Sea to Sky (28 page)

“I’d check over at the Lonsdale Quay, if I was you.” He saw the boys in black walking into the waiting room and hailed them. “Hey! Let’s see those tickets, boys.”

Hunter walked back out into the main station. Even if Adam rode the Seabus to the North Shore last night, that didn’t necessarily mean he was still there. As far as Hunter knew, the boy had never lived in North Vancouver, and his buddy Nathan was on the downtown side of the inlet, so there was no reason for him to stay there. Adam could still be anywhere.

Hunter sighed and left the station for the cold streets again. It was the only lead he had for now, so he might as well follow it up. Besides, his home was on the North Shore anyway, although nowhere near the Seabus. Maybe the transit security on the other side had seen him. As he walked, feeling the cold hard sidewalk through the soles of his boots, Hunter calculated what time he’d have to leave in the morning to get to the Whistler RCMP detachment on time. If the weather held and the highway stayed clear, it would take him over an hour and a half, but at this time of year he should allow a good two hours. Snow or ice on the Upper Levels or the Sea to Sky could play havoc with traffic.

And why did Shane Blackwell need to see him in person? It hadn’t been a friendly call, and the detective would offer no explanation. Hunter asked him if he had a new lead on Mike Irwin’s killer, and the answer was, “Just be here,” with an ominous implication of ‘or else’.

Hunter couldn’t help but speculate that he was back on the suspect list.

Meredith put the finishing touches on her makeup and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Her wig wasn’t exactly the same color as Tracy’s hair, but she didn’t intend for the maid to get a good enough look at her to tell. She wore tight jeans, tall beige leather boots, and a new sweater from the downstairs boutique, something she felt Tracy would be quite comfortable wearing. To be on the safe side, she had gone to the hotel lobby well before seven o’clock and browsed through the racks of brochures near the concierge desk, keeping an eye on the front door until she saw Brent and Tracy step outside toward a waiting taxi.

Then she hurried upstairs, scooped the outfit that she’d selected off her bed, and with the speed that came from long practice, transformed herself into an approximation of a wealthy young California blonde. The hard part was yet to come.

Now she had to lurk inconspicuously in the vicinity of Tracy’s hotel room, waiting for the turndown maid. Several times during her wait she had to pretend to be on her way somewhere to avoid attracting the attention of guests leaving or returning to their rooms. Each time she would round the corner and take the elevator up or down one floor, then come back by the stairs, waiting in the stairwell until she thought the coast was clear. The fourth time, she saw the maid’s cart parked just outside a door on the opposite site of the elevator, so she waited in the stairwell until the maid had entered the last room in the hallway where the elevators were located.

With the maid was out of sight, she snuck down the hall to the vicinity of Tracy’s room.  Just as the maid rounded the corner with her cart, Meredith pulled on the door handle as if she were closing it, then dropped her hotel key into her purse and turned her face away to rummage inside the purse. She pulled out her cell phone, punched in some numbers and walked in the direction of the elevators with the phone to her ear, giving the maid a friendly wave as she passed. She pushed the elevator button, but didn’t get on when it arrived. Instead, she waited at the corner, peering around it so she would know when the maid had entered Tracy’s room.

This was the most critical time; she breathed deeply and evenly to calm herself, then walked quickly down the hallway to the open door of the room. The maid was in the bathroom, making sure there were fresh towels. Just as she stepped out, Meredith breezed past her, saying “My God, I’ve got to hurry or I’ll be late. I don’t know why he couldn’t have called me earlier,” as if to herself, then “Thank you,” to the maid in a sing-song voice, her inflection as close to Tracy’s as she could make it, “Please make sure you close the door tight on your way out, would you? I’m going into the shower.” She shut the bathroom door behind her, turned on the shower, and waited for the maid to leave.

Minutes later, she turned off the shower and listened at the door. When she heard nothing, she opened the door cautiously and checked to make sure the room was empty. She figured she had at least an hour, but the sooner she could find something on Carruthers and get out of here, the better.

The king bed was neatly made with the top turned down, and small foil-wrapped squares of chocolate had been placed on two pillows. In spite of the maid’s efforts, there were clothes piled at the foot of the bed and draped over the chairs, mostly Tracy’s from what she could tell. There was a desk on the far side of the room, over by the window, and Meredith headed there first. A ThinkPad laptop was open on the desk, and a closed briefcase stood beside a wooden chair that had been pushed up against the desk. The laptop screen was black until Meredith pushed a key, then a Windows screen came up open to an email message.

Meredith laughed quietly. Either Brent Carruthers thought he had nothing to hide, or he wasn’t computer savvy enough to take security measures with his laptop. She quickly scrolled through his email messages for anything that could relate to her client, or to Mike Irwin. She found several that might be of interest and pulled a digital Kodak out of her bag to capture them for further study. Then she began looking through the document files. He obviously had some proprietary inventory management software related to his current employer, but she had no reason to believe there was anything of value to her client within its files.

Carruthers had some drafts of correspondence in his document files. Most clandestine business ‘arrangements’ do not involve written contracts, given they are often unethical, if not illegal. However, she did find two draft letters that warranted a photograph for further study. The letters, it appeared, were the first drafts of requests for a proposal from potential suppliers. She also found a document file that contained his resume, updated within the past month, and one that was a cover letter for a job application. The file had last been updated on Saturday, the day of Irwin’s murder, and addressed to Blue Hills Industries. After her conversation with Tracy, the application came as no surprise, but the speed with which Carruthers had created it did.

Meredith slung the camera over her shoulder, then lifted the briefcase from the floor and placed it on the bed. It had a combination lock on each latch, and they were both locked. She knelt down beside the bed and, with her ear close to the lock, began to slowly turn the three cylinders, one number at a time. It took several tries and fifteen minutes to open the first latch, and she looked at her watch before starting on the second. What if the lovebirds were in a hurry to get back to their hotel room? Was it worth the risk? She took a deep breath and started on the second lock.

First she tried the same combination that had worked on the first lock, but no luck. She began the tedious process of turning the cylinders and listening for the almost inaudible telltale click again. And again, a failed attempt and she started the process over. As she did, the sound of a woman’s laughter came faintly from the hallway, then the sound of a man’s voice, right outside the door. Meredith couldn’t afford to stop and listen. She swung the briefcase back to its place under the desk and tucked the camera back in her bag. There was nowhere to hide except the closet near the entrance, and if that was Carruthers at the door, it was already too late. Her only chance was to meet them at the door, dodge her way past them, and run.

Most of the houses along Greenhorn Road were dark. Of course, it was almost midnight and the country bumpkins in Yreka couldn’t stay awake past ten o’clock. Sorry eased the Blue Knight around the dark curves of the narrow road and pulled into the gravel driveway of the neighbors’ farm. With any luck, their bedroom was around back and the headlights and rumble of the big diesel wouldn’t wake them. His heart dropped when he saw the lights on at his parents’ place. And there were two cars parked outside that he didn’t recognize. All he could think was that friends had come to comfort his mother. He was too late. His father was gone.

He made his way down the neighbor’s driveway and back up the one that led to his parents’ house, not wanting to risk the hazards of mud and old machinery, or the barbed wire fence that separated the two properties. Besides, now that he was here, he wasn’t in a hurry to confront the reality of his father’s death and face his mother’s grief. He climbed the steps to the kitchen door, and was startled to hear women laughing inside, his mother included. What the fuck? He squared his shoulders and banged on the door.

Footsteps sounded and the door opened inward.

“Dad!” Sorry took an involuntary step backwards, his mind scrambling to make sense of what he was seeing. His father stood there, swaying slightly, a can of Budweiser clutched in his left hand.

“Danny? Hey, folks! My son’s here.” He ushered Sorry inside, and draped an arm across Sorry’s back, bony fingers hooked over his shoulder. “You didn’t tell me he was coming, Momma. Come to celebrate my birthday, Dan? C’mon, Ed, get my Danny a beer.”

Sorry did think about refusing the beer, but it didn’t seem like a good time to explain about being a recovering alcoholic and besides, if there was ever a time he’d needed a beer, this was it. His mother rushed up and gave him a hug. “I’m so glad you got my message.” He could smell the wine on her breath. She stood back, head tilted, and added, “I don’t remember telling your boss about your dad’s birthday party, but I guess I must’ve.” Then she grinned and hugged him again.

He hugged her back, took a slug of beer, then said, “Is there anything left to eat?”

A plateful of cabbage rolls and six quick beers later, Sorry sat out on the back stoop with the old man after seeing the other guests off. They could hear his mother clattering in the kitchen as she tidied up. Sorry smoked a cigarette while Hank puffed sporadically on a fat Dominican cigar. The old man went on about a woman named Belle Sorenson — not a blood relation, he kept repeating — but Sorry wasn’t sure if it was a real woman or a movie he was talking about, and wasn’t interested enough to care. Hank leaned into Sorry now and then as he spoke. Sorry didn’t think he’d ever seen him drunk before.

“Prettiest damn farm in Northern California,” said Hank, waving his hand around, the tip of the cigar glowing orange as if fanned by a bellows. “Look at the sky, would ya. Ever seen the stars that bright? Are they that bright in Canada?”

Sorry paused for a swallow of beer before answering. He smelled horse shit, not a pretty thing to his way of thinking. “Depends how close you are to the city lights, Pop.”

“Yeah? You live in the city?”

“Sort of.” Sorry thought about the little bungalow in Surrey where right now, Mo and the kids would be snuggled in their beds, Doobie the Doberman guarding the hallway to the bedrooms like he always did at night, the old Harley tucked away safely in the garage waiting for spring. They were on a quiet street, but it wasn’t far to King George highway and 24-hour-a-day traffic and commercial buildings with banks of security lights on tall poles. “Just a small lot, big enough for the kids to play in. And Mo plants a garden.”

“Mo? Your wife is named Mo?”

“Simone.” Sorry tried to make it sound French but he just succeeded in sounding like a Jamaican saying, ‘See, mon?’ He tried again, the accent on the second syllable, with more success.

“You promised you’ll bring her and the kids down for Easter, now, remember?” Hank patted his arm. “A promise is a promise, okay, son? It will mean so much to your mother.”

Sorry took a deep breath. In spite of the farm smells, the air was cold and fresh, and he could feel the cold of the concrete stoop through the seat of his jeans. “When I heard Mom had called, I thought you had died, Pappa.” The old name from his childhood came out involuntarily. “I wished little Bruno had a chance to get to know his grandfather.”

The old man looked into his face, his eyes shining. “I’d like that.” Then something between a snort and a laugh. “Not dying, I mean.” He nudged Sorry’s arm. “About the boy, I mean. Little Bruno.”

Sorry leaned into his father. “I know, Pop.” He overhanded his empty beer can into the back of his mother’s pickup where it rattled around briefly before going still. A horse snorted in the barn.

“Did you ever kill a man, Danny?”

“Whoa!” That sure came out of left field. Sorry was so taken aback he didn’t know whether to make a joke of it or tell the truth.

“Bikers are a pretty lawless bunch, aren’t they?” said the old man. “It used to keep me awake at night, thinkin’ about you, what you were doing.”

“I hurt some people, but only bums like myself. Most times they hurt me back.” He reached over and grabbed his father’s beer can, drained the last of it. “And I never hit a woman.”

His father nodded, still looking up at the stars. “You’re no bad seed. I can’t believe I ever thought you were. That damn movie screwed me up, and Belle Sorenson having the same last name and all.”

They sat in silence, smoking, looking at the stars and hearing the vast silence of the night with the odd thump from a horse moving around in the barn, until the door creaked behind them. Sorry turned to see his mother, clutching her housecoat closed, her feet huddled side-by-side in sheepskin slippers.