Exit Strategy (11 page)

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 assumed 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 damned 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 wishing I’d grabbed one of those fresh muffins 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 assumed, 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 unleashing 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 spunk, digging in her heels and asking for her fair share. She didn’t expect to
get
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 circumstances of her death overrode the importance of her life. After an hour of “What kind of madman is doing this?” and “Oh, God, 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
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.”

“There’s some kind of specialty in insurance work?”

His gaze shifted 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 “Shitty 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
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 space.

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
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 classes. 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.

“Helluva story, huh?” he said. His gaze was on the windshield, 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 bullshit. 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 fuck 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?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t matter. Point is, he didn’t get back in. Gone too long. Can’t find work. New middlemen? Don’t know who the fuck he is. Older guys? Don’t give a shit. You been gone that long, you start over. From the bottom. Prove yourself.”

I remembered what Evelyn and Jack had said about “advertising.” “And that’s why Saul mentioned it to you. Because it’s possible that this killer is Baron—his way of proving himself.”

“Yeah. And there’s more.”

He turned from a secondary highway onto the interstate. I waited impatiently for him to continue, but he didn’t until he’d merged into traffic and resumed his speed.

“Couple months ago, Baron went to see a guy. Middleman Saul and I know. Guy named Cooper. Wouldn’t give Baron anything good. Just shit work. Gotta prove yourself, he says. So Baron says fine. Takes him on the street. Says pick a target. Give me thirty minutes and I’ll prove myself.”

My gut went cold. “Kill a random person on the street. And he did?”

“Nah. Cooper said fuck off. Prove yourself another way.”

I sat there for a minute, heart racing so fast I could barely breathe. “Where do we find Baron?”

“No idea. But I can find Cooper.”

“Then let’s do that. Where does he live?”

“Heading there now.”

TWELVE

Music from the nearby tavern boomed into the streets. Old-time country, the sort that reminds me of howling coyotes. Ask me where I’d expect to find a middleman/ drug dealer and I’d have picked some funky new-age bar, with go-go dancers and bathroom sinks sprinkled with powder that didn’t come from a Javex can.

Talking to Cooper wasn’t going to be as easy as I’d hoped. Yes, he knew Jack. Yes, he’d talk to Jack. But unlike Saul, Cooper couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut, which is why Jack used him for information only.

Cooper was a businessman to the core. He’d buy and sell anything, meaning he’d happily give Jack what he wanted, only to run out and resell the information that Jack was on the trail of the Helter Skelter killer.

Cooper had no stomach for violence—so Jack
could
threaten him into keeping his mouth shut but, as he said, that kind of behavior didn’t foster good contact relationships.

When I came up with an idea for keeping Jack out of it, I expected him to balk but he’d only said, “Yeah. That’d work. Just keep in shadows. Don’t wanna have to kill him after. Bad for business.”

So now I was waiting outside this Kentucky bar as Jack scoped it out from the inside. After ten minutes, he exited.

“Cooper’s there,” Jack said. “Usual place. Now, we need—”