Kelley Armstrong - Exit Strategy

“You should come.” He locked the car. “Get it over with.”

Before I could say anything, he was already striding across the parking lot, leaving me jogging to catch up.

We stood before a small two-story house on a street that was mostly brick bungalows, with the occasional two-story thrown in for variety. An old neighborhood in every way, from the massive oaks that looked as if they’d seen the first colonists to the front porches adorned with wicker rockers, mobile scooters and wheelchair ramps.

Down the street, an army of young men worked their way from lawn to lawn, mowers and hedge-clippers in tow. A patrolling security car slowed to give us a once-over, then drove on. It looked like an upper-middle-class retirement community, where the owners kept their houses small, saving their money for Alaskan cruises and European vacations. A strange place for an underworld contact meeting.

“Something I should tell you.” Jack peered up at the house. “Things I didn’t mention before. Probably should have. But…” He paused, then shook his head. “Too late now. You’ll understand or you won’t.”

With that, he headed for the front steps.

White curtains in the windows. Fresh dark green trim to complement the yellow brick. A black metal mailbox. The space for an engraved surname under the brass door knocker was blank. Jack motioned for me to knock.

“This contact,” I said. “Is he a civilian or…”

“Pro.”

I adjusted my jacket, making sure my Glock was in place, then banged the knocker. Inside, a dog barked, then another joined in. They sounded big.

A distant door opened, then shut. The barking resumed, now coming from the rear yard.

“What should I call myself?” I said. “I need a name, right?”

Before he could answer, a dead bolt clanked. The door opened. There stood a petite white-haired woman wearing a silk blouse, wool slacks and leather pumps. She looked from me to Jack, back to me, then pointed a finger at Jack.

“You are in deep shit, Jacko.”

The woman stepped back and Jack propelled me through the doorway.

She smiled at me. “Let me hang your jacket. Gun on or off, it doesn’t matter. A guest’s comfort comes first.” Her blue eyes sparked. “Though I’ll be flattered if you think you might need it.”

I handed her my coat and kept my gun holstered.

“I’ll join you in the living room,” she said. “Jack can hang his own damned jacket, though he might be wise to keep it, in case I decide to boot his ass into the yard with the dogs.”

I glanced at Jack. He waved me in. I walked along the hall and turned into the living room. Thick navy blue carpet, smoke-gray walls, yellow leather sofa set, high-end stereo, Apple computer and built-in bookcases.

If I had my own living room, this is what I’d want it to look like. Scary thing was, this was what it would look like: immaculate and organized to the point of compulsion. The computer was turned off, keyboard shelf closed, all cords tucked out of sight. On the bookshelf, every spine was aligned with its neighbor, the books grouped by subject, alphabetical within each subject. Though I couldn’t read the rows of CDs behind the glass stereo doors, I knew they’d be organized the same way.

I’d assumed this woman lived with our contact. Seeing this room, I knew I’d been wrong-she was the contact.

Jack pointed to the love seat, then sat beside me. I turned to whisper a question but, before I could, the woman joined us. She took a seat across from us, sat and waited. And waited.

“How long do we have to sit here before you do the courtesy of performing introductions?” she finally said.

“Dee, Evelyn. Evelyn, Dee.”

“Oh yeah,” she said. “That helps. Fucking rude mick. And what the hell kind of name is Dee?” She turned to me. “He picked it, didn’t he? I just hope it doesn’t stand for Diane.”

I frowned.

“‘Jack and Diane’?” she prompted.

“Ah, the song. John Cougar. Or whatever he calls himself now.”

“Melonhead or something like that. A perfect example of the importance of names. Cougar, you remember, but the minute you decide to call yourself Melon-shit…” She shook her head. “Names create an impression. Dee makes me think Sandra Dee, and that’s all wrong for you. Now Diane wouldn’t be so bad if you made it Diana. Goddess of the hunt. That would work.”

Jack snorted.

“Shut up or get out,” Evelyn said. “You screwed me over. It’ll take a lot of ass-kissing to make up for this one.” She shifted to face me. “I’m the one who tracked you down.”

“What-?”

I looked from her to Jack. Jack met my gaze and dipped his chin, eyes dark with something like apology.

Heart hammering, I turned back to Evelyn. “How-?”

“When it comes to finding people, I’m the best there is. I could tell you where Jimmy Hoffa is…but it’d cost you.”

“She didn’t find you,” Jack said. “Frank Tomassini mentioned you.”

“But I found her from there, didn’t I? Frank didn’t exactly hand me her name and address.”

“He told you about me?”

“Special case. He wouldn’t mention it to anyone else.”

“But how do you know Frank-?”

“As I was saying, I found you. Women in this business always interest me, and your background was…intriguing. Unfortunately, travel to Canada is a bit problematic for me. Some bad business in Quebec back in the seventies, which I’m sure your authorities have forgotten all about, but I prefer not to test that theory. So I decided to send my favorite protégé-”

“Favorite?” Jack muttered. “Only one still talking to you.”

“I sent Jack to check you out, to assess your suitability as a protégée. He comes back and says, ‘Nah. Forget her.’ Which”-another lethal glare at Jack-“apparently meant that I was supposed to forget you, not that he planned to. How long have you been traipsing across the border, cultivating my contact?”

Jack shrugged.

“Often enough, clearly. When were you going to tell me?”

“Brought her here, didn’t I? We need information.”

She laughed. “Don’t you love this guy? He lies to me, steals from me, then has the gall not only to bring you here, but to ask me for help.”

Evelyn didn’t sound betrayed or even surprised. The look she gave Jack reminded me of a parent complaining about a rebellious teen, exasperated pride masquerading as pique.

“There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen,” Evelyn said. “Pour us some, and I’ll think about talking.”

Jack heaved himself from the love seat and headed into the hall. Evelyn watched him over her shoulder, then turned to me.

“Don’t tell her anything,” Jack’s voice floated back. “She knows what she needs to know. Rest is idle curiosity.”

Evelyn mouthed an obscenity. She listened for Jack’s movements in the kitchen, as if gauging whether he could still overhear.

“Let’s just talk about a decent nom de guerre, then. How about Diana? That’s better than Dee, isn’t it?”

“Honestly? It makes me think ‘dead princess,’ not ‘Greek goddess.’ I’m not sure ‘princess’ gives off the right vibe, and that ‘dead’ part is definitely not a good omen.”

“You have a point. Hitmen aren’t known for their classical educations. We’ll stick with Dee until I think of something better.”

“Charles Manson,” Jack called from the kitchen. “We need details.”

“Ah, so this is about the Helter Skelter killer.” She turned to me. “Now there’s a name. Say the words ‘Helter Skelter’ and everyone of a certain age immediately thinks Manson, and everything that goes with that. For a killer-”