Wild Justice

CHAPTER 43

We ran. We ate. In between the two, Jack got a call that confirmed the identity of our dead hitman and his regular middleman. Jack knew the guy—the middleman, not the pro. He was convinced our guy hadn’t bypassed his middleman for this job. It was a big name, not a rookie who’d forgive his pro for stepping out.

We discussed it over breakfast. The diner was busy and noisy, both of which meant that no one was going to overhear our conversation and call the cops.

“So you know this guy, Duncan,” Quinn said after we placed our order.

“Yeah. Been around a long time. Knows Evelyn.” He paused. “Knows Evelyn well.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” I said. “I swear every pro and middleman over a certain age ‘knows Evelyn well,’ or did at some point, at least for a night.”

Quinn chuckled and Jack gave a short laugh.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Pretty much. She blames it on the times. Sixties. Seventies. I think it’s just her.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. So is this one of those guys that looks back fondly on the affair? Or one of the others? Because they seem about evenly split.”

“This was a serial thing. They were tight.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Don’t even think she ever double-crossed him.”

“Sounds like love,” I said. “Or at least a strong case of like.”

“Yeah. All good last I heard. Did some work for him years back. Went fine. Haven’t seen him in . . .” Another pause. “Five years? Six? Point is, I can talk to him. Friendly chat. Maybe meet him at a bar. Have a drink.”

Quinn laughed. Then he realized Jack wasn’t kidding.

“Um, I get that this guy is a colleague,” Quinn said, “but Dee’s in serious trouble here. It’s no time for silk gloves.”

“Not just a colleague. Respected colleague. Important friend of Evelyn’s.”

“Okay,” Quinn said. “I see the problem. So I’ll handle this. Yes, I know it’s not my thing, but I can manage it. The guy’s got to be at least, what, sixty? It won’t require working him over. Just a little intimidation.”

Jack shook his head. “No intimidation. Straight-up talk.”

“Not good enough,” Quinn said. “We have to—”

“Damn,” I said. “I need more coffee. I must be drifting off, because I could swear Quinn’s arguing to interrogate a guy, while Jack wants to just talk to him. Did I miss the Freaky Friday switch? Oh, no, wait. Jack’s sentences aren’t getting any longer.”

He gave me a look. I made a face in return.

“I’m going with Jack on this,” I said. “I have no problem with stronger persuasion, but I’m not feeling threatened enough right now to beat answers out of an old man who might be perfectly willing to part with them. If it fails . . .”

“I’ll go harder,” Jack said. “No question.” He looked at Quinn. “I want answers as much as you do.”

Quinn’s gaze dipped. “I know.”

“I’ll do what it takes to get them. But Duncan? He’s reasonable. He finds out I’m friends with his mark? Evelyn is, too? And we’re both pissed? He’ll turn on his client in a heartbeat. We’re more valuable.”

“All right then,” I said. “Let’s set this up.”

Getting in touch with Duncan proved even more complicated than deciding how to handle him. Jack had Evelyn call first. She couldn’t get an answer at Duncan’s and was heading off to breakfast with someone from Contrapasso. So Jack tried and had no better luck. Neither was worried. Apparently, Duncan didn’t have a cell phone or an e-mail address. He didn’t even have an answering machine. Jack and Evelyn had his home number. Clients had to use an answering service. Jack and Evelyn had tried both and left a message with the service, which only promised he’d respond in the next forty-eight hours.

Jack decided a personal visit was in order. While I wasn’t going to meet Duncan face-to-face—too risky—I didn’t want Jack going alone. We decided I’d accompany him while staying in the background, as Quinn returned to the hotel to work.

Jack may roll his eyes over Felix’s tech toys, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any in his kit. I think he sees them the same way I see all the gadgets and gizmos to aid distance shooters—as a crutch. Skill is a lot more reliable. But some things you can’t manage with skill alone. Like letting your partner listen in on a conversation you’re having on the other side of several walls. Jack wore a miked earpiece, though I think he was more interested in the connected piece I was wearing, which would let him hear if I was in any trouble.

All that hassle was for nothing. We got the pieces on and tested them out and found me a safe place to hole up in Duncan’s condo building . . . only to discover that the guy wasn’t home.

“He’s away,” Jack said.

“You broke in?” I asked as we left the building.

“Nah. Saw a neighbor taking his mail. Got a good idea where he is, though. Duncan isn’t a traveler. He’s not home? He’s at his cabin. Over in Wisconsin.”

“Wisconsin?” I swore. “How far is that?”

“Little over an hour. Easy drive.”

“Ah. I need to brush up on my American geography, don’t I?”

“Never hurts.”

I laughed, and we headed out.

Duncan’s cabin was near Lake Geneva, which was, as Jack said, just over an hour from his condo in north Chicago. We arrived at a nice piece of forested property that reminded me of the lodge.

“He’s here,” Jack said.

Before I asked how he could tell, I squinted down the long drive. Through the trees, I could just barely make out a car a hundred meters away.

“I’ll jump out here,” I said.

“Thought you could stay in the car. Safer.”

I waved behind us. “We’ve just driven two miles down a dirt road. There was no one behind us the whole way. If I stay in the car and he looks out, he’s going to at least be able to tell I’m female and not Evelyn. And if you’re here to talk about a hit on a woman . . .”

“Yeah. You’re right. Hop out. Stay close.”

Jack waited until I’d ducked into the forest before he drove up the lane. I watched as he parked, got out, double-checked the other car, and murmured, “Yeah. His.” Then he went to the front door.

I circled through the forest to get to a better spot. I heard Jack knock. Then he knocked again. A grunt.

“Hold position,” he said. “Might be outside.”

I waited as Jack circled the cabin. It was a nice place. Not large but clearly the property of a man with money and good taste. I could see the edge of a huge back deck, and I listened as Jack’s footsteps tapped across the wood. They paused. A rap on glass, presumably at a patio door.

“Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just not answering.”

“Ah, so that was the exasperated ‘fuck,’ not the dismayed ‘fuck’ or the concerned ‘fuck’ or even the annoyed ‘fuck.’ Normally, I can tell the difference, but the mike isn’t good for conveying tone.”

A short laugh. “Yeah.” He rapped again. A moment. He sighed. “Ah, fuck.”

“Now that one I know. That one says, ‘Damn it, he’s not answering and now I’m going to need to break in to see if he’s there, which is not just risky, but if he’s on the toilet it’s really not going to get this meeting off to a good start.’”

“See? Two words. Didn’t need all the rest.”

I laughed.

Another sigh rustled over the mike. “Gonna try the front again. Peek in some windows. Probably in there. Don’t want to piss him off.”

“Can I take a look around out here if I’m careful?” I asked. “I’ll stay in the woods and just see if he’s out for a walk or something.”

“Doubt it. But yeah. Stick close, though. He won’t go far. Bad knees.”

The forest around Duncan’s cabin looked so much like the landscape at home that I half expected Scout to race through the trees to greet me. I could even smell water. The place wasn’t on Lake Geneva itself, but was a short walk from a smaller lake, similar to mine at the lodge. Being off-season, the woods were empty. I could see a cabin on the neighboring lot, the windows dark, no sign of life. The only signs I did see were animals—a scampering mouse, a darting rabbit, a grouse making a last-second escape from a clump of ferns, startling me as it took to the air.

When I heard rustling in the undergrowth a minute later, I thought it was another bird or small animal and continued on. Then I heard the growl. I stopped. I peered toward the sound and made out a light brown flank. Then the sound of nails scrabbling in dirt as it decided I’d been sufficiently warned off.

I could have just moved on. But, well, maybe human predators aren’t that far removed from the animal variety. I knew better than to turn my back on a potential threat.

I took out my gun. Then I carefully bent and picked up a rock. I pitched it into the thicket where I could see the flank. I wasn’t trying to hit the beast, just get its attention. The rock cracked against a tree and a blur of brown fur leaped from the bushes. Seeing me, it planted its forepaws and growled. It was a canine, maybe two feet at the shoulder. A coyote—or a coydog—it gets harder to tell the full-bloods from the hybrids as the populations intermingle.

Coyotes are pack animals like dogs and wolves, but they’re more likely to be found alone, and this guy was. I took out my earpiece and covered it so Jack wouldn’t come running. Then I said, “Go on. Get out of here.”

The coyote growled, a little less certain now. Ears flattened at the side of its head, tail stiff and horizontal. I took a deliberate step forward. Then another, my gaze locked with its.

“Go,” I said, injecting a little growl in my voice as I waved my gun. Then, louder, “Go! Scram!”

I lunged. The coyote took off. They usually will. I have to deal with them and stray dogs at the lodge, and while I wouldn’t suggest confronting one for fun, I can read the dominance and submission signals well enough. This guy had been uncertain, and belligerence from a larger predator was all it took to help it decide.

I pushed aside long grass to get into the thicket. It was bigger than it had seemed. Bigger than it should be, really, in the natural landscape of the forest. A large empty space blanketed by dead leaves . . . when most of the overhanging trees were evergreens.

“Jack?” I said.

There was silence at first, and my heart started to pound. I said it louder and he came on, his voice tinny and distant, as if we’d neared the end of our range.

“I’m in,” he said. “No sign of him.”

“I . . . think you need to come out here.”