Exit Strategy Part 7

"OPP," I said, closing the magazine. "Ontario Provincial Police."

He nodded. I had details at the ready, but he didn't ask. Canada was only a few hours' drive north, but it might as well be Iceland, for all he cared.

"Mark Waters," he said, extending a hand.

I smiled and shook his hand. "Jenna Andrews."

The other two men introduced themselves as Chris Doyle and Brad c.o.x. Good small-town cop names, WASP-bland. They reflected their names-solid, average-looking guys, both with short brown hair and blue eyes, both bloodshot, either from overwork or overdrinking. For c.o.x, I was betting the latter. He was fast developing the watery eyes and sloppy gut of a cop who had a bottle stuffed in his locker and another in the glove box of his car.

Doyle's bloodshot eyes didn't look like anything a good night's sleep wouldn't cure, but from the strain lines around his mouth, I doubted he'd be getting that rest anytime soon. It was him I looked at when I waved at the opposite bench and invited the men to join me. Waters, the ring-leader, claimed the seat beside me. Doyle slid into the opposite side, c.o.x beside him.

"Just pa.s.sing through?" Waters asked.

"Visiting some cousins in Cleveland," I said. "When the family togetherness started getting to me, this seemed like a good place to escape to."

Waters laughed. "They won't follow you here, that's for sure. Pretty quiet tonight...though it sure wasn't like that last week."

He waited, a smug half-smile on his lips, as if his city's recent claim to infamy was a personal accomplishment.

"The Helter Skelter killing." I shook my head. "h.e.l.luva thing."

Waters's lips parted, needing only a word of encouragement to start expounding on the case.

"Bet the TV crews descended like vultures on roadkill, eh?" I said. "We had a serial killer up north, pa.s.sed through our town, grabbed a girl. You couldn't walk down the street without having a microphone shoved in your face."

c.o.x leaned across the table. "I thought you Canucks didn't have serial killers."

"Everyone has serial killers these days," Doyle said, his voice soft. He lifted his gaze to mine. "You've got one big case up there now, don't you? Out west?"

"The pig farmer," I said with a nod. "Gave some of the biggest parties around. Lots of hookers came. Not all of them went home."

"What's this?" Waters said.

Fortunately, this was one case I did did know about. Although there was a publication ban, Lucy and I had discussed it on the weekend. She had a friend in Port Coquitlam who'd filled her in on the details, which she'd pa.s.sed on to me, and which I now pa.s.sed along to these guys, solidifying my credibility. know about. Although there was a publication ban, Lucy and I had discussed it on the weekend. She had a friend in Port Coquitlam who'd filled her in on the details, which she'd pa.s.sed on to me, and which I now pa.s.sed along to these guys, solidifying my credibility.

Doyle asked a few questions, and I focused my attention on him, leaning his way, making plenty of eye contact. This was the guy I wanted to talk to. Part of that had to do with the wedding ring on his finger-an easy excuse if he expected more than a friendly chat. And part of it was that if I had no other agenda in mind, this would be my choice, not a blowhard like Waters who probably wore his gun to bed, or a cop like c.o.x who'd surrendered to the bottle. I wanted the one who still cared enough to lose sleep over his cases.

After a few minutes, Waters seemed to notice the way the tide was turning. He play-punched Doyle's arm.

"We'll be at the bar," he said, and jerked his head at c.o.x.

Doyle watched them go, then looked back at me. Uncertain, but not uninterested, as if it had been a long time since he'd been left alone with a woman in a bar, and he didn't quite remember what to do next. Before I could say something, he grabbed my empty gla.s.s.

"Can I get you a refill?"

I nodded. "Miller, thanks."

"Lite?"

"Never."

He smiled, the worry lines around his eyes fading. When he returned, he'd recovered his nerve. We chatted for a while and, without any prodding, talk turned to the biggest news in town.

"When the uniforms called it in, the last thing I was thinking was that it was this Helter Skelter killer. I knew Kozlov. He killed that boy just after I transferred to this force." Doyle looked at me. "You hear about that?"

"No. What happened?"

"Up in Cleveland. Kozlov held up a liquor store. Kid behind the counter grabbed a baseball bat. Kozlov slashed him up with a broken bottle and left him to bleed to death." Doyle shook his head. "Kid was in his last year of college, working to pay for his tuition. Over a thousand people at his funeral. Dozens of cla.s.smates, all crying their eyes out. Only people showed up at Kozlov's funeral had cameras."

"And who's the one people are going to remember?"

Doyle met my eyes, nodded. "Exactly. No f.u.c.king justice."

"At least he didn't die in his bed. There's some justice in that."

"Yeah." Doyle sipped his beer. "When the call came in, saying he'd been shot, I thought 'Sure, what do you expect?' Guy like that bought himself a .22 to the temple years ago."

"A .22? I read it was a .38...or did you just mean, hypothetically..."

"Nah, it was a .22. Reporters f.u.c.ked up a few things on this one. First guy on the scene was from the local paper-just a kid. He scooped it, and a bunch of stringers followed his facts. I think some later reports got it right...but yeah, it was a .22. Hitman's special."

"Hitman?" I gave a half-laugh, as if testing whether Doyle was joking.

"Yeah. Feds are trying to keep it quiet, but that won't last. What I heard, they were already suspicious, but this one sealed it."

"But a hired killer? For a guy like Kozlov? Was there anything in his history to...?"

"Explain why someone would pay even a nickel to off him? Maybe back when he was with the Russian mob."

"The mob?"

Doyle took a long draft of his beer. "I've heard rumors. Probably racist bulls.h.i.+t, you know? Guy's a petty criminal, looks like a thug, Russian background. If it's racism, he played it up. Used to talk big when he was in his cups, yammer on about his glory days with the mob."

"Are the Feds checking this out?"

"Maybe. But even if it's true, it's ancient history, and it doesn't explain how he wound up dead a couple of decades later. I thought about taking a peek but..." He shrugged. "No time to satisfy idle curiosity. This case I'm working on now takes up all my time. As it should." He wrapped his hands around his mug. "Kiddie p.o.r.n. f.u.c.king sick s.h.i.+t."

"There's nothing worse," I said.

"Big-city cops, maybe they get used to it. But me? I've seen some stuff before, but not like this. Nothing like this. My wife-" He stopped. Shrugged.

"You can't talk to her about it."

"Gotta play by the rules. I'm supposed to leave it at the station, not let it affect me, but, Christ, of course it affects me. Then I go home and I'm moody, snapping, she gets mad, and I...I can't explain, right? So I left."

"Ouch."

"There's more than that, but..." Another shrug. A gulp of beer.

Doyle nodded and we talked some more, about the case, about his wife. Any hope of circling back to Kozlov was gone, but I didn't rush to leave. By the end of his third beer, he pushed the mug aside and smiled ruefully.

"Guess this isn't going anywhere, is it?" he said. "My first shot, and I spend it talking about my marriage."

I pointed at his ring. "If you're still wearing that, you're not ready." I checked my watch. "I should be getting back soon. My cousins will wonder what happened to me."

"I should go, too."

I cast a sidelong glance at his two friends, still at the bar. "You want me to walk out with you?"

A small smile. "If you don't mind."

TEN.

Doyle walked me to my car in the parking lot, where we talked for another ten minutes before he left.

I unlocked the rental-car door.

"'Bout time," said a voice to my left. "You shaking down a witness? Or making a new friend?"

"With cops, I'm better at making friends," I said, turning as Jack slid from a pickup truck's shadow. "What happened to picking you up at the coffee shop when I was done?"

"Drank enough coffee."

He started heading toward the pa.s.senger door, but I pulled him to a stop and handed him the keys.

"And I drank enough beer."

I told him what I'd learned.

"I'm betting the rumors aren't just rumors," I said. "Maybe not the Russian mob, but Kozlov's record does scream organized crime. Sporadic arrests, never convicted, then after one conviction, a downhill slide."

"Washed their hands of him," Jack said.

"But he may have earned enough clout for them to hire a lawyer for that murder charge. Either way, I shouldn't be seen poking around Norfolk asking more questions, so maybe you-"

"Put Evelyn on it. We have an appointment."

"Who-?"

"Called Quinn, too. He's not talking."

Jack's voice and expression were pa.s.sive, but his hands tightened on the steering wheel as he turned the corner.

"Not talking...? Oh, you mean about the Manson connection."

"Yeah. Confirmed it. Won't explain it. Protecting his sources."

I stared out at the pa.s.sing streetlights. "This Quinn. He was a cop, too, wasn't he? Had to be, if he's your go-to guy for police intel."

"Not was. Is."

Cold blasted down my spine as I swiveled to face Jack. "Jack, don't tell me I'm working with-"

"You aren't. That's why." He paused. "One reason."

"For not meeting the others, you mean."

"Yeah. Quinn's legit. Not working undercover. But you two meeting?" He shrugged. "That cop at the bar? Fine. More police contact? Not if we can help it."

"In case he recognizes me?"

Jack nodded. It took me a moment to unclog my throat and answer.

"It made national news at home." My voice sounded odd. Like a newscaster reciting a story that had long since lost emotional impact. "And, yes, it was picked up in the States. But what makes headlines in Canada isn't a big deal down here. No American cop would have recognized me a month later, and it's been over six years."

"That's what I figured."

I turned back to staring out the window, into the night. The distant wail of a police siren rose above the rumble of the car. I tracked the sound, wondering if it was coming or going. Unlike everyone else on the highway, I wasn't glancing in the side mirror or checking the speedometer. For me, the wail of a siren evoked memories of home and childhood, the best and most comforting of both.

I sounded my first siren when I was three. Riding in our town's Santa Claus parade, tucked into the front seat between my grandfather and my father. Granddad was chief of police. Dad had just made detective. An uncle and an older cousin walked behind the cruiser, stiff in their dress uniforms, struggling not to smile.

I don't remember ever deciding I wanted to become a cop, no more than my friends consciously decided they would grow up to marry and have children. We simply a.s.sumed that was what we would do, what we needed to complete our lives.

I enrolled in police college right out of high school. My brother had already headed off to New York to pursue acting, having never shown any interest in the "family business." When I graduated, Dad was so proud, he didn't stop grinning for a month. My mother says it's a good thing he died three years later, or "what happened next" would have killed him. Maybe she's right, but I'll never forgive her for saying it.

"What happened next" began when my partner and I were first to a crime scene. Dawn Collins, fifteen years old, brutally raped and murdered. I'd seen murder victims before. I'd seen far worse cases than this. And yet, when I walked into that room and saw Dawn, naked and curled up in the corner, her dark hair falling over her face, the cord around her neck the only sign she hadn't just fallen asleep, something in me snapped. Not a loud snap. Not even a hard one. Just a tiny little snip, like someone had flipped off my power switch and I just...shut down. Couldn't think. Couldn't process. Couldn't react.

My partner, a seasoned constable nearing retirement, had taken it in stride, presuming I was in shock and just letting me follow him as he processed the scene, calmly explaining each step, and letting me play student bystander. By the time the others arrived, I'd snapped out of it enough to do my job.

That night, the nightmares came. I'd lived with them for over a decade by then and, usually, they were the same images played and replayed-running through the forest, running for help, help for Amy, help that would never come in time. But that night after seeing Dawn Collins, I wasn't running. I was back in the cabin, a man's face over mine, features contorted in laughter as I screamed. Screamed in terror, in pain-screamed for Amy, screamed for my father, for anyone.

I woke up screaming. Bathed in sweat. Shaking so badly I had to gasp for breath. Twenty minutes later, two officers from my own precinct showed up at my door, responding to a call from my neighbor. By then, I was calm enough to convince them it hadn't been me-maybe someone down the hall or a too-loud television. They bought it-even joked about it later, at the station, teasing me about who I'd been having s.e.x with to make me scream so loud. And I laughed with them, because that's what they expected, and because I knew no one would ever guess the truth. Nadia Stafford was not the kind of girl to wake up screaming from anything.

That night, I gagged myself before I went to bed. I knew the nightmares would come again, and they did. That crime scene had reminded me too much of Amy's death. Once I fell asleep, I felt her panic, her terror, her agony. Knew what it was like to be a victim.

And when they caught the guy a few days later, I knew what I needed to do to make the nightmares end. I had to see Dawn get the justice that had been denied Amy. So I asked for and received permission to be in on the arrest. I wanted to see his face at that moment when he knew it was over, that justice had prevailed and he was going down.

Only it didn't happen that way. When we picked up Wayne Franco, he was downright gleeful in antic.i.p.ation of the glory and recognition to come. There was no justice forthcoming. I'd been a fool to think so. Being arrested didn't mean you would pay the price for your crimes. Amy had taught me that.