Wild Justice (7 page)

“I don’t want to take that chance. Can we leave now?”

“Makes it worse. Confirms it’s you. There a rear exit?”

I shook my head. The first thing I’d done when we came in was casually scout exits.

“Good. He can’t slip out.”

Aldrich returned by a route that didn’t take him past our seats. After a few minutes, Jack pulled a ten from his pocket and slapped it on the bill. “Let’s go.”

We left out the front door. As we passed a car, Jack glanced in the side-view mirror.

“Followed us out,” he said.

“Okay.” I struggled to keep calm. “How do you want to play this? Avoid the car, I presume, or he’ll run the plates.”

“Wild-goose chase. Let him have it.” Jack meant the plates wouldn’t lead anywhere and it would be more suspicious if we wandered aimlessly.

For someone who hates attention, I’m actually a good actor. Jack is, too. So as we headed for the car, I raised my voice to normal volume.

“I have a bunch of errands to run in the city before the wedding tomorrow afternoon,” I said. “That means an early morning, so I don’t want to be out too late tonight. Should we check into the hotel first or go straight to dinner?”

“We have one night without the kids,” Jack said. “Definitely to the hotel first.” He put his arm against my back, his fingers sneaking down to my ass. “That’s what room service is for, babe.”

I chuckled. “How many beers did you have?”

“A couple.”

“I believe the definition of a couple is two.”

He shrugged. “It was a multiple of two.”

I laughed and put out my hand. “Car keys, please.”

He started handing them over, then dangled them just out of reach. “Where are we going?”

“To the hotel. For rest, relaxation, and room service. Or something like that.”

He patted my ass while handing me the keys. “That’s my girl.”

As we got into the car, I said, “Okay, he’ll notice the rental stickers on the plate, which will make it tricky for him. The easiest thing to do is call the station and report he saw us heading for the highway driving erratically after leaving a bar. We’ll get stopped and carded. Which means I’m not taking the highway.”

We returned to Cleveland on the back roads. Jack dropped me off a half mile from Aldrich’s place as he went to switch cars, renting another from a different agency, under a different name.

Aldrich was already home, his truck under the carport. It was past eight, getting dark, and I was able to slip into another carport across the road, where a few days worth of flyers in the mailbox told me the owners weren’t home. I had my tactical earpiece, but mostly what I picked up was conversations from the surrounding houses. I had binoculars, too, but I saw Aldrich pass a window only once.

An hour later a whispered, “Going okay?” had me scattering Skittles on the drive.

“Could you please warn me before you do that? Particularly when I’m wearing this?” I took the amplifier out and winced.

“Don’t need that shit. Dangerous.” He motioned at the bag of candy. “Found those?”

“Yes, and thank you.” They’d been in his equipment rucksack. “Although you might regret buying them for me now.” I bent to pick them up. “I can just see the headlines: ‘Professional Killer Leaves Behind Nothing but Skittles.’”

He chuckled and took a few from the bag.

“You don’t want these?” I held out the dirty ones. “Destroy the evidence?”

“You dropped them. You eat them.”

I pocketed the Skittles, wiped my hand on my jeans, and gave Jack an update.

He checked his watch. “Still early. You wanna come back? Break in later? Take a look around?”

That might seem risky, but searching for evidence of other crimes
after
we made Aldrich disappear would be riskier.

“Works for me.”

“Got a few hours then. Come on. Parked over—”

He stopped as a car drove past slowly.

“That same one went by a minute ago,” I said.

The car—a nondescript silver sedan—reached Aldrich’s drive and the brake lights flashed solid, as if the driver just found the place. He turned in, parked, and got out.

He was around Aldrich’s age. Average build. Dark haired with a beard and mustache, and dressed in jeans, a light jacket, and a ball cap. I could make out the Cleveland Indians emblem on the back of his coat, and when I looked through the binoculars, I could see it on his hat, too.

I didn’t manage to get the camera up before he turned away, but I snapped a few shots of him from the rear. I got a couple of his car, too, and the plate.

He was carrying a six-pack of beer and a bag of pretzels. A buddy coming over to knock back a few on a Friday night. I lowered the camera, but I put my earpiece back in. I left it out slightly, motioning for Jack to listen. He nodded and leaned in, his hip brushing mine, his hand resting lightly against the small of my back.

The man reached the door and rapped. Aldrich answered.

“Hey, bud,” the visitor said. “Got your call. Sounded like you could use a little company. I brought friends.” He lifted the six-pack.

A chuckle from Aldrich. “Come on in.”

The door closed behind them, taking the conversation with it.

“Can you get around back?” Jack whispered.

I nodded.

“Do that. I’ll cover you. Follow if I can.”

It took me a while to get around to Aldrich’s small rear yard. It took Jack even longer to join me.

“Nothing,” I whispered when he found me, crouched between the garden shed and the back deck. “They went downstairs.” I gestured to a dimly lit basement window. “Wherever they are, there isn’t a window, and they’ve shut the door. All I can pick up is the TV. Baseball, I think. So now what?”

“Your call.”

“I’d like to wait. See if he starts talking about his day.”

Jack nodded and we settled in.

The game ended. The volume on the TV dropped enough for me to hear what sounded like preparations to leave. We decided I’d slip around front and see if I could get any photos of the friend.

I got to a hiding place as the friend was coming out the front door. He held it for a second, calling back, “Give me a call tomorrow. No, wait— Sunday would be better. Got the kids coming by tomorrow.” A short laugh. “Val would kill me if I forgot that.”

A pause as Aldrich must have replied.

“Sure, I’ll do that. Call me Sunday then. Have a good night.”

I took my photos as he headed to his car. When he drove off, I returned to Jack.

“The TV is still on,” I said as I picked up the sound from the house. “Can you tell where Aldrich is?”

“Downstairs again, seems like.”

“Okay, so . . . should we come back later or wait it out?”

“No need to wait.”

“Break in while he’s watching TV?”

Jack shrugged. “Room doesn’t have windows. Door seems closed.”

There are gadgets for detecting typical home security systems and even Jack uses one. Aldrich’s townhouse wasn’t armed. We had lock picks, too, but the rear door was unlocked, the faint smell of burgers suggesting he’d cooked dinner on the grill, then gone inside forgetting to relock the patio door.

I’d argue that the biggest security challenge isn’t alarms or locks—it’s pets. Even cats can be a pain in the ass. Once during recon a cat yowled for my attention so loudly that I’d taken off before the neighbors decided someone was being murdered. Neither Jack nor I picked up the scent of pets, but we scanned the kitchen for bowls, just in case. There were none.

Aldrich was the kind of housekeeper that gives bachelors a bad name, with a kitchen counter piled with dishes and takeout boxes, and clothing draped everywhere. Even surveying the mess made me twitch, the urge to tidy almost overwhelming.

While Jack was prowling, I headed upstairs. I wanted to look for souvenirs of past crimes. Many sex offenders keep them, and the most obvious place to find them is in the bedroom, which was the advantage to breaking in before Aldrich retired for the night.

At the top of the stairs, I found an office. Compared to the rest of the place, it was surprisingly tidy. Drawers were closed, paper stacked neatly—

A stair creaked. I was backing farther into the office when Jack whispered, “It’s me.”

He crested the steps. “Just thinking. Someone should watch Aldrich. You want it?”

I nodded and went down to the main level. The basement door was cracked open, the light on. The stairs came out in the laundry room where there was, unsurprisingly, no laundry—it was draped over everything upstairs. The area extended across the back of the house. Along the inside wall were three doors. The middle one was open an inch, and through it, I could see the faint blue glow of the television.

The earpiece meant I could pick up any sound from inside that room, but all I heard was the TV. Aldrich was settled in, maybe even asleep. If I could be sure he was sleeping, I could go back upstairs and help Jack search.

I moved as close to the door as I dared, then strained to listen when the TV chatter paused. But even with the earpiece, I heard only silence. That meant he was probably awake—his breathing too shallow for me to catch.

I could make out the TV screen now. There seemed to be a pinkish blob on it. I pulled out my binoculars. It took some adjusting, trying to magnify something less than ten feet away, but after a moment, the nickel-size blob came into view. It looked like . . .

It couldn’t be. I started to retreat. Then I stopped. I took a deep breath . . . and crept right to the opening, so close that I could see that blob and the tiny spots spattered over the beige carpet.

I pulled out my gun, put my gloved fingertips against the door, and pushed, braced for a cry of alarm. None came. I reached into my rucksack and took out a small mirror. Fingers trembling, I held it to the gap, adjusted the angle, and then . . .

Drew Aldrich sat in a worn recliner opposite the door. He was looking straight at me, eyes open. But he didn’t see me. He didn’t see anything. He slumped to one side, slack-jawed and empty-eyed, his arm hanging down, blood on the carpet, brains spattered on the TV screen.

That’s all I thought as I pushed open the door. There wasn’t any spark of disappointment, of rage, of anger that I hadn’t pulled the trigger myself. As I stared into Drew Aldrich’s dead eyes, my knees wobbled and I wanted to drop to them and weep. Cry with relief.

It wasn’t until now that I realized how badly I’d wanted this. How badly I needed it. And I didn’t give a damn if that made me a terrible person. I’d wanted this since I was thirteen years old, and now I had it, and it didn’t matter who had pulled the trigger.

Drew Aldrich was dead.

“Nadia?”

I wheeled to see Jack. He winced as he realized he’d startled me again and then came forward, gun lowered, gaze on me.

“I— I didn’t—” I began.

“I know.”

“He was already—”

“I know.”

“I don’t care,” I whispered. “I’m just glad— I’m so glad—”

“I know.”

He put his arms around me, and I fell into them.

It looked as if Aldrich had shot himself in the left temple with his service revolver. The gun lay on the floor beneath his dangling left hand. In front of him, on the ottoman, was a website printout. I could read the headline even upside down.

“Local Teen Murdered, Local Man in Custody.”

Below was Amy’s school photo. Beside it was a picture of Drew Aldrich.

I remembered the first time I’d seen this article, digging it up because I had to know, had to see it. I remembered thinking how much Amy would have hated that photo, with her hair pulled back in little-girl barrettes, her Peter Pan collar buttoned tight, no trace of makeup. Amy’s annual “good girl” picture, a performance piece to please her mother, because she knew how much it meant to have a nice photo to send around at Christmas.

I remember, too, seeing the picture of Aldrich and wanting to take that article down to the paper, find the reporter, shove it in his face and say “How dare you?” How dare you put his picture beside hers. How dare you make his picture as big as hers. This was about her, about Amy, her life and her murder. Drew Aldrich shouldn’t rate more than a footnote, just enough to say “Drew Aldrich has been arrested for the crime.”

I reached down to touch the paper, then stopped myself. Even if I was wearing gloves, there was faint blood spray on its edge, and I couldn’t risk smearing that. I settled for crouching to get a better look at the page. It was hard to see, with only the glow of the TV for illumination. When I bent, though, I noticed a marker that had rolled partly under the page. And there was something written across the article.

This was Aldrich’s suicide note. He’d printed it out, scrawled his guilt and his remorse across it, and shot himself. I looked at that, and I looked at Aldrich, and then I turned to Jack.

“It’s staged,” I said. “He was murdered by the guy who came to visit.”

“Yeah.”

“You’d already figured that out?”

He shrugged. “Look at his hand.”

“If you mean because he shot himself in the left temple, that’s not a mistake. Aldrich was left-handed. Whoever killed him knew that.”

“Look closer. Hand. Sleeve.”

Now I saw what he meant. The white sleeve of Aldrich’s pullover was clean.

“No back spatter,” I said. “That’s a pretty good indication. It’s not foolproof, but it’s better than my explanation, which is just that there’s not a chance in hell he wrote that.” I pointed at the note. “Even if he’s changed, he’s not going to collapse with guilt after seeing me, kill himself, and admit to a crime he was acquitted of. When the friend left, he was talking, but I never heard Aldrich’s reply. The guy was faking a conversation in case a neighbor was listening in.”