Sea to Sky (20 page)

“So tell me,” Meredith said, “Dave, just what does Cordero and Associates do?”

He looked at her with half-lowered lids, his lips turned up slightly on one side. “What do we do?
We,
” he accented the ‘we’ and paused for a few seconds, “are a consultant.”

“And just who do
we
consult for?” she asked, tilting her head with a playful smile.

“Anyone who will pay us.”

She frowned. “No, seriously. I’m trying to learn all I can about the industry. What type of consulting do you do?”

“Supply-contract negotiations.”

“Do you help the supplier or the buyer?”

“It depends.”

She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to elaborate. He took another sip of his drink. There wasn’t much left. “Do you want another drink?” she asked.

“That would be nice of you.”

“Depends on…?” she prompted.

“Whoever is prepared to pay the most.”

“You must be good at what you do.”

“I am,” he said, then added, “Very good. The best.”

She pursed her lips and nodded.
So am I, Dave. So am I.

While his car warmed up, Hunter pulled a worn vinyl folder containing business cards out of his glove box and found the number for the Vancouver Police Department. It had been a while — over five years, in fact — since he’d had any dealings with the VPD on an official level, and he had no favors to call in, so he just asked for the Missing Persons Unit. The officer who answered the phone was hesitant about taking information from a third party, and recommended that the boy’s mother make the report. He did, however, suggest that Hunter try calling the Community Policing Center in downtown Vancouver.

“They’ve got eyes on the street. If the subject is, in fact, in that area, you might get lucky.”

Hunter thanked him, and called the downtown CPC. He identified himself as a retired RCMP sergeant helping out a friend and described the situation.

“Hang on a minute,” said the female officer on the other end of the line, “that rings a bell.” She was away from the phone for almost two minutes, and Hunter was finally feeling warm air blowing around his knees when she came back on. “A local lawyer dropped off a photo here just yesterday. We’ve posted the photo, and our guys are on the lookout for the two boys. Is this phone number yours?”

Hunter thanked her, and called Helen’s number.

“Hunter,” Helen sounded breathless, “what have you heard?”

“You’ve got many eyes and ears working for you in Vancouver now, Helen. Joe Solomon is making the rounds of the shelters tonight, and the downtown Community Police have copies of Adam’s photos and are on the lookout. Go ahead and call the VPD Missing Persons Unit and make your report with them, in case the boys are somewhere other than in the downtown area.” He gave her the number.

“But no one’s seen Adam yet?”

Hunter thought about the hang up on his voicemail. His hesitation seemed to give her hope.

“Has someone called?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I had a dead battery for a while this afternoon.”

“You don’t know? Do you think someone did call?”

“Someone hung up without leaving a message.”

“Do you know what number?”

“No.”

“Oh, God. I hate not knowing where he is. Call me right away if you hear anything, anything at all. Right away. Okay?”

He agreed, and she said, “We better not tie up your line. ‘Bye. And Hunter …”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you to turn to.”

He flipped the phone shut and sat there staring at the steering wheel, letting the Pontiac’s heater do its job, images of Helen from his past playing in his mind. He and Helen had a complicated past and now there was an uncomfortable present, but he couldn’t see a future. He didn’t know why not, and wasn’t ready to ask himself why.

In the semi-darkness, the room didn’t look familiar. At first, Sorry couldn’t remember where he was and had a sinking feeling that he’d fallen off the wagon and done something he’d regret, if he ever remembered what it was. It had been a long time since that had happened. He still smoked weed and popped the occasional pill, but the thought of Mo and the kids kept him from going back to booze. Most of the time.

He was stretched out on a sofa covered in a rough, brown fabric, and there was some kind of lumpy cushion under his head. He raised himself on his elbows and looked around. Was that a sewing machine on that table? On the wall above it there was a painting — or a print — of an Indian on a spotted horse. Of course. He was back in Yreka, he’d been driving all night, stopped for a ten hour break, and had to be in Redding by nine o’clock. It was already getting dark? Fuck! He rolled off the sofa and thudded to the window to pull back the heavy curtains. From the look of the twilight sky, the sun had already set.

He opened the door and heard his mother’s voice, and although he couldn’t make out the words, he could tell it was a one-sided conversation. She must be on the phone.

Uh-oh. He was supposed to report in to Big Mother Trucker so she would know he was on schedule. She’d been pissed off that he had no cell phone, so he’d promised to call.

“Mor!” he roared, heading for the kitchen. He could smell frying onions and maybe potatoes, an aroma that made his mouth water. “What’s for dinner?”

She whirled around and glared at him, then put a finger to her lips before turning away and speaking into the receiver. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Meg. What’s he going to do now?”

Sorry shrugged and went to wash up. By the time he returned to the kitchen, his mother was busy at the stove.

“What time do you have to leave?” she asked. “Your father gets home at six thirty. It would be nice to have dinner together.”

“Sure, but I’ve got to be on the road by seven,” he said as he unhooked the receiver from the wall phone.

El seemed satisfied with his progress, but she told him to hold on a minute while she finished another call. He stretched the phone cord as far as it would reach to get close to the stove and peer over his mother’s shoulder. “Smells good, Ma. Whatcha cookin’?”

“Meatloaf with onion gravy,” she said.

He said “Yum” and licked his lips just as El came back on the line.

“What?” She sounded shocked.

“You wanted me to hold on, remember?”

“Right.”

Just then his mother called out, “Something to drink, sweetie?” and he called back, “Just milk.”

“Huh? Where the hell are you anyway?”

“I’m at my mom and dad’s. In Yreka.”

“Who’d have guessed you had parents,” said El. Then, “Listen. After you drop the trailer in Redding, I want you to deadhead to Sylmar.”

“Sylmar? That’s practically L.A. Why? You got another load for me?”

“Uh. I’m workin’ on it.”

“Then what the fuck …”

“I’m the dispatcher, you shithead. You just drive.”

“You gonna tell me where in Sylmar?”

“Pull in at the Pilot in Castaic. Call me from there tomorrow morning and I’ll tell you what you need to know. Got that?”

He knew she was about to hang up, so he yelled, “Wait, El! Does Hunter know?”

A pause. “Of course he knows. Look, this is important, Sorenson — don’t fuck up.”

His father arrived home just before six-thirty, and Sorry’s mother told him by the time he’d washed up, dinner would be on the table. He left the room grumbling.

Sorry had already bellied up to the table and sat holding his knife and fork. When his father came back, it felt like he might need the knife to cut through the tension in the room. Bless his mother. She came up behind old Hank and hugged his neck, then planted a kiss on his cheek and asked him how his day had been.

Hank patted her arm, nodded and with something close to a smile said, “Pretty good, Momma. Made some money. Saw some old friends.” He didn’t look at Sorry when he said that. “What’s the big rush for dinner? You know I like to unwind a little first, watch my news.”

She gestured toward Sorry with her chin. “Danny’s got to be back on the road in half an hour. Right, Dan?”

Sorry glanced at the clock above the stove. “Twenty minutes,” he said.

His father took a long, hard look at Sorry, then turned to his wife with a face as expressionless as a chunk of lava rock. “Feed him, then. I’m going to watch the six-thirty news.” With that, the old man pushed back his chair and left the room.

His mother set down a plate with a generous portion of meatloaf, and Sorry ate in silence until his plate was almost empty. After one taste he was able to push his father from his mind. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes with onion gravy was the food of the gods. His mother continued to putter in the kitchen, washing some dishes, putting things away, pouring him another glass of milk and herself a glass of red wine. “You make the best meatloaf in the world, Mor,” he said, picking up the milk. The sound of the television came from the living room, and he rolled his eyes in that direction. “I hope I haven’t ruined your dinner.”

“He’s hurt,” she said, sitting down next to him. “You come to town once in a hundred years, then eat and run like we aren’t important, and he has no say in the matter.”

“Maybe if he wasn’t such a cranky old bastard he might get more visitors.”

“We’re not talking about
visitors
, Danny.” Her voice was low and patient. “
You.
You’re his only son.” She put her hand on his arm as if to draw his attention, but he couldn’t look her in the eye.

“Gotta go, Ma,” he said, getting up from the table.

Ten minutes later he was guiding The Blue Knight and its heavy trailer out of the neighbor’s driveway. He looked back through the trees toward his parents’ place. His mother was at the front door, waving.

He thought he saw his father’s face at the living room window, just for a few seconds, but he wasn’t sure.

Hunter was early, and there was no sign of John Irwin in the lounge at the Coast Peaks Hotel. He took the opportunity to do a little poking around in the hopes of seeing someone he could talk to about Mike Irwin. The conference was obviously in full swing, judging by the men and women wandering across the lobby or standing in groups of three or four, all wearing matching blue name tags on black cords around their necks.

Most of the people with nametags seemed to be gravitating toward one of the main conference rooms, and Hunter followed a man carrying a laptop case in that direction. The room was large and the floor space between two self-serve bars was crowded with people holding glasses of beer and wine, standing and chatting in groups. He made his way inside and began scanning the tables for familiar faces, but a thin woman wearing a yellow name tag stepped in front of him.

“Excuse me, sir. I don’t see your name tag. Are you registered for the conference?”

“No, I …”

“I’m sorry, sir. This dinner is for conference attendees only. Is there something else I can help you with?” She smiled without opening her lips, lifting one arm as if to usher him back out the door. The name on her yellow tag was Sandra Gough. She waved him on with her other hand, like a traffic cop.

He bent and spoke in her ear, soft and low. “I don’t want dinner, Miss Gough. I’m here to find a killer.” He regretted giving in to the impulse as soon as he said it.

Her smile disappeared. “I really don’t think this is a good time…”

Hunter caught sight of Meredith Travis walking away from one of the bars, carrying two drinks. She wore a name tag and looked every inch a registered attendee. “You’re right,” he told the woman. “This is not a good time.” He watched Meredith put down one of the drinks in front of a grey-haired man and take a seat beside him. He would catch up with her later. He walked past Miss Gough and out the door, resisting the urge to glare at her.

By the time Hunter got back to the lounge, John Irwin was seated at the same table they had shared Saturday evening, the day of Mike’s murder. The older man looked freshly shaved and wore a burgundy polo shirt with a golf course logo on the chest, but his face was pale and he didn’t smile when Hunter pulled out the chair across from him.

“You a golfer?” asked Hunter. When John looked confused, Hunter added, “The crossed clubs on your shirt. Are you a member?”

John nodded, then shook his head. “A friend of mine’s a member of Broadmoor. I used to golf once or twice a week.”

“Does that mean you don’t anymore?”

The older man smiled. “Not in the rain or snow.”

“Of course. I try to get out with my landlord when I’m in town, but we’re fair-weather golfers, too.”

They made small talk until they’d been served. Hunter raised his glass, but didn’t make a toast.

Quietly, John said, “Non Sibi Sed Patriae.”

“Sorry?”

“Huh? Oh. Latin leftover from my army days. Just feeling down about my son.” He sighed, then raised his beer to his lips and took several swallows.