Exit Strategy (27 page)

“He saw him,” Jack said as he opened the car door.

I stopped, fingers grazing the handle, and looked over the roof at him, but he just climbed in and started the engine. As I slid into my seat, he continued, “Kozlov witnessed a hit. Probably the one that got him fired. Didn’t just let his guy get whacked.
Saw
the hitman. Maybe even recognized him. Been sitting on it all these years.”

“And he called in the marker?”

“Maybe. Or maybe Kozlov wasn’t the only one retiring.”

I frowned over at him as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“Gotta clean up before you retire. Clip the loose ends. Otherwise—” He shrugged. “No sense quitting. Always looking over your shoulder.”

I took a moment to unravel this and fill in the missing parts. “You mean that if a hitman wants to retire to a normal life, he needs an exit strategy, to make damned sure there’s nothing, and no one who can finger him?” I twisted to look at him. “Do you think that’s what this guy is doing? Tying up all his loose ends by killing witnesses?”

“Could be.”

TWENTY-NINE

When I rapped on Evelyn’s door, she shouted a muffled welcome. We found her in the living room, tapping away on her keyboard, gaze fixed not on the monitor, but on the TV across the room. Before I could say hello, she gestured for silence and pointed at the television screen.

“—have confirmed the existence of a second letter, reportedly from the person responsible for the killings,” a news anchor was saying. “In it, the alleged killer speaks disparagingly of the federal agents assigned to the investigation—”

“Disparagingly?” Evelyn snorted. “Like I speak ‘disparagingly’ about the damned property taxes in this neighborhood.”

“—agents are defending their actions, stressing that at no time did they consider the psychiatric patient a viable suspect. However, as several staff members at the hospital have confirmed, the FBI has taken a serious and ongoing interest in Benjamin Moreland—”

Evelyn waved us to the computer. On the monitor was the letter from the killer.

Dear Mr. & Mrs. Citizen,

For two weeks now, I have been taking lives where I wish, and the federal agents assigned to catch me are no closer to their goal today than they were after the first death. In jest, I left a small trail of bread crumbs for them to follow—pages from a book, a letter claiming kinship with the subject of that book, a hair plucked from the arm of one who is indeed kin to that subject.

The joke is that the man to whom the hair belonged is one Benjamin Moreland, a schizophrenic who has been in a mental institution for the last six months. When I led the FBI to Mr. Moreland, I assumed they would see that it was a prank. Not only has he been in a secure facility since the crimes began, but he is diagnosed with a condition that would make it impossible for him to carry out murders as methodical and careful as these, as your experts will tell you. And yet, the FBI has turned their investigative efforts in his direction and are even now on the verge of arresting Mr. Moreland. This is how your premier law enforcement agency protects you.

So who
can
protect you? You can. I will ask for no more than you can afford—a laughably small price to pay for the safety of yourself and your loved ones.

“Scroll down,” I said.

“That’s it.”

“But there’s no demand. See if you can find a complete version—”

“That’s all there is, Dee. I’ve searched every copy, and every summary. There is no demand.”

Evelyn showed us a few sites where people were already debating the missing demand, and the significance of its absence. The prevailing theory was that the demand portion of the letter had been suppressed, that someone had managed to scare every news agency in the country into not printing it.

Bullshit, of course. The killer had intentionally held back his demand to leave people dangling. Let the panic mount, and the conspiracy theorists feed off it.

As for the ineptitude of the Feds, that was more misleading fear-mongering. He’d put the federal agents in the awkward position of defending themselves to Joe and Jane Citizen, who’ve read too many stories about inept, ineffectual or corrupt cops.

“Head games, Dee,” Jack murmured. “Remember that. We’re getting closer.”

“Are we?” I said, unclenching my jaw, but keeping my gaze down, hiding the dark rage bubbling in my gut. “This throws a big wrench in our theory, doesn’t it?”

Evelyn flicked off the monitor. “Tell me this theory.”

I explained what we’d learned from Volkv.

When I finished, she nodded. “If that’s
not
why Leon Kozlov was killed, it’s a hell of a coincidence. Only one problem…”

“This”—I waved at the television screen—“screws it all to bits. If he’s making demands, then he’s not doing preretirement cleaning.”

“Don’t be too sure, Dee. That’s isn’t the problem I meant. How many witnesses have you left, Jack?”

“None I know of.”

“I had one,” Evelyn said. “My fourth job. When I told my partner what happened, he sent me back to clean it up, and I learned my lesson there. Make damned sure you don’t have witnesses, or you might have to do something you’d rather not.”

I nodded. “In other words, if the killer is as good as he seems, there’s no way he should have left six witnesses…maybe more. So Kozlov is a coincidence?”

Evelyn shot off her chair and marched to her bookshelf. She grabbed a thin paperback. A second later it landed on my lap, the cover facing up.

“
A B C Murders
. Agatha Christie.” I skimmed the blurb on the back cover. “Oh, right, this is the one where the killer murders a bunch of people to hide a single—” I looked over at Evelyn. “You think he killed the others to cover killing Kozlov?”

“Former Russian mobster winds up dead, where’s the first place the cops look?”

“Organized crime.”

“A little extra effort, and Kozlov’s murder is hidden. Plus, our hitman goes out with a headline-making bang. Not a bad way to retire.”

“Killing five innocent people isn’t what I’d call a ‘little extra effort.’”

“You know what I mean. For someone who’s spent his life killing people, a few more isn’t going to matter. Most pros don’t even see
people
anymore. Not the way you do, Dee.” She looked at me, finger wagging. “And that’s what could make you a hell of a hitwoman. Conviction. Purpose. Passion. Harness that and—” Her eyes gleamed. “You might even become better than me.”

Her gaze locked mine, daring me to break away.

“Kozlov,” Jack cut in. “We need more.”

She looked at him. For a moment, no one spoke. Then she turned to her computer and got to work.

As Evelyn searched, we put together criteria for a list of potential hitmen.

“The Nikolaevs fired Kozlov in the early eighties, according to Little Joe,” I said. “That means we’re looking for a guy at least…”

“My age,” Jack said. “Probably older.”

“And judging by the language in that letter, I’d say he’s well educated,” I added.

“Age,” Evelyn said, not looking up from her typing. “The style. It’s overly formal. Not so much educated as an older person trying to sound educated.”

“Educated in an era before e-mail, so he pays more attention to his word choices, composition, whatever.” I looked at the printout. “He goes overboard. Wanting to sound smart, not be dismissed as some high school dropout thug. Appearances are important. Could be self-esteem issues there, too. Proving himself, like with the murders.”

“Wilkes retired yet?” Jack called over to Evelyn.

“Dropped out of the life years ago. And a plodder. His idea of creativity was toy handcuffs. We’re looking for someone with vision.”

“Add him anyway,” Jack said to me. Then to Evelyn. “Mercury?”

“A possibility. He was definitely creative. Knew positions even I never imagined.”

“Hank?”

“Mmm, he was pretty good, too. But he liked threesomes. Not my style. He’s dead, though. Heard he got the death sentence from his doctor, went to Reno, blew his retirement fund on reserving a whole brothel for a week and died happy.”

“How about saving us some time?” I said. “Just make a list of your former lovers.”

“You’ll need more paper.”

“Riley’s dead,” Jack said. “Falcon’s long retired. Not many left. Not at this age. Young man’s game.” He leaned back, as if searching his memory.

“What about Felix?” I said. “He’s about the right age.”

Evelyn shook her head, her eyes still on her computer screen. “He’s been with Quinn and if he started taking off, Quinn would be suspicious. Plus, Phoenix isn’t the retiring type.”

“Phoenix?”

“Felix. Phoenix is his work name. Any hitman with a moniker like that—a bird, animal, whatever—probably has a second nom de guerre for friends. Can you imagine chatting over beer with a guy and calling him ‘Phoenix’?”

“So I can cross Felix/Phoenix off my list. And Quinn is obviously too young—”

“Ah, Quinn,” she said. “What did you think of
him,
Dee?”

I glanced at Jack. “Okay, I guess. Seemed straight up.”

“Oh, he is. As straight as they come.” Her eyes glittered. “I bet you two will get along famously. You have so much in common, and not just a shared law-enforcement career. Quinn has another name, too, something with a little more…meaning, as much as he hates it. Perhaps you’ve heard of—”

“Scorpio,” Jack said.

“Scorpio? That’s Quinn’s other—”

“No,” Evelyn said. “Jack is telling us to move back to the list. Age-wise, Scorpio is a possibility, though you know him better than I do, Jack. Could he pull something like this?”

“Doesn’t matter. Add him. This list—” He waved at the paper in my hands. “Probably finish with four, five names. This job? Not a high retirement rate. Check them all.”

THIRTY

Two hours later, we were no closer to finding details of the hit Koslov had witnessed. Evelyn had put Maggie and Frances on it, to see whether their Nikolaev contacts knew anything.

“What about Little Joe?” Jack said as we ate dinner.

“The same Little Joe who laid a marker on my head? Oh, yeah, there’s the guy you want to chat up about Nikolaev history.”

“He’ll talk.”

“After excusing himself to go call the next name on his list? Or will he try a new tactic this time?”

“Nah. Not that creative. He’ll stick to hitmen.”

“That’s comforting.”

“We can handle it.”

“We?”

“Yeah. Need your help. It’ll be okay. Safe.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “No miniskirts.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I saw the note the moment I walked into my room. It wasn’t obvious, a small square of paper partly tucked under the bedside lamp. But when I stepped in, I automatically did a visual sweep. And so I saw the note—something that had not been there before.

I unfolded it. A newspaper article on white copy paper, printed from the Internet. I knew it came from Evelyn. Anything Jack wanted to convey to me, he’d say. Language might not be his forte, but I couldn’t imagine him communicating any other way—certainly not through clandestine notes in my bedroom.

My gaze went first to the headline: “Accused Pedophile Freed.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and read the rest of the article. It was taken from a Wisconsin paper and detailed the sort of crime that, while it makes headline news locally, rarely goes further, not because it is insignificant but because, quite simply, it happens too often to qualify as news.

A middle-aged man, leader of some youth organization, had been accused of molesting boys on camping trips in a list of crimes stretching back a decade, resulting—the prosecution had claimed—in two victim suicides. He was also believed to own a lucrative online child pornography business, and the police had found boxes of evidence in his home.

Unable to prove the business allegations, they’d settled for possession of child pornography, plus the molestation charges. Nothing stuck. His lawyer claimed the porn had been illegally seized, and a judge had agreed. That then excluded all photographic evidence of his molestation crimes from the trial. Left with only victim testimony—from boys who’d gone on to have their own run-ins with the police, psychiatric problems and substance abuse issues—a jury had decided this fine, upstanding citizen was being railroaded by ungrateful juvenile delinquents. Case closed.