Exit Strategy Part 8

As I stood there, watching Franco grinning, I knew I hadn't come here to see Wayne Franco arrested. I'd come here to see Dawn Collins get justice. So I waited. And when he made the mistake of reaching into his pocket, I put a bullet between his eyes.

By waiting for my mark to make that fatal move, I'd given the department the excuse they needed, and they fell on it like s.h.i.+pwreck survivors spotting a lifeboat. They claimed I was acting in self-defense; who knew what the killer was pulling from his pocket? No one ever asked whether I thought my life was in danger. I'm sure they suspected the answer. In the end, they were able to take my history, couple it with a psychiatric evaluation and claim post-traumatic stress disorder, allowing me to "retire" from the force.

The media hadn't been nearly so magnanimous.

After six months of h.e.l.l, I'd cashed in my meager retirement savings, taken ten grand in "get out of our lives" money from my mother's new husband and put a down payment on the Red Oak Lodge.

By the time we reached a motel, my reflective mood had blown over, leaving only wisps of cloud. I'm no good at brooding. After "the Incident" I think I disappointed some people by not falling into a fit of depression like some Victorian heroine, retiring to my bed and wasting away until nothing remained but a melancholy epigraph for my grave. Then there were those who wanted to see me rage into battle, fight the establishment, middle finger extended to the world. When I'd simply shrugged and started over, I robbed both groups of the chance for some cla.s.sic "wronged woman" drama. But I hadn't been wronged. I'd made a choice. I'd paid the price.

Given the chance to do it over, would I-could I-do any differently today?

Probably not.

Jack and I shared a motel room. I'll admit when he broached the "one room or two" question, my instinctive response had been to say "two...of course." And that wasn't because I suspected Jack wanted more out of this partners.h.i.+p. In two years he'd never looked at me in a way that suggested he'd even noticed noticed I was of the opposite s.e.x. I was of the opposite s.e.x.

Yet sharing a room required a whole new level of trust. If we were partners, though, this wasn't the time to say, "Sorry, I don't trust you enough to sleep in the same room."

So I'd taken a deep breath, told myself "In for a penny, in for a pound" and asked him what he thought we should do. One room was safer, he said. In the future, he'd try to find suites with separate bedrooms and pullout sofas, to give me privacy, but it was too late for that tonight. So one room-two beds-it was.

The next morning after breakfast I called Emma at the lodge to check in. Then we headed out to our first stop of the day-a meeting with a contact of Jack's in a business district that looked as if it hadn't done much business in a while. The For Lease signs just barely outnumbered the p.a.w.nshops. After a half-block of silence, I cleared my throat.

"This guy we're meeting, am I allowed details? Like who he is and why we're talking to him?"

Jack skirted a trio of slow-walking seniors and didn't speak until we'd outpaced the three by at least twenty feet.

"Saul's retired," Jack said. "Like Evelyn. Old pro. But more..." He paused. "Involved. Keeps his ear to the ground. Listens to gossip, rumors. These days? Nothing else to do."

"So you trust him."

"Don't distrust him."

Jack stopped in front of a dilapidated coffee shop, checked the address-or the portion of it that hadn't peeled off the window-then opened the door.

To my surprise, the coffee shop was running at over half capacity. For a moment, I thought, Must be good coffee Must be good coffee. Then I looked around at the customers, most of whom looked as if their current seat was the closest thing they had to a permanent residence. Not so much good coffee, then, as free refills, an unusually cold day and a management policy that didn't discourage loitering.

The shop looked better inside than out. Still shabby, but clean. A pregnant server made the rounds with a coffeepot in one hand and a dishrag in the other, relentlessly hunting for half-filled cups and dirty tables. Someone was baking in the back, the sweet smell of banana m.u.f.fins overpowering the faint stink of unwashed bodies.

Jack nudged me toward a late-middle-aged man sitting alone near the rear of the shop. Presumably Saul. He had the newspaper spread across his table, doing the daily crossword as he nursed a black coffee.

Balding with a fringe of white hair, Saul wore a frayed b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt that had been through the laundry cycle a few too many times. Maybe he was dressing down to fit in with the other clientele, but something about his ensemble-right down to the cheap watch and worn loafers-looked more lived-in than put-on. His sallow complexion didn't speak to many sun-drenched retirement getaways, nor did the frown lines etched into the corners of his mouth.

When Jack said Saul had retired, I don't know what I expected, but it sure wasn't this. The man had spent his life working a job that paid more than a surgeon's salary.

As we approached the table, Saul looked up from his paper. His gaze went to Jack first and his frown lines rearranged themselves into a smile. He rose, hand extended. Then he saw me. He looked between Jack and me, as if measuring the distance between us. Then he leaned slightly to the side, to look past me. Jack walked over and clasped Saul's hand, which he still held out in forgotten welcome.

"Saul. This is Dee."

Saul snuck another peek behind me, as if double-checking to make sure I was really the person Jack was introducing. The frown lines reappeared. Deepened to fissures.

"Have you lost your mind?" Saul hissed. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing, bringing a...? G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Jack. I don't believe this."

"I told you I was bringing someone," Jack said.

"A partner," Saul said. "A work partner, not a play partner."

"Play?" Jack looked at me, then back at Saul. "f.u.c.k. I wouldn't bring-Dee's-We're working together."

Saul looked from me to Jack, then shook his head.

"You're getting old, Jack," he said. "Of all people. Jesus."

He slapped a five on the table and walked out.

"Wait here," Jack said to me. "I'll bring him back."

I shook my head. "That's not going to help. Give me the keys, and I'll wait for you at the car."

Jack craned his neck to watch Saul through the windows. He dropped the keys into my hand. As he stepped away, I surveyed the table, made sure Saul, in his anger, hadn't left anything behind. Then I wiped the coffee ring off the table, straightened the sugar and napkin containers and picked up the mug to take it to the counter.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack stop by the door. He walked back to me.

"Careful," he said, keeping his voice low. "Rough neighborhood."

Anyone else, I would have a.s.sumed he was joking and laughed. Jack's expression was dead serious.

"I'll be fine," I said. "Thanks."

Thirty minutes later, Jack joined me. I turned the radio down.

"Did he come around?" I asked.

Jack fastened his seat belt. "He doesn't know anything."

ELEVEN.

When we drew near enough to Pittsburgh to get the local stations, we learned that Joyce Scranton's visitation was scheduled for that afternoon. It seemed early-they certainly wouldn't have released the body-but a call to the funeral parlor confirmed it. Getting into that visitation would be the best way to learn about Joyce. As both the radio and the funeral parlor stressed, though, it was a private affair, for family and friends only. I thought that would make Jack veto the idea, but he only insisted on a good story and a good disguise, then left me to it.

Joyce Scranton's visitation was a rush job. Mismatched flowers, refreshments still in the bakery boxes, a guest book provided by the funeral home and only a single photo of Joyce, standing in for her body, which was still in Boston. One look around, and you knew someone had said, "Let's just get this d.a.m.ned thing over with." Two looks around, and you could figure out who that "someone" was.

When I'd first come in, I sought out Joyce's estranged husband, Ron, to offer my condolences. Easier to get information if you're forthright. I'd had a story at the ready, explaining a vague connection to Joyce, but Scranton's gaze had moved past me before I said more than my name.

I walked to the picture to pay my respects, straightened it and picked up a discarded napkin someone had left beside it. Then I'd headed for the refreshment table, eying the unappetizing array of day-old cupcakes and brownies and wis.h.i.+ng I'd grabbed one of those fresh m.u.f.fins at the coffee shop. As I pretended to graze, I watched Scranton work the room, moving from person to person, offering fake-sad smiles, one-armed hugs and backslaps before quickly moving on, gaze lifting, now and then, to the clock on the far wall. A pretty brunette in her early twenties dogged his steps anxiously, as if she might misplace him. The college-age daughter, I a.s.sumed, until he veered over to a young red-eyed woman huddled in the corner with an elderly couple, and made a show of embracing her, before she slipped his grasp and hurried to the washroom. The elderly couple hurried after her, but not before unleas.h.i.+ng lethal glares on Scranton.

At a mutter beside me, I turned to see a woman, silver haired but no older than late forties, skewering Scranton with the same deadly look.

"That was Bethany, I suppose," I murmured, gaze sliding after the disappeared girl. "Joyce's daughter. I'd seen pictures, but they were old school ones..."

"That's Beth. Poor thing. And Joyce's parents with her."

I nodded at the brunette following Scranton. "Is that...? I thought there was only one daughter..."

The silver-haired woman snorted.

"Ah," I said. "Not a daughter, then."

As a group approached the table, she waved me to a quiet corner. "Can you believe he brought her here? The divorce not even final?"

Joyce Scranton-victim in life as in death. Stripped of her dignity even at her memorial. I swung a glare on Scranton, my nails digging into my palms, then shook it off and reminded myself why I was here: information.

"The divorce settlement was pretty much done, though, wasn't it? I haven't-" I forced a blush. "I hadn't talked to Joyce in a while. I kept meaning to but..."

"We always think there will be more time, don't we? Well, there wasn't any time left with the settlement, either, though Joyce was finally showing some s.p.u.n.k, digging in her heels and asking for her fair share. She didn't expect to get get it, but she was making the effort." it, but she was making the effort."

I spent a few more minutes with the woman, a school friend of Joyce's, then moved on, hoping to get a better insight into the victim. The results were mixed. I certainly got the impression she'd been well liked. Yet even this memorial was like the media reports of her murder-the circ.u.mstances of her death overrode the importance of her life. After an hour of "What kind of madman is doing this?" and "Oh, G.o.d, if this can happen to Joyce, is anyone safe?" I headed outside to meet Jack.

"I like Scranton for it."

I propped up my jacket collar against the wind and leaned down to my takeout coffee, masking my face with the steam so Jack wouldn't see how much much I liked Scranton for it. There were a million Joyce Scrantons out there, betrayed by someone they'd trusted. While I knew I shouldn't let that cloud my judgment, it didn't keep my jaw from tensing as I watched the family walk from the funeral home down the road. I liked Scranton for it. There were a million Joyce Scrantons out there, betrayed by someone they'd trusted. While I knew I shouldn't let that cloud my judgment, it didn't keep my jaw from tensing as I watched the family walk from the funeral home down the road.

I continued. "Not only do we have a change in the wind where the divorce settlement was concerned, but there's life insurance to consider, too-whether she still has him listed as the beneficiary. And, if it's not Scranton, I'd consider the girlfriend. I doubt she liked that wind change."

He dumped his coffee, watching it pool on the cold ground, then pitched the empty cup. "Could be insurance work. Saul used to do that." be insurance work. Saul used to do that."

"There's some kind of specialty in insurance work?"

His gaze s.h.i.+fted to mine, and I could feel the weight of mild rebuke. No, rebuke-even mild-was too harsh. His look reminded me that I was dealing with hired killers, men who didn't just take out the occasional Mafioso, but who made their living killing whomever they were paid to kill. And although I'm sure he didn't intend it, the "rebuke" reminded me that I had no right placing myself above guys like Saul. I, too, killed for money.

After a moment of silence, Jack let me off with "s.h.i.+tty work. But it's out there."

"So that's one possible motivation. Take a bunch of separate insurance jobs and string them together to look like the work of a serial killer. That'd be one surefire way to avoid insurance investigations. Could this guy be be Saul?" Saul?"

He shook his head. "Nah. Got arthritis. In his hands. Had to retire early. Even before that?" Another head shake. "Going downhill. Couldn't do the work."

"But someone else? Could one hitman get enough insurance jobs to tie this together?"

"One guy? On his own? Doubtful. Through a broker? Yeah. They specialize, too."

I drank the remainder of my coffee and threw out the cup. "Okay, we'll get Evelyn to do some searching, see who benefited from the other deaths. Did we get anything more from Evelyn when you called?"

"Yeah. The stockbroker. One of his clients. Didn't just invest in stocks. Drug connections. Set her on Kozlov, too. Check out a mob connection."

With that, we should have been ready to leave. But Jack just stood there, staring off into s.p.a.ce.

He'd been quieter than usual since our visit to Saul, and I'd thought he was just off balance, that an old comrade would think he'd lowered himself to the "female student" ploy. But that didn't seem like Jack, to be so bothered by what someone else thought.

"Saul did did give you a lead, didn't he?" give you a lead, didn't he?"

"Yeah." He pulled out one hand to pat his breast pocket, then made a face, remembering he didn't have cigarettes. "Rumor. Wanted to run it by Evelyn first."

"And...?"

He jerked his chin toward the road. "Tell you on the way."

As Jack drove, he told me the story of Baron, a former hitman. Not a friend, but an acquaintance, someone he seemed to respect. Ten years ago, Baron had gotten out of the business. Voluntarily.

That's rare, Jack said. Like being an actor or a politician, you tell yourself you're going to get out when you've accomplished some goal or tired of the job, but the truth is, hardly anyone leaves until he's forced out. The money's too good and the adrenaline rush is too addictive. Your ego wants you to get out while you're at the top, but you keep holding on just a little longer. Then the fall starts-you screw up, you slow down, you're off your game-and you tell yourself you'll retire just as soon as you climb that hill again so you can do it from the top. Only you never get back up, and you hang in until you're at the bottom, like Saul.

But Baron got out. He met a woman-a single mother working in a strip club while she took college cla.s.ses. Maybe he looked at her, saw someone working to get out of the life and thought "if she can, so can I." They fell in love. They married. He retired from the life. He bought a business restoring old cars. They started a family.

"h.e.l.luva story, huh?" he said. His gaze was on the winds.h.i.+eld, face expressionless, but he gave the words a twist of something like bitterness.

"No happily-ever-after in this one, is there?"

"Should be. You think..." He shrugged. "Cynical side says bulls.h.i.+t. Won't work. The hitman and the stripper? Like a bad movie. But that optimistic side?" Another shrug. "Says good on them. He got out? He's happy? Good."

"Everyone likes a fairy-tale ending. To think someone beat the odds and came out on top. It makes a good story."

"Yeah. And that's all the f.u.c.k it is. A good story."

"It didn't last?"

"Thought it did. Until Saul said otherwise. Few months ago? Baron came back to the life. Sniffing around for work. Wife took off. Kids with her. Which came first? Who knows."

"Whether they left because he was talking about turning pro again, or whether he decided to turn pro again because they left?"