me, they seemed to be trying their damnedest. 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 damn 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
I could hear dogs around the back, but couldn’t see them through the fence. The wind was icy and I buttoned 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 shit. 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 classifies 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 associates 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 crass. 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 pass 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 impassive.
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 shift 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
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 classes and joining the school drama club so my ineptitude wouldn’t ruin his performances. All
