Kelley Armstrong: Wild Justice

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.

Jack drove us to a section of townhouse complexes that looked like exactly the kind of place I’d find a single, middle-aged beat cop. Older, well-kept buildings with gardens and bikes in the front yards and five-year-old cars in the drives.

“Which place is Miller’s?” I said.

Jack gave a vague wave down the road as he pulled over.

“Is this a break-in or just reconnaissance work?”

A shrug.

I turned to him. “Okay, Jack, I need more here. Presuming this is a job, is it something you want me to do or am I helping you ?”

He tapped his fingers on the wheel. Then he reached under his seat, withdrew a folder, and held it out.

“It’s your job, then,” I said. “You wouldn’t be this prepared if it was a spur-of-the-moment suggestion for me.”

“Not mine,” he said. “Just brought it. In case.”

I set the folder on my lap. When I went to open it, he reached out, his fingers holding the file closed.

“If you don’t want me to see this, Jack—”

“I do. You should. It’s just . . .” He looked me in the eye. “If I fucked up— I’m not trying—” He exhaled. “Fuck.” He pulled his hand away.

“Let me interpret,” I said. “You’ve brought me a file—a job, a case, something—and you aren’t sure how I’ll take it.”

“Yeah.”

“But you meant well.”

“Yeah.”

I looked at him. “I know that, Jack. You don’t need to explain.”

“I might.” He waved at the folder. “Open it.”

I did. There were photos on top. Surveillance shots of a guy in a patrol officer’s uniform. Getting into his car, talking with a girl on the street, then walking into one of these townhouses. All I could make out was that he had dark hair, was of average height and hefty build.

I turned to the next photo. It was a full-face shot, taken with a telephoto lens. Bushy brows. Thin mouth. There were lines around his mouth and gray at his temples, but I looked at that photo and I didn’t see a forty-five-year-old man. I saw one half that age. It didn’t matter if I hadn’t seen this face in nearly twenty years—my gut seized and I heaved for breath.

“Fuck,” Jack said. “Hold on. Just hold on.”

He slammed the car into drive.

“No!” I slapped my hand down on his, still holding the gear shift. “No. Don’t. Just . . .” I struggled to breathe. “I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I—”

“I know.”

“I didn’t—”

“Just . . . give me a minute.”

I lifted my gaze to the road, staring at a yard with no flowers, no bikes, just an empty planter. The photo from the pictures, the house he’d been walking into. I thought of him sauntering up that drive and—

My stomach clenched.

“Let’s go,” Jack said.

“No, just . . . just wait. Please.”

I took a few deep breaths, then lifted the photos, now scattered at my feet. I set them on my lap and stared down at the pile.

“David Miller is Drew Aldrich,” I said.

Jack nodded. I clenched my fists and fought for calm. When I found enough of it, I said, “I looked for him. After I became a cop. I don’t know what I planned to do.” I paused. “No, I’m pretty sure I know what I planned to do, even if I told myself I just wanted to keep an eye on him, wanted to make sure he didn’t hurt anyone else. But I couldn’t find him.”

“Wasn’t easy. Took me—”

I cut him off. “You said this isn’t his first alias. How many?”

“Four.”

“After the trial, he moved to the States. That should have been enough. So why take on an alias? Something else happened, didn’t it.”