Wild Justice (8 page)

I stepped back from the body and surveyed the scene. “Aldrich knew the guy. He’d called him after he saw me. He must know what Aldrich did and has a damn good reason to shut Aldrich up, fast. But why?”

“Not important. Gotta—”

I turned sharply. “Yes, it is important, Jack. If you’re in hiding, you don’t go telling new friends about your old identities, and you sure as hell don’t tell them about your past crimes. If this guy knew, then he—”

“Probably committed some crimes himself. Besides this.” Jack waved at the body. “Saying it’s not important
now
. Gotta finish searching. Then get out.”

“Place was already searched,” Jack said as we climbed to the second story. “I was coming to tell you that.”

“You mean because it’s a mess?” I shook my head. “I’ve met plenty of guys whose apartments always look like they were ransacked.”

“Not that.” He waved into the office. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, peering in again. “I was here earlier. This room is actually the cleanest—” I stopped. “Right. That’s the problem people make when they break in. They tidy up after themselves. The trick is to leave it how you found it.”

“Yeah. Searched here. Bedroom, too.”

I followed him in. While the bedroom certainly couldn’t be called tidy—it looked like a laundry hamper exploded and dirty dishes were stacked on various surfaces—every drawer was closed, every book stacked neatly. Even the porn magazines had been straightened.

We still searched, but found nothing.

“Maybe after being caught a few times, Aldrich got rid of whatever souvenirs he had.”

Jack shook his head. “Guys like that? Take shit. Write it down. Something.”

Which was true, though I hardly expected it to be an area of expertise for Jack. I was the one who wanted to understand how criminals thought. When I commented, though, he just shrugged and said, “Read stuff.”

We messed up the areas that had been tidied, so when Aldrich’s body was found, there’d be nothing out of the ordinary. We took one last look around. I stopped in the middle of the hall.

“Do we know where he took his victims?” I asked.

“Hmmm?”

“He wouldn’t bring teen girls back here, even if they were with him consensually. So he must have had places. Was there anything about that in the other investigations?”

“Yeah. Never changed his MO. Liked cabins.” He looked back at the office. “Bet he has one. Maybe paperwork for it here?”

I shook my head. “If he’s following his old pattern, he’s not buying. He’s finding an abandoned or unused cabin. Which is probably where he kept any mementos. But if he didn’t own the place, we’ll never locate it.”

“Check the truck,” Jack said. “Maps. Gas receipts.”

I nodded and left.

Luckily, Aldrich had left his keys on the kitchen counter. I snuck out the rear door and around the side of the house then made an easy dash to Aldrich’s carport.

I crawled into the passenger seat, shut the door, and used a flashlight to illuminate the glove box. It was jam-packed with crap. I was adjusting my position when my foot got tangled in a cord. I looked down to find a portable GPS on the floor, hidden by fast food wrappers. It was connected to the lighter. I reeled it in and turned it on.

Aldrich didn’t seem to use the GPS very often. Of the four places in the memory, three were out of state and he hadn’t visited any of them this month. But he had gone to the fourth address—twice. A rural location about an hour east of Cleveland.

Before we left I went back downstairs for another look at Aldrich—or at the scene of his death. Would the police realize it wasn’t suicide? They wouldn’t know about his visitor and wouldn’t realize that Aldrich would never admit to Amy’s murder. It looked like a perfectly plausible scenario. He was an exonerated killer turned fake cop. That alone would keep the local police hopping.

The most damning evidence was the lack of back spatter on Aldrich’s gun hand, and presumably a corresponding lack of gunpowder residue. Yet despite what people see on
CSI,
there isn’t the time or the budget to test everything. If it looked like a clear case of motivated suicide, that’s what it would become.

The address in the GPS led us to a tidy farmhouse with a minivan in the drive and a barn around back. The house was surrounded by dense forest, with the nearest neighbor a mile away. We drove half that distance and found a rutted road leading into the woods. Another half mile down it and we had to stop as the road petered out. That’s when we started walking.

There was exactly one trail leading from that road. It branched after a hundred feet. The better-groomed section led to a small waterfall and pond, with a makeshift platform for swimmers and anglers. The second branch ended at a cabin, nearly hidden in the overgrown woods.

When I saw that cabin, my feet stutter-stepped and Jack plowed into me.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just—”

“I know.”

It looked like “the” cabin—the one Aldrich had taken us to. There was nothing meaningful in the similarity. Most simple cabins look like this—a wooden shack with no running water, no electricity, no amenities save a fireplace and an outhouse.

I steeled myself and started forward.

“Wait outside,” Jack said. “No reason—”

I glanced at him.

“You can keep giving me that look,” he said. “Won’t stop me from offering.”

“Which I appreciate—”

“Don’t want appreciation. You want to repay me? Take me up on it. Why go in there? Who are you trying to impress? Only one here is me.”

No, I was here, too, and I needed to follow this through because otherwise I’d feel like a coward.

“Jack, I’ve faced Aldrich. I’ve broken into his house. I’ve found his dead body. There’s not going to be anything in that cabin that makes things any worse.” I managed a wry smile. “Save the marker. I’m sure you’ll find something else you really don’t want me doing.”

He considered that, peering at me in the darkness. Then a snort and a wave. “Stay behind. Could be booby-trapped.”

The cabin wasn’t booby-trapped. It wasn’t even locked. Like Bobby Mack’s place, where Aldrich had taken Amy and me, this was just a shack in the woods, used by whoever wanted it.

It was a single empty room, simple cover for campers, maybe originally for Boy Scouts or the like, to keep the younger ones out of the rain. There were signs that people had been here. Marijuana butts. An empty cheese puffs bag. Crushed Coke cans. A tequila bottle, broken in a corner.

“He wouldn’t keep his treasures where a hiking family could find them,” I said. “If they’re here, they’ll be hidden. Maybe outside or—”

Jack was bending to examine a floorboard. When it didn’t budge, he paced along the edge of the room, looking and testing for give with his feet. He found a loose one and checked under it, then shook his head.

I started on the other side. We’d nearly met in the middle when I found a board that was slightly loose, with a single nail on one end. Jack pried the nail up with a knife. The board came out. Below was a dirt floor . . . with a slight depression. I carefully pushed aside the dirt and saw a steel box.

I pulled the box up and put it on the floor. It was locked. Useless really, when opening the box was a simple matter of unscrewing the hinges. Jack did that, again using his knife.

When I raised the lid, I saw only black and for a second I thought it was empty. Then I realized I was looking at a folded black silk scarf. I lifted it. Underneath . . .

I sucked in a breath, then Jack’s hand darted out, as if he was ready to snatch it from me before I saw some grisly relic. Then he looked and stopped. I reached into the box and picked up a hair clip. It was bronze—a crossed pair of old-fashioned pistols.

“This was mine,” I whispered. “When my dad took me shooting for the first time, he bought me this afterward. Annie Oakley guns, he called them. It was my favorite clip until it disappeared. It must have fallen out at the cabin. But—” I shook my head. “No, it can’t be. I was sure my mom had taken it. She hated it. Said it wasn’t ladylike. I figured she’d made it disappear. But obviously I left it . . .”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe not. Could have broken in. Stolen it.”

“No, Aldrich was arrested that day. He never got out on bail and by the time he was acquitted, this was long gone.” I rubbed the hair clip. “I wore it to the exhibition that day. I remember that . . .” I looked up at Jack. “How would I forget losing it?”

“Too much happening. Probably thought you still had it. Took a while to realize you didn’t. Never put the two together.”

“I—” My eyes widened. “Shit! I’m not wearing gloves.”

“Doesn’t matter. Your prints already on it.”

My thirteen-year-old fingerprints. Drew Aldrich had taken it and he’d hidden it here and he’d . . .

And he’d what? How many times had he taken it out? Run his fingers over it? Remembered—

The clip fell from my hand, clinking back into the box as I struggled for breath.

No, he wouldn’t have taken my piece out. The important memento would be Amy’s.

I put on my gloves and sifted through the other items in the box. Necklaces. Bracelets. Earrings. Rings. Another hair clip. A watch. I vaguely registered that each piece represented a victim and the box was filled with trophies. So many trophies. So many victims.

I’d think of that later. Right now, I kept sifting through for something of Amy’s, and the more I did, the tighter my chest got, panic setting in.

“I can’t find it,” I whispered. “Amy’s piece. I can’t find it.”

“It’s there.”

“I know it’s here. It must be, but I don’t recognize it. All this stuff and I should know hers as well as I know mine and—”

My fingers touched the bottom of the box, leathery and flat. I felt around the edges. Then, being careful not to dump the jewelry, I tugged out a leather-bound book.

I flipped it open to a random page and started reading the handwritten entry, dated three years ago.

The book disappeared from my hands. I wheeled to see Jack snapping it shut.

“Not here,” he said.

He was right. I turned back to the box and felt that worm of panic rising again.

“That can wait, too,” Jack said.

I nodded and shut it. I looked in the hole under the floorboards, but there was clearly nothing else there.

“This is it,” I said, lifting the box. “Are you okay with me taking it?”

He nodded. I reached for the book, but he pretended not to notice, shoved it into his jacket pocket, and headed for the trail.

“Taking you home,” Jack said as we approached the car.

“Um, did I do something?”

“Yeah. Guy who killed your cousin? Dead. And you? Out and about.”

“Right.” I took a deep breath. “Even if it isn’t ruled a suicide, no one’s likely to accuse me. Still, it’s better if I’m home when the news hits. If you want to just drop me at a car rental—”

“Taking you back. Sticking around a few days.” He glanced at me as he opened the door. “That a problem?”

“Mi casa es tu casa.” When he hesitated, I said, “You’re always welcome at my place, Jack.”

He grunted something and slid into the car as I put the box into the trunk. I got in the passenger’s side. When he started up the car, I put my hand out.

“Can I do some reading on the drive?”

“Too dark.”

“Jack . . .”

“Get some sleep. Long drive. Switch off at the border.”

I sighed, shook my head, and ratcheted my seat back.

Jack’s not one for speeding—at least not too far over the limit. It calls attention to yourself. But when I woke up at the border in Buffalo, it wasn’t yet three in the morning. I was ready to take over, but Jack said no, he was awake, just let him grab a coffee and he’d be fine.

I would have argued, but I was barely conscious. I drifted off under the blaring lights of a Tim Hortons drive-through as he was asking me if I wanted anything. I woke again to more lights, these ones on the 401 as we passed through Toronto. I drank my lukewarm coffee and ate my chocolate-dipped donut. Then I said I had to use the bathroom, but I was really just getting him to pull over so I could insist on switching out. He let me. We were only an hour from home.

Jack didn’t sleep on the rest of the drive. He sat there, quietly gazing out the windshield, until we pulled off the regional highway and onto the back roads.

“Almost six,” he said. “Think you can slip in?”

He meant we should try to make it look as if we’d gotten back hours ago. Like I said, it was unlikely anyone would compare the timelines of my arrival and Aldrich’s suicide, but it was better to establish an alibi.

“I can certainly try. The problem will be Scout. She sleeps in my room and as soon as I get upstairs, she’ll go nuts.”

“I’ll get her. Bring her down.” He paused. “Think she remembers me?”

“You were up a few months ago. She’s a little scatterbrained, but she’s a smart dog. And she’s not big enough to rip your face off yet.” I pulled into the drive. “I’ll park in the rear lot so— Shit! The rental car. Drew Aldrich is about to be found dead in Cleveland, and I come home in a rental with plates from—”

“New York. Got a car with New York plates.”

“Which I never even noticed. Okay. If you can take my bag up and toss it in my room, I’ll head off for a morning jog. You grab a room and some rest.”

He started getting out of the car.

“Oh,” I said. “Since you’ll be resting, I’ll have time to read. Why don’t you give me that journal—”