Exit Strategy Part 6

"Brought her here, didn't I? We need information."

She laughed. "Don't you love this guy? He lies to me, steals from me, then has the gall not only to bring you here, but to ask me for help."

Evelyn didn't sound betrayed or even surprised. The look she gave Jack reminded me of a parent complaining about a rebellious teen, exasperated pride masquerading as pique.

"There's a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen," Evelyn said. "Pour us some, and I'll think about talking."

Jack heaved himself from the love seat and headed into the hall. Evelyn watched him over her shoulder, then turned to me.

"Don't tell her anything," Jack's voice floated back. "She knows what she needs to know. Rest is idle curiosity."

Evelyn mouthed an obscenity. She listened for Jack's movements in the kitchen, as if gauging whether he could still overhear.

"Let's just talk about a decent nom de guerre, then. How about Diana? That's better than Dee, isn't it?"

"Honestly? It makes me think 'dead princess,' not 'Greek G.o.ddess.' I'm not sure 'princess' gives off the right vibe, and that 'dead' part is definitely not a good omen."

"You have a point. Hitmen aren't known for their cla.s.sical educations. We'll stick with Dee until I think of something better."

"Charles Manson," Jack called from the kitchen. "We need details."

"Ah, so this is about the Helter Skelter killer." She turned to me. "Now there's a name. Say the words 'Helter Skelter' and everyone of a certain age immediately thinks Manson, and everything that goes with that. For a killer-"

"Yeah," Jack said, rounding the corner with the coffees. "It's about him."

"You're going after him?"

Jack pa.s.sed me my mug. "Someone's gotta. Feds are clueless. They'll round up every pro...except the killer."

"From what I hear they already are, which is why I've been trying to get in touch with you for a week now. You've been ignoring me."

"Wasn't ignoring you. Busy. Setting this up."

She leaned forward. "So who's in? No, let me guess. Felix, Angel, Quinn-but only because you need him for his contacts. You didn't ask Sid and Shadow, did you?"

When Jack didn't answer, she rolled her eyes. "You did. I don't know how you can put up with those two. Not a full deck between them."

"But they're good. All that counts. Angel's out. Got picked up."

"By the police? On what charges?"

"Jaywalking."

"Don't be smart. You know what I mean. Angel's as careful as they come and if he's been charged with one of his old hits-"

"Then we're all in s.h.i.+t. That's the point. Now, about Manson..."

"Well, I can certainly tell you everything you need to know about Charles Manson. But if you're chasing down this alley because your killer uses a silly quote-"

"Newsweek says there's more," I said. "According to their sources, the Feds have uncovered a possible connection between the killer and Charles Manson." says there's more," I said. "According to their sources, the Feds have uncovered a possible connection between the killer and Charles Manson."

Evelyn looked at Jack. "What does Quinn say?"

When Jack didn't answer, she swore under her breath. "You're investigating a case where federal investigators have an important lead, and you haven't even asked Quinn about it yet?"

"Who's-?" I began, then remembered Evelyn's list of names. "He's one of the other pros working this, right? How would he-?"

"Manson, Evelyn," Jack said. "What do you know?"

EIGHT.

Charles Manson was a career criminal of the lowest order. During those rare times in his teens and twenties when the state wasn't paying his room and board, he pimped and drug-dealt his way through life. It seemed Manson never committed a crime for which he didn't do the time. You'd think these early signs of inept.i.tude would make a guy sit back and go, "Hmmm, maybe I'm not cut out to be a criminal mastermind after all." Apparently not.

Manson was a cla.s.sic predator. He knew how to sniff out the weak and tell them what they wanted to hear. By 1969 he had over two dozen followers, most of them teenage girls. The second greatest question of loyalty after "Would you die for me?" is "Would you kill for me?" In August 1969, Manson put his followers to that test. First, four of them killed Abigail Folger, Wojciech Frykowski, Steven Parent, Sharon Tate and Jay Sebring. The next day, three killed Leno l.a.b.i.anca and his wife, Rosemary. On April 17, 1971, Manson returned to jail, where he remains.

When she was done explaining, Evelyn sipped her now-cold coffee. "If I had to guess at the connection, I'd look at hero wors.h.i.+p."

"I hope by 'hero' you don't mean Manson," I said.

"Even after all these years, Charles Manson receives more mail than any inmate in the system. At the time of the crimes, it was even worse. Some underground papers hailed him as a revolutionary, a martyr of the people and for the people. A cult of Manson still exists today, if you know where to look for it."

"You think one of them-?"

Evelyn cut me short with a wave. "No, no. Losers and lunatics."

She stood, walked to her bookcase, pulled out a volume and tossed it between Jack and me. I picked it up. Helter Skelter, Helter Skelter, by Vincent Bugliosi. by Vincent Bugliosi.

"Manson's minions didn't try to hide anything," she said. "Even the cops couldn't f.u.c.k up this case and, believe me, they seemed to be trying their d.a.m.nedest. Those murders have nothing to do with this Helter Skelter killer. Opposite ends of the spectrum."

"Fine," Jack said. "Just background anyway. More important? Criminal connections. Third victim has a record. Who else?"

"And you want me to look that up for you out of the kindness of my heart? You aren't bringing me the best d.a.m.n job in a decade, picking my brain and walking away. I want in."

"Already got a team-"

"And not one of them wouldn't welcome me if you asked. Now go make lunch. I have work to do."

Jack asked whether I was hungry, and when I said I wasn't, he ignored Evelyn's complaints that she she was, and ushered me outside for "some air." was, and ushered me outside for "some air."

I could hear dogs around the back, but couldn't see them through the fence. The wind was icy and I b.u.t.toned my jacket, but didn't complain, knowing he'd brought me out here to talk privately.

He led me to the front of a midsize car I presumed belonged to Evelyn, and we sat on the hood. He patted his jacket pocket, as if looking for his cigarettes, then made a face.

"Played that wrong," he said. "Should apologize."

"I won't say otherwise." I glanced at him. "I wish you'd told me about her. Getting down here, presuming you're the only one who knows about me..."

"Wish you hadn't come?"

I stared at the fence for a minute. "No. Had I known, I definitely would have wanted to meet her, to put a face to a threat. But...it makes me uncomfortable."

"Figured that. Hard to tell. You're good at hiding it."

"So after you met me, you told her I wasn't a suitable-"

"Never said that."

"You told her to forget about me, which you knew she'd take to mean I wasn't suitable. And this thing about 'stealing' me...I'm not exactly a theft-worthy contact. That means you didn't want me connecting with Evelyn. Why?"

"Evelyn bores easily. Always looking for projects. You were new. Didn't need her s.h.i.+t. Now?" He shrugged. "Up to you."

Jack made sandwiches for lunch while I helped. He didn't ask what Evelyn wanted, just walked in and started fixing them. The kitchen was as immaculate and well ordered as the living room. It was stocked with staples, but low on perishables, giving the sense that Evelyn ate out more than she cooked. What perishables I saw were all of the "graband-eat" variety, like fruit, breads and cold cuts-things for snacks and quick lunches.

As we ate, Evelyn told us what she'd dug up. Kozlov's early record showed a few sporadic arrests, but no convictions. That changed when a twenty-one-year-old liquorstore clerk had refused to sell to Kozlov. Already staggering drunk, Kozlov broke a bottle and slashed the young man. Kozlov ran. The kid bled to death. The DA had argued for murder, but Kozlov's lawyer plea-bargained down to a ten-year manslaughter term. After his parole, he hadn't been heard from again until he wound up dead on his living room floor.

With the others, we didn't get so lucky. When the first victim, college student Alicia Sanchez, had been killed, one paper speculated a drug connection, claiming Sanchez had been racking up frequent-flier miles at local drug hangouts. It was later revealed that she had attended exactly one campus party where several students, excluding Sanchez, were arrested for marijuana possession. Victim number two, Carson Morrow, had been arrested on loitering charges following a sit-in protest during his own college days. The charges were later dropped. Attending a pot party and a protest rally-neither cla.s.sifies as a hanging offense.

"So the easiest link is out then," I said. "But if it was that obvious, the Feds would already be on it. We need to look wider-unreported criminal activity or..." I looked down the list. "Given that most of these don't seem like criminal types, a direct link might not be the answer."

"Warning hits," Jack said.

I nodded. "Whether they were the target or messages to the target, it still seems too random for a single job."

"Might not be."

"Then why connect them with a calling card?"

"Advertising."

Evelyn cut in. "There are a few ways a hitman can make a name for himself, fast. One is to leave a calling card, preferably something only the mark's a.s.sociates will find and recognize. When Jack started, I wanted him to use the jack of spades-"

"Not my style."

"You have no style, which is why you refused. The way I would have done it would have been subtle. That's the key. Not like this Helter Skelter thing." A twist of her lip. "This is cra.s.s. And reckless. He's obviously doing more than working through a job list."

"Maybe the point," Jack said. "Advertise big. Advertise wide."

I scanned the printouts on Joyce Scranton. Though the press conference had been held only an hour ago, people had already dug up and posted everything they could find on the latest victim.

I looked up from the pages. "How far is Pittsburgh from here?"

"'Bout..." Jack squinted, then looked at Evelyn. "Five, six hours?"

"And we pa.s.s through Ohio. Perfect. We can check out Kozlov's town, then move on to Pittsburgh, see what we can dig up on Joyce Scranton." I lifted the page. "She was living in Boston, but she's a recent transplant. All her family is in Pittsburgh. We can ask around, get a feel for the woman and her life."

Evelyn eased back into the sofa. "Waste of time."

Jack glanced my way. I looked back, my face impa.s.sive.

He studied me for a moment, then pushed to his feet.

"Gotta start somewhere," he said. "Dee? Grab your jacket."

NINE.

Norfolk was a city of about thirty thousand within commuting distance of Cleveland, small enough that every cop would know all the case details of Leon Kozlov's murder, and small enough that a stranger could call the police station front desk, ask what time the day s.h.i.+ft ended and get an answer without so much as a "who's asking?"

There are two kinds of women who could show up in a cop bar and get the guys talking. First, the handcuffs-and-pistols groupies, women who start bar conversations with, "Have you ever shot anyone?" I don't understand the groupies, so it's hard to impersonate one. Besides, the guys don't take such women seriously-not outside the bedroom anyway-and those who are are interested will tell them anything to get them there, so the reliability factor is shot. I'd go with type number two. The female cop. interested will tell them anything to get them there, so the reliability factor is shot. I'd go with type number two. The female cop.

Evelyn had a cache of contact lenses, but I stuck with the ones Jack bought for me. All the cleaning in the world won't make me use someone else's contacts, though I did accept her offer of a new wig. I'm not keen on wearing another person's headgear, but that platinum blond job had to go, so I'd taken a long-haired, dark brown wig and plaited it back.

When it comes to disguises, I know all the tricks. What shade of hair color or eye contact color works best on me. How to wear a wig so it doesn't slide around. Where to add padding so it looks natural. All the cosmetic variations of skin tone, freckles, moles, scars. I'd mastered the nuances, too. Regional accents, altering stance and mannerisms, everything it took to become another person.

I owe a large part of that to my older brother. As a child, Brad had set his sights on an acting career. Every time our family entertained guests, he'd practiced his craft with a live performance. Being his only sibling meant being recruited into these plays and given multiple roles, so he could concentrate on the lead. He'd even bullied me into taking acting cla.s.ses and joining the school drama club so my inept.i.tude wouldn't ruin his performances. All this ended in ninth grade, when I got a role in the annual school play, and Brad got a place in the chorus. After that, Brad declared himself too mature for home dramas, and Mom declared my acting lessons a waste of money.

I found the bar easily enough. It was what I expected: a dark, decrepit pub with little to recommend it except that its unrelenting dinginess ensured the BMW and Prada crowd was unlikely to wander in and start ordering martinis. And, really, when it comes to a good cop bar, that's the only qualification that counts.

When I stepped inside, I paused to let my eyes adjust to the semidark. A blond, beefy rookie at the bar was telling a story loud enough to drown out the television, earning him a few glowers from other patrons, but nothing more, as if they still remembered the day when they'd been up there relaying the tale of their first big takedown. The bar smelled of sweat, aftershave and fried food, with the faint scent of cigarette smoke wafting from the side hall, probably the bathroom-though in a place like this, it was just as likely to be coming from the kitchen.

I walked to the bar and ordered a beer from a grizzled, mustached bartender. A few sets of eyes followed me, more curious than anything. Lacking the requisite blue eye shadow and gelled-to-the-rafters hairdo, I was unlikely to be mistaken for a groupie but, to avoid any lingering misconceptions, I met each look with a polite, professional nod and took my beer to a booth alongside the bar. Then I pulled a law enforcement magazine from my purse, laid it on the table and began to read.

I flipped through the magazine, glancing up now and then. Approachable, but not screaming for attention. A trio of fortyish men stood at the bar. Detectives, judging by the department-store suit jackets draped over the back of their stools. When I caught them looking, I favored them with a polite smile. It took only a few minutes before they appeared at my booth.

The first one, a beefy redhead, gestured at the magazine. "What force?"

He injected a healthy dose of friendly curiosity in the question, but I knew it was more test than interest.