That meant I was left alone with Evelyn. I could have followed Jack, made the same excuse. But if Evelyn had anything to say to me, better to hear it now, and clarify where I stood with this new “partner.”
She sat down at her computer and started flipping through sites, waiting just long enough to ensure Jack wasn’t changing his mind. Then she turned to me.
“I offended you,” she said. “With that vigilante angle.”
I settled back in my seat, notepad on my knee. “I don’t offend easily.” I smiled to underscore my point. “But, yes, I can get a little prickly about the word. Chalk it up to my cop side. ‘Vigilante’ means some yahoo trying to do our job-implying that we can’t handle it-and usually getting in our way.”
“But the underlying concept is a person who takes justice into his own hands. Which I think you’re familiar with?”
I considered my next words carefully, aware of the weight of her gaze on me. I could sing the “I’m only in it for the money” song. But take my past, put it together with my current line of work, and even Jack had known, from the start, why I was in this. That’s why he’d never suggested I branch out, try anything more lucrative. Knocking off a couple of wiseguys a year? Sure. Killing someone’s wife to convey a message? Never. Not even if that one job would equal years of work for the Tomassinis.
So I only looked at Evelyn and said, “Does that bother you?”
“Not a bit, as long as I’m not in danger of being murdered in my bed. I can’t say I understand it, but it does have its advantages.”
“Advantages?”
“Drive. Passion. Sometimes, in this job, it can be more important than keeping your cool. And certainly more interesting.” She turned back to her computer. “Now, let’s see what we can find.”
I spent the next two hours with Evelyn as she cruised the information highway, letting me tag along at the far end of the towing rope. Evelyn bobbed between the two levels of the Internet, searching the mainstream Web and its underground tendrils. When she pulled a particularly clever maneuver, she’d pull in my towline and let me see what she was doing, but when it came to the nuts-and-bolts of surfing the underbelly, she’d block her keystrokes or shift in front of the monitor, all the while promising to show me this part “another time.” In other words, she wowed me with fancy footwork, but held back on the basic steps, like a dance teacher offering a free lesson to encourage a prospective student to shell out for the full course.
Finally, we found something-a short article more than fifteen years old. In it, Carson Morrow, victim number two, was mentioned as one of four teens who’d been in a car when one of the quartet died in a single-vehicle accident. That was all we got. For once, the reporter had focused on the life of the victim, not the circumstances of his death. Had Morrow been the driver? Had he somehow been responsible-maybe egging the driver on or supplying alcohol? The article didn’t speculate, only listed him as one of the survivors and ending with a vague “no charges have been filed at this time.”
Evelyn searched for more, but that was it. Not surprising-a motor vehicle accident involving teenage boys was tragic, but not newsworthy. We printed the article, and she sent out “feelers” to a source, someone in the St. Louis area who might be able to tell her more. Then she dove back into the Web, trolling for the others. The best we could find was a mention of Russ Belding as the commanding officer on a ship where a sailor had died in a port town. There was some possibility of “responsibility” there, but it would require more in-depth searching. Being an incident that involved the military, that might not be so easy, but Evelyn swore she had connections.
More insurance digging didn’t help prove that theory. Sanchez’s brothers didn’t seem in need of money. Both were married, with decent jobs. The one who’d done time had apparently gone straight. We’d found no sign of another policy for Kozlov.
As for Russ Belding, he had a hundred-thousand-dollar policy, the same one he’d had for decades. I can’t imagine anyone who’s been married for thirty-five years killing off her husband for a hundred grand, just after he’s retired from the navy and ready to spend his twilight years with her. According to Evelyn, though, that was a good reason
“Pulled a job for that myself,” she said. “Couple married thirty years. Some”-a dismissive wave-“banking family. Wasn’t about money, though. Having money only meant the broad could afford my fee. He was set to retire and she couldn’t bear the thought of the old coot hanging around all the time, pestering her and messing up her social calendar.”
“So she hired you to kill him?”
“Wanted him popped as he left his retirement dinner. I thought it was symbolic or some shit, but she just wanted to be sure he wasn’t going to change his mind in the middle of his farewell speech. So I told her I’d be in a perch watching through my scope. If she came out with her hat off, I’d withdraw. But she had it on, so…” Evelyn pulled an imaginary trigger. “Permanent retirement.”
I tried to keep my mouth shut. But after a moment I said, “I bet he was really looking forward to enjoying his retirement, after working all his life.”
“If so, then he shouldn’t have stayed married to a woman who’d rather bury him than spend more time together. He was getting something out of that marriage, so he chose to stay in it and it cost him his life. Cold facts for a cold world, Dee. Spouses, children, friends, lovers-they’d all kill you under the right circumstances. Just a matter of finding their price.”
I looked into her eyes, trying to tell whether she meant that or was just spouting more rhetoric, but she turned back to her computer.
“Speaking of murderous families, time to move on to sons of Charles Manson…”
While we’d been at dinner, Evelyn had discovered there were more than a few. She showed me the list, and said she’d already contacted a source she described as a Manson freak. Then we had to declare the evening at an end and, like Jack, rest up for the day to come.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Or, I should say, where I assumed the ceiling would be if I could see it. Evelyn had top-quality blackout blinds, and I’d closed them completely, hoping the darkness might convince my brain it was time for sleep, but so far, all it had done was give my brain time to wander. Naturally it went to the place I’d been trying to keep it from since our discussion.
Justice.
I grew up with a very clear understanding of what that word meant. The concept had been formed at that early age where everything is clearly black and white. Right must triumph. Wrong must be punished.
From the time I was old enough to open a bag of potato chips, I’d played hostess to my father’s monthly poker games. As for whether it was appropriate for me to hear the conversations that went on over those games, I don’t think anyone considered that. They saved the darker talk, the angrier debates, for later, after I’d refilled my last bowl of peanuts and curled up on the recliner. There I’d pretend to be asleep, knowing this was what was expected of me. Eyes closed, I’d listen as the best stories came out, the tales of battles between good and evil, and the knights who fought them.
The beer, rye and Scotch would flow, the hour growing ever later, the importance of the game dwindling as the stories took over. Most times, that’s all it was: stories. But when the anecdotes didn’t have happy endings, the course of the conversation would change. They’d talk about miscarriages of justice, usually in another town, a bigger city.
Sometimes it would just be a head-shaking “can you believe it?” and a spirited discourse on how the case could have been handled better. Now and then, though, head-shaking wasn’t enough. If the miscarriage lay in some particularly heinous crime-a serial rapist, a thrill killer, kiddie porn-the talk took another turn, into the realm of biblical eye for-an-eye justice.
My father usually kept quiet during such debates. Then, one time, the conversation turned more heated than I’d ever heard it, over the case of a ten-year-old girl who’d been tortured and murdered. That time Mr. Weekes-a former law professor turned librarian-was the only defender of mercy. When my father had tried to squelch the argument, my uncle had turned to him.
“For God’s sake, Bill. Are you telling me if some sick bastard did this to Nadia, you wouldn’t want to shoot him yourself?”
Without hesitation my father said, in his usual quiet voice, “Of course I would.”
