Wild Justice

CHAPTER 33

Jack hated my plan. I knew this, not because he said, “I hate your plan,” but because after I told him what I intended, we spent the next half hour driving in silence. That wasn’t unusual. It was the quality of the silence that told me he was pissed.

“I don’t like it,” he said finally.

“I know.”

His mouth tightened as his gaze stayed on the highway. “So that doesn’t matter? You’re doing it anyway?”

“Did I say that?”

“I fucked up with Aldrich,” he said.

When I said nothing, his gaze swung my way. “You hear me?”

“It would be kind of hard not to. We’re in the same car.”

Another tightening of his lips. “But you’re not arguing. Why? Because it doesn’t fucking matter. Whatever I say. You’ll do what you want. Just like with Wilkes. During the parade.”

He was referring to our first “case” together, when I’d intentionally put myself in the killer’s path. It had not gone as well as I’d hoped.

“You don’t get to bring that up here, Jack,” I said, straightening now. “If you want to hash it out again, we can, because I still think I made the right decision, however much it pissed you off—”

“You nearly got killed.”

“But I didn’t.”

Suddenly, Jack veered onto an off-ramp. He drove to the first parking lot he saw and turned in, hitting the speed bump hard enough to make my teeth rattle. He pulled into a spot at the far side, got out, slammed the door, and stalked off.

I watched him go. As I did, I remembered the first time I’d seen Jack lose his temper, after the parade incident. I could hear Evelyn telling me to go after him, to talk to him.

“I know, I know,” I murmured.

I waited a minute, in hopes it might give Jack time to cool off. There was a time when I wouldn’t have thought Jack even had a temper. Nothing seemed to faze him. But there was a rage there, tamped down so tight that when it exploded, it was like a flash fire, impossible to predict, burning out of control and out of proportion.

I eased the door open and headed in the direction I’d last seen him. I walked across a scrubby field, littered with trash. I found him on the other side of a broken armchair. He had his back to me. I knew he could hear me scrabbling over the rough and rocky land, but he didn’t turn.

“Are we going to talk about this?” I called as I approached.

He turned then, his dark eyes blazing. “Why? You’ve made up your mind.”

“Did I say that? No. I believe I told you a potential plan, and you lost your temper.”

“I did not—”

“Really?” I waved around us. “You’re seriously going with that, Jack? We’re in the middle of a field. Something tells me we didn’t stop here for a piss break.”

He glowered at me.

“Well?” I said.

“You want to discuss it? Fine. You nearly got killed over Aldrich. The guy who set that in motion? Sebastian Koss. Now you want to meet him? No disguise. Just walk up. Say, ‘Hi, I’m Nadia Stafford. You may have taken out a hit on me—’”

“That’s not—”

“I nearly got you killed. Do you understand that?”

I sighed. “Jack, you didn’t—”

“Do you understand what that’s like?” He started bearing down on me. “For me.”

“I’m sor—”

“Do not say you’re sorry! Goddamn it, I don’t ever want to hear that again. Apologizing to me. Thanking me. Making sure I know you appreciate it. Doesn’t matter what it is. Give you a fucking bag of candy? Gotta let me know you appreciate it.”

I glared at him. “I’m sorry, Jack—and yes, there’s that phrase again. I’m sorry if it bothers you to be thanked and it bothers you when I apologize, but that’s how I was raised. It’s called being polite—”

“It’s not being polite. It’s acting like you don’t deserve it. Gifts. Time. Attention. Thank me for a gift. Apologize for a so-called inconvenience. Make damned sure you pay me back somehow. I don’t want gratitude. I don’t want apologies. I don’t want payback. You think I do things for you because I’m being nice?”

He spun on his heel and stalked off again. Before I could even think to go after him, he wheeled again, facing me now.

“I got cocky,” he said. “Arrogant. Fuck caution. I can handle this. I can look after you. You say you don’t blame me. Not arguing that. But I’ve fucked up before. Got cocky. Got arrogant. Lost everything. Were you almost killed by that moron? No. Not even close. Doesn’t matter. I fucked up. You get that?”

Now I did. I opened my mouth to say so, but nothing came out. I just nodded. When I did, he deflated, the stiffness leaching from his shoulders. I waited a moment, then said, “Tell me what you want to do, Jack.”

The problem with nixing my plan? As much as Jack hated it, there wasn’t really a viable alternative.

Sebastian Koss was speaking in Chicago late this afternoon. The lecture was open to the public. So I wanted to go. As myself. I’d listen, and then I’d speak to him afterward, in a public place.

Sebastian Koss knew who I was. He knew from the Aldrich case and he knew from the Franco incident. Now the man that initially bound us together—Drew Aldrich—was dead. He’d committed suicide and admitted to the murder. I was understandably shocked and trying to figure things out. I’d spoken to my cousin about the case. I’d discovered Koss had been on the defense, and I remembered him from when he’d reached out after Franco.

If I was “in the area,” wasn’t it plausible that I’d stop at his lecture in hopes of speaking to him about Aldrich as I tried to deal with this sudden upsurge in painful memories? Koss understood victims. He’d made a career of understanding them. He would know, better than anyone, that my quest for answers was a perfectly normal part of the process. He would not question my motive in coming to see him.

If I went in disguise, I’d lose all that. And I’d lose the chance to see his face when I introduced myself. Were we right that Aldrich had told him that he thought he’d seen me in Newport? Did Koss have anything to do with hiring the man who had tried to kill me? The best way to find that out was for me to appear, unannounced, right in front of him.

Jack knew that. Or he realized it, after two cigarettes and nearly an hour of hashing it out. He still didn’t like it, but as long as I was willing to take every possible precaution, he would allow that it was our best chance of inching closer to the truth.

“What time’s the lecture?” he asked as we reached Chicago.

“Three this afternoon.”

He nodded and switched lanes. “Need to dress up?”

“It’s at Northwestern. It’ll be mostly students, so my jeans will be fine.”

A minute of silence, as he tapped the steering wheel. Then he cleared his throat. “Reason I’m asking . . . Made dinner plans. Or Evelyn did. Found us a place. Says it has the best steak in Chicago. Only problem? There’s a dress code. Which is bullshit. You want something more casual? I’ll switch. I just . . .” Another throat-clearing, his gaze still on the road. “Thought we’d go someplace nice. Seems that means a dress code. If you needed to buy something for this lecture . . .”

“Then I could buy something that would also be suitable for this evening. No, if we’re going fancy, I’m not wearing business clothes. It’s nice to dress up every now and then and, believe me, I don’t get many chances to do it. Let’s hit a mall, and I’ll go shopping.”

“I’ll buy.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Yeah. I know. Bit awkward, though. Taking you out. But you gotta spring for a new outfit.”

I smiled. “I’ll survive.”

“I’d like to pay—”

“No, Jack. Really. That’s my definition of awkward.”

Jack did not help me get my pretty frock. He had to do some shopping of his own, because his working wardrobe looked a whole lot like mine—jeans and casual shirts. He tried to argue that we had time for him to accompany me. While I’m sure he had absolutely no interest in helping me pick a dress, I suspect he was planning to slap down cash, in spite of my protests. So I told him I’d meet him in an hour and took off before he could follow.

It wasn’t just about paying for my outfit. I didn’t want to buy it in front of him because I had decided I wasn’t just dashing into the nearest department store and grabbing something vaguely suitable off the sales rack. I was going to buy a date dress—the kind where I’m willing to flaunt the fact that I’m in good shape. It doesn’t happen very often. I’m not comfortable being that woman. Maybe that means something, in light of my newly discovered past, but I think it’s just the way I’ve always been. I’m not completely inept, though. I know how to wear heels and put on makeup and do my hair and even pick out a sexy dress . . . with a little help from the sales staff.

At four, I was in a huge lecture hall at Northwestern, listening to Sebastian Koss. Seeing him on the stage—and projected on several screens—there was no doubt this was the man we’d spotted at Drew Aldrich’s townhouse.

Koss had gone to visit Aldrich last week. Aldrich had been alive when he arrived and dead when he left, and while it was always possible that an accomplice had snuck in to do the deed, it seemed a fair bet that Koss had killed his former client.

That day, Koss was speaking on privacy rights for deceased victims. It’s a contentious issue and an increasingly important one. The age of cheap video recorders has given sadistic killers the perfect way to relive their crimes. They tape themselves raping, torturing, and murdering their victims. If found, those tapes are invaluable to the prosecution. But does it violate the rights of the deceased to show them in an open courtroom? Not only do all the jury members and journalists and courtroom observers see it, but there’s the risk it will end up on the Internet, where anyone can view the horrific last moments of a life.

For myself, I wouldn’t care if it meant my killer was punished. But what if there was a tape of Amy’s rape and murder? Would I want anyone to see her that way? To remember her that way? Every time someone watched that tape, I’d feel as if she’d been victimized again.

I sat riveted by Koss’s talk, even as students around me shifted and whispered, probably only here because they’d been assigned a paper on the subject. The audience was mostly students, but there were enough older adults that I didn’t look out of place. Nor did Jack, sitting across the hall, near the back. I’d glanced at him once, before the talk began, to orient myself, but now I kept my gaze forward.

When the lecture ended, most of the students bolted for the door, but there were enough who’d been truly interested in Koss’s talk that it wasn’t easy getting near him. At least twenty crowded down at the front, either to ask a question or to simply listen to him a little longer. I’d been near the back of the hall, which meant I was now at the rear of that crowd, unable to even wriggle forward.

Koss answered questions politely, with a charming smile, but his gaze kept sliding to the side, looking for an escape route. When he announced that he’d be speaking locally again next week, I knew he was ready to bolt. And I was still a half dozen layers of students away from him.

“Please do come out and see me,” he was saying. “Admission is free and if you sign up now, there’s an informal meet-and-greet afterward, where we may continue the conversation. Today, however, I have a pressing appointment.”

“Mr. Koss!” I called the moment he broke for breath, raising my hand to get his attention.

For a moment, as his gaze lit on me, his expression was blank. Then there was a flicker of “where do I know that face?” followed by what looked like a genuine smile. Koss motioned for me to wait and leaned over to the young man who’d accompanied him onstage to whisper something. As Koss took his leave of the group, the young man beckoned me to a side door.

“Mr. Koss would like to speak to you,” he said. “I’ll take you to the green room.”

The “green room” was a small lounge with snacks and beverages. There was a security guard at the door, but he said nothing as the young man ushered me past. Koss stood inside, guzzling bottled water. He turned as we came in.

“Ms. Stafford,” he said, setting the bottle down and extending a hand.

“Nadia, please. I’m surprised you recognized me.”

“It took a minute, but I have an eye for faces.”

“I know you’re rushing off to another engagement . . .”

“Not really ‘rushing.’” He smiled. “I have dinner plans, but they were only an excuse. Otherwise, it seemed I’d be there awhile. So I’m free for a chat. I presume that’s what you wanted?”

I nodded. “It’s about Drew Aldrich.”

There was a flicker of surprise. Again, it seemed genuine enough. The problem was figuring out why he was surprised, and what it said about his involvement in my predicament.

“I’d heard of his death,” Koss said. “An old colleague contacted me. I won’t say I was sorry to hear of it. That was . . .” A brief tightening of his lips. “Not my proudest moment as an attorney. I presume you’ve learned that I was on his defense team.”

“I have.”

“Let’s talk then. There’s a place nearby where we can grab a drink.”