Exit Strategy Part 15

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 did ask. You said you'd look into-" 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 circ.u.mstance. 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 pa.s.sed 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 p.r.i.c.kly 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 Toma.s.sinis.

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. Pa.s.sion. 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 sh.e.l.l 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 circ.u.mstances 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.

More insurance digging didn't help prove that theory. Sanchez's brothers didn't seem in need of money. Both were married, with decent jobs. The one who'd done time had apparently gone straight. We'd found no sign of another policy for Kozlov.

As for Russ Belding, he had a hundred-thousand-dollar policy, the same one he'd had for decades. I can't imagine anyone who's been married for thirty-five years killing off her husband for a hundred grand, just after he's retired from the navy and ready to spend his twilight years with her. According to Evelyn, though, that was a good reason to to kill him. kill him.

"Pulled a job for that myself," she said. "Couple married thirty years. Some"-a dismissive wave-"banking family. Wasn't about money, though. Having money only meant the broad could afford my fee. He was set to retire and she couldn't bear the thought of the old coot hanging around all the time, pestering her and messing up her social calendar."

"So she hired you to kill him?"

"Wanted him popped as he left his retirement dinner. I thought it was symbolic or some s.h.i.t, but she just wanted to be sure he wasn't going to change his mind in the middle of his farewell speech. So I told her I'd be in a perch watching through my scope. If she came out with her hat off, I'd withdraw. But she had it on, so..." Evelyn pulled an imaginary trigger. "Permanent retirement."

I tried to keep my mouth shut. But after a moment I said, "I bet he was really looking forward to enjoying his retirement, after working all his life."

"If so, then he shouldn't have stayed married to a woman who'd rather bury him than spend more time together. He was getting something out of that marriage, so he chose to stay in it and it cost him his life. Cold facts for a cold world, Dee. Spouses, children, friends, lovers-they'd all kill you under the right circ.u.mstances. Just a matter of finding their price."

I looked into her eyes, trying to tell whether she meant that or was just spouting more rhetoric, but she turned back to her computer.

"Speaking of murderous families, time to move on to sons of Charles Manson..."

While we'd been at dinner, Evelyn had discovered there were more than a few. She showed me the list, and said she'd already contacted a source she described as a Manson freak. Then we had to declare the evening at an end and, like Jack, rest up for the day to come.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Or, I should say, where I a.s.sumed the ceiling would be if I could see it. Evelyn had top-quality blackout blinds, and I'd closed them completely, hoping the darkness might convince my brain it was time for sleep, but so far, all it had done was give my brain time to wander. Naturally it went to the place I'd been trying to keep it from since our discussion.

Justice.

I grew up with a very clear understanding of what that word meant. The concept had been formed at that early age where everything is clearly black and white. Right must triumph. Wrong must be punished.

From the time I was old enough to open a bag of potato chips, I'd played hostess to my father's monthly poker games. As for whether it was appropriate for me to hear the conversations that went on over those games, I don't think anyone considered that. They saved the darker talk, the angrier debates, for later, after I'd refilled my last bowl of peanuts and curled up on the recliner. There I'd pretend to be asleep, knowing this was what was expected of me. Eyes closed, I'd listen as the best stories came out, the tales of battles between good and evil, and the knights who fought them.

The beer, rye and Scotch would flow, the hour growing ever later, the importance of the game dwindling as the stories took over. Most times, that's all it was: stories. But when the anecdotes didn't have happy endings, the course of the conversation would change. They'd talk about miscarriages of justice, usually in another town, a bigger city.

Sometimes it would just be a head-shaking "can you believe it?" and a spirited discourse on how the case could have been handled better. Now and then, though, head-shaking wasn't enough. If the miscarriage lay in some particularly heinous crime-a serial rapist, a thrill killer, kiddie p.o.r.n-the talk took another turn, into the realm of biblical eye for-an-eye justice.

My father usually kept quiet during such debates. Then, one time, the conversation turned more heated than I'd ever heard it, over the case of a ten-year-old girl who'd been tortured and murdered. That time Mr. Weekes-a former law professor turned librarian-was the only defender of mercy. When my father had tried to squelch the argument, my uncle had turned to him.

"For G.o.d's sake, Bill. Are you telling me if some sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d did this to Nadia, you wouldn't want to shoot him yourself?"

Without hesitation my father said, in his usual quiet voice, "Of course I would."

After Amy died, I wanted to sit in on her killer's trial. My aunt-Amy's mother-had tried to talk my dad out of letting me, but he'd only said, in that same soft way, "I want her to see justice done."

I wasn't allowed to stay for the whole trial-my father took me out during any parts he deemed unsuitable. But even from what I saw, I knew things weren't going well. Everyone thought it would be so simple. The police had been on the scene moments after Amy's death, giving her killer time to run but not to cover his traces or hide evidence. And they had me, an eyewitness.

Yet it hadn't been that easy. Those police on the scene had included the father and uncle of the victim, not acting as investigators and sealing off the scene, but rushing in hoping to save her, hoping to catch her killer. Mistakes had been made. Accusations of tampering were lobbed.

And I wasn't allowed to testify. As for why, I remember only whispered meetings behind closed doors-the crown attorney with my father, my father with my mother, my parents with Amy's. Then came the shrinks. Two of them. First one, gently taking me through that day. More whispered conferences with my father and the lawyer followed. Then came the second psychologist. More questions. More prodding. After that, the whispering stopped and the decision was made. I would not testify.

I can only presume they were afraid to put me on the stand. I'd been thirteen, kidnapped, seen my cousin raped, then escaped...only to fail to bring help in time. At best, I was a traumatized witness. At worst, I was a liar, coached by my father and uncle to accuse an innocent man.

Drew Aldrich was acquitted.

At first, I blamed myself. I'd failed Amy once, by running away, then failed her again, by not convincing the prosecutor and the psychologists that I was strong enough to testify. But they had my statements. That should have been enough.

It might have been different if I'd been able to add charges to the case. But Amy had been the victim, not me.

It didn't matter. Whatever I had done, or failed to do, justice would still be served. That was why I was here. To see justice. My father had promised.

Outside the courtroom, I watched Aldrich bounce down those steps, and I waited for the shot that would wipe the smug smile off his face.

It didn't come.

Not then. Not ever.

Aldrich left town that day. A free man.

They let him leave.

Amy was dead, and her killer lived, and no one-not even those men I loved and trusted, who'd spoken so pa.s.sionately about justice-ever did a d.a.m.ned thing about it.

TWENTY.

I rolled from bed and padded downstairs, moving quietly so I wouldn't wake Jack or Evelyn. I knew what I wanted, and I was sure Evelyn wouldn't mind me helping myself.

In the kitchen, I opened the pantry and scanned the contents. Nothing. Now what? I didn't feel right pawing through all her kitchen cupboards. There was tea and decaf coffee, but what I craved was cocoa.

That's what my dad always made me when I slipped downstairs at night. Though I'd claimed insomnia, the truth was, I often came down just for the hot chocolate...and the time with my father.

Dad never went to bed before one. After the eleven o'clock news, my mother retired, and Dad would head into the kitchen, retrieve his briefcase from the back hall and spread his case files across the table. Then he'd work.

As a child, I always harbored the suspicion that he wasn't really working, but was just taking advantage of some quiet time after my mother went to bed. I know now that his cases had kept him awake. He'd spend the next hour or two running through leads, twisting and turning them in his brain, struggling to fit the pieces together.

When I'd interrupt, he'd just smile, get up, fix the hot chocolate and we'd count how many mini-marshmallows I could cram in. Seventeen was my personal best.