Kelley Armstrong - Exit Strategy

“Bet the TV crews descended like vultures on roadkill, eh?” I said. “We had a serial killer up north, passed through our town, grabbed a girl. You couldn’t walk down the street without having a microphone shoved in your face.”

Cox leaned across the table. “I thought you Canucks didn’t have serial killers.”

“Everyone has serial killers these days,” Doyle said, his voice soft. He lifted his gaze to mine. “You’ve got one big case up there now, don’t you? Out west?”

“The pig farmer,” I said with a nod. “Gave some of the biggest parties around. Lots of hookers came. Not all of them went home.”

“What’s this?” Waters said.

Fortunately, this was one case I did know about. Although there was a publication ban, Lucy and I had discussed it on the weekend. She had a friend in Port Coquitlam who’d filled her in on the details, which she’d passed on to me, and which I now passed along to these guys, solidifying my credibility.

Doyle asked a few questions, and I focused my attention on him, leaning his way, making plenty of eye contact. This was the guy I wanted to talk to. Part of that had to do with the wedding ring on his finger-an easy excuse if he expected more than a friendly chat. And part of it was that if I had no other agenda in mind, this would be my choice, not a blowhard like Waters who probably wore his gun to bed, or a cop like Cox who’d surrendered to the bottle. I wanted the one who still cared enough to lose sleep over his cases.

After a few minutes, Waters seemed to notice the way the tide was turning. He play-punched Doyle’s arm.

“We’ll be at the bar,” he said, and jerked his head at Cox.

Doyle watched them go, then looked back at me. Uncertain, but not uninterested, as if it had been a long time since he’d been left alone with a woman in a bar, and he didn’t quite remember what to do next. Before I could say something, he grabbed my empty glass.

“Can I get you a refill?”

I nodded. “Miller, thanks.”

“Lite?”

“Never.”

He smiled, the worry lines around his eyes fading. When he returned, he’d recovered his nerve. We chatted for a while and, without any prodding, talk turned to the biggest news in town.

“When the uniforms called it in, the last thing I was thinking was that it was this Helter Skelter killer. I knew Kozlov. He killed that boy just after I transferred to this force.” Doyle looked at me. “You hear about that?”

“No. What happened?”

“Up in Cleveland. Kozlov held up a liquor store. Kid behind the counter grabbed a baseball bat. Kozlov slashed him up with a broken bottle and left him to bleed to death.” Doyle shook his head. “Kid was in his last year of college, working to pay for his tuition. Over a thousand people at his funeral. Dozens of classmates, all crying their eyes out. Only people showed up at Kozlov’s funeral had cameras.”

“And who’s the one people are going to remember?”

Doyle met my eyes, nodded. “Exactly. No fucking justice.”

“At least he didn’t die in his bed. There’s some justice in that.”

“Yeah.” Doyle sipped his beer. “When the call came in, saying he’d been shot, I thought ‘Sure, what do you expect?’ Guy like that bought himself a.22 to the temple years ago.”

“A.22? I read it was a.38…or did you just mean, hypothetically…”

“Nah, it was a.22. Reporters fucked up a few things on this one. First guy on the scene was from the local paper-just a kid. He scooped it, and a bunch of stringers followed his facts. I think some later reports got it right…but yeah, it was a.22. Hitman’s special.”

“Hitman?” I gave a half-laugh, as if testing whether Doyle was joking.

“Yeah. Feds are trying to keep it quiet, but that won’t last. What I heard, they were already suspicious, but this one sealed it.”

“But a hired killer? For a guy like Kozlov? Was there anything in his history to…?”

“Explain why someone would pay even a nickel to off him? Maybe back when he was with the Russian mob.”

“The mob?”

Doyle took a long draft of his beer. “I’ve heard rumors. Probably racist bullshit, you know? Guy’s a petty criminal, looks like a thug, Russian background. If it’s racism, he played it up. Used to talk big when he was in his cups, yammer on about his glory days with the mob.”

“Are the Feds checking this out?”

“Maybe. But even if it’s true, it’s ancient history, and it doesn’t explain how he wound up dead a couple of decades later. I thought about taking a peek but…” He shrugged. “No time to satisfy idle curiosity. This case I’m working on now takes up all my time. As it should.” He wrapped his hands around his mug. “Kiddie porn. Fucking sick shit.”

“There’s nothing worse,” I said.

“Big-city cops, maybe they get used to it. But me? I’ve seen some stuff before, but not like this. Nothing like this. My wife-” He stopped. Shrugged.

“You can’t talk to her about it.”

“Gotta play by the rules. I’m supposed to leave it at the station, not let it affect me, but, Christ, of course it affects me. Then I go home and I’m moody, snapping, she gets mad, and I…I can’t explain, right? So I left.”

“Ouch.”

“There’s more than that, but…” Another shrug. A gulp of beer.

Doyle nodded and we talked some more, about the case, about his wife. Any hope of circling back to Kozlov was gone, but I didn’t rush to leave. By the end of his third beer, he pushed the mug aside and smiled ruefully.

“Guess this isn’t going anywhere, is it?” he said. “My first shot, and I spend it talking about my marriage.”

I pointed at his ring. “If you’re still wearing that, you’re not ready.” I checked my watch. “I should be getting back soon. My cousins will wonder what happened to me.”

“I should go, too.”

I cast a sidelong glance at his two friends, still at the bar. “You want me to walk out with you?”

A small smile. “If you don’t mind.”

Doyle walked me to my car in the parking lot, where we talked for another ten minutes before he left.

I unlocked the rental-car door.

“’Bout time,” said a voice to my left. “You shaking down a witness? Or making a new friend?”

“With cops, I’m better at making friends,” I said, turning as Jack slid from a pickup truck’s shadow. “What happened to picking you up at the coffee shop when I was done?”

“Drank enough coffee.”

He started heading toward the passenger door, but I pulled him to a stop and handed him the keys.

“And I drank enough beer.”

I told him what I’d learned.

“I’m betting the rumors aren’t just rumors,” I said. “Maybe not the Russian mob, but Kozlov’s record does scream organized crime. Sporadic arrests, never convicted, then after one conviction, a downhill slide.”

“Washed their hands of him,” Jack said.

“But he may have earned enough clout for them to hire a lawyer for that murder charge. Either way, I shouldn’t be seen poking around Norfolk asking more questions, so maybe you-”

“Put Evelyn on it. We have an appointment.”

“Who-?”

“Called Quinn, too. He’s not talking.”

Jack’s voice and expression were passive, but his hands tightened on the steering wheel as he turned the corner.

“Not talking…? Oh, you mean about the Manson connection.”

“Yeah. Confirmed it. Won’t explain it. Protecting his sources.”

I stared out at the passing streetlights. “This Quinn. He was a cop, too, wasn’t he? Had to be, if he’s your go-to guy for police intel.”

“Not was. Is.”

Cold blasted down my spine as I swiveled to face Jack. “Jack, don’t tell me I’m working with-”