Exit Strategy (13 page)

“If you want something for that, just ask. I’ve got a damned cupboard full of crap. The days when muscle rubs and ointments replace massage oil and lubricants…Never thought I’d see it.” She leaned back in her chair. “So, what happened with Baron?”

I glanced over at Jack, but he kept walking. So I told Evelyn.

“Well, that’s priority one, then. Finding him.” She seemed ready to go on, then glanced toward the kitchen. A pause, then she turned back to me. “I made some progress myself. Leon Kozlov, former associate of the Nikolaev family. A small family, but an old one. One of the first in America.”

“You know them?”

“I know folks associated with them, which is how we’re going to get the story on Mr. Kozlov.”

“He got insurance?” Jack called as he retreated into the kitchen.

I told Evelyn about our theory.

“Well, not really a
theory,
” I said as Jack returned with our coffees and sat beside me. “At this point, it’s just one more avenue to explore.”

“A good one. People die, someone always benefits, and usually it’s money. Let me see what I can dig up. First, though, I’ll find Baron. Pathetic fuck.”

One could say those two words with sadness, even empathy. Evelyn did not. Jack’s shoulders tightened and he pushed to his feet as if to hide the reaction.

“I told you this would happen,” she said. “Didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” Jack headed for the computer and turned on the monitor. “Let’s get looking. Find him.”

Evelyn turned to me. “When Baron retired, I told Jack it wouldn’t work. It never does.”

“Didn’t argue,” Jack said.

“You gave Baron the benefit of the doubt.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Want me to log on?”

“You don’t know my password.”

“Yeah?”

They locked gazes, but Evelyn only shook her head, refusing to be distracted.

“You have a sentimental streak, Jack.”

“An optimistic streak. And it’s not fatal. Dee doesn’t need to hear this shit. You want me to say it? You were right. Now log on or—”

She stood. “Get away from my keyboard before you break something.”

Baron’s number didn’t lead anywhere. Not immediately at least. Evelyn put in a few cybercalls for more information, both to trace the phone number and to track Baron through the criminal network.

“But that won’t bear fruit today, so you can go and check that cartel lead while Dee and I check out Kozlov and research the insurance theory.”

“You don’t need her.”

“Neither do you. There’s no need to take her along, especially on something like that.”

“Evelyn’s right,” I said. “I can’t help you shake down a drug cartel source, and probably shouldn’t—especially after how Saul reacted. I’d rather stay, search for insurance links and help Evelyn with the Kozlov lead.”

His back to Evelyn, Jack looked at me and gave a small shake of his head. I knew what he meant. Evelyn didn’t need my help. It was only an excuse to get me alone, away from him.

Jack left before dawn. So I was alone with Evelyn, doing research. In school, I’d always been a struggling B student. As a cop, I’d never aspired to detective-hood, if only because of the sheer amount of desk work involved. Now, in my thirties, I had returned to academia, taking college courses, but only because my days were spent outdoors and active, and I could spare some time to develop my brain.

Yet when it came to solving this case, I had minimal interest in poring over Internet printouts and visiting a retired hitwoman’s old pals. Another victim’s life was expiring, and I wanted to be with Jack, interviewing—or interrogating—a source.

As for whether I trusted Evelyn enough to stay with her, the answer was no. I didn’t see Evelyn as a threat—not at her age—but neither did I know her. Still, I was okay with that. In my years as a cop, I’d had a couple of partners I hadn’t trusted even after that initial discomfort of working with someone new had passed. I’d spent almost a year partnered with a dirty cop—someone I suspected was more likely to shoot my back than protect it. I’d learned to deal with that, and never gave him any cause to think I didn’t trust him. More than once I’d heard him snicker with his buddies about how naive I was. But when he’d tried to pin something on me, I’d seen it coming and turned the tables so deftly he’d never figured out what had gone wrong. If I’d worked with him and emerged unscathed, I could do the same with Evelyn.

So, first, we researched the insurance claim theory. There were legitimate ways to get that information, but legitimate means slow, and always leaves a trail. Evelyn knew shortcuts through the dark alleys of the information highway.

By breakfast time we had our list of victims, insurance claims and beneficiaries. None screamed “murder for money.” Carson Morrow’s wife would collect his, but it was only fifty thousand, not nearly enough when you had two kids and he was the family breadwinner. Mary Lee’s family would collect a quarter of a million. A tidy sum…if it wasn’t to be divided among five children and eleven grandchildren. Leon Kozlov’s ten-thousand-dollar policy would cover burial costs, with little left over.

So far, the cases didn’t seem to support an insurance-based theory. Maybe Morrow’s wife had other reasons to kill him, and the insurance money would just be a bonus. Maybe multiple members of Lee’s family had conspired to have her murdered. Maybe Kozlov had a richer policy elsewhere.

Then there was Alicia Sanchez, whose coverage did raise red flags. I wasn’t certain, but I suspected that insurance on an unmarried college student was relatively rare. And a quarter of a million dollars went way beyond burial costs. I couldn’t imagine any parent killing his child for insurance money. But Sanchez did have two brothers, one with a criminal record. One way to get a “loan” from Mom and Dad would be to make sure they had the money to lend. And after grieving for one child, they’d be reluctant to refuse to help another. Not a perfect theory, but something worth further investigation.

Midmorning, we left to visit Evelyn’s Nikolaev family contact. She pulled into the driveway of a town house complex, less than an hour from her place.

“That was quick.”

“At your age, you want to keep lots of distance between you and your colleagues, so no one makes the connection. By our age, no one cares anymore, and it’s a hell of a lot easier to get together for coffee when you don’t live five states apart.”

She turned from one short, narrow road onto another, heading for the rear of the complex.

“Maggie and Frances are a couple girls I know from way back. Not girls anymore, mind you. They’re more retired than I am, but they still dip their hands in when the rocking-chair life gets dull. Not hitwomen, of course—there were never more than a few of us around. Maggie and Frances used to—” A smile played at her lips. “I’ll let them tell you. They’ll like that.”

I scanned the town houses. The sign out front said they were condos, but the units had that run-down “don’t-give-a-shit” look that I always associate with temporary residents. The one Evelyn pulled up in front of, though, shone with pride of ownership. The shoe-box-size front lawn had been replaced with a perennial garden, English-cottage style. There were cobblestones instead of crumbling walk-ways. A well-maintained, ten-year-old Honda sat under the carport, atop a cracked, but recently resealed, driveway.

“So they both live here?”

“They’re partners.”

“After all these years? Most marriages don’t last that long, let alone business partnerships. Or I guess, by now, it’d be more friendship than business.”

“More than friendship or business.”

“Oh?” I paused. “Ah, ‘partners.’ Right.”

Evelyn opened her door. “It’s a shitty word, isn’t it? People think things have come so far, and we’re still stuck using euphemisms like ‘partners.’”

“Probably better than what they called it fifty years ago.”

Evelyn snorted. “Pretty much the same thing they
did
call it fifty years ago.”

I climbed from the car. “So Maggie and Frances worked for the Nikolaevs?”

“No, they hung out with a couple of wiseguys who did. Gay wiseguys. The mob takes a dim view of gays, back then and now. Frances and Maggie gave them convenient girlfriends to parade around. In return, they got protection and contacts in the Russian Mafia.”

Russ

Toilet paper.

Before Russ Belding had left the house, his wife had asked whether there was anything else they needed from the grocery store. Now, watching his mutt-terrier, Champ, squat in the bushes, Russ remembered that he’d put the last roll of toilet paper on the holder the day before and forgot to add that to Brenda’s list. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and caught sight of the time on it: 7:57. Too late. Brenda liked to go shopping as soon as the store opened at eight, before it got busy, and she didn’t have a cell phone.

Should he pick some up on the drive home? He hated leaving Champ in the car. It was a cool fall day, but here in Florida, “cool” didn’t mean the same thing it had back in Detroit. Even with the window open, that blazing sun would turn the car into a furnace.

Would they have enough paper to last until tomorrow? A full roll, put on yesterday, would last approximately—

Russ stopped himself and chuckled. Thirty years in the navy and his engineering skills were reduced to calculating the rate of toilet paper consumption. The joys of retirement.

At the sound of his master’s laugh, Champ bounded across the grass and twined his lead around Russ’s legs. As Russ untangled himself, he thought of a better use for his abundance of free time: dog training. A squirrel darted through the bushes and Champ shot after it, nearly yanking Russ to his knees. Amazing the amount of velocity one small dog can produce. Now there was a scientific question worth considering.

Russ walked off the path to check the spot where Champ had squatted. Even before he could see anything, the smell of dog shit wafted past him. He reached into his pocket for a baggie and found…nothing.

Getting old, captain, Brenda would say. Memory is the first thing to go.

A furtive glance around. This stretch of path was empty, as it almost always was since the town opened the new park. Joggers flocked there for the trails, and parents and children for the playground equipment, leaving this dark, overwooded bit of green space for those who preferred privacy to scenery.

Russ looked down at the brown pile, steaming in the crisp morning air, then sighed and picked up a big oak leaf. Leave a mess on the deck and someone’s bound to slip in it. As he bent over to pick up the dog shit with the leaf, Champ barked.

“You want to do it, sailor? Be my guest.”

Something hit the base of his skull. One split second of blinding pain, not even enough time to form a thought. Then darkness.

The man slid the gun back into its holster and pulled his shirt down over it. As he did, he glanced around, reassuring himself that the path was still empty. The small dog yipped hysterically, darting between him and the body on the ground.

The body lay where it had fallen, a few scant feet from the path. He tugged the folded page from its plastic covering. One more look around before he leaned over and tucked the paper into the dead man’s rear pants pocket. Then he proceeded north, walking alongside the path on the grassy edge where his running shoes left no mark.

FOURTEEN