Almost Criminal: A Crime In Cascadia Mystery Part 14

"I'm sorry." She shuffled closer. "But you can't. She's gone mental."

I waved her to a camp chair. "How'd you know I was here?"

"There's an orange wire running from the back porch."

Right. I felt stupid. How long ago had she followed my power cable up to the tree house? Weeks ago, she said, but she hadn't been ready to come up and visit because she was angry with me over the Nolan thing. But she'd watched. She knew about the truck, and had a pretty good idea of what I did in it. I wondered whether she knew how much money she was looking at.

"I'm sorry about that grad-night mess. I didn't mean to break you up, you and Nolan."

She shrugged. "He wasn't very smart."

I laughed, and she laughed with me.

"You know, you'd better go. If she can't find you she'll be even crazier."

"I'm afraid to be alone with her."

I walked to her and took her in my arms like I used to. "I know." It didn't feel right. We were older, and she was taller, and we both backed away.

"It's just noise," I said. "You know her, she never really does anything, and she always calms down." Once Beth was convinced that I was really gone for the night, I was certain that she'd get back in her car and head to Vancouver. "She's desperate to get to the gallery. Her show's opening tomorrow, and believe me, she wants to be there. It's really important to her."

"My mom the artist." Bree made a face.

"You don't remember much of it, do you?"

"Sure I do."

"Not just her painting upstairs, but her being a painter, and kind of famous. You were nine when she had her last show, maybe you've forgotten. Rich people bought her paintings, paid a lot of money. She was in newspapers and art magazines. She has a box of clippings saved in her studio, I'll show them to you later. You've got to encourage her to go to the opening, it's what she needs more than anything right now. Once she sees her old art friends she'll be on top of the world."

"You think?"

"I do. You better head down there, so she's only taking it out on me and not both of us."

I knew that Bree wasn't afraid of being on her own in the house. She could defend herself fine, and alone was how she preferred to be.

"If she drives you crazy, you can hide out up here." I told her the combination to the padlock.

"You'll be here, right?"

I shook my head. "I'll be in and out, but I won't be sleeping here."

If Bree could follow the power cord up here, so could Beth. I had to get out now.

I took to the road, shifting like Randle, blasting down the highway with the windows open. At the video store I slowed for a glimpse of Rachel at the cash, slim and poised as always, probably counting the minutes left in her shift. Her hair was bleached again, with pink tips. She didn't see me.

I headed along the border and looped up around the lake, past Soowahlie and east through the Fraser Valley, before pulling over to chill for a while and watch the moon rise.

Four Harleys pounded past me, shattering the quiet. Then four more. While I sat and watched, I added up an even dozen. At first I thought they were hobby riders out to enjoy a warm summer evening, just a bunch of guys who liked to hang their bellies over their gas tanks and destroy the tranquillity for everyone in hearing distance. Then I spotted the vests and the gang badges, and the license plates from Washington and Oregon.

Randle had told me they almost never rode their bikes as a group. Riding together, in formation, was an event. They'd fill the highway for a biker's funeral, or a PR stunt like Toys for Tots, where they tried to convince the world that they were just a harmless bunch of motorcycle enthusiasts, but if you saw them riding together showing their colours they were making a statement. And you didn't want to be the person they were making that statement to. I wondered whether Bullard knew about the Americans in his territory, or whether they were just pa.s.sing through on the way to another destination, where someone else should be worried.

I was tired. I turned back toward the lake. At Randle's house I buzzed at the gate. The moon was bright enough that anyone inside would have recognized my face on the security screens, but either no one was home or they weren't going to answer at this hour. I headed to the marina, and the skate park, where it was quiet and hidden from the street. I drove in behind the arena and parked, the only vehicle in the lot, and stretched out on the truck seat and tried to sleep.

The bench seat was narrow and hard. In one position, the steering wheel blocked my legs. In another, the gearshift jammed into my kidneys. By the time the cab filled with birdsong, I gave up on sleep.

With the sunrise, minivans had begun rolling past me in a regular procession to the arena. Apparently 5:30 on an August morning was a popular time for hockey practice. Who knew? Beth disapproved of hockey, it promoted aggression and glorified violence.

Watching these kids, I was just as glad I'd missed out on the sport. Car after car disgorged shoulder-padded eight-year-olds, staggering under their equipment bags, and motored off, probably to give Mom or Dad an extra hour of snooze time.

When one of the minivans did a U-turn and cruised past by my truck, I realized what I must look like, a lone male in a beater pickup, watching young boys at the arena. Not a pretty profile. I decided to leave before somebody phoned the cops. My face was greasy and I needed a coffee, a shower, and fresh clothes, but I wasn't about to head home yet. Beth might have followed through on her threat and stayed there.

Chapter 16.

I rolled down Randle's curved, sloping drive to the security gate and buzzed. The camera lens glinted in the morning light, discreetly hidden in the manicured greenery. Boxwood bushes. I'd learned a few things from Beth, back when she'd worked in the less-profitable side of the gardening business.

The house still looked empty. On a cloudless morning like this, a window should have been open somewhere, letting the sound of Stevie Wonder or Curtis Mayfield carry across the lake. But everything was sealed tight.

I reversed and parked as close to the locked gate as possible. Randle had asked me not to leave the truck in sight of the street, and I figured if I'm going to ask him for something, start by putting him in the right frame of mind.

I got out and stretched, and strolled to where the fence met the water's edge, found a patch of sun-warmed asphalt and settled down for a wait. The water was alive with little fish, an inch or two long, swarming in mud-brown schools among the pilings of Randle's dock. I rested my head in my hands and let my eyes lose focus on the rippling, shifting patterns.

The high-pitched downshift of the imitation Porsche woke me, and I stood up a bit too quickly as Randle swooped down the drive and squealed to a surprised halt behind my pickup. I put a shaky hand to the fence. From the pa.s.senger seat, Maddie's expression was quizzical behind oversized sungla.s.ses, her hair windblown from the top-down drive. Randle acknowledged me with a couple of fingers lifted off the steering wheel. An unlit joint hung from his lip as I stepped up and ducked my head in a polite, submissive good-morning.

Behind me the gate swung open with a motorized hum. The Speedster wheeled around my pickup and into the inner driveway. Maddie hand-waved her permission for me to follow.

I approached them slowly, giving them a minute to decide what to do about the rumpled kid who'd obviously slept in his clothes.

"Sorry to surprise you guys. You been for a run?"

"The Sadler trail," Maddie chirped. "What a morning." A wave of irritation rippled across Randle's brow. She'd given out unnecessary information.

"I had some, like, family things last night."

"Been there." Randle leaned behind the seat for a water bottle and towel. "Got a foamy in the back of the truck?"

No, but that's a good idea, I thought.

"I'm here 'cause I didn't want to park just anywhere," I said. "I don't know about you, but I can smell the cargo bed, even when it's empty, and if some cop stops me for sleeping on the roadside? All he'd have to do is run the plates."

Randle chewed on the joint and rubbed his nose with the side of his thumb.

"Right on. Isn't that what I said, Maddie? He's got more brains than the rest of them put together." He b.u.mped his car door closed and clapped me on the shoulder. "You look like a man who can use some sustenance." The crinkles around his eyes were back. "And a cup of coffee."

"A shower's not a bad idea either." Maddie said, amused. "You know the time, Randle."

"We're all right. But you'll be eating alone," he said to me as he checked his Rolex. "Visitors."

He reached down between the seats and thumbed a remote, and one of the garage doors rumbled up. He tossed a ring of keys my way.

"Leave the gate open, so they can come in and park. Put the car and truck in the garage and lock it tight."

"If you have people coming, I can take off, no sweat. Beans is open by now. I don't want to be in the way."

"No, we're cool -" he seemed distracted by his thoughts, then snapped back, "Grab a bite, make me a macchiato. I've got a machine up there that cost me a fortune and I can't make it do s.h.i.t. See what magic you can make with it. But by nine make yourself scarce. Stay upstairs, close the door." His smile cracked wide. "So glad you're here, man. We have business."

I made them coffees - be nice to your host before you ask a favour, like whether you can crash for a while - then took a short shower. Randle's only breakfast option was granola, of course, which I ate in the familiar top-floor bedroom. I'd just finished when I heard the rumble of a serious bike coming down the drive. Thinking of the ones that had blasted past me in the night, I took a careful peek out my window. An older guy in cowboy boots and jeans sitting low astride a chopper, with long forks and lots of chrome. I couldn't see the plates. He didn't wear a club vest, but he didn't need one. He was senior management in the organization. Wide-jawed with short, thick white hair like a pelt that ran down into sideburns and a goatee, he swung off the bike with a rolling, big-bellied stride - from two floors above I could see the confidence, even arrogance in his posture - and waited for Ivan's big black pickup to park.

Ivan was joined on the drive by his pa.s.senger Keech. Keech wasn't small, but Ivan towered over him. They waited at a deferential distance until Bullard arrived a couple minutes later. Bullard and the old guy had a few words - Bullard apologized for making him wait, which was further proof to me that the old guy was higher up in the organization - and they headed to the front door.

Ivan and Keech took up watchful positions in the drive. I was two floors up, inside a window and shaded from view, but if I didn't know better I'd swear that Ivan tried to catch my eye, giving an ever-so-disgusted shake of the head to let me know that I had no business being there, that I was a kid, a civilian, and out of my depth. I ducked back and clicked the blinds shut.

The meeting went on for less than an hour. The rumble of voices cut through with Bullard's high-pitched tones, and Randle's animated enthusiasm trying to sway them like a pitchman on the shopping channel. Maybe twenty minutes in, his tone changed to one of disagreement, punctuated by horses.h.i.t and are you blind? and I ventured cautiously from the bedroom onto the carpeted hallway. Bullard made a suggestion and was shut up by the older guy. Maddie's voice floated above the male thrum, answering some pointed financial questions, but I could only pick out a few words. An iPhone marimba ring interrupted the conversation more than once, and I thought, if they can I can, and slipped the battery back in my phone, setting it to vibrate. It instantly hummed - missed calls, from home or Beth's cell, and missed texts from Rachel. Her shift had been changed, could I still pick her up tonight. Yes.

Downstairs, the disagreement tapered to a stalemate, and I became worried that I might be heard. Just as I crept back into my room, the bikers got up and left, as suddenly as if it had been prearranged. There were no goodbyes, just a click of the door. Motors blasted to life and roared up the drive and away. Down in the kitchen, Maddie and Randle made low, unhappy sounds.

I left them to their discussions - I didn't want to know about Randle's dealings with the Devils, whether it was Bullard's franchise or the international operation - until eventually I had to leave. There were things I needed to get ready for tonight with Rachel, and my truck was in the garage, which meant I had to walk through the kitchen and past Randle and Maddie.

I clunked the bedroom door shut, and heavy-footed my way down the stairs, to be sure they'd hear me coming and change any sensitive subject. Poking my head into the kitchen, I said, "Hey, guys, thanks for letting me use the shower. I'm heading out now."

Randle gave me a lidded nod and turned to the garage. Maddie leaned against the stove and put out an arm to block me from following.

"No problem, darling," she said. "He needs a time-out right now. Are you feeling better?" Her smile seemed forced.

"Slept in the truck last night."

"Problems with Mom and Dad? They don't like what you're doing?"

I shrugged. She thought I had a mom and dad. Good. She was nice, but I wanted to keep my details private. "They think I work at the coffee shop." I shrugged, "Which I do, but that's all they know. No, it's other stuff. Personal stuff."

"There's a girl?" She raised a curious eyebrow.

I shrugged again and a dimple appeared in one of her cheeks, like she thought the idea was amusing but wasn't going to laugh at me to my face. Or maybe she was reconsidering me.

Before she could reply, Randle returned from the garage, giving me a flat-palmed clap on the shoulder. "What's your opinion?" Weed smoke clung to him.

"About?"

"Our security," he said, a bit too loudly. "Does it have holes?" He waggled a dramatic finger in my face.

What was the right answer? Did he want rea.s.surance, or should I say what I thought? I could pat him on the back for his secret codes, the hoods he made his budders wear, his conspiratorial cells of anonymity. Or I could point out the weak link: the high-profile boss who was an unremitting stoner.

"Seems pretty tight," I ventured. "You've got rules, your people are trained, you keep things pretty close to your chest."

"Exactly, exactly." Randle nodded almost manically, walking in a circle.

"Each of us knows our primary contacts only," I said. "One task and nothing else. That's cautious, smart. Minimizes the risk."

"That's what I told Sammy Jay. " His lip curled. "He was lecturing me about how I run my business. He's not dumping on Bullard, whose grows are so dirty and mouldy, you can smell them blocks away. We run de-ozonators to mask the smell. And security - Bullard's idea is to pay off the cops, and threaten to break your legs if you squeal. That's not security, that's intimidation. That's what you do after there's been a leak. Security is how you prevent the leak in the first place."

"That's not the issue," Maddie said to me. "Security's just an excuse. It's control he wants."

Randle sank into a bar stool, then jumped up again. "Sammy Jay from California. Talks like an MBA - streamline the workflow, create synergies through complementary operations."

"It's the House they're after," Maddie stated flatly. "And there's nothing you can do about it."

"They want to buy you out?" I felt stupid sitting there. They were talking to each other, not to me.

Randle paced. "They don't get it. Weed is weed to them - but we're a boutique operation, for Christ's sake. We can sell our product for triple the price they get."

"Ten times." Maddie muttered.

"Can't they do the math? Gram for gram, the cut that we give them for our product is more than they make total for theirs."

"You're too big, too successful. Too independent." She said, "Bullard's got to know you've got businesses on the side. I wonder if that's what he told Sammy Jay."

"They can't prove it."

"They're not lawyers, Randle. They don't have to prove anything."

His voice was bitter. "They want me to be a cog in an agribusiness. Grow the weed and deliver it. No specialty breeding, no small batches. No processing."

And no need for a driver, I thought. "You need them for protection."

"I do." He didn't sound certain.

"In the city there were grows everywhere. Hydroponic supply stores all over, but I never saw any bikers. How do they do it?"

"There are street gangs, but we don't want to be part of that." Maddie said. "Every week somebody gets shot."

"They're affiliated," Randle said. "n.o.body's independent." He pulled a phone from his pocket and headed for the garage. "Not for long, anyway. Nearly twenty years I've been paying them half my gross. This is the thanks I get."

Maddie and I looked at each other for an awkward moment, and she stood up. "From those people, a buyout is remarkably civilized." She left for the living room. I heard clinking gla.s.s as she began picking up after the guests.

Alone in the kitchen, I had a bad few moments, thinking of myself and how ripped-up my life was all of a sudden. There was no going back to Beth, and I was basically fired from the cafe. Now I was losing Randle's money too, when I was so close to getting out of Wallace. I just wanted something to hold on to. I wanted Rachel.

I waited until I heard feet on the garage steps and Randle clicking his phone shut, and I opened the garage door.

"I've got to go," I said.

"Not yet." A wisp of smoke trailed from his nose. To Maddie, he said loudly. "He's not taking it well."