Exit Strategy (18 page)

I laughed. “I’ll bet.”

I could have prodded more personal information from him, maybe asked if he’d known Evelyn at the time and what she’d thought of that. Innocent questions that I suspected he’d answer. But that seemed manipulative, tricking him into revealing more.

Was I interested in
knowing
more? Sure. Jack played a significant role in my life, yet I knew next to nothing about the man. Curiosity was a given.

When Evelyn had tempted me with details on Jack, goading me about being interested, I’m sure this casual curiosity wasn’t what she’d meant. Was I interested in Jack? Physically attracted to him? Maybe to Evelyn the question should have an easy answer. He was a man, not unattractive, and available, at least in the sense that he was right there, with no immediate competition in sight. Maybe, to her, it was as simple as “yes, I’m interested” or “sorry, not my type.”

Jack
wasn’t
my type. Far from it. But when I looked at him, across the table, even asking myself “am I interested?” threw up a mess of incomplete and conflicting emotions…and an overriding sense that any time I spent untangling my feelings for him would be wasted, because he was clearly
not
interested in me.

I’d worked with enough men to sense, almost immediately, whether I was in danger of being cornered in a dark alley on patrol or followed to my car postshift with a shy “You doing anything tonight?” With Jack, that radar didn’t even turn on.

When the server asked whether we wanted to see the dessert menu, Jack didn’t consult me, just said yes, two please.

“What’re you getting?” he asked after I’d surveyed mine for a minute.

“I don’t think I could finish anything…”

“So don’t finish. That’s the point of dessert. You don’t need it.”

I smiled. “Are you getting something?”

“’Course. Eat like this? Gotta have dessert. Rich people do.”

My smile grew, and I ordered an apple-caramel something-or-other and a coffee.

When it arrived, he asked, “So, the money. What’re your plans? Something for the lodge?”

It took a moment to realize he meant the payment for this “job.” “We need to catch him first.”

“We will. Got plans?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” I said as I cut into my dessert. “The Moretti job will pay for the roof and prewinter repairs. I think I’ll use this for extras.”

“That deck by the lake? You mentioned that this summer.”

“I did.” I leaned back with my coffee. “I really want to work on snagging more of the romantic getaway market for summer. Winter is easy—couples just want to hole up in a warm room and have someone else cook comfort food for them. Summer needs more. Owen and I have plans for a picnic spot in the meadow. I’d been hoping by next fall I could afford a gazebo, for the following summer.”

“There you go. Buy yourself one this spring. Get one for the deck, too.”

“That’d be nice. A big deck at the waterfront, plus a gazebo over the edge. Maybe even upgrade to ones with screens for black-fly season and cooler weather. It’d make a great place for couples to have a drink or—” I tapped my pastry. “Coffee and slice of Emma’s pie. It’d photograph well for the brochure. I’d take the picture of the meadow picnic spot when the spring flowers are out. And the other one by the lake at sunset.”

My mind racing ahead, planning. All the tension and frustration from earlier, from hearing the killer’s letter, had evaporated. Maybe it was the drink. Maybe it was the good food. Maybe it was just being away, comfortable and relaxed. Whatever the reason, the fire in my gut had stopped burning, and I could see beyond this case, to a time when it would be over and I’d be reaping the rewards—the monetary ones and the deeper, more meaningful ones.

I glanced at Jack. “First, we need to catch this guy.”

“Still gonna get paid. Only difference? Afford two gazebos or four. I’d count on four.”

I smiled. “You
do
have an optimistic streak.” I sipped my coffee. “As much as I’m enjoying this break, should we talk about tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I’m going after Baron.”

“Do you think Evelyn will have a lead for you?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t? I’ll find one. Legwork.”

“Evelyn wants us to talk to Volkv tomorrow, but I think Baron is the better lead. Where do you want me?”

He considered this as he scraped chocolate icing from his plate. “Shouldn’t focus on one thing. Do I want you along? Sure. Need you? Hard to say. More than Evelyn will? No.”

“So I’ll stay with her. If you find Baron…I know you don’t need backup…”

“I find him? I’ll call.”

NINETEEN

Again, Evelyn met us at the door. “About time. I’m getting a little tired of this, you two. I find all your leads, then I’m stuck in this damned house waiting for you to get your asses back and start investigating them.”

“You find
all
our leads?” Jack said as we hung up our coats.

“Most.”

“Is this one about Baron?” I asked.

She waved the question aside. “Later. I have something better—a fresh avenue.”

I groaned. “The only thing worse than not having any theories? Having too many.”

She herded us to the living room, impatiently waiting while we settled in, then said, “Earlier, you asked me to look into criminal records for the other victims. What you failed to ask for was arrest records—”

“I
did
ask. You said you’d look into—”

“I found one.” She eased back in her seat and smiled. “Murder.”

“Who?”

“Mary Lee.”

“You don’t mean the—”

“Old lady?” Her brows arched. “A murderous old lady? Heavens, what a thought.”

Before she could have the satisfaction of drawing out the explanation, Jack walked to the computer desk, flipped through the papers, brought one to the sofa and sat down beside me where we could both read it firsthand.

Mary Lee had indeed been charged with murder, almost twenty years ago. From the article, it wasn’t clear whether the charges had been dropped or whittled down to something that hadn’t shown up in our earlier search. We could tell only that the case had never gone to trial.

The victim? Lee’s husband. Smothered with a pillow. She’d confessed to the crime even. But after every member of her family told a story of years of escalating abuse, backed up by medical records, the DA’s office had decided that Lee had been in justifiable fear for her life and acted in self-defense. She’d been lucky. It didn’t always work out that way, especially twenty years ago, but she’d been set free and gone on to live exactly as she had before, as a law-abiding member of society.

Evelyn said, “So we have six victims so far, and two confirmed killers—”

“I wouldn’t put Mary Lee in the same category as Leon Kozlov.”

She waved me off. “Details. They’re both killers. Two out of six. Seems a little high for random sampling, don’t you think?”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on circumstance. Like Dee said—”

“There’s more. What do those two crimes have in common besides being homicides?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “In Lee’s case, the charges were dropped. In Kozlov’s they were reduced. Did the crime, but not the time.”

Jack grunted. “I don’t see—”

“No, but I’ll bet Dee does.”

As she said that, I realized what she was getting at and spit out the word she wanted. “Vigilantism.”

Jack shook his head. “After, what, ten years? Longer for Lee.”

I hated pursuing this, but it was an angle that needed to be considered. “If that’s what this is, vigilantism would likely be an excuse. Someone who’s justifying his actions by choosing people one could argue escaped justice.”

“Is that common?” Evelyn said. “Vigilantes as common killers looking for justification?”

I met her gaze straight on. “It’s one explanation. Sometimes you’ll find people ganging together to protect a neighborhood, calling themselves vigilantes, when all they really want is an excuse to bust some heads. It’s a more likely explanation than ‘pure’ vigilantism—someone with…an overdeveloped sense of justice.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Jack said. “Hitmen kill. Don’t need an excuse.”

“Isn’t money an excuse?” Evelyn said. “What if we’re talking about a hitman who got to liking it, then needed to find another reason to keep doing it when no one was paying?”

“There may have also been a precipitating event,” I found myself saying. “If someone close to him was recently the victim of a crime, and went unpunished, that may have set him off.”

“Would it?” Evelyn’s eyes turned my way.

I locked gazes with her. “Yes, it’s one factor.”

“Still not buying this,” Jack said. “Two out of six. What’re you telling me? The other four killed someone? If this guy found them—”

“Then it must be a matter of public record, which rules out more arrests because I haven’t uncovered any. But there are a lot of ways for someone to be responsible for a death.” She paused. “Something someone did. Something he failed to do.”

I could hear my heart thumping, each breath getting harder to take. Was she mocking me?

I focused so hard pain exploded behind my eyes, but I lifted my head to fix her with my calmest, most guileless stare…only she wasn’t looking at me. Her gaze was fixed on Jack.

A look passed between them, but I caught only a glimpse of it before Jack shrugged, face blank once more.

“Maybe,” he said. “Only way to find out? Check it out.”

Jack followed through on his skepticism by heading off to bed. He had another long day coming and little sleep from the night before. If we wanted to research this angle, we could do it without him.

That meant I was left alone with Evelyn. I could have followed Jack, made the same excuse. But if Evelyn had anything to say to me, better to hear it now, and clarify where I stood with this new “partner.”

She sat down at her computer and started flipping through sites, waiting just long enough to ensure Jack wasn’t changing his mind. Then she turned to me.

“I offended you,” she said. “With that vigilante angle.”

I settled back in my seat, notepad on my knee. “I don’t offend easily.” I smiled to underscore my point. “But, yes, I can get a little prickly about the word. Chalk it up to my cop side. ‘Vigilante’ means some yahoo trying to do our job—implying that we can’t handle it—and usually getting in our way.”

“But the underlying concept is a person who takes justice into his own hands. Which I think you’re familiar with?”

I considered my next words carefully, aware of the weight of her gaze on me. I could sing the “I’m only in it for the money” song. But take my past, put it together with my current line of work, and even Jack had known, from the start, why I was in this. That’s why he’d never suggested I branch out, try anything more lucrative. Knocking off a couple of wiseguys a year? Sure. Killing someone’s wife to convey a message? Never. Not even if that one job would equal years of work for the Tomassinis.

So I only looked at Evelyn and said, “Does that bother you?”

“Not a bit, as long as I’m not in danger of being murdered in my bed. I can’t say I understand it, but it does have its advantages.”

“Advantages?”

“Drive. Passion. Sometimes, in this job, it can be more important than keeping your cool. And certainly more interesting.” She turned back to her computer. “Now, let’s see what we can find.”

I spent the next two hours with Evelyn as she cruised the information highway, letting me tag along at the far end of the towing rope. Evelyn bobbed between the two levels of the Internet, searching the mainstream Web and its underground tendrils. When she pulled a particularly clever maneuver, she’d pull in my towline and let me see what she was doing, but when it came to the nuts-and-bolts of surfing the underbelly, she’d block her keystrokes or shift in front of the monitor, all the while promising to show me this part “another time.” In other words, she wowed me with fancy footwork, but held back on the basic steps, like a dance teacher offering a free lesson to encourage a prospective student to shell out for the full course.

Finally, we found something—a short article more than fifteen years old. In it, Carson Morrow, victim number two, was mentioned as one of four teens who’d been in a car when one of the quartet died in a single-vehicle accident. That was all we got. For once, the reporter had focused on the life of the victim, not the circumstances of his death. Had Morrow been the driver? Had he somehow been responsible—maybe egging the driver on or supplying alcohol? The article didn’t speculate, only listed him as one of the survivors and ending with a vague “no charges have been filed at this time.”

Evelyn searched for more, but that was it. Not surprising—a motor vehicle accident involving teenage boys was tragic, but not newsworthy. We printed the article, and she sent out “feelers” to a source, someone in the St. Louis area who might be able to tell her more. Then she dove back into the Web, trolling for the others. The best we could find was a mention of Russ Belding as the commanding officer on a ship where a sailor had died in a port town. There was some possibility of “responsibility” there, but it would require more in-depth searching. Being an incident that involved the military, that might not be so easy, but Evelyn swore she had connections.