now have to decide whether to stay or leave the conference. The decision would have been easier if she wasn’t sure that the man in the sheepskin jacket had noticed her watching Irwin. Whether or not her job here was over, she couldn’t risk exhibiting suspicious behavior, like checking out of her hotel room before her scheduled stay was over.
She picked up the telephone receiver and held it to her cheek, considering how to word her call. Then she dialed her client. Whatever the decision, it was her job to keep the client informed.
Hunter had spent an hour sitting with Alora after the two RCMP investigators left. His own informal interview by Sergeant Pike had been followed by a more intensive, recorded one by Staff Sergeant Blackwell, while Sergeant Pike sat and talked with Alora. Hunter knew that the two officers would compare notes later for inconsistencies in both their stories. He’d been on the other side of the table often enough to know that homicide detectives were not infallible, and that there was a very real risk that he himself would be considered a prime suspect based on last night’s confrontation with the victim. In spite of the fact that he had been a guest in Tom Halsey’s home, he knew Tom couldn’t unreservedly vouch for his presence there until after they’d met in the kitchen at around ten o’clock.
He had no idea what kind of evidence they had found so far. The police weren’t sharing anything with him. They told him that Tom Halsey had given them permission to search his house, and then asked Hunter for permission to search his car. “Absolutely,’ he said. They had requested that both he and Alora not leave Whistler without notifying them.
“I have to leave tomorrow by mid-afternoon,” he’d told Staff Sergeant Blackwell. “I drive a truck, long haul, for a living. I’m scheduled to pick up a loaded trailer Sunday night.”
“Loaded to go where?” asked the detective.
“Northern California,” he’d said.
“Not gonna happen.”
“I can’t afford to stay here.” Hunter supposed Tom Halsey would let him stay a few days longer, but he couldn’t afford not to work. He had payments to make on his Freightliner tractor, rent to pay on his basement suite in North Vancouver, and he was still paying his share of expenses for his two teenage daughters.
“I can’t afford to let you leave,” countered the detective. “Look. You know how it is. I don’t want to arrest you, but I will if I have to. Then you’ll be in custody until at least Monday morning.”
Hunter sighed and nodded. “Okay, chief,” he’d said.
Alora had gone to her room to rest, and the police had driven Hunter back to Tom’s chalet in his own car, which they planned to search after searching the house. Not allowed into his room, he parked himself in Tom’s kitchen and made a call to his boss’s cell.
“Watson!” barked his dispatcher. Elspeth Watson was a freight broker with a small stable of independent owner operators, Hunter included. The drivers owned their own tractors, as the big trucks used for hauling trailers are called, and paid their own expenses. Watson Transportation found loads for them and negotiated a fair rate from the companies whose goods needed transporting. She collected money from the customers and paid the drivers the going rate for their services, less whatever the difference was between the driver’s share and the fee she was able to negotiate with the customer. She had to hustle to find good paying loads and keep her drivers working. There wasn’t a big margin in trucking, but El was good at her job and managed to make a modest living for herself and her drivers.
“Hello, El,” said Hunter. “I’ve run into a situation here. How critical is the delivery on that load to Redding?”
“Very,” she said. “I told you that, Hunter. The customer’s plant is going down without those parts. I told you they needed them by Monday at ten p.m. at the very latest
She picked up the telephone receiver and held it to her cheek, considering how to word her call. Then she dialed her client. Whatever the decision, it was her job to keep the client informed.
Hunter had spent an hour sitting with Alora after the two RCMP investigators left. His own informal interview by Sergeant Pike had been followed by a more intensive, recorded one by Staff Sergeant Blackwell, while Sergeant Pike sat and talked with Alora. Hunter knew that the two officers would compare notes later for inconsistencies in both their stories. He’d been on the other side of the table often enough to know that homicide detectives were not infallible, and that there was a very real risk that he himself would be considered a prime suspect based on last night’s confrontation with the victim. In spite of the fact that he had been a guest in Tom Halsey’s home, he knew Tom couldn’t unreservedly vouch for his presence there until after they’d met in the kitchen at around ten o’clock.
He had no idea what kind of evidence they had found so far. The police weren’t sharing anything with him. They told him that Tom Halsey had given them permission to search his house, and then asked Hunter for permission to search his car. “Absolutely,’ he said. They had requested that both he and Alora not leave Whistler without notifying them.
“I have to leave tomorrow by mid-afternoon,” he’d told Staff Sergeant Blackwell. “I drive a truck, long haul, for a living. I’m scheduled to pick up a loaded trailer Sunday night.”
“Loaded to go where?” asked the detective.
“Northern California,” he’d said.
“Not gonna happen.”
“I can’t afford to stay here.” Hunter supposed Tom Halsey would let him stay a few days longer, but he couldn’t afford not to work. He had payments to make on his Freightliner tractor, rent to pay on his basement suite in North Vancouver, and he was still paying his share of expenses for his two teenage daughters.
“I can’t afford to let you leave,” countered the detective. “Look. You know how it is. I don’t want to arrest you, but I will if I have to. Then you’ll be in custody until at least Monday morning.”
Hunter sighed and nodded. “Okay, chief,” he’d said.
Alora had gone to her room to rest, and the police had driven Hunter back to Tom’s chalet in his own car, which they planned to search after searching the house. Not allowed into his room, he parked himself in Tom’s kitchen and made a call to his boss’s cell.
“Watson!” barked his dispatcher. Elspeth Watson was a freight broker with a small stable of independent owner operators, Hunter included. The drivers owned their own tractors, as the big trucks used for hauling trailers are called, and paid their own expenses. Watson Transportation found loads for them and negotiated a fair rate from the companies whose goods needed transporting. She collected money from the customers and paid the drivers the going rate for their services, less whatever the difference was between the driver’s share and the fee she was able to negotiate with the customer. She had to hustle to find good paying loads and keep her drivers working. There wasn’t a big margin in trucking, but El was good at her job and managed to make a modest living for herself and her drivers.
“Hello, El,” said Hunter. “I’ve run into a situation here. How critical is the delivery on that load to Redding?”
“Very,” she said. “I told you that, Hunter. The customer’s plant is going down without those parts. I told you they needed them by Monday at ten p.m. at the very latest
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