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.
“OPP,” I said, closing the magazine. “ Ontario Provincial Police.”
He nodded. I had details at the ready, but he didn’t ask. Canada was only a few hours’ drive north, but it might as well be Iceland, for all he cared.
“Mark Waters,” he said, extending a hand.
I smiled and shook his hand. “Jenna Andrews.”
The other two men introduced themselves as Chris Doyle and Brad Cox. Good small-town cop names, WASP- bland. They reflected their names-solid, average-looking guys, both with short brown hair and blue eyes, both bloodshot, either from overwork or overdrinking. For Cox, I was betting the latter. He was fast developing the watery eyes and sloppy gut of a cop who had a bottle stuffed in his locker and another in the glove box of his car.
Doyle’s bloodshot eyes didn’t look like anything a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure, but from the strain lines around his mouth, I doubted he’d be getting that rest anytime soon. It was him I looked at when I waved at the opposite bench and invited the men to join me. Waters, the ring-leader, claimed the seat beside me. Doyle slid into the opposite side, Cox beside him.
“Just passing through?” Waters asked.
“Visiting some cousins in Cleveland,” I said. “When the family togetherness started getting to me, this seemed like a good place to escape to.”
Waters laughed. “They won’t follow you here, that’s for sure. Pretty quiet tonight…though it sure wasn’t like that last week.”
He waited, a smug half-smile on his lips, as if his city’s recent claim to infamy was a personal accomplishment.
“The Helter Skelter killing.” I shook my head. “Helluva thing.”
Waters’s lips parted, needing only a word of encouragement to start expounding on the case.
“Bet the TV crews descended like vultures on roadkill, eh?” I said. “We had a serial killer up north, passed through our town, grabbed a girl. You couldn’t walk down the street without having a microphone shoved in your face.”
Cox leaned across the table. “I thought you Canucks didn’t have serial killers.”
“Everyone has serial killers these days,” Doyle said, his voice soft. He lifted his gaze to mine. “You’ve got one big case up there now, don’t you? Out west?”
“The pig farmer,” I said with a nod. “Gave some of the biggest parties around. Lots of hookers came. Not all of them went home.”
“What’s this?” Waters said.
Fortunately, this was one case I
Doyle asked a few questions, and I focused my attention on him, leaning his way, making plenty of eye contact. This was the guy I wanted to talk to. Part of that had to do with the wedding ring on his finger-an easy excuse if he expected more than a friendly chat. And part of it was that if I had no other agenda in mind, this would be my choice, not a blowhard like Waters who probably wore his gun to bed, or a cop like Cox who’d surrendered to the bottle. I wanted the one who still cared enough to lose sleep over his cases.
After a few minutes, Waters seemed to notice the way the tide was turning. He play-punched Doyle’s arm.
“We’ll be at the bar,” he said, and jerked his head at Cox.
Doyle watched them go, then looked back at me. Uncertain, but not uninterested, as if it had been a long time since he’d been left alone with a woman in a bar, and he didn’t quite remember what to do next. Before I could say something, he grabbed my empty glass.
“Can I get you a refill?”
I nodded. “Miller, thanks.”
“Lite?”
“Never.”
He smiled, the worry lines around his eyes fading. When he returned, he’d recovered his nerve. We chatted for a while and, without any prodding, talk turned to the biggest news in town.
“When the uniforms called it in, the last thing I was thinking was that it was this Helter Skelter killer. I knew Kozlov. He killed that boy just after I transferred to this force.” Doyle looked at me. “You hear about that?”
“No. What happened?”
“Up in Cleveland. Kozlov held up a liquor store. Kid behind the counter grabbed a baseball bat. Kozlov slashed him up with a broken bottle and left him to bleed to death.” Doyle shook his head. “Kid was in his last year of college, working to pay for his tuition. Over a thousand people at his funeral. Dozens of classmates, all crying their eyes out. Only people showed up at Kozlov’s funeral had cameras.”
“And who’s the one people are going to remember?”
Doyle met my eyes, nodded. “Exactly. No fucking justice.”
“At least he didn’t die in his bed. There’s some justice in that.”
“Yeah.” Doyle sipped his beer. “When the call came in, saying he’d been shot, I thought ‘Sure, what do you expect?’ Guy like that bought himself a.22 to the temple years ago.”
“A.22? I read it was a.38…or did you just mean, hypothetically…”
“Nah, it was a.22. Reporters fucked up a few things on this one. First guy on the scene was from the local paper-just a kid. He scooped it, and a bunch of stringers followed his facts. I think some later reports got it right…but yeah, it was a.22. Hitman’s special.”
“Hitman?” I gave a half-laugh, as if testing whether Doyle was joking.
“Yeah. Feds are trying to keep it quiet, but that won’t last. What I heard, they were already suspicious, but this one sealed it.”
“But a hired killer? For a guy like Kozlov? Was there anything in his history to…?”
“Explain why someone would pay even a nickel to off him? Maybe back when he was with the Russian mob.”
“The mob?”
Doyle took a long draft of his beer. “I’ve heard rumors. Probably racist bullshit, you know? Guy’s a petty
