Exit Strategy Part 5

Alicia Sanchez, 21, Hispanic, college student, suffocated in her dorm room, October 5, Beaumont, Texas.Carson Morrow, 36, African American, stockbroker, stabbed in a parking lot, October 8, St. Louis, Missouri.Leon Kozlov, 53, Caucasian, retired, shot in his apartment, October 12, Norfolk, Ohio.Mary Lee, 68, Asian American, business owner, strangled in her shop, October 14, Atlanta, Georgia.

Four lives and four tragedies reduced to factoids.

I studied the four minuscule photos and wondered what they'd been doing the days they'd been killed, what they'd been thinking, planning, dreaming.

In just over a week, four lives had been taken and countless more thrown into turmoil-husbands, wives, lovers, children, parents, siblings, friends, wondering why this had happened, and what they could have done to prevent it, and whether their loved one had suffered, and why hadn't they said something more meaningful the last time they met. And, most of all, why why. Just why.

Four lives taken, countless more awaiting justice. But when I read that article, I saw no end-no justice-in sight. Just more deaths. More victims. More mourners. More questions.

Neither magazine mentioned the possibility of a hitman killer, but that likely wasn't a theory investigators would release to the media. The murders, though, had all the earmarks of professional hits-the deaths clean and cold.

"Four murders in four parts of the country, four very different victims, four separate methods," I said. "Linked by a calling card. A page from Helter Skelter Helter Skelter."

"Yeah. Heard about that."

"It's a book, isn't it?"

"About Manson."

"Charles Manson? The freak with the cult? He killed some actress, didn't he?"

"Before your time, I'm guessing."

"The sixties. Peace, love and drug-induced murderous rages. Hippie stuff."

"Now I feel old."

"Right, like you were more than a baby yourself. From what I remember, the Manson case was textbook disorganized crime. Definitely not the work of a pro. So what's the connection?"

"None, other than that it scared the s.h.i.+t out of a lot of people. Like this guy's doing."

I glanced over at him. "According to Newsweek Newsweek-or their contacts, at least-the Feds have evidence suggesting there's something to the Manson connection."

"Then we don't ignore it. But don't focus on it."

"Okay. So where do you want to start?"

A small frown my way. "No idea. That's your area. Yeah, you weren't a detective. But you think like a cop. Good enough. We'll work something out."

So we did, laying out theories. We had a hired killer making random hits. Option one: system overload. When a pro chess player goes nuts, he becomes obsessed with the game. A pro killer goes nuts? No mystery what might obsess him. Option two was more likely. Why does a hired killer kill? Because he's been hired to.

"The guy beside me on the plane mentioned that Leon Kozlov had a record," I said. "That's a good place to start-checking criminal records and arrests. I have contacts in U.S. police departments-lodge regulars-but I'd really really rather not use-" rather not use-"

"Agreed. Last resort."

"Good. There are legit ways we can check for criminal backgrounds, though it'll take some time and legwork."

He stared out the winds.h.i.+eld, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

"Got another way," he said finally. "Contact. Couple hours' drive. Find out about Manson, too."

We pulled off at a diner for coffee. We had to be getting close to Jack's contact, and I certainly wasn't hungry, but Jack insisted.

As I sat there, coffee untouched, I swore I could hear my watch ticking. For one person, somewhere out there, time was was ticking. How much longer before the killer took another life? Judging by his schedule so far, maybe a day. ticking. How much longer before the killer took another life? Judging by his schedule so far, maybe a day.

Time was pa.s.sing and somewhere my target was planning his next kill while I sat in a diner, across from my "partner," who looked as anxious to get to work as any time-card puncher on Monday morning.

I vented my frustration with chatter.

"-two hours, not a single nibble and my b.u.t.t is frozen to the ice. So I check the guys' hooks, and no one has any bait. 'Bait?' one says. 'What for? We don't want to catch anything. We just wanted an excuse to toss back a few before lunch.'"

Jack opened his mouth, but a burst of static cut him off. Across the room, a server moved a portable radio onto the counter. The three customers there all leaned forward, like fans listening to the last inning of the World Series. I caught the words "number five" and "Boston." A game this early in the day?

"Turn it up," someone yelled.

The server obliged. I made a face, then caught the first rush of the announcer's words and stopped with my coffee cup halfway to my lips.

"-received confirmation that this is definitely murder number five. It appears the Helter Skelter killer has taken another victim-"

"f.u.c.k," Jack muttered.

"-Boston. Police have released few details at this time. They will say only that an unidentified woman has been found suffocated in the stairwell of her office complex."

Customers crowded around the counter to hear better. Not so much as a fork clinked against china.

"-approximately 7 a.m. Police have confirmed that a page from the book Helter Skelter Helter Skelter was found with the body. A news conference is scheduled for later this morning. More details are expected at that time. We return now..." was found with the body. A news conference is scheduled for later this morning. More details are expected at that time. We return now..."

Jack pulled his chair forward, legs sc.r.a.ping the linoleum. He jerked his head toward the door.

Jack got into the car and drove. Not a word about what had happened inside. Yet the news had been enough to get him up and moving.

After less than a thirty-minute drive, Jack pulled into Fort Wayne, Indiana. He drove to a strip mall and parked far enough from the storefronts that no one would notice or care that we were taking up a spot and not shopping.

He got out. I followed. He looked at me over the roof.

"Uh, let me guess," I said. "When you said 'stop by' the p.r.o.noun you left off was 'I' not 'we,' right?"

"You want to come?"

"I'm not going to spend this investigation hanging out in the car, getting secondhand information. But I'm not in a hurry to be introduced to all your underworld contacts, either. You know this guy-it's your call."

"You should come." He locked the car. "Get it over with."

Before I could say anything, he was already striding across the parking lot, leaving me jogging to catch up.

We stood before a small two-story house on a street that was mostly brick bungalows, with the occasional two-story thrown in for variety. An old neighborhood in every way, from the ma.s.sive oaks that looked as if they'd seen the first colonists to the front porches adorned with wicker rockers, mobile scooters and wheelchair ramps.

Down the street, an army of young men worked their way from lawn to lawn, mowers and hedge-clippers in tow. A patrolling security car slowed to give us a once-over, then drove on. It looked like an upper-middle-cla.s.s retirement community, where the owners kept their houses small, saving their money for Alaskan cruises and European vacations. A strange place for an underworld contact meeting.

"Something I should tell you." Jack peered up at the house. "Things I didn't mention before. Probably should have. But..." He paused, then shook his head. "Too late now. You'll understand or you won't."

With that, he headed for the front steps.

SEVEN.

White curtains in the windows. Fresh dark green trim to complement the yellow brick. A black metal mailbox. The s.p.a.ce for an engraved surname under the bra.s.s door knocker was blank. Jack motioned for me to knock.

"This contact," I said. "Is he a civilian or..."

"Pro."

I adjusted my jacket, making sure my Glock was in place, then banged the knocker. Inside, a dog barked, then another joined in. They sounded big.

A distant door opened, then shut. The barking resumed, now coming from the rear yard.

"What should I call myself?" I said. "I need a name, right?"

Before he could answer, a dead bolt clanked. The door opened. There stood a pet.i.te white-haired woman wearing a silk blouse, wool slacks and leather pumps. She looked from me to Jack, back to me, then pointed a finger at Jack.

"You are in deep s.h.i.+t, Jacko."

The woman stepped back and Jack propelled me through the doorway.

She smiled at me. "Let me hang your jacket. Gun on or off, it doesn't matter. A guest's comfort comes first." Her blue eyes sparked. "Though I'll be flattered if you think you might need it."

I handed her my coat and kept my gun holstered.

"I'll join you in the living room," she said. "Jack can hang his own d.a.m.ned jacket, though he might be wise to keep it, in case I decide to boot his a.s.s into the yard with the dogs."

I glanced at Jack. He waved me in. I walked along the hall and turned into the living room. Thick navy blue carpet, smoke-gray walls, yellow leather sofa set, high-end stereo, Apple computer and built-in bookcases.

If I had my own living room, this is what I'd want it to look like. Scary thing was, this was was what it would look like: immaculate and organized to the point of compulsion. The computer was turned off, keyboard shelf closed, all cords tucked out of sight. On the bookshelf, every spine was aligned with its neighbor, the books grouped by subject, alphabetical within each subject. Though I couldn't read the rows of CDs behind the gla.s.s stereo doors, I knew they'd be organized the same way. what it would look like: immaculate and organized to the point of compulsion. The computer was turned off, keyboard shelf closed, all cords tucked out of sight. On the bookshelf, every spine was aligned with its neighbor, the books grouped by subject, alphabetical within each subject. Though I couldn't read the rows of CDs behind the gla.s.s stereo doors, I knew they'd be organized the same way.

I'd a.s.sumed this woman lived with our contact. Seeing this room, I knew I'd been wrong-she was was the contact. the contact.

Jack pointed to the love seat, then sat beside me. I turned to whisper a question but, before I could, the woman joined us. She took a seat across from us, sat and waited. And waited.

"How long do we have to sit here before you do the courtesy of performing introductions?" she finally said.

"Dee, Evelyn. Evelyn, Dee."

"Oh yeah," she said. "That helps. f.u.c.king rude mick. And what the h.e.l.l kind of name is Dee?" She turned to me. "He picked it, didn't he? I just hope it doesn't stand for Diane."

I frowned.

"'Jack and Diane'?" she prompted.

"Ah, the song. John Cougar. Or whatever he calls himself now."

"Melonhead or something like that. A perfect example of the importance of names. Cougar, you remember, but the minute you decide to call yourself Melon-s.h.i.+t..." She shook her head. "Names create an impression. Dee makes me think Sandra Dee, and that's all wrong for you. Now Diane wouldn't be so bad if you made it Diana. G.o.ddess of the hunt. That would work."

Jack snorted.

"Shut up or get out," Evelyn said. "You screwed me over. It'll take a lot of a.s.s-kissing to make up for this one." She s.h.i.+fted to face me. "I'm the one who tracked you down."

"What-?"

I looked from her to Jack. Jack met my gaze and dipped his chin, eyes dark with something like apology.

Heart hammering, I turned back to Evelyn. "How-?"

"When it comes to finding people, I'm the best there is. I could tell you where Jimmy Hoffa is...but it'd cost you."

"She didn't find find you," Jack said. "Frank Toma.s.sini mentioned you." you," Jack said. "Frank Toma.s.sini mentioned you."

"But I found her from there, didn't I? Frank didn't exactly hand me her name and address."

"He told you about me?"

"Special case. He wouldn't mention it to anyone else."

"But how do you know Frank-?"

"As I was saying, I found you. Women in this business always interest me, and your background was...intriguing. Unfortunately, travel to Canada is a bit problematic for me. Some bad business in Quebec back in the seventies, which I'm sure your authorities have forgotten all about, but I prefer not to test that theory. So I decided to send my favorite protege-"

"Favorite?" Jack muttered. "Only one still talking to you."

"I sent Jack to check you out, to a.s.sess your suitability as a protegee. He comes back and says, 'Nah. Forget her.' Which"-another lethal glare at Jack-"apparently meant that I I was supposed to forget you, not that he planned to. How long have you been traipsing across the border, cultivating my contact?" was supposed to forget you, not that he planned to. How long have you been traipsing across the border, cultivating my contact?"

Jack shrugged.

"Often enough, clearly. When were you going to tell me?"