish grey beef.
“Don’t eat it, then,” I said. “Eat the vegetables.”
“They look gross too,” she said.
But she ate, even nibbled a few bites of beef. Hilly ran out of steam about halfway through hers, so I finished it for her. I was so stuffed by then I wasn’t even tempted by Courtney’s leftovers.
“You are Tom McCall?” the waitress said as she cleared the table. I admitted I was. “Ves told me that if I saw you to tell you he vould be here at eight, to vait.”
It was ten to eight. “No problem,” I said.
“You vant coffee?” she asked.
I said I did. Bobbi and the girls shook their heads. Wes arrived a few minutes later. He set a mug of coffee in front of me.
“Hiya, darlin’,” he said to Bobbi.
“Hey, Wes,” Bobbi said.
I introduced Hilly and Courtney. He shook hands with both of them.
“Got a minute, Flash?” He tilted his head toward the bar.
“Sure,” I said. “Be right back,” I said to Bobbi and followed Wes to the bar.
Wes leaned his elbows on the bar and said, “I asked around about your pal Ryan.”
“He’s not my pal.”
“Good thing, ’cause there’s a couple of those local boys I told you about that’re mightily pissed with him. They got in deep with him on a three-way deal to buy a piece of the Rainbow Mountain action. Way deep. And it cost them big. Those boys are not exactly brain surgeons,” he went on. “But they’re both of ’em bright enough to know when they’ve been left holding the stinky end of the stick.”
“It was a con?” I said. “Ryan took their money?”
“Ryan lost a bundle too,” he said. “Although not half as much as Henry and Layton. Near as I can tell, the reason they lost their money was because Ryan wasn’t able to come up with another couple of million to close the deal. And the people they were dealing with don’t give refunds. Apparently Ryan was in the middle of trying to liquidate some assets when the deal went south and he went chasing off after it.”
If Looks Could Kill Page 19