Wild Justice (16 page)

“No, because Jack here pissed Roland off so badly that the man would probably send a pro after
me
if I so much as called him.”

I glanced at Jack. “Something you forgot to mention?”

Jack frowned. “Roland?”

“Nineteen eighty-nine,” Evelyn said. “He wanted to hire you for a job. You said no, and he came to me, pushing hard, and when that failed, he resorted to threats. So you killed his dog.”

I turned on Jack. “You did what?”

Evelyn chuckled. “Oh, now you’re in trouble, Jacko. That string of bodies in your wake doesn’t bother our girl very much. But a dog?” She shook her head.

“Wasn’t like that,” Jack said. “Threatened me. Went to have a talk. There was a dog.”

“And Jack murdered the poor beast as payback—” Evelyn began.

“Fuck off,” Jack said, shooting her a glare. “Sicced the dog on me. Vicious brute. Didn’t have a choice.”

“You couldn’t just wing him?” I said.

Now I was the one getting the look. I grinned and rubbed his leg with my foot. “I’m kidding. Under the circumstances, I’ll accept the killing of the dog.”

He looked at Evelyn. “That was Roland?”

“My God, you
are
getting old. Or course, admittedly, it does take work to keep track of everyone you’ve pissed off over the years.”

“Memory’s fine. Especially for enemies. I’m sure it wasn’t Roland.”

Evelyn turned to me. “So Jack killed his dog, and then he tied Roland to his bed and took away the phone.”

“Huh,” Jack said. “That’s right. Wasn’t Roland, though.”

“What happened then?” I asked Evelyn.

“Nothing,” Evelyn said. “Jack left him there. The poor guy lived alone, him and the dog, a mile from the nearest neighbor. It was three days before one of Roland’s confederates came by and found him.”

“Three days?”

“Left him water,” Jack said.

Evelyn turned to me. “The dog’s water dish was beside the bed.”

“Food dish, too.”

I laughed.

“Roland didn’t think it was quite so amusing,” Evelyn said.

“Reggie,” Jack said. “That was the guy’s name. I remember now. Reggie outta Miami. Left the business . . .” Jack glanced at Evelyn. “Ah, fuck.”

“Fuck, indeed. The colleague who found him couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He made Reggie a laughingstock in the business. Reggie was smart enough to not say who’d tied him up and left him eating dog food, but his career as a middleman was over. He retired. Then, ten years ago, he got tired of the regular life and came back as Roland.”

“You never told me?” Jack said.

“You don’t deal with middlemen. There was no chance you were going to accidentally bump into him. It seemed best for all if I let him keep his cover.”

“But if you know who he really is, can’t we use that?” I asked.

“It’s been too long,” Jack said. “Seventeen years. No one left to remember. Just us.”

“And Roland,” Evelyn said. “I bet if you paid him a visit, he’d be happy to give you the name of his client. In return for getting the hell out of his life and staying there.” She paused. “I hear he has a new dog.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Great fucking plan. I show up. Demand to know who put out the hit on Dee. Who Roland knows by her real name. Linking her real life with me—a hitman.”

“We could work it so he never realizes that you know her or—”

“No risk.”

“Every plan has an element of risk and it’s a matter of managing—”

“Not this. Won’t risk tying Nadia to me. Or to you. Or to Dee.”

Tying me to my hitman identity is what he meant. After a minute, Evelyn conceded his point. I had a real life, outside of this one, and even if she thought that was absolute foolishness, she knew Jack wouldn’t do anything to ruin it.

We talked some more and settled on a reasonable plan.

“Dinner?” Jack said to me as the conversation ran down.

“We’re going out?” Evelyn said. “Excellent. I’ve heard there’s a wonderful—”

“Us,” Jack said. “Not you.”

“We just thought—” I began. “I mean, we know you don’t like steakhouses, and I owe Jack for all of his help so I offered to take him out . . .”

“You’re not invited,” Jack said to Evelyn.

I shot him a look. “Of course she’s welcome—”

“No, she’s not. Stop being polite. We have plans.”

“So I see,” Evelyn murmured. “And, yes, Dee, you are correct that I have no interest in dining at anyplace that considers burnt hunks of meat haute cuisine.”

“All right,” I said. “Well, give me a few minutes to shower and change into something a little nicer than . . .” I plucked at my T-shirt.

“Should shower, too.” Jack ran a hand over his face. “And shave. Forgot this morning.”

“You go first,” I said. “I’ll find us a restaurant.”

Jack patted my legs as I lifted them off his lap. I could feel Evelyn watching. Then her cell phone buzzed. She glanced down at it and went still.

“Everything okay?” I said.

“Of course. Just business. The usual idiots with the usual idiotic requests.” She got to her feet. “Why don’t I find that restaurant for you? And I wouldn’t worry about showering and shaving. Just wash up and—”

“I want to shave,” Jack said. “Not going someplace nice looking—”

“It’s a steakhouse. Just because the bill hits triple digits does not mean it qualifies as ‘someplace nice.’ We have work to do tonight, and I don’t have time to dawdle.” She waggled her phone. “I do have other responsibilities. Just wash your face and—”

Someone rapped on the door.

“I’ll get that,” Evelyn said. “You two go—”

“And use the washroom together? You really are in a hurry to get us out of here, aren’t you? Go shave, Jack. I’ll get ready in the bedroom.”

“Excellent,” Evelyn said. “Go on, Dee, and I’ll . . .”

She trailed off as I veered to the door and looked through the peephole. There was a guy in the hall. About six foot two. Midthirties. A ball cap pulled tight over short, light brown hair. Pleasantly good-looking with a square jaw. His most arresting feature was his eyes, bright blue, and they were contacts.

I took a deep breath. Then I opened the door.

“Quinn,” I said.

Quinn caught the door. “Na—” he began, then he caught himself. “Dee.”

“What the fuck?” Jack said as Quinn walked in.

“Jack. Good to see you, too. Always a pleasure.”

Jack turned to Evelyn. “What the
fuck
?”

Quinn paused. Then, slowly, he turned to her, too. “I thought you told them I was coming.”

“I didn’t exactly say—”

“You told me about the attempt on Dee’s life and—”

“You told him
what
?” Jack said.

Quinn turned to me. “There wasn’t an attempt on your life at the lodge this morning?”

“Um, yes, but—”

“Didn’t say she could go telling anyone,” Jack cut in.

“I’m not
anyone,
Jack,” Quinn said. “If there’s a pro gunning for Dee, I sure as hell hope someone would tell me and ask for my help.”

“Which is exactly what I did,” Evelyn cut in quickly. “I cut through the bullshit and told Quinn because this is not the time for your personal crap. Dee’s life is in danger, and his professional skills will be invaluable in tracking down whoever put out a contract on her. That is what’s important now. Her life.”

I’d be touched, really, if I bought Evelyn’s excuse for a second. We all peered at her, trying to figure out her ulterior motive, knowing there had to be one.

“What?” she said. “Do you not agree that—”

“You wanted him in?” Jack said. “Figured I’d argue? You’d have told me you’re bringing him in. Not asked.
Told
.”

“You asked me to contact him, Jack.”

“Yeah. To back him off.”

“Back me off?” Quinn said. “Excuse me? I was concerned—”

“And she had enough to deal with,” Jack said. “Without some ex-boyfriend bugging her—”

“
Some ex-boyfriend?
Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Quinn walked into the room and slumped onto the couch.

“Yes,” Evelyn said. “I agreed to try to keep Quinn at bay, but he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He was desperate to see her—”

“I never said—” Quinn began.

“Oh, please. You wanted to ‘help out.’ Anything you could do to help, but preferably a form of assistance that required your presence. Finally, I decided that was the best way to handle this. Dee could use your help in this matter and the sooner you two get over this angst-ridden relationship crap, the easier it’ll be for everyone. Now, do we have work to do or are we going to bicker until someone tries to kill Dee again?”

We brought Quinn up to speed. I even told him about the journal. I just skipped the now-missing section on my rape. I wasn’t ready to share that with anyone who didn’t absolutely need to know. Quinn and Evelyn didn’t.

Quinn had already been trying to track down the car used by Aldrich’s killer. Quinn grouses that most people consider U.S. Marshals bounty hunters with badges, but tracking criminals
is
the main part of Quinn’s job, so it made sense when Evelyn assigned him to hunt down our mystery man. The license plate turned out to be a dead end. It hadn’t been renewed in years, likely taken from an old junker, and affixed with a fake renewal sticker. The car itself, though, had rental markings. Using the make, model, color, and some minor damage, he was trying to find the agency that owned it.

Our next move didn’t require Quinn’s help. His skills are extremely valuable, but he’s a lousy actor. We could use him in an auxiliary role, though. We just needed to be careful, because . . . well, Quinn and I do have a lot in common. We share a background in law enforcement and a love for it. We share a belief in absolute justice. But while I may wish my motives for contract killing were as pure as Quinn’s, they aren’t. I do this because something compels me to do it, that deep rage and hurt over Amy’s death—and, as I now realize, my own rape. I want justice for victims, but I also want justice for me and my lost cousin.

That rage and that pain means I will never be able to achieve Quinn’s emotional distance. It also means I didn’t flinch when Jack tortured and then killed that hitman at the lodge. I was fine with it. Quinn would not be. There was a reason his unofficial nom de guerre was “the Boy Scout.” Professionally, he only took jobs that righted serious miscarriages of justice. He’d never been known to go after anyone who wasn’t a contract, not even to beat information from a reluctant source. At his day job, he was so by-the-book that I think other marshals in his office would have a heart attack if they knew what he did for a sideline.

So we gave Quinn the job that suited him best. The starring role in our scenario went to me. It started with me dialing a number and leaving a message with a few cryptic key words.

By the time I got a call back, we were enjoying room service. Okay,
enjoying
might be the wrong word. It wasn’t up to Evelyn’s standards so she bitched. Quinn kept trying to make the whole situation less awkward by talking business, which only made things more awkward. Jack and I quietly ate as we mourned the private dinner we’d missed.

So when the call came, I snatched it up. Then I realized it had only rung once and let it buzz a second time so I wouldn’t seem too eager.

I answered with a cautious, “Hello.”

“It’s Roland.”

I exhaled in audible relief. “Oh, thank God. I wasn’t sure I’d done that right. I mean, Marcos gave me the instructions, but I’d never done anything like this—”

“Are you alone?”

I said I was. He rapid-fired questions, making sure my reference was legit. Marcos was a high-ranking middleman, which meant he moved in circles that Roland didn’t. He was also, according to Evelyn, in Europe for six months. Roland wouldn’t exactly have a cell phone number for a guy like that, so he couldn’t easily contact him to verify. He wouldn’t dare anyway—he’d be thrilled that someone so high on the food chain knew his name.

Once Roland was satisfied, I said that I had a problem.

“It’s my husband.” Then I proceeded to tell him what an abusive dirtbag I’d married. Did he believe my life was in danger? Or did he think it was just an excuse for getting rid of an inconvenient husband? It wouldn’t matter. Roland would be accustomed to dealing with laypeople who exaggerated their story in the mistaken belief that they actually needed a good reason to have someone killed.

Of course, in none of that conversation did I actually
say
I wanted my husband killed. He was just a problem I needed solved. Also, no personal details were divulged. That had to be done in person, so Roland could better assess me and be sure I wasn’t a cop.

“We’ll need to meet,” Roland said. “What city do you live in?”

“Pittsburgh. That’s why Marcos recommended you. He said you’re in Pennsylvania and—”

“Right. So let’s get together in two hours.”

Now my hesitation wasn’t faked. We hadn’t expected to have so little notice.

“You want to meet tonight?” I said.

“Is that a problem?”

He was testing me. If I couldn’t come quickly, that might suggest something was fishy. I agreed, and Roland gave me the address.

I’ve never quite understood the allure of dive bars for underworld meetings. Oh, sure, places like that are made for shady folks and shadier deals. But if you’re serious about keeping your criminal activities secret, you’d be better off in some overcrowded hipster joint, where the noise volume and sheer crush of people would guarantee privacy.

But no, it’s almost always a dive bar or a place teetering on the edge of dive-bar-dom. This one fit better in the latter category, probably because Roland suspected Ms. Suburban Client wouldn’t set foot anyplace worse.

In this case, Ms. Suburban Client had no intention of setting foot inside. The plan was for us to stake out the place until Roland realized he’d been stood up and headed home, where we could follow and perform a proper interrogation.