Kelley Armstrong: Wild Justice

I wasn’t phoning the client. I had no contact with him. I work exclusively for Paul Tomassini, nephew to the don of a New York Mafia family. This wasn’t their job, but one that came to Paul himself, as a special request from a connected friend whom Rose Wilde’s father had contacted. Paul knew it was my kind of work, so he’d put me on it.

“It’s Dee,” I said when he answered.

That’s my professional name. Jack’s idea, proving that the guy has not an iota of imagination. His own nom de guerre? Jack.

Paul did know my real name. He’d been a regular at the lodge when he invited me into my side business, knowing I was good with a gun and, at the time, I’d really needed cash.

“It was a bust,” I said, phrasing it carefully. “His better half showed up, with the little one.”

“Shit.” A brief pause. “You trying again?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I’ll let him know.”

“Can you tell him he should check in on her, too? There was a bit of a scene.” I explained what had happened.

“What the fuck? Wife needs permission to take the kid to the doctor?”

“She needs permission for everything. She doesn’t have her own cell phone, car, credit cards, access to the bank account . . .”

He let out a string of profanity. “And he waved his side dish in her face? Fucking bastard.”

“You’ll let your friend know? If hubby is pissed off with her . . .”

“He might beat the shit outta her again. Yeah, I’ll call now. Make sure he knows what’s up.”

In any job, it’s nice to have colleagues you can call for a postmortem when things go wrong. A shoulder to whine on doesn’t hurt, either. That’s one thing I’d loved about my former career as a cop. There were always guys I could talk to.

There’s no support group for hitmen.

I was lucky. I had a network. Very small, of course—this is a career that caters to loners. There’s Jack, of course . . . who’d be the last person I’d call for a pick-me-up. In person, yes. On the phone, I might as well talk to myself.

Then there’s Jack’s mentor, Evelyn. I could imagine her response. Why the hell didn’t you take the damned shot? My reluctance to traumatize the wife and child would be silly sentimentality to her. I was paid to kill, so I should have killed.

There was only one person I could talk this out with. Quinn. A U.S. marshal who moonlights as a vigilante hitman. Quinn understands the ex-cop part of me that Jack doesn’t really get, just as Jack understands the part of me that isn’t like Quinn, the part still bleeding from my cousin’s murder twenty years ago.

If this happened a month ago Quinn would expect me to call. He’d be pissed if I didn’t. Now I’d probably get as far as “hello” before he hung up.

After a year of flirting and circling each other, Quinn and I started dating six months ago. It had been good. Better than good. It made me wonder why the hell I’d put him off so long. It was a long-distance relationship—he lived in Virginia—but we got together at least one weekend a month.

Six weeks ago, he’d asked me to his cousin’s wedding. I shouldn’t have been surprised. For months, he’d been joking about dragging me to this family dinner or that family party. I realized now it’d been the kind of fake joking where you’re hoping for an encouraging response. Anyway, I missed the signals so I’d said no to the wedding. It escalated to a fight. He wanted more; I wasn’t ready to give more and wasn’t sure I ever would be. He hung up.

A week later, he came to the lodge. He’d done that once before, and Jack tore a strip out of him. Quinn knew better than to show up there when I hadn’t introduced him to that part of my world. Obviously waylaying me at home had not smoothed things over. We fought. He accused me of wanting nothing more than friendship with sex. It got ugly. He said we were through and stormed out.

The hard truth? He wasn’t wrong. I did want friendship. I did want sex. That’s it. We led separate lives, and as happy as I was with him, I didn’t see that ever changing for me. I didn’t want to meet his family, because I knew how close he was to them and I knew that was the first step onto a road I wasn’t willing to travel.

It wasn’t really the hackneyed “friends with benefits.” There was more. It just wasn’t what he wanted.

After that, he’d gone silent. No calls, no e-mail, not even a text. I phoned a couple of times. He didn’t answer. It was over. So there was no calling him tonight. There was no calling anyone.

Normally, I’m up by dawn and out for my jog, but after a rough night, I needed my rest, so I turned off my alarm and dozed fitfully until nine. I ran fifteen kilometers after that, working off excess job frustration. Then I brought breakfast back to my motel room and waited to start tracking Wilde again. By midafternoon he’d leave work for the day, and I’d be waiting to follow him, figure out when and how to finish this.

When my “business” phone rang just past noon, it was Paul Tomassini, which was odd. That’s one advantage of working for the mob. They don’t panic and pester you for updates. I wondered if the client was having second thoughts. Damn I hoped not. As a cop, I’d seen enough domestic violence to know it was only a matter of time before Rose was lying on a morgue slab. I’d much rather see him there.

“It’s me,” Paul said when I answered. “Thought I’d hear from you.”

Ah, so, the client was just getting antsy. “Tell him it’s under control. I can’t promise it today, but it’ll get done this week.”

Silence. Then, “Have you read the paper this morning, Dee?”

My hand clenched the phone. “No. Why?”

“Go read it. Call me back.”

The story made the front page of the regional paper: “Local Businessman Kills Wife, Self.” The subheading: “Preschool Daughter in Intensive Care.”

Alan Wilde had caught up with Rose and Hannah. He’d cornered them in the hospital parking garage. People had heard them fighting. They heard it and hurried on their way, not wanting to get involved.

Wilde had tried to stop Rose from taking Hannah inside. He’d threatened her. Then there’d been a gun. Rose’s gun—that’s what the paper claimed, quoting an anonymous source who said her father bought it for her after the last incident. No one knew exactly what happened, but I could figure it out. She’d pulled the gun and told Wilde she was taking their daughter to see a doctor. He’d wrested the gun away and used it on her. According to the article, he’d shot Rose point-blank. In front of their daughter. That’s when, according to some who heard the shot, the little girl started to scream. Another shot. Hannah stopped crying.

The person who heard called 911, then ran to notify a security guard. By the time help arrived, Wilde had turned the gun on himself.

Rose Wilde was dead. Her daughter was clinging to life. It was my fault.

When Paul Tomassini called back, I let it ring. He hung up and tried again. I continued ignoring it until someone pounded on my motel door, telling me to answer my goddamned phone. I turned it off and tucked it into my bag. Then I walked out the door, turned toward the highway, and kept going.

I walked for hours. Dusk came as a shock, and I snapped out of my stupor to stare, disbelieving, at the sunset. But it was like rousing from sleep just long enough to check the clock before falling under again.

During the day, a few cars had slowed to offer me a lift. I’d waved them off. After sunset, when another one rumbled along the gravel behind me, I stepped onto the grassy shoulder. It pulled up alongside me, passenger window rolling down.