By "wait," I assumed Jack meant "Don't go home" or "Don't have breakfast without me." Sure, it could mean "Don't leave the hotel room," but that's the problem with one-word sentences--they're so open to interpretation.
I donned the wig, contacts, mascara and lipstick. Any more makeup than that and I'd be wearing it on my shirt-front by the end of the run. Then I amended his note, crossing off "Getting coffee" and replacing it with "Gone jogging."
Five minutes later, I was running along a downtown street, weaving past baby strollers and business suits. I doubted I'd make the full 10K. My legs might, but my lungs wouldn't. Ten kilometers of breathing in exhaust fumes and I'd be ready for the oxygen mask.
I liked to run every morning, but that hadn't been possible since this started. I didn't want to be seen jogging around Evelyn's neighborhood--not when no one else seemed to. That first morning at a motel I hadn't wanted to slow down the investigation by asking Jack if he minded me taking off for a while. So now I welcomed the excuse.
After a few blocks, I found myself stuck on a street corner, running on the spot, waiting for a very long light to change. A diesel delivery truck cut the corner too sharp and belched blue smoke into my face. I closed my eyes, and pictured falling golden leaves and an endless empty dirt road.
"You look happy," said a voice at my shoulder.
I tensed as I recognized Quinn's voice. He'd followed me?
I forced a smile. "Hey, there. Small world."
The light changed. I started to walk across, but he waved me forward.
"Go ahead. Run. I can keep up." We broke into a jog. "When I got to your room, Jack said you were out jogging, so I thought I'd join you. Hope that's okay."
I slanted him a look. "What did Jack say?"
"I snuck out while he was in the bathroom."
"Smart man."
I navigated through the commuter crowd and crossed the road, Quinn at my heels. Once across, the bulk of the crowd turned left. I continued straight. Quinn jogged up alongside me.
"I thought this might be a good time to redo my introduction," he said. "I came off like a jerk yesterday and I'm sorry."
"You didn't like the idea of Jack bringing a stranger on board. I don't blame you. I think that's why he didn't want us to meet. Protecting your privacy--yours and the others."
We turned a corner.
"So you must be Evelyn's new protegee," he said.
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, because you're a--" He colored slightly. "Because I can be a sexist moron. Sorry. Again. I didn't mean to jump to conclusions. You're not Evelyn's, then?"
"No, I'm Jack's."
When he looked my way, brows raised, I sputtered a laugh. "I mean his protegee. Strictly business. Even 'protegee' is probably pushing it."
Another light. We waited in silence, then crossed.
"How far do you go normally?" he asked.
"Te--" I stopped myself before saying kilometers. "Five miles. Give or take."
"Every day, I'm guessing."
He flashed an appreciative glance down my figure. A nice glance--not a leer or an ogle. The appreciative part was good, too. After that dream, I was certainly in the mood for it. I even returned it, though more discreetly. He was wearing jogging pants and an old T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, showing his muscles. Good-looking in a wholesome, athletic way, nothing to stop traffic, but enough to invite the gaze to linger...and enjoy.
He plucked at the sweat-sodden front of his T-shirt and pulled a face. "I definitely need to start doing more cardio myself. Soon, or I'll be skipping ski season this year."
"Cross-country or--" I stopped. "Sorry. I guess that'd be prying."
Quinn whooped a breathless laugh. "That's what happens when you hang out with Jack. You start thinking 'What do you take in your coffee?' might be too personal."
We turned the corner, then Quinn continued, "Sure, you have to be careful, but there's still stuff you can talk about. What are you going to do, say, 'Hmmm, I know Jack likes James Dean movies, nachos with chicken, and Bob Dylan,' and plug it into some national database to figure out who he really is? Even if I knew his name and social security number, what the hell would I with it?"
"If you were caught, you might find a use for it."
"Cut a deal, you mean? Considering what he knows about me, I'd be nuts to do that. Anyway, I don't think that telling you I like to ski is a major security violation. So, yes, I ski. Downhill, as you were about to ask. I keep meaning to try cross-country, but I never get around to it."
"Cross-country is a good winter substitute for jogging, though it can't beat downhill for the adrenaline rush. I always think of them as opposite ends of the spectrum. Downhill for getting the heart pumping, cross-country for relaxing."
We crossed at the lights, nearly getting knocked down by the draft of a car whizzing around the corner.
"Cross-country's more peaceful, I bet," Quinn said. "Without the crowds of hot-doggers racing around you."
"God, yes. Find a nice quiet trail through the woods, go out at night with the moonlight glistening off the snow--perfect."
"There's this club I go to, up in Vermont. They've got a trail along the river, and every year I tell myself I'm going to try it, but I can't get my buddies off the hills...or off the snow bunnies."
"Not many snow bunnies on the cross-country trails."
"Which is not necessarily a bad thing. Last year, we met this group of girls. They must have blown a grand each on their outfits, but they couldn't even lace up their boots right. We..."
"...ride the helicopter to the top of the mountain," Quinn said as he held open the hotel room door for me. "Then they drop you off and you ski down."
"Heli-skiing," I said. Felix and Jack were watching CNN. "I hear it's amazing."
Felix glanced over. He looked different today--his hair color the same, but his manner changed along with his clothes. A well-loved tweed blazer and slacks, hair slightly too long, glasses perched on the end of his nose, pale cheeks hollow--the college professor who doesn't spend much time away from his books.
"Jumping out of a helicopter and skiing down a mountain?" he said. "Sounds almost as much fun as swimming in a shark tank. But I suppose you two do that, too."
"Only if we have the right equipment," I said. "If you forget the blood-soaked bikini, there's just no challenge to it."
"Dee?" Jack cut in. "Breakfast."
"Oh, right. Should we order--"
"Pick up." He walked to the door. "Come on."
"I'll take the breakfast special," Quinn said. "Bacon, eggs, whatever. If I get toast, make it whole wheat."
"And what would you like in your coffee?" I asked.
He grinned. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."
"Cream and double sugar," Jack said. "Let's go."
* * *
TWENTY-EIGHT
We got as far as the elevator before Jack said, "You saw my note, right? It said 'wait.'"
"That was a note? I thought it was a haiku." I pressed the elevator button. "I left you a note in return, and stuck to the main street, so it was no less safe than wherever you went."
"That's not--"
"If you mean Quinn, it wasn't as bad as it looked. Yes, I know, one minute I'm worried about meeting the guy, and the next I'm chatting and laughing with him. But that's my way of handling situations like this. Morose and monosyllabic may work for some people, but not for me."
"Morose?"
"The best way for me to behave with someone I don't trust is to act like I trust them completely. They may let their guard down, but I don't. Ever."
As the doors opened, I could feel him watching me. We stepped on.
"Tomorrow?" he said. "You want to jog? I'll follow."
"You run?"
"Only if someone's chasing. I'll drive."
Over breakfast, Jack told us what he'd been doing earlier--checking his messages. And he'd had one, from Shadow. It seemed Sid, his twin brother, had indee
d been taken into custody. Now Shadow had decided to make like his namesake and gone to ground, wanting nothing more to do with the investigation. He was in such a hurry that Jack didn't get a chance to ask whether they'd uncovered any leads or even what angle they'd been investigating.
Then came Quinn's news: the FBI was investigating Benjamin Moreland but not considering him a viable suspect. What did interest them was the killer's possible link to Moreland--how he'd gotten that hair.
After we discussed that, we moved on to our own investigation. Jack had me tell Quinn and Felix our progress to date.
"Not great," I said. "So far, they all feel like dead-ends."
"Shit," Quinn said. "At least you've got something to look into. With the Moreland lead gone, so's our investigation. How about we take some of yours?"
Jack shrugged. "Suppose so. Vigilantism. You want that?"
Quinn's lips tightened, but Jack only sipped his coffee.
"We'll take it," Felix said. "I'll also see what I can do to verify Baron's death. Damned shame, that. He was a good man once."
Jack nodded.
Since we were back to wearing our biker-duo outfits, Jack must have thought we needed to get in the right mind-set. After only an hour on the road, he stopped at the kind of place that gives the word "dive" a bad name. It wasn't even noon, and there was already someone lying on the floor. Probably passed out drunk, but in this place you could keel over dead and not be noticed until the flies started feasting.
There were a half-dozen men in the diner/bar, but only one even looked our way, and just to ogle me as we passed. At a sharp look from Jack, the man returned to staring at the empty chair across the table, and lifted his coffee mug, taking so deep a swig I suspected it wasn't filled with java, which would explain why I couldn't smell fresh brewed coffee despite the mugs at every man's table. For that matter, I couldn't smell much of anything, just a faint whiff of mildew, as if the customers--even more disheveled and shabby than the tavern--were too well pickled to give off any odor.
Without so much as a glance around, Jack navigated to the darkened back hall.
"You've been here before, I take it," I whispered. "Please tell me it was on business."
"Yeah. Order a burger for a mark? Chef does your job for you."
The hall was nearly pitch-black. An exit sign at the end gave off the only light. After my eyes adjusted, I could see a chain on the rear door. The management must have been more worried about customers escaping without paying than escaping a fire. Although, from what I'd seen, I doubted they'd go anywhere even if the chairs under them were ablaze.
Jack led me to a phone booth, picked up the receiver and held it to my ear. Guess that meant I was doing the talking. I presumed he was holding it because he was wearing gloves and I wasn't, but I was glad of it for any reason. The receiver was so filthy I could barely bring my lips close enough to it to talk.
He dialed. Evelyn picked up on the third ring.
"Hey, Auntie E," I said, cranking my voice up a few octaves. "It's me!"
Not so much as a beat-pause. "Deedee, why hello, dear. So good of you to call. And how's Jackie? Taking good care of you, I hope."
I looked around at the grunge-streaked walls. "You bet. He takes me to all the best places. So, auntie, remember how we were going to visit cousin Will? Before that thing came up? Well, Jackie and I thought we'd pay him a visit. But first, we wanted to see whether you wanted to join us, since it was your idea."
"Oh, that's very sweet of you, dear, but you kids don't want to travel all the way over here to pick me up. Go and see Will, and give him my love. Then you can stop here on the way back. I'd love to see you."
I glanced at Jack, who'd been listening in. "I'm not sure--"
"Really, I must insist." Her voice was still light, but her tone had taken on a steel core. "We have so much catching up to do."
Jack hesitated, then nodded. I told Evelyn we'd be there late this afternoon, then signed off.
"Jackie?" Jack said.
"She started it."
He shook his head and led me back into the bar.
At the jail, Jack didn't even bother with a cover story--just gave the guard his fake name and ID and said we wanted to speak to Nicky Volkv. Volkv agreed to see us. I guess after years in jail, he was just happy for a visitor.
From the moment we entered the jail, Jack became someone else, sliding into his aging-biker character as he hadn't bothered to until now. His head went higher, shoulders squared, stride taking on a hint of a swagger.
We sat on the visitors' side of the Plexiglas barrier for five silent minutes before the door opened and the guard ushered in a tall man with graying dark hair and a milky-white left eye. Volkv squinted his good eye at Jack.
"I know you?" he asked.
"You should."
The briefest hesitation, then Volkv sat down. He folded his hands on the counter, gaze darting from Jack to me. It lingered on me, hungry.
"Leon Kozlov," Jack said.
Volkv reluctantly pulled his gaze from me. "You know Leon? How is the old son of a bitch?"
We'd expected Volkv to know about Kozlov's death. Even in jail, he shouldn't be that cut off, but from his open smile as we mentioned his friend, he was obviously serious.
"He's dead," Jack said.
Volkv blinked, then leaned forward, resting his mouth against his open hand. It took a moment before he looked up again.
"How'd it happen?"
"Hit."
I expected Volkv to laugh, or at least ask Jack to repeat himself. Someone paying to off an old thug who'd been out of the business for twenty years? Waste of ammo.
But Volkv just gave a long slow shake of his head. "Dumb fuck. I warned him. Last time he was here, he sat right there--same chair you're in, as a matter of fact, and I said, 'Leon, you dumb fuck, that ain't a retirement package, it's a death sentence.' You don't screw with those guys, you know what I mean?"
Jack nodded.
Volkv leaned forward. "Now you and I, maybe we ain't picked the kind of careers our mamas would want, but those guys? A whole other league. Not even part of the human race, if you ask me. Fucking psychos, every last one of them. You don't blackmail a psycho."
"Not unless you want to end up six feet under." As Jack switched to full sentences, I noticed the brogue had been replaced by a faint drawl, like a southerner who's worked hard to lose his accent.
Volkv jabbed a finger at the Plexiglas, earning himself a glare from the guard. He lowered his voice. "That's exactly what I told Leon. You don't fuck with a hitman." Grief flickered behind his eyes again. "Did he get a good funeral?"
"A big one. Standing room only."
"Really? So those Nikolaev bastards came around to show their respects, did they? I always told Leon he was smart not to tell them what happened. If they knew, they'd have bumped him off themselves, just to be safe. No loyalty, those fucks. I got this on the job"--he pointed at his blind eye--"they wouldn't even pay my doctor's bill. Fired my ass 'cause I couldn't see right no more."
By now I could almost hear my toe tapping with impatience. It was like seeing the carousel brass ring zipping by, as you try to reach a little farther, knowing that any moment, the music could stop and you'd lose your chance. Jack just sat there, hands never leaving the reins, as if, by being patient enough, the ring would come to him.
For the next ten minutes, he chatted with Volkv, letting the old con take the conversation where he liked, around and around, never veering any closer to the prize. I held my tongue only by clamping my mouth shut so hard my jaw ached.
"Russians ain't so bad," Jack said, relaxed in his chair, one arm hooked over the back. "I had to pick, I'd go with them over the Yakuza any day. Look at those bastards wrong, and it's permanent retirement time." He stretched his legs. "Speaking of retirement, I don't suppose Leon's retirement plan is up for sale."
Volkv laughed. "So that's what you're after? You got balls, buddy. My advice would be the same I gave to old Leon: b
uy yourself a lottery ticket instead. Odds of cashing in are a hundred times better." He leaned forward. "You want the truth? Plan's not mine to sell. I never asked Leon for the details--my life might not be worth much, but it's all I got. All I know is that he saw something he shouldn't have. Someone."
Jack let Volkv ease back into small talk. Five minutes later, the guard announced our time was up. I made it as far as the parking lot before I let out a growl of frustration.
"Goddamn it! We were so close. A few more minutes..." I took a deep breath, retaking control. "Well, let's analyze what we've got. Kozlov crossed a hitman back in his mob days. As for how he crossed him--"
"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--"
Exit Strategy Page 18
