Almost Criminal: A Crime In Cascadia Mystery Part 9

She s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag and clapped it flat, then pulled her palms apart like she'd killed a juicy, disgusting bug. The clear vinyl sagged and dropped, expelling a cloud of humid, savoury vapour. "Pack this up and take it back where it came from."

"My G.o.d," It was Bree, standing behind me, coming around from the far side of the piano. "You've got a Volcano? This is a house of weed freaks and no one told me? Those things are so cool."

Beth sputtered, the bag clenched in one hand. "What are you doing here? You should be in school."

Bree raised her eyebrows. "School has been out since last week, mother. I'm so glad you noticed." She turned to me. "This is yours? Where did you get the money for a Volcano? First you're wearing two-hundred-dollar jeans and now this? Are you selling dope?"

Beth nearly screamed, "Get out, both of you. I - have - work - to - do. Doesn't anyone in this house understand that? Tate is getting rid of that thing, taking it back to whoever he borrowed it from and that is the end of it."

"So I'm not going to get a hit?" She teased. Big mistake.

Beth spun on one heel and slapped Bree flat-handed across the face. She immediately jerked her arm back and flushed with what looked like shock at her actions, and retreated to the kitchen. "Get this out of here! I'm going upstairs to work. When I come down, I want every trace of this gone! Every trace."

An hour before my morning shift, my phone beeped. A text from Skip: pick you up, HBeans, 9 am.

So the "no calls or texts for business" rule only applied to me. I called Christine, then Lucas, and finally got Alexa to cover me. I got to the shop early, on foot - Randle still had my skateboard, and I wasn't going to be seen in the truck, not there - but Skip was late. I made myself a coffee, then another, and sneaked one of Jeannie's b.u.t.ter tarts before his van careened up to the shop, swaying from a hard U-turn.

"Get in, dude, we're building the one-day grow op. Or I'm f.u.c.ked." His eyes were yellow and bloodshot with deep black bags, and the van smelled of him. His head swivelled to the highway traffic and put his foot to the gas. "p.r.i.c.k! See the signal?" He slammed his palm onto the horn b.u.t.ton but nothing sounded. "We're short dozens and dozens of plants, lost a full cycle." His sweats were dark in the pits and looked like he'd slept in them.

"I saw the fire. Drove past the firetrucks and all the mess. It even made the news."

"I pay for protection and this is what I get." He rubbed at his nose as he cut an un-signalled left turn into a gravel road. "It wasn't ripped, it was a torch job. It's the f.u.c.king Bible belt out here. First they want to burn books, now they're burning houses."

I didn't want to argue, but if half the valley was in the business, then there had to be a lot of churchgoing growers. And how did he know they didn't rip the weed out before torching it? And if we were playing detective, who's to say his hot-wired electrical system wasn't the cause. But I kept those thoughts to myself.

"There were people in that house, man! And an innocent little dog."

"Two people, right?" That's what Beth had said.

"And Mabel."

I clung to the door handle as Skip took a washboarded road at speed, ringing the van like a tin drum. We skidded to a stop on the front lawn of a two-storey house that lay like a fallen rock at the base of a steep hillside. Once painted yellow, its brown shingles were dark and curling with age.

"Look at this s.h.i.tpile," he muttered to me, but mostly to himself. "Why isn't there a rusty Camaro in the yard? It just screams grow op."

My thoughts exactly. Silver foil peeled off the picture window. The yard was littered with green plastic pots, some containing shrunken root b.a.l.l.s of weed, and a collapsed stack of various lengths of PVC piping. Under the porch, a sun-faded Big Wheel tricycle lay on its side.

"I take it you're the proud owner."

"Bought it from the Bull. Protected six ways to Sunday, he a.s.sures me. Anybody touches this place, even to steal that tricycle, their nuts'll be in tonight's spaghetti. That's what he says." He sniffed again, wiping a forefinger under his reddened nose. "But we're facing a total rebuild. This is set up for pesticides and Miracle-Gro. Biker s.h.i.tweed."

He was on c.o.ke. I'd worked with him for weeks, and seen no sign of any kind of lifestyle, no clothes, cars, jewellery, friends. He had to be making good money but even though he talked nonstop it was never about having any fun. Looked like his earnings went up his red, running nose.

"C'mon," he said. "Power and plumbing's roughed in, we got to clean it up and put in the hardware, then lay out the grid. If I can get the temp and humidity up I'll be putting in the babies tonight. Might only miss a couple of shipments. Yeah. Maybe only one." He punched a dent in the sagging storm door. "I got penalty clauses."

Inside, the house was a barn, stripped to wood studs and exposed wiring. A couple of workers, Asian guys, were ripping out old wood shelving and pulling water-stained plastic sheeting off the walls and ceiling. The air was rank with dampness and mould, and the resinous smell of bud.

"This is the kind of place the cops take photos of and plaster all over the news. 'Fraser Valley grow op busted.'" Skip said, loudly, "I paid too much for this, Randle."

Randle leaned against the back door, where he was supervising the demolition in jeans and a dusty sweatshirt.

"What price can you put on security?"

"You think the Mounties don't know about this place already?" I had to say something, it seemed so obvious.

Skip turned to me, peevish. "It's the rippers that freak me. Mounties are p.u.s.s.ies beside them. The only thing that makes money faster than growing pot is ripping someone else's grow. That's why we pay for security. The kind of security that lets a little dog burn to death inside a protected house. Right?" Now he was yelling, because Ivan had just entered the room carrying loops of rubber hose. "And what then? I want to make an insurance claim, bro, can you send me the forms? How much for Mabel's life?" He blew his nose.

Ivan said softly, "Please, please." He looked sincerely sympathetic. "We are here to help."

"Please yourself. I'll fall apart if I want to." Skip kicked, and a roll of tape scuttered away. "Somebody's gonna pay for what they did. I want you guys to get on to that."

Above his head, the ceiling had been cleaned off and the two workers were working on parallel ladders, using drills to drive rows of screw hooks. The standard Randle grow pattern was taking shape. The ventilation, fertilizer, and power lines were going to hang off the hooks, running from the plant racks to the controller panel.

His voice took on a businesslike tone. "I won't fall apart until the babies are growing. When do they get here?"

Ivan answered, "They don't get here on their own. You will pick up the plants yourself." He turned and began working on the water supply. "When the house is ready."

Randle called me to the door. "There's my favourite computer geek. The controller's in the truck."

Outside, one of the Asian guys was waiting. We carried the controller together, depositing it where Randle instructed. He didn't have much English, but he knew his way around a Randle-standard grow op. With hand signals and a few short words he showed me where and how to start.

The controller was a steel box the size of a mini-fridge. My task was to open it up, find its connection panel, and hook it up to the system cable. The cable led to the lights, fans and water pumps that regulated the atmosphere and growing conditions.

There were a couple of challenges. First, the system cable - a heavy rubber-covered snake-spewed hundreds of smaller wires like a rainbow afro. Each tiny wire was unique: one was red with blue and purple stripes, another was green with white and orange stripes. There were hundreds of combinations.

Second, there were no labels or instructions, just a scrawled sticky note that the system had checked out, signed by Bl0nd, with a zero in place of the letter O. With nothing else to go from, I decided that the logical task was to match the colour codes on the circuit board wires to the colour codes on the system cable, and hook them to each other using the screws on the terminal. To match, say, the yellow wire with the blue stripe in the controller with the same pattern on the cable.

I squatted and examined it like a puzzle. I found a couple of the easier combinations right away, and hoped that the others would become clear once I was underway, like a jigsaw puzzle becomes more obvious once the picture begins to show itself. I had three combinations matched and connected, and was sorting through the stiff, threadlike copper wires looking for the next, when a gentle voice spoke from behind my shoulder.

It was my installer friend, the man of few words. "Yes, good." He pointed and nodded encouragingly.

"I was going to wait for Randle to check it before I went much further."

"Is good."

"I'm Tate."

He nodded and gave me a thumbs-up, and indicated that the next step was to hook up the far ends of the cable, where it split off to control the nutrient pumps, heaters, ventilation, and lights.

I disappeared inside the challenge and didn't look up until the racks were in place and the plumbing and ventilation hung from the ceiling in symmetrical rows. Skip and Ivan had left to pick up the baby plants.

A hand grasped my arm.

"Amazing." It was Randle, with a broad smile and warm eyes. He'd changed into pale grey flannel pants and a short-sleeve silk shirt with a j.a.panese design.

"I can't believe you got that together already. I tried to do it once, but I asked Oshi so many questions, he pushed me aside and took over." He touched my arm again. "I knew you'd be a great addition to the team."

I waited for a sharp word or a double meaning, something that hinted at my screw-up on the Timejackers set, or how Bullard had followed me to the hash shop. I wanted a chance to let him know what it had been like to be stranded across the border, in the armpit of northern Washington State, for Christ's sake.

Randle said, gently, "Do you have a minute? Let's sit outside, it's just rank in here."

He wiped the seat of a plastic lawn chair before settling into it. "This kind of dirty work is rare, which is a good thing."

He straightened the seam on his pants, and lit a joint. We had business to discuss. The House was under more pressure than ever to meet growing demand. Now that I had my truck, I wasn't going to work under Skip anymore.

"You'll receive your a.s.signments directly from me, like all my senior operatives," said Randle. "It's time for you to learn the drill."

He began with the same old story about the security risks of phones and computers and the Internet, seeing my eyes glaze, he emphasized that there was a surveillance network, and it wasn't just the transmissions, it was the content of the messages that was monitored, whether it was a phone or the Web. Email providers, Google, Facebook - they were all in on it.

"There are emergencies, of course, which is why you carry a phone. But electronics and computers are the enemy."

"But you use the Web for online sales. You use FedEx to mail seeds."

"I'm not paranoid, man. When I use the networks I do it with a secure system that routs through so many countries the messages are untraceable. And I don't use a home PC."

But there was a way for us to connect, he said. Hide in plain sight. Before there were computers, spies used to pa.s.s coded messages with fake cla.s.sified ads in the newspapers. His solution was to do the same, using Craigslist.

He wore a Cheshire cat grin as he explained. "Your code name is gre3n. The colour green, with a little typo."

"Like Blond with a zero for the o." I said.

That shook him. He was so certain he didn't leave fingerprints.

"It's on a sticky note in the controller box." I knew it was his code. He thought he acted like the CIA, but I couldn't resist the stoner jokes. Mr. Blunt for deliveries. Gre3n for green weed, bl0nd for blond hash. "Who was bl0nd? Your last favourite geek?"

He instructed me to go online every morning between eight and nine and do a Craigslist search for my code name. From the tens of thousands of ads, one would come up containing that unique typo. On a busy day, there might be two or three. It might be an ad for, say, a Ford Pinto with a gre3n leather interior. A lost and found note for a gre3n locket. When I saw an ad, there was a job for me.

If the ad instructed buyers to call a phone number at a certain time, that was when and where for me to call. If the ad contained an address, that's where I'd go.

"Pretty simple for someone who appreciates a good riddle." Randle laid a friendly hand on my shoulder. "No ad means you have the day off." He pulled out a credit card. "For the good work you've done today."

It's easy to forget how much I liked being with Randle. The business was cool and all, but I enjoyed watching him interact with people. I envied his style, his confidence and self-a.s.surance. When I was with him I dressed better, walked straighter, looked people in the eye.

Chapter 12.

Rachel's grad night finally arrived, and as promised, I showed up at her dad's house in a cleaned and polished pickup, carrying the required white orchid wrist-corsage.

Rachel opened the door at the first knock. She was transformed. Her piercings were gone, her tats covered by makeup, and long black hair framed her pale, uncertain face. A dye job to her natural colour, and the most realistic extensions I'd ever seen. After Beth's chemo, I knew my wigs. Her only jewellery was a pair of very nice tear-drop earrings of crystal and silver, with a matching pendant necklace. She'd warned me about the grad dress, and it was a shock to see her in a Disney princess-fantasy gown in floor-length lavender, but no amount of polyester could diminish her beauty.

"You look fantastic," I said. "Unbelievable." Draped over her shoulders was the charcoal shawl I'd given her, its miniature crystals austere and ill-matched to the eruptions of crinoline.

"We had these huge fights. Mom put a deposit on the dress in, like, February, back when I didn't give a s.h.i.t, 'cause I had no intention of going." She shrugged, and the skirt made a synthetic rustle.

Her mother was a former refugee, a boat person, and could be controlling, even fierce. Fortunately, Mom lived in Chilliwack and didn't have day-to-day influence, but her opinion on body piercings and ink was clear. Today she'd come over to Rachel's Dad's-a rare event-to spend the afternoon creating the daughter of her dreams.

"It was kind of nice, a mother-daughter thing, until Dad came home," Rachel said. "And they had this major hissy-fight. Just like old times."

Dad had wanted to bring her to Grad, but Mom wouldn't be seen beside Dad, so Mom got mad and ran off. Then Dad made the mistake of gloating that he'd won, and Rachel refused to have anything to do with him.

"I told him I'd rather go alone. With you," she said, blinking to preserve the makeup.

I took her by the arm and led her to the truck.

Expelled from the Steelhead Inn by midnight, the grad cla.s.s dispersed to private parties and fast-food outlets. By two in the morning, most had regrouped and migrated to the seclusion of the marina, skate park and surrounding woods, the same spot that Rachel and I preferred for our c.o.c.ktail hours.

Rachel's arm was warmly tucked in mine as we sat in a sleepy circle on the gra.s.s, with her friends Tanya, Rebecca, and their dates. Grads ebbed and flowed around the meadow, into the dark of the trees and out to the floating wharf. Some grads, including us, were still in their suits and dresses. Some of the guys were definitely going to lose the damage deposit on their rented tuxes. The better-organized had packed a change of clothes in their cars. Some had come totally prepared: their trunks and pickup beds were stocked with beer, booze, and snacks. Somebody'd phoned for pizza and had it delivered to the wharf. From time to time someone would let out a whoop, or try to spark some sense of group electricity.

Rachel slid closer, which encouraged me to wrap one arm around her shoulder. Bringing her to the grad had been the right thing to do. She'd been in hundreds of photos, had shared in dozens of farewell hugs. She was slowly sipping vodka from a flask she'd had under her skirt. I hadn't brought any alcohol. Since I'd made it into Randle's inner circle, I'd been working hard, plus holding down a few shifts at the shop, and there hadn't been time for drinking. And not much interest.

A shrill cry of Anybody want Bud? E? nearly echoed off the condos across the lake. I stood up, surprised that I recognized the voice. Nolan, Bree's friend that she insisted wasn't a boyfriend. I hadn't liked him from the minute we'd met. What was he doing here, and didn't he know that dope sales in Wallace belonged to the bikers? Or did he work for Bullard?

"He's not a grad," I said, trying to be certain of the shape silhouetted in the parking lot lights.

"No-lan," Tanya's boyfriend made the name a singsong insult, "Such a dweeb." She elbowed him with a stop it! "Well, he is!" He drained another can of beer and tossed the empty on the gra.s.s.

Being an a.s.shole didn't make him wrong.

Rachel leaned into my ear. "Let's go for a walk."

"Just what I was going to suggest."

I put my hand in the small of her back and took a step toward the parking lot for a better look. Nolan circulated along the perimeter of the meadow with a lineup of customers, trading bills for items from his pockets.

s.h.i.t, I thought. It's her. As I'd feared, he had a helper, a familiar round-shouldered girl who handed him supplies from a backpack. What was Bree thinking? Selling dope, out in the open, to students from her own school.

I pulled away from Rachel. "I'll be a second. I've got to talk to this Nolan dude."

"Are you going to buy a j?" She caught up with me. "You don't smoke." She dropped her voice. "Or are you checking out the compet.i.tion?"

"There's no compet.i.tion. That's my sister with him, she's fourteen. I've got to get her out of here."

Nolan was all elbows as he fumbled with money and baggies, but he tried to act cool. "A big fatty for the little lady, don't smoke it all in one place now."

I walked past him and took Bree by the arm. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here, you don't go to ADC." She tried to pull away.

I held my grip, suddenly angry with her, and with Nolan. "Go home. Go home right now."

She hunched her shoulders and struck at my hand. Behind us, someone complained, Dude, get to the back of the line, and there was the unmistakable smack of a hand on skin. Bree and I stopped and turned. Nolan was backing up, slow step by slow step, while someone - not a high-schooler, he was in his mid-twenties - had a hand clamped on his shoulder and was forcing him back towards a fir tree. A few feet behind him, someone else was dispersing the line of would-be purchasers. They were both clean-cut, well-dressed with a heads-up alertness that stood out among the drunk and stoned. Dealers.