logging road in the winter was bad at best. Linked to the MO of a serial killer, it was dismal. Leith looked at the bulletin again, photograph of a young woman with a dazzling smile, warm eyes, a tumble of glossy brown hair. The image was professionally lit, more a publicity head shot than something out of a family album. The stats said she was twenty-two. The name, Kiera Rilkoff, rang a distant bell. “She’s a bit of a celebrity? A singer?”
Prentice nodded and said for Bosko’s benefit, “She’s quite the talent, too. Our local pride and joy. My daughters are huge fans. Country and western stuff, I think.”
Leith had learned not to take many of Prentice’s adjectives at face value. Like huge. If asked, those daughters would probably agree that, yeah, Kiera’s pretty good, why?
“Oh, sure, the Rockabilly Princess,” Bosko said, snapping his fingers. “There was a piece on grassroots music on CBC Radio just before Christmas. She gave a short, man-on-the-street type interview, and they played a track from her first CD. Self-produced, I think. She seemed excited about the future of the band, and they had a second CD coming out. Did it ever happen?”
“No, I think it got nixed for some reason.”
Bosko didn’t look surprised, Leith noticed, and then it clicked that he’d actually seen the singer play, which was one better than hearing her on the radio. “I caught her act at last summer’s Seafest,” he said. The event filled his mind, the sunshine and crowds, the barbecue aromas, little Izzy on his shoulders gripping his hair and trying to knock off his sunglasses. He’d been more interested in the food than the music, frankly, but he’d stopped to watch the pretty girl on centre stage. The music itself was fairly run-of-the-mill country yowling, as he recalled, and he hadn’t stopped for long.
He shook his head, handing the bulletin back to Prentice. “She’s not victim four. He wouldn’t go for a celebrity. What’s with her vehicle?”
“Parked near a trailhead on Kispiox Mountain,” Prentice said. “They got a spare key up there and checked. Engine wouldn’t turn over.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“No news yet on that yet.”
“Must be deep snow up there. Any tracks?”
“Mess of tracks, Giroux tells me. Terrace sent two Ident guys over for a look. Should be there by now. Problem is family and friends went tramping about before we were brought in. Doubtful there’s anything left.”
A trashed crime scene was a terrible beginning, and already Leith knew this was going to end up bad. Unless she was incredibly inconsiderate, the girl hadn’t caught a ride with somebody, hadn’t met up with friends, wasn’t simply out having too much fun to call home.
“Why d’you say he wouldn’t go for a celebrity, Dave?” Bosko asked.
The “he” they all spoke of was the so-called Pickup Killer, as dubbed by the press because it was about all the police had on him so far, that he drove a pickup. And even that was little more than circumstantial say-so. Leith eyed the stranger, not keen on this first-name-basis thing — it’s Leith to you, buddy — let alone case-note sharing. But Prentice wasn’t objecting, so Leith pulled in his shoulders and gave the stranger the abridged version, just short of rude. “His last two victims were pretty well loners, down-and-outers, which buys him time. Grabbing Kiera is not only way out of his abduction territory — it’s not his style. This is something else altogether, and that means it’s not my file, Phil, and I’m going home. Bye.”
His last few words were directed at Prentice while stepping across the threshold, but Prentice sharply called him back into the room. “It happened in the Hazeltons, where for all we know he’s based,” Prentice said. “What about the logging road? It’s a link we can’t ignore, and right or wrong, we need you out there, if only to sign off on a no-go.” To Bosko he explained more pleasantly, “Dave heads up the Pickup task force. He’s immersed like nobody else. If there’s one incriminating fibre to be found, he’ll find it.”
Leith stood embarrassed, for however immersed he might be and whatever responsibilities he shouldered, he wasn’t much of a cop, as his rank pointed out. At his age he hadn’t even made corporal. Couldn’t pass the exams, couldn’t make an impression on those who mattered. He lacked some quality, elusive as charisma. Maybe it was just inherent laziness or a basically crappy IQ, but he wasn’t well read (though he tried). Or well travelled (though he dreamed). He wasn’t suave, wasn’t patient, wasn’t lovable. Worst of all, he wasn’t intuitive.
If one word could sum him up, it was dogged.
His personal phone buzzed, and he glanced at it, a coolish text from Alison telling him to pick up another bag of sidewalk salt, and he reflected that a few days away from home might not be so bad. “Right,” he told Prentice. “I’ll go pack. Call Giroux and tell her I’ll be on the road in an hour. ETA, no idea.”
He was nodding goodbye to the stranger Bosko, but Bosko wasn’t done irritating him and said, “Hold on a sec, Dave. I’ve run this by Phil already, and so long as it’s fine with you, it’s fine with him. I’m wondering if you’d mind if I rode along with you.”
“Rode along? To where? The airport? The airport’s that way.”
“New Hazelton. From there I could catch the next available sheriff run to Prince George and hop a plane. Wouldn’t mind seeing the interior up close. Never really get the chance. Always flying over.” He smiled.
The room’s windows looking out to sea were solid grey but for the white bombardments of sleet, and Leith could hear the muted howl of February pressing against the double-glazed window. The roads would be murder, the view obscured by haze, and it wasn’t much of a view anyway, a monotony of ice-rimed trees with the occasional glimpse of ice-jammed river.
He tried to send the stranger a fuck-off message with his eyes. “It’s a hell of a long drive, this time of year. Hours. And in this weather you won’t see much but taillights. It’ll be slow going. Gruelling.”
“For once in my life, Dave, I’ve got time.”
Leith shrugged and glowered. “Okay, then. Meet back here in forty minutes?”
“Absolutely.”
The only thing worse than a winter drive to the Hazeltons, Leith reflected as he made his way to the parkade, was a long winter drive to the Hazeltons with a man who answered grim propositions with absolutely. Damn.
* * *
“Thing is, I don’t have to be back at the office till the end of the month,” Bosko explained, settled next to Leith in the passenger seat, his specs reflecting the oncoming headlights. Prince Rupert was behind them now at two thirty, and they hadn’t yet sped up to highway limits. “The conference wrapped up quicker than we expected, as you know, which opened up this great window of time for me, a whole week, and my first impulse was to call up admin right away and top it up. But then I got to thinking. I walked down to the harbour, watched the waves crashing in, and it occurred to me how little I know of these parts, and how I wouldn’t mind some eyes-on exploration. I’ve called B.C. home for the last decade, yet I haven’t driven north of Cache Creek, would you believe?”
“Huh,” Leith said.
“And I’m not the only one. I don’t know how many superior officers I’ve talked to down
