Sea to Sky (23 page)

“Are you a reporter?”

“No.  I just…”

Alora straightened up and her eyes widened. “Oh my god. You’re working for the police, aren’t you?”

Meredith looked away and kept her mouth shut. She remained seated as Alora picked up her purse and left the table, then she watched as Alora swept past the Irwins’ table without looking in their direction, threw some money down on the cashier’s desk and hurried out into the lobby.

Meredith smiled to herself. That little discussion may not have advanced her investigation — or that of the local police — but sometimes a girl just likes to have a little fun.

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    THIRTEEN

It was one of those mornings in the mountains that takes your breath away. The trees that lined the side streets were coated with snow like a layer of fresh whipped cream, and to the east rose the regal white peaks of Blackcomb and Whistler mountains against a sky as bright and blue as summertime. Hunter rolled `down his window and inhaled lungfuls of the cold mountain air. He arrived at the Whistler RCMP detachment just before nine o’clock for his meeting with Staff Sergeant Shane Blackwell. Shane was just dismissing Sergeant Colin Pike, who smiled and clapped Hunter on the shoulder as he left the room. “Off to the salt mines,” he said cheerfully.

Hunter sat down without being invited. “Anything new?”

“Just talked to the victim’s father again.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Can’t help the guy. Says he has no theories, but of course he wants to know who killed his son. Wish I knew enough to say.”

Shane tossed a copy of the morning’s paper across the desk, folded open to an inside page. “Seen this?”

Hunter picked it up and read a brief article on the Chairlift Killer case, ending with a request from police for witnesses to come forward. “Something useful turn up?”

“Colin is heading off to interview three of the callers. We’ve had eight calls so far, and are expecting more. From past experience, I know that over ninety percent of the calls will be duds, but a few could very well pay off. Anything from your end?”

“A lead from our lovely PI. Did you interview a David Cordero, one of Mike Irwin’s contacts from the conference? Meredith and I both saw him sitting at the table with the victim on Friday night in the GM.”

Shane leafed through a file on his desk, and shook his head as he flipped the pages back down. “What about him?”

“He’s worth taking a look at. Evidently he had some kind of grudge against the victim, and may have had a deal with him go sour earlier this year.”

Shane picked up a pen and made some notes. “C-O-R-D-E-R-O?”

“As far as I know, that’s how it’s spelled. And get this — Cordero has a cast on his leg. Maybe your guys can check to see if he arrived with it on, or if he visited a clinic while he was here.”

Shane’s eyebrows went up.

“He may have made a deal with Irwin involving the sale of a yacht in Huntington Beach. I don’t know that for sure, but Kelly Irwin said the man who sold her husband the yacht looked like some kind of Mexican Godfather, and Cordero fits the description. He claims to have hurt himself coaching kids’ soccer in a barrio. Meredith said there’s something threatening about him.”

Shane scratched a few more lines, then threw down his pen. “Why is it that every time you come in here, you point us toward another suspect? Don’t you think it’s about time you start helping us narrow the field?”

Sorry shook himself awake and rolled down his window to get a better look at the commotion on the loading dock at Blue Hills Industries in Sylmar. El had sent him there after his breakfast break at the truck stop in Castaic. He wasn’t sure what the Fat Broad was thinking, getting him to do some kind of weird stake-out to collect information for Hunter.

“Remember, if anybody asks, you’re officially off-duty,” she’d said. “You’re just hanging out until I find you a load home. Just see what kind of scuttlebutt you can pick up from any drivers you see leaving the plant.”

“What-butt?” He held the phone at arm’s length and scowled at it before adding, “What the fuck are you saying, woman?”

“Scuttlebutt, you pinhead. Rumors, gossip, whatever juicy tidbits the drivers want to drop on you about Blue Hills Industries or the people who work there.”

“And why would they want to talk to me?”

“Because you’re friendly and charming and a good listener, you asshole. Don’t you want to keep Hunter out of jail?”

“Does Hunter know about this?”

“Duh-uh,” she had replied, whatever that meant.

The Blue Hills plant was a large, sprawling building on San Fernando Road, with a manicured front lawn, leafy trees and lots of plate glass on the office end, and a big parking lot in front of a substantial warehouse on the other. The entire complex was surrounded by a chain link fence with three strands of barbed wire along the top.  There was an automated black-barred gate at the entry to the parking lot. He was able to pull in on the street just past the gate, shaded by a leafy tree, with a decent view of the yard and the four closed doors of the loading dock if he looked back out of his passenger side window.

When he arrived, the lot was full of parked cars, but there was little activity on the warehouse side. There were two unmarked forty foot trailers backed up against closed doors on the loading dock, but no sign of a tractor or driver. He’d smoked a cigarette leaning up against the front fender, ground the butt into the asphalt with his heel, then climbed into the passenger seat of the cab where he promptly fell asleep.

Awake now, he saw two tractors in the yard; a red Kenworth sat idling directly in front of a black Freightliner. The Freightliner was backed up to one of the trailers. The doors of the loading dock were up, and he could hear two male voices in a heated back-and-forth, but the only syllable he could make out clearly was ‘fuck’. Then a wiry little black dude stormed out of the warehouse door carrying a yellow paper cup, which he tossed through the open window of the black tractor. Judging by the way it flew, the cup was at least half full.

The guy climbed into the red Kenworth and slammed his door much harder than necessary, then gunned the engine before shifting into gear and peeling around the lot, narrowly missing a shiny blue Beemer taking a corner. Sorry wondered if the guy was mad enough to take out the gate, but he skidded to a stop short of it and leaned on his horn until an armed security guard jogged over, yelled at the driver to chill out, and stuck a card in a slot to open the gate.

“Cool!” Sorry hiked himself over to the driver’s seat and fired up The Blue Knight so he could follow the Kenworth. The driver had to be pissed off enough at someone to spill some dirt. As the Kenworth tractor roared past him, he caught sight of the name on the red door in black letters.
Jerome Jefferson
,
Pomona, CA.
He had to boot it to keep the guy in his sights as he raced through a residential neighborhood — lost sight of him when he made the right turn on Encinitas off Bledsoe — until they reached the I-5 North. Sorry wasn’t surprised when the Kenworth took the exit for the 210 East in the direction of Pomona.

He didn’t pay any attention to the speedometer until he saw the flashing lights in his rearview mirror. “Oh, shit.” He slowed the truck down to 55 and watched with some relief as the California Highway Patrol passed The Blue Knight and caught up with old Jerome ahead. Unfortunately, a second CHP car came up from behind and as soon as the shoulder allowed, both trucks were pulled over on the side of the highway, each with two cops in a cop car behind it. “Fuck.”

“Hands where I can see them!” A big round-faced cop with his right hand on his holster motioned Sorry out of the truck and gave him a little shove, indicating he should move around the front of the truck. When they were on the shoulder side, the cop had Sorry lean up against the fender with his hands on the hood of the truck so he could frisk him. When the cop felt the knife sheathed in Sorry’s boot, he drew his gun and called his partner to come and remove the knife.

Sorry sighed, and lifted one hand off the hood to gesture, which resulted in the feel of a cold steel barrel behind his right kidney. “You ever walked through a truck stop parking lot at two a.m., officer? Trust me, it ain’t no picnic. Can’t carry a gun, so a guy’s got to have some means of protection. What are you doing with that? C’mon. It was a gift from my late brother. It’s got great sentimental value to me.”

“Shut up. Where’s your ID?”

Sorry was about to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, but a nudge to the kidney reminded him to keep his hands on the hood. “Wallet. Back pocket,” he said. “Hey! I didn’t say you could feel me up.”

“Shut up.” The cop handed the wallet off to his buddy, a younger cop with biceps trying to burst through his shirtsleeves, who walked away with it.

“Hey! Where you goin’ with my wallet? I’m a law abiding citizen. From Canada, no less. You guys should show some respect.”

The cop had holstered his gun. “It’s a felony to carry a concealed weapon. There’s nothing law abiding about that. Plus you were going 85 miles an hour.”

“Sorry ‘bout that. It was that guy’s fault.” He thrust his jaw in the direction of the red Kenworth. “Can I turn around now?”

“No. Shut up.”

“Look. I told you I’m from Canada. How was I supposed to know about the knife thing?”

“Bet you can’t carry a concealed weapon in Canada either, buddy.”

“If I walk around with a knife on my belt, my wife gets embarrassed.”

“Hey, don’t you Canadians know the meaning of the word ‘Shut up’?”

“That’s two words, officer. Where’s my wallet?”

“Where’s your wife?”

“Home. In British Columbia, Canada. With our two kids. Why do you want to know?”

“She won’t be embarrassed if you wear the knife on your belt here in California then, will she?”

Sorry sighed and shrugged at the same time. He saw the cop’s partner rummaging around in the glove box of Hunter’s truck. “Can I turn around now, officer? I feel like a tool standing here like this.”

“Jeez-us!” said the cop. “Don’t you ever shut up?”

“When I’m asleep.” Sorry ventured to take his hands down and turn around, just in time to see the cop roll his eyes. “Look, I’m a nice guy. But a long-haul trucker has to be able protect himself, you know?”

“This isn’t your truck,” said the second cop, looking down at them from the passenger side window. He waved some papers in one hand, flipped open Sorry’s wallet in his other. “It’s registered to a Hunter Rayne, North Vancouver, BC. Canada.”

“Is that your wife?” asked the round faced cop.

“What? He’s a buddy of mine, an ex-cop. Hunter is a man’s name, you… uh… officer.”

“Yeah? What about Hunter Tylo, that actress on The Bold and the Beautiful?” said the younger cop with the biceps, opening the passenger door of the truck and handing down Sorry’s wallet before climbing down.

“You guys watch that soap, too?” said Sorry. “I forgot about her. Dr. Taylor Hayes. She’s quite a babe, isn’t she?” He heard the engine of the Kenworth start up. “Shit! I’m followin’ that guy. Get your buddies to stop him, would ya?”

The round-faced cop stepped back and with a wave of his arm, indicated that Sorry could get back in the truck. “You’re lucky we’re in a good mood. Don’t let us catch you speeding again.”

“Hey, thanks guys. See you next time, eh?” Sorry shot back over his shoulder as he scrambled into the Blue Knight and over to the driver’s seat. As he fired up the engine and eased back onto the highway he could still see the red Kenworth about a quarter mile ahead, so he put his foot down and moved to the passing lane. It wasn’t until they’d taken the exit at Pomona that he remembered the cops hadn’t given him back his knife.

“It’s been forty-eight hours and we haven’t got a solid suspect yet. Forensic evidence doesn’t point to anyone so far. This case ain’t gonna be a slam dunk.” Shane told Hunter that, barring the appearance of an eyewitness or a voluntary confession, there was a lot more leg work and background research to be done before they had any chance of solving Mike Irwin’s murder. “We’re bringing in Todd Milton for a second interview, and we’ll talk to this Cordero guy as well. Go on home,” he said. “Just keep in touch.”

“What about ‘Stella’?” Hunter asked. “The conference is over tonight, and I believe she’s scheduled to fly back tomorrow morning.”

“You feel we need to talk to her face-to-face?” asked Shane.

Hunter shrugged. A good cop could get as much information from a person’s face and demeanor as he could from the words they spoke. In fact, he would’ve liked to speak directly with Cordero and Carruthers himself. After years of interviewing ‘persons of interest’, he’d learned to trust his instincts about which of them had something to hide. But he wasn’t the investigating officer and, like it or not, he was going to have to leave the job to Shane Blackwell and his team. In spite of his desire to get back out on the highway, it wasn’t going to be easy for him to let go of this investigation.

Hunter drove back to Tom Halsey’s chalet. Tom hadn’t yet left for work, and Hunter was surprised to find him just coming out of the basement room where Hunter had been staying.

“Oh, there you are,” said Tom. “I was wondering if you’d left yet.”

“Did you want to talk to me?”

“Well, I… Petra… my wife… ” Tom had a pained expression on his face.

“She wants me out of here, right?”

Tom sighed. “It’s just that she’s already invited a friend of hers from our old neighborhood to come up for a few days, starting tomorrow. She’d like a little time to clean up, and…” He put his hand on Hunter’s shoulder. “I told her I’d talk to you. I don’t mean to rush you, if you still need a place to stay, maybe…”