Wild Justice (21 page)

“Just room service,” Jack said, rising.

I checked my watch.

“Twenty-four-hour menu,” he said as he walked to the door. “Hold on.”

So that’s what he’d been doing in the bedroom after I stormed out? Thinking,
Huh, you know, I’m kinda hungry,
and ordering food?

I shook my head. Sometimes, it’s best to not question.

He signed the bill. Then he brought the tray over and set it on the table beside me. It was a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.

“Bedtime snack?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t figure you for the milk-and-cookies type.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you.” He headed to the minibar, got out a Coke, and popped it. “This is mine.”

I looked at the tray.

“It won’t bite,” he said. “Long night. Didn’t eat much at dinner. Sure Quinn didn’t feed you. Figured you should have something. Lost a lot of blood.”

I took a cookie and held it out for him.

He hesitated.

“I’m not going to eat all six,” I said.

He took the cookie and settled onto the sofa with his Coke. “Got something else for you. Possibly. Not much but . . . One of those charges laid against Aldrich? Girl goes to college here. In Pittsburgh.”

I straightened. “Really?”

“Happened in New York State. Girl’s parents pressed charges. He bolted. Changed his name. That’s when he became David Miller.”

“It’s a recent one then.”

“Almost four years ago. Anyway, looked it up in the journal. Trying to cross-reference. Think I found it. Pretty standard. Nothing useful. But then I checked into the case. Through a contact. Girl claimed it wasn’t Aldrich who seduced her. Said it was a younger friend of his.”

“What?”

“Police didn’t buy it. Parents said she was blaming some imaginary partner—”

“Partner?” I turned to face him. “If we’re looking for who might have killed him and put out a hit on me, a partner-in-crime tops the list.”

“Yeah. I know. Take a trip tomorrow then? Talk to her?”

“Absolutely.”

As I drank my milk and ate my cookies, Jack gave me more details on the case. Shannon Broadhurst had been fourteen at the time, eighteen now. He didn’t know how she’d met Aldrich or how long the relationship lasted, because she refused to cooperate with the police and give any details. That’s not uncommon when the charge is statutory rape. If a girl is willingly having sex with a guy, she’s not going to be thrilled when Mom and Dad file charges against him.

The charge was actually second-degree rape. “Statutory rape” is a catchall term used for cases where the charge stems from the age of the girl, not whether she gave consent. The actual charge varies. Most places also allow for the so-called Romeo and Juliet exception, meaning it’s only an offense if the guy in question is above a certain age himself, so you don’t end up with a fifteen-year-old boy going to jail for having sex with his fifteen-year-old girlfriend. If the guy is over twenty-one, though, and the girl is under fifteen, that’s when the charges get serious, like this one. If convicted, Aldrich could have spent seven years in jail.

But he’d bolted and she’d refused to talk, except to insist that her parents were wrong, that it wasn’t Aldrich she was sleeping with but a friend he’d introduced her to. Who might be exactly whom we were looking for. A “friend” who knew Aldrich’s past and vice versa. A friend who’d panicked at the thought that Aldrich was about to be caught. A friend who’d killed him and was now trying to kill me.

According to Jack—and confirmed by Quinn—the police were still tracing the path through Drew Aldrich’s past, connecting the various dots. They had yet to identify him as the same man who’d seduced Shannon Broadhurst and fled New York State ahead of rape charges. That meant she didn’t know he was dead. We stood our best chance of getting honest information from her before she found out. We’d pay her a visit as soon as we could.

Quinn had woken to a message from the company that owned the vehicle Aldrich’s killer had driven. The car had been rented on a corporate card at the Cleveland airport. The company provided everything they could, thinking they were helping the U.S. Marshal Service.

Speaking of Quinn’s real-world career, as I said, getting away from it wasn’t easy. Although he was technically on personal leave, he still had paperwork—e-mail, reports, and such. While he phoned with the news about the car right away, he didn’t rush up to our room, instead tending to some urgent business while I read the journal and talked to Jack.

An hour later, when Quinn came up, he had coffee for all of us. Evelyn arrived moments later. She didn’t get a “good morning” from the guys. She pretended not to notice, just walked to the armchair and waited patiently . . . for about five seconds.

“Well?” she said. “Where are we?”

I told Evelyn about the car rental lead. “The company is a dead end so far. The Internet highway is nothing but roadblocks. The company name is IPP Incorporated.”

“A shell company,” Quinn said. “That was my guess.”

I nodded. “I don’t have a lot of experience with things like that, but Quinn says a very generic name combined with no easily accessible information suggests a shell company, which doesn’t help us out at all.”

“I’ll dig some more,” Quinn said. “See if I can find it through other sources.”

“Evelyn will, too,” Jack said.

“Will I?” she said.

“Up to you. Don’t feel like helping?” He pointed at the door.

“Of course, I’d be happy to check my sources,” Evelyn said. “I would just prefer to be asked.”

Jack looked as if he wanted to say something to that, but he brought his coffee over to me instead and we returned to the journal.

As we worked on that, Quinn and Evelyn did research. Quinn’s online resources are law-enforcement based; Evelyn’s are criminal. The Internet has its share of side roads into the underworld, usually disguised and tightly guarded. Evelyn knew her way into all of them. When she searched for IPP, Inc., though, she ran into a problem: someone, somewhere really didn’t like people looking for that information.

The search triggered a computer worm, which set off an alert. She tried another search result link and got the same thing. So did a third.

“This is interesting,” she murmured.

“I think the word you want is
scary
,” I said. “That’s some serious tech power.”

“Which makes it interesting.” She shut down her computer and reached for her phone. “It seems I’ll need to do this the old-fashioned way.”

The old-fashioned way was also the slow way, so Jack and I decided to track down Shannon Broadhurst in the meantime. It was her first year at college, so she was staying on campus. I opted for the simple approach—go to her dorm room and knock.

The dorm was in what looked like an apartment building. There was a security desk inside the doors, and no passing it without proper access. I flashed my Department of Intrastate Regulation and Enforcement ID. It’s a lovely card really. Even has a photo of me. Very official . . . or it would be, if there was any such agency. The card is from Quinn. It’s his standard trick. There are so many damn federal agencies that unless you’re dealing with government, no one’s going to question the existence of this one, especially if you say it with enough authority. Quinn’s got that part down pat. I did a decent enough job to convince a guard who looked barely past college age himself. It helped that I wasn’t asking for access to the building. I just wanted to speak to Ms. Broadhurst.

Shannon wasn’t in her room. The guard was in the midst of taking a message when he glanced up to see a young, dark-haired woman walking in.

“Oh, that’s her now,” the guard said.

The girl looked young for her age. Maybe five foot two, barely a hundred pounds. Oversized sweatshirt. Dark hair pulled back. No makeup. When she saw us looking her way, she slowed, and I thought she might take off, but she only steeled herself and walked up to the desk with a casual, “Hey, Billy, what’s up?”

“These folks want to speak to you.”

I repeated my introduction, quickly adding, “We just need to ask you a few questions about someone you used to know.”

“Sure.” She waved a thank-you to the desk guard and led us across the lobby. “We can find a quiet place outside. Who’s it about?”

“A man you knew as James Emery.”

She stiffened and I tensed, ready for her to bolt.

“Did you catch the son of a bitch yet?” she asked finally. “Please tell me that’s why you’re here.”

She looked over and in her eyes I saw something that hit me square in the gut. A rage and a hate so familiar it was like looking in a mirror. I wanted to tell her Aldrich was dead. And I couldn’t.

“We aren’t at liberty to discuss the exact situation, but a case is being built against him, and he’s not . . . at large. I can assure you of that.”

“Good. Whatever you need from me to put him behind bars, you have it.”

We walked to the road. Jack stayed a half pace behind, but when I glanced at him, he started falling back.

“We don’t need two of us to speak to you,” I said to Shannon. “My partner’s going to head back to the car and do some paperwork.”

She only nodded, but relief flickered in her eyes. This conversation would be easier without a man listening in.

Once Jack was gone, I cleared my throat and said, “You weren’t quite as willing to help four years ago, Ms. Broadhurst.”

“Because I was a kid. A stupid kid who thought she was in love with the sleazeball who took . . .”

She trailed off. She stopped walking, looked around, then led me to sit on a raised platform around an old oak tree. After we sat down, she stayed quiet. I didn’t prod. I just waited.

After at least two minutes of silence, she said, “I wasn’t a bad kid.”

“I’m sure you weren’t. That’s why he picked you.”

She glanced over at me.

“James Emery had very specific targets. Ordinary girls. Good girls, so to speak. Not into drugs or alcohol or even boys. The shy, quiet ones, which may not have been you—”

“No, it was,” she said, bitterness edging the words. “That was exactly me.” She tugged her sweatshirt sleeves over her hands. “I found a picture of him in my stuff last year, and I wanted to throw up. He looked different in my memory, you know? It was like . . . like even when I understood what happened, how he used me, how wrong it was, I still had this image of him as this good-looking older guy that I fell for. He wasn’t really, and I know that shouldn’t matter, but it makes it even worse, as if . . .”

She trailed off and hunched her shoulders, staring out across the campus. “And that’s not what you came here to talk to me about at all. I just feel . . .” She inhaled. “Whenever it comes up,
however
it comes up, I feel like I have to defend myself. Explain how that could have happened so I don’t come out looking like a total loser.”

“He seduced you,” I said, my voice soft. “He’d done it many, many times before. He knew exactly what he was doing—taking advantage of girls at a vulnerable time, being what they needed.”

She nodded and pulled her hands farther into her sleeves. “So, you had questions?”

“Only one really, but it’s important. In the initial police report, you said he had a younger friend. You said—”

“I lied.”

“Okay . . .”

She looked over at me. “I was a stupid kid, like I said. I thought I was in love. I had to defend him. Protect him. So I said it was a friend of his who seduced me.” She looked away. “There was no friend. I’m sorry. I know I made things harder for everyone, and maybe if I hadn’t, he’d have been caught before he did this to more girls and—”

“Stop.”

She glanced over, looking startled.

“Don’t do that,” I said. “You were one of many girls, over many years. Some of them gave the police everything they wanted. There were lots of charges. Even a trial. The second he knew that the police were coming, he ran. He was very, very good at what he did, and nothing you could have done would have stopped him.”

It was the right thing to say, and maybe it helped, but not enough. I could see that in her eyes. Nothing would—or could—help enough, and it was hard for me to even sit there, watching her retreat deeper into that oversized sweatshirt, wondering how much different her life might have been if I’d somehow stopped Drew Aldrich twenty years ago.

“As far as we know, there weren’t any girls after you,” I said.

“As far as you know,” she repeated. “That just means no one else reported him.”

She was right. There were entries in the journal past hers. But no charges, so I was giving her that hope. I had to.

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe it was just the final scare he needed.” I waited for a moment, then said, “So when you told the police his friend seduced you, was that completely out of the blue? Or was there anything he’d ever mentioned . . . About a friend who might want to meet you . . .”

She shrugged. “I made it up. I never met any of his friends. He’d talk about people but not very much and only so he’d seem ‘real,’ you know? Like he’d mention going to his mother’s for dinner, when I’m sure now she didn’t live anywhere near.” She paused, thinking. “Once, when we’d been drinking and toking up, he started going on about how people underestimated teenage girls, how they were just as smart as adult women, just as mature, and how people never saw that and so guys like him had to hide their relationships from the world. He said there were lots of good guys, decent guys who appreciated girls, and he mentioned an old friend as an example. I guess that’s what gave me the idea.”

“What did he say about this old friend?”

“Nothing really. Or nothing I remember. I was drunk and stoned. We both were. It just seemed to be some guy he met, maybe in an online chat room for people like him. I know they have stuff like that—I did a sociology project on it my senior year. They get together and talk crap and use it to justify what they’re doing. If other people do it, then it can’t be so wrong, the world is wrong. Which is bullshit.” She glanced over. “Sorry.”