Almost Criminal: A Crime In Cascadia Mystery Part 12

I began sorting parts and laying out a.s.sembly instructions. Randle quickly became bored and left, saying I should be alone to concentrate. Maddie padded in and out, refilling my cup of green tea.

An hour later he was back, looking over my shoulder.

"Nothing missing, nothing broken," I said, clipping on a humidity sensor. "So far."

"Right on. How's that truck of yours? Running all right?"

"No problem. But hey, who's Edmond Ngan?" The mystery owner of the truck.

One of Randle's eyebrows twitched. "Edmond, wow. That goes back." Using the window as a mirror, Randle pulled the elastic off his ponytail and swung the grey hair loose. "A good dude, Edmond was. Made his money and took it home with him. Hanoi, I think it was." He gathered it back in both hands and slipped the elastic tight against his skull, felt for stray hairs and settled down to watch. I don't really like it when people look over my shoulder.

The main circuit boards went into the housings easily enough, I just had to line up the mounting holes. There was only one way they could fit. I closed my eyes and visualized the system in Skip's grow.

Which reminded me, "That grow. That burned down?" I said. I tried to sound like I was just making conversation while I probed inside the housing with a fingertip, feeling for a metal clip.

"That was harsh, but Skip's getting over it."

"That was the one with the extra plants. They were Vietnamese too, the couple that ran it, weren't they? The Trans."

"Extra plants? I've got no memory of that." He was very busy all of a sudden, pulling the lit embers off his joint to save the rest for later. Like there was shortage of marijuana around here. A thousand dollars a plant, Skip had estimated. Triple that for one of Randle's specials. He wouldn't have forgotten.

"We talked about it, driving to see Rory Doyle. They're the ones who died in the fire."

Suddenly angry, Randle killed the glowing coals under a fingertip. "Don't buy into that propaganda. It's the media, they're in it together, the press and the pigs. If they can't find anybody to arrest, they run a headline, Two perish in grow op inferno. Complete bulls.h.i.t. No evidence. Why? No bodies. They never found a body, not one, all they know is that two people are missing. Missing! Not dead. And why are they missing? Because they're illegal, that's why. If their grow op burns down, they're not going to stick around to be put in jail and deported. They took a powder. Wouldn't you?"

True enough, I would. "That's one done."

I picked up the manual to double-check the parts list before moving to the next. I'd triggered something, though, Randle was on a roll, spitting out the words so steadily that he was having trouble lighting his next joint.

"Any time you see those bulls.h.i.t headlines, like, Police bust nets two million in crystal meth, you got to ask yourself, two million? Who says? Who did the math? Is that wholesale or street value? Pure product or stepped on a thousand times? What I think, they probably got fifty bucks of cold medicine and some plastic pails. But that wouldn't make the headlines, would it?"

He paced, waving the joint in my direction. "And they always have a photo spread of weapons. You see those? I always wonder, do they haul out the same stash of guns each time? Because, hey, do I have weapons? No. Who needs weapons? That's what I have protection for."

"He's got one done, Randle." Maddie spoke softly from the door.

"Motherboard's in place, sensors are on, connections are all made and secure."

"Excellent. Don't let anyone say I don't reward my people, right, Maddie?" He swung an arm casually around her waist, and she spun away with a ballerina's grace.

The controllers - a.s.sembled, tested, and functional, as far as I could tell from the diagnostic software - gave Randle a measure of calm, but he hadn't stopped the pacing or the chain-toking. I finished my last cup of tea while he stood at a window, looking down on my truck and Maddie's little blue Beetle.

"That truck of yours, it's too familiar around here. Next time park it inside."

"I'd better be going now."

"You're not done yet. Maddie has plans."

I stood up to see what he was looking at. Maddie was in the drive, with the hatchback open, and Randle was leering at her a.s.s as she bent inside to retrieve something. He had to be twenty-five years older than she was. He caught me looking at him and winked.

Down on the cobblestone, Maddie was struggling with a box, something large and red with ornate fittings. I moved to run down to the door, but Randle put out an arm.

"Chill, man. She's not your wife, she's a professional. Treat her as an equal."

A moment later, Maddie walked in carrying a carved wooden box painted with what looked like Indian G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses. She wore a salesperson's smile.

"This is a spice merchant's case," she said. "From Darjeeling. Randle brought it back for me."

She placed the box on the floor and left for the kitchen, returning with a bottle of Perrier and three gla.s.ses. She leaned over and undid a clasp on the box, one hand lifting her hair out of the way. The box unfolded, opening to reveal a half-dozen round containers and a storage area filled with bottles, bowls, and little baggies.

As she settled into a Buddha-like cross-legged pose behind the open case, I tried not to be caught like I'd caught Randle, staring at her soft curves. Her body was fuller and more relaxed than Rachel's. She was methodical, almost ritualistic, in setting out a semicircle of containers with a gla.s.s candle-heated bowl in the centre. The containers held colas - buds - with deep green leaves, some streaked with pinks, reds, and lavender.

"Maddie is our master taster," Randle said. "She decides whether a product is House of Dreams quality, or whether we dump it on the bikers at a discount. She is here because it is time you learned to toke."

I pursed my lips and nodded. Toking or not didn't seem particularly important anymore. I was fascinated with the alchemical array and the enormous bong.

Randle took on a teacher's tone. "You don't have to love the s.h.i.t like I do, but you can't take anything on faith, not in this trade. When some grower hands you a spliff, you've got to know what it is. Actually, this is not a matter of debate."

I know how to spot the s.h.i.tweed, I thought, but said, "I thought this business was about trust. These are your people growing your weed. You don't trust them?"

Randle's eyes crinkled with amus.e.m.e.nt. "You got that trust pep talk from Ivan, didn't you? Maddie, let our young protege know about Ivan."

"Ivan is more than friends with Bullard and his crew. He's their eyes and ears. If we buy fertilizer from the wrong supplier, or hire someone who's not on their list, he's the one who leaks it. If we didn't know better we'd think Bullard doesn't trust us." Little dimples appeared in her cheeks when she smiled.

"People who talk about trust are the ones you have to watch," he said with a sly smile. "Trust me. But seriously, if you work for me, you verify quality at every step. It's what our customers are paying for. Maddie?"

"You make coffee at that little place near the border. And you trained at Napoli on Commercial Drive." Maddie said, rocking back on her b.u.t.tocks. "Don't look surprised, Randle's quite proud of you. At Napoli, you did some cuppings?"

I nodded. I knew she was trying to flatter me, but I let it go. I was pleased. I thought that cuppings - coffee tastings for professional buyers and for supposed connoisseurs - were totally coffee-geeky. Which is why I liked them, and I was amazed that she knew about them.

She lit the tea candle. "I usually compare this to wine-tasting, but for you, coffee-cupping is the a.n.a.logy we'll go with."

She nodded in Randle's direction. "Doctor Bong there has travelled everywhere weed is grown, and he's brought back the best seeds from every region and every grower. He's combined strains from the Middle East, the Himalayas and Southeast Asia. He's crossed them with clones from Holland and California, and of course our own B.C. bud. We have a lot of varietals, and eventually, I will teach you to recognize the basic groups."

Randle pulled out a joint and put it to his lips.

"Take that outside." She sounded like a grade-school teacher. "One scent at a time."

Randle tucked it back in his pocket.

"Today, we're just covering the basics. How to recognize good from bad."

She slid the candle under the silver bowl and waited for it to warm up. "Are you wondering how a girl accountant from Burnaby ended up as your mistress of maryjane?"

As she arranged samples in tiny bowls she explained. She had Crohn's Disease, which was like razor blades in her intestines. She'd been in treatment since she was a teen, had been hospitalized for weeks at a time. It took her longer than usual to earn her CGA, but at least the schools were understanding about her illness. When it came time to get a job, employers were less accommodating. Once, she'd returned from medical leave to find she'd been laid off while she was ill.

She selected a gummy-looking bud and twisted a spiral of leaves into the bowl.

"Then I discovered the marvellous weed that puts Crohn's to sleep. The more I smoked, the more I liked it. And the more I appreciated quality."

Smoke rose from the bowl. She waved for me to lean in.

"When you taste wine," Maddie said, "You take a sip, roll it around your mouth and spit it out. So you don't get drunk. With coffee, I don't -"

"With ganja, use the Clinton technique," Randle interrupted.

Maddie smiled tolerantly. "Don't inhale. Bring it into your nasal pa.s.sages and concentrate." She demonstrated. "Take a little in your mouth."

She made a small O of her lips and noisily sucked in, then made a chewing motion. I had a quick vision of trying that in front of the grizzled vet in the woods, while he held an a.s.sault rifle on me. It was a stretch.

She turned her head and blew the smoke toward the French doors. "Roll it into your cheeks, and flutter your tongue through the smoke. Then expel it." She poured Perrier in a gla.s.s and took a sip. "Now cleanse your palate."

I did as I was told, but after only one taste I could feel the THC mainlining through my bloodstream.

"This is jerking off," Randle stood, biting down on an unlit joint. "I'll be outside."

She changed the sample and I repeated the technique until she was satisfied. Then she did it again, comparing each of the various buds she'd selected. Could I taste the jasmine in one, the raspberry in the other, while another was like burned toast. Wasn't it amazing they were all pot? In no time, the room was grey with smoke and my forehead was pulsing. I kept my focus on Maddie's eyes and lips. I could feel her energy.

"That's the Cook's tour of the good and the bad. Now for a more practical lesson. Follow me." She chose two canisters and led me to the kitchen. "Those samples were all mature, cured weed. But when you're visiting a grow, the crop will be green. Tasting that is a totally different challenge."

I could only agree, as I summoned the determination to stand and then walk under my own control, without b.u.mping into a doorway or stumbling into her when she stopped. Beside an enormous Gaggenau range, she lined up a row of small gla.s.s bongs and dropped a different leaf in each. With newly acute vision I studied the damp freshness of the leaves and their crusting of brilliant green crystals and intensely detailed veins.

"Fresh product can be so moist it won't burn, so you may have to dry it first," she said.

I nodded with appreciation. One of her braids swung as she placed the bongs in the microwave. She gave me a flirty smile as the microwave hummed, and the crow's feet around her eyes deepened. She was older than I'd thought at first, but she had an air of s.e.xual experience. I breathed deeply to clear my head. I was certain I could feel her body warmth.

"Nuke it until it's crunchy. Like this, here."

She handed me a dried brown leaf from the microwave. Its stiff crackle was almost painfully loud. I watched her flick a lighter to life and light the bongs, one by one. Again she demonstrated the non-inhaling technique. I strained to pay attention, nodding seriously as she explained the difference between one and the other. One had been cut early, she said, before the fertilizer had been flushed from its system. This was a bad thing, and I noted it for the future. Her eyes were enormous behind her gla.s.ses as she asked, can you feel a burning sensation in your cheeks? That's the chemicals.

Yes, I agreed, a burning sensation. I didn't want to disappoint.

I fought back to wakefulness, as the dentist-drill whine of little powerboats racing around the lake penetrated my dream. One of the Menzy brothers had a knee on my chest. I was a hostage in a cave or a cell, and he was holding me down on a steel bed while his brother swung a sledgehammer at my shin. Motorcycles circled ominously outside. The brothers were apologetic, they only wanted a minor injury, one that would keep me from chasing them. As my leg shattered under the blow, a beam of light burst from the wound, which became sunlight, flashing off the lake to the bedroom ceiling as the drapes riffled in the breeze.

I forced my eyes open. The bedroom was large and white, with an angled ceiling and a wall of windows. I was shuddering slightly and a string of drool hung from my cheek. I was still in Randle's house. The bed was low, a pillow-soft futon on a slate platform. My clothes were neatly stacked on top of a matching dresser.

I tried to push the dream away. The injury had been necessary, the Menzys had insisted, because the Devils were after them, and they had to leave me behind. They were merely cracking the shinbone-a clean break, it wouldn't leave me with a limp - because, after all, I had protection.

My breath was foul and my face puffy from sleep. I had spotty memories of Maddie and Randle lecturing me on indicas and sativas, of the superiority of indoor soil growing to hydroponics. I shivered. I never slept naked. And I'd never folded clothes in my life, and the stack was arranged with what I imagined was feminine care. The thought of Maddie stripping me and pulling the covers over my body was embarra.s.sing, but exciting. I wished I had a memory of it.

Still wobbly, I squatted on the low bed and dressed. It was late afternoon, judging from the angle of the sun. The bedroom had its own ensuite, and I rinsed my mouth with tap water, splashed my face and ran damp fingers through my hair before venturing out.

The hallway was silent save for the clear but distant drone of watercraft. Pa.s.sing a larger bedroom with a rumpled bed, I peeked inside. The door to a walk-in closet had been left open, and I recognized Randle's bamboo-pattern shirt. Laughter trickled up from somewhere far below. I padded downstairs, one hand on the banister for support. I traced the sounds down one level, then another, through the living room and beyond, to a room with a semicircle of leather chairs facing a wall-sized video screen. The voices came from behind sliding gla.s.s doors that opened onto a sundeck with a hot tub and a row of lounge chairs.

Randle turned at my approach. "And here's the man."

Maddie laughed, "I was going to go up there and pinch your cheek."

"Fill a gla.s.s and quaff some sangria." He held up a winegla.s.s with something pinkish in it.

The idea brought acid to the back of my throat. I swallowed and blinked, hoping they'd think it was the sudden sunlight. Randle's j.a.panese kimono lay slung over the back of his lounge chair, and he lay in the sun, completely naked. Despite a wattled neck and white chest hair, he was slim and muscled, with a runner's body. His legs were spread casually, almost proudly, and I didn't know where to look. I kept my gaze on Randle's face and definitely away from Maddie. Her evenly tanned b.r.e.a.s.t.s and brown nipples were already imprinted on my memory.

"Here you go." She said, extending a gla.s.s in my direction, and I had to work at holding my eyes on her face. Still I glimpsed a dark, curly armpit and a couple of moles. Real nakedness was so different from what you saw online.

"Make yourself comfortable." Randle said.

"Get some sun on those buns." She restrained a giggle. "I'm so bad."

Sweat flushed from my pores. She was laughing at me, at my shyness, my inexperience. I stood there with a drink in my hand and no idea what to do.

"Is there, uh, some more work that I should do? 'Cause I ought to be going. If that's all."

Randle's brow tightened. "Relax. There's still a controller to install but the budders won't be out of there for another hour. Lay back, catch some rays, jump in the tub. There aren't enough days like this in the year."

I nodded stiffly and perched on the hot tub, which helped my wobbly knees. The drink was more fruity than alcoholic, and it cleared the last of the stoned fog from my brain. I knew that they were watching my every move as I pulled my shirt over my head and placed it beside me on the lip of the tub.

"The sun is nice. You're right."

I gazed out at the lake. I wasn't going to go past the shirt. I just wasn't into this nudist thing, whether Maddie had seen my skinny body or not.

Maddie's voice seemed to come from a distance. "He's so white."

"For Christ's sake, look here." Randle said, still smiling. "Over here. You know the lake, you've seen it a million times. Use the eyes that G.o.d gave you. Not me - look right in front of you. There's a beautiful woman offering herself to your gaze. Is there something wrong with that? Something repellent? What are you afraid of? Look at her! If she didn't want you to look, she'd cover herself, cross her legs. Wouldn't you, Maddie?"

I had to force my gaze to Maddie, who waited calmly, looking directly into my eyes. Her expression was thoughtful and guarded. Pink flecks dusted her cheeks. I lowered my gaze to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the gentle curve of her belly that led to the curls below. A little scar under her ribs. What was I supposed to do? Make a comment? Was it rude if I didn't, or worse if I did?

Randle's voice was flat. "Was that difficult? Was it work? When a flower is placed before you, and everything screams for you to lean in and savour its essence, why is it such a problem? Be in the moment. Learn to take what is offered to you, with grat.i.tude and delight."

I couldn't think of anything to say or do.

He tsked with disgust. "You need more sleep, or more something. Go on back to your room, I'll wake you when it's time to go."

"You still look pretty green. Weed make you sick?" Randle drove my mould-green pickup like it was his Speedster, revving until the engine screamed, and cursing the chunky shifter as he punched it into gear. He was doing double the speed limit when I checked, so I kept the seat belt buckled and my eyes off the gauges.

"No, it put me to sleep."

I should have strapped the controller down in the back. I was certain I could feel it sliding in the bed as the truck slopped from lane to lane, its springs too soft for Randle's handling.

"Some of that s.h.i.t, it'll rip your head off. Horse tranks in it, for all I know. She scores it down on skid row - turn signals, a.s.shole! - to show you the dark side, how bad weed can be. And it can be brutal."

Randle's head twitched as we pa.s.sed a Save-On Gas station fronting a clean, modern-looking farm. I'd thought that was our destination, but we kept moving. Skip had described it to me and I wanted to see inside Randle's largest grow, thousands of plants in a network of underground rooms beneath the farmhouse and barn. The lights and heaters used so much energy there was no way they could hide their electrical consumption, so Kaya Property Management had bought the corner gas station. The grow op was now powered on generators.

He took the speed down a notch as we entered town and traffic built up. We approached the centre of Wallace, the sawmill district, and he swung abruptly down a side street and pulled to a stop at R K Welding and Machine Shop. The front of the building was square, but it was a facade, hiding the arched roof behind. Quonsets, Pop had called them, corrugated steel prefabs built right after the war. There were dozens of them along the waterfront.

I wanted to get out for a closer look. I liked what I saw. By now, I knew what to look for in a grow op, and this had it all. A welding shop was perfect: it would be wired for plenty of power and had an excuse to use it. It was out of the way and a little shabby, and there was privacy down near the docks, especially on evenings and weekends. The road was wide enough for trucks, there was easy access to the highway, and who knew, there might even be a wharf in the rear, where a boat could load up and head downriver. This was the kind of place I'd choose for my grow.

Randle slammed an open palm on the steering wheel, and I jumped. He gestured at an enormous Hummer H1 parked in front of us. I knew it, it had nearly run me off the road once, and there couldn't be two of those monsters in Wallace.

"What have they been doing, f.u.c.king the dog? They were supposed to be out of here an hour ago." He sat, impatient, sucking his teeth, and checked his watch. He turned to me, his face dark.