Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

"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.

CHAPTER 6

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."