Wild Justice

CHAPTER 5

We’d been driving for an hour. I felt like an idiot, which is my usual postmeltdown reaction. Most times it’s a minor and temporary derailment—a nightmare, an anxiety attack, a day where I’m just not my usual perky self. An actual meltdown, like tonight’s, is very rare. Poor Jack has been there for the last three, which all happened when I felt like I failed to save someone. First, when a serial killer we were stalking took another victim. Then when the guy who killed my teenage employee did the same. Now this.

These breakdowns shamed me. Amy died twenty years ago. I killed Wayne Franco and lost my job seven years ago. My life has hit rock bottom twice and I’m still standing, and I’m damned proud of that. Then it all goes to hell and I’m wandering along highways and screaming in motel rooms.

“You’ll need to take the next exit,” I said when I saw the signs for Detroit. “I didn’t fly—I drove. I’ll rent a car and cross at the bridge.”

He grunted and drove right past the exit.

“Um, Jack? I need to—”

“Not going home. Got something else.”

“But I need to go—”

“You told Emma not to expect you, right?”

“Yes, but I really should—”

“Not yet.” He glanced over. “You insist? I’ll take you. Can’t kidnap you.” His tone said that was regrettable. “You trust me?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts. You trust me? Want to take you someplace. Drive you home tomorrow.”

I drifted off and woke in Ohio. I wondered if Jack was taking me to Evelyn’s place in Fort Worth. I hoped not. She wouldn’t understand my guilt over Rose Wilde’s death. The concept of caring about a stranger is unfathomable to her. It’s enough of a stretch for her to give a damn about people she actually knows. Yet while Evelyn wasn’t good at empathy, she was very good at using situations to her advantage. She’d pounce on my guilt to entice me to check out the Contrapasso Fellowship again.

The fellowship was a legend among both cops and hitmen. An urban legend, most said. It derives its name from a region in Dante’s Inferno where the punishment of souls fits their crimes in life. It’s said to be a “club” composed of former judges, lawyers, and law-enforcement officers who hire assassins to right judicial wrongs. Organized vigilantism. Evelyn says it exists and tried to get me interested. I’d be perfect, she said, and it might help me get over Amy. Not that she gave a shit about my mental health, but if I joined she’d earn a tidy sum as my middleman. Ultimately, I’d said no.

I shifted forward in my seat, reading signs to get my bearings. We were headed east. Indiana—and Evelyn—were west.

“What’s in Ohio?” I asked.

“Not much.”

I gave him a look. He took a drag on a cigarette. I glanced at the lid he was still using as an ashtray. There were two new butts in it. I resisted the urge to dump them.

“Lose the battle?” I said, gesturing at the makeshift ashtray.

“Nah.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “Back-to-back jobs. Went a few weeks cold turkey. Never cures me. Just catches up later.”

“Jobs go—” I cleared my throat and switched to full sentences, before we were reduced to exchanging grunts. “Did the jobs go all right?”

“Yeah. Routine.”

That was all I was getting. If something was bothering him, he wasn’t sharing. Nor was he telling me our destination.

Though Jack wasn’t talking about anything he didn’t wish to talk about, he was up for conversation. Or what usually passes for conversation when we’re together on a long trip—me talking and him listening.

I talked about the lodge. It’s not just a business; it’s a never-ending project. I bought it after my professional disgrace, shooting Wayne Franco. A few years ago, I’d been about to lose the lodge through bankruptcy. That’s when I started working for the Tomassinis. A few jobs a year for them doesn’t just keep the lodge afloat; it gives me the money I need to turn it into my dream business. Of course, I can’t just pull a hundred grand out of my stash and go crazy with the renovations. It has to be a slow, measured withdrawal, weighing cost against income potential. With the work I’ve done so far, the lodge is breaking even. One day, it might even make a profit.

Little things do make a difference. Extras, I call them. Amenities is the business term. I don’t allow hunting on my property—yes, hypocritical, I know—which means I can’t court the market that doesn’t give a shit about hot tubs and groomed hiking trails. I need to appeal to everyone from wilderness sports enthusiasts to honeymooning couples to church ladies on retreat. The amenities are what draws them.

“So the ATVs are a big hit,” I said. “Thanks to you.”

Jack shrugged. He’d been the one who’d saved the secondhand—or probably twelfth-hand—vehicles from being a money pit, after my caretaker bought them and discovered new spark plugs weren’t quite enough to get them running.

“No problems?” he said.

“Just wear and tear, and I’ve got a kid from town who handles that. I’m not a fan of things with motors racing around the forest, but with restrictions on where and when they can be used, I’ll admit they worked out better than I expected. Which now has Owen eyeing a few used snowmobiles that ‘just need a little work.’”

“You want them? I’ll fix ’em. Thinking about coming up this winter. Couple weeks maybe. If that’s okay.”

“It’s always okay, and while you don’t need the snowmobiles as an excuse, I know that your idea of a vacation doesn’t mean sitting around ice fishing. I’ll take you up on that offer if you’re serious.”

“I am. Only tell Owen I’ll find the machines. He doesn’t know shit about motors.”

I grinned over at him. “I’ll tell him the first part and skip the last.”

Jack took the exit for Cleveland.

“Is this our destination?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

After a minute of silence, I said, “I’d love to ask what we’re doing here, but apparently, I’m not getting that. Just as long as there isn’t a surprise party at the end.” I paused. “Actually, I’d be okay with a party. Just no clowns. I hate clowns.”

Jack didn’t even acknowledge the lame joke. He kept his gaze fixed forward, his face tense. He drove down two more streets before pulling into a mall parking lot. I was about to get out when I realized he’d stopped to make a cell phone call. I motioned to ask if he wanted privacy, but he shook his head.

His voice took on a flat midwestern accent as he asked to speak to David Miller. His gaze slid my way, as if checking to see if I recognized the name. I didn’t.

“Yeah, I figured he was on duty today,” Jack said. “Can I leave a message? Tell him Ted called. He’s got my number.”

A pause. Then, “Thanks. Oh, and when does his shift end? It’s kinda urgent.”

He waited for a reply, then thanked the person on the other end again and hung up. When he did, he sat there a moment, staring out the windshield.

“Is that someone we need to talk to? A cop?”

“Yeah. Don’t need to talk to him. Just making sure he’s at work. Figure he knows a Ted.” He paused. “Speaking of names. David? Most popular male name for a guy his age. Miller? Sixth most common surname in the U.S. Put them together? Fifteen thousand Americans named David Miller.”

“That’s . . . fascinating. Either you’ve taken up a new hobby or this is a roundabout way of telling me it’s fake.”

“Yeah.”

“A fake name for a cop in Cleveland? That’s not easy to pull off.”

“Works in a small town nearby. He just lives here.”

I nodded. “It’s easier to get past background checks on a small force, but it’s easier to live anonymously in a big city. Still, becoming a cop with a false identity is tough. I’m presuming there are cops named David Miller somewhere. Probably dozens of them, which would make it an easy identity to steal.”

“Especially if you’ve done it a few times.”

“So we have a serial identity thief posing as a small-town cop in Ohio. Intriguing.” I glanced over at him. “You have a job for me, don’t you? A mission to take my mind off Michigan.”

He didn’t turn from the windshield. “Something like that,” he said and backed from the parking spot.