Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

Luckily, Aldrich had left his keys on the kitchen counter. I snuck out the rear door and around the side of the house then made an easy dash to Aldrich's carport.

I crawled into the passenger seat, shut the door, and used a flashlight to illuminate the glove box. It was jam-packed with crap. I was adjusting my position when my foot got tangled in a cord. I looked down to find a portable GPS on the floor, hidden by fast food wrappers. It was connected to the lighter. I reeled it in and turned it on.

Aldrich didn't seem to use the GPS very often. Of the four places in the memory, three were out of state and he hadn't visited any of them this month. But he had gone to the fourth address--twice. A rural location about an hour east of Cleveland.

Before we left I went back downstairs for another look at Aldrich--or at the scene of his death. Would the police realize it wasn't suicide? They wouldn't know about his visitor and wouldn't realize that Aldrich would never admit to Amy's murder. It looked like a perfectly plausible scenario. He was an exonerated killer turned fake cop. That alone would keep the local police hopping.

The most damning evidence was the lack of back spatter on Aldrich's gun hand, and presumably a corresponding lack of gunpowder residue. Yet despite what people see on CSI, there isn't the time or the budget to test everything. If it looked like a clear case of motivated suicide, that's what it would become.

The address in the GPS led us to a tidy farmhouse with a minivan in the drive and a barn around back. The house was surrounded by dense forest, with the nearest neighbor a mile away. We drove half that distance and found a rutted road leading into the woods. Another half mile down it and we had to stop as the road petered out. That's when we started walking.

There was exactly one trail leading from that road. It branched after a hundred feet. The better-groomed section led to a small waterfall and pond, with a makeshift platform for swimmers and anglers. The second branch ended at a cabin, nearly hidden in the overgrown woods.

When I saw that cabin, my feet stutter-stepped and Jack plowed into me.

"Sorry," I said. "It's just--"

"I know."

It looked like "the" cabin--the one Aldrich had taken us to. There was nothing meaningful in the similarity. Most simple cabins look like this--a wooden shack with no running water, no electricity, no amenities save a fireplace and an outhouse.

I steeled myself and started forward.

"Wait outside," Jack said. "No reason--"

I glanced at him.

"You can keep giving me that look," he said. "Won't stop me from offering."

"Which I appreciate--"

"Don't want appreciation. You want to repay me? Take me up on it. Why go in there? Who are you trying to impress? Only one here is me."

No, I was here, too, and I needed to follow this through because otherwise I'd feel like a coward.

"Jack, I've faced Aldrich. I've broken into his house. I've found his dead body. There's not going to be anything in that cabin that makes things any worse." I managed a wry smile. "Save the marker. I'm sure you'll find something else you really don't want me doing."

He considered that, peering at me in the darkness. Then a snort and a wave. "Stay behind. Could be booby-trapped."

CHAPTER 12

The cabin wasn't booby-trapped. It wasn't even locked. Like Bobby Mack's place, where Aldrich had taken Amy and me, this was just a shack in the woods, used by whoever wanted it.

It was a single empty room, simple cover for campers, maybe originally for Boy Scouts or the like, to keep the younger ones out of the rain. There were signs that people had been here. Marijuana butts. An empty cheese puffs bag. Crushed Coke cans. A tequila bottle, broken in a corner.

"He wouldn't keep his treasures where a hiking family could find them," I said. "If they're here, they'll be hidden. Maybe outside or--"

Jack was bending to examine a floorboard. When it didn't budge, he paced along the edge of the room, looking and testing for give with his feet. He found a loose one and checked under it, then shook his head.

I started on the other side. We'd nearly met in the middle when I found a board that was slightly loose, with a single nail on one end. Jack pried the nail up with a knife. The board came out. Below was a dirt floor . . . with a slight depression. I carefully pushed aside the dirt and saw a steel box.

I pulled the box up and put it on the floor. It was locked. Useless really, when opening the box was a simple matter of unscrewing the hinges. Jack did that, again using his knife.

When I raised the lid, I saw only black and for a second I thought it was empty. Then I realized I was looking at a folded black silk scarf. I lifted it. Underneath . . .

I sucked in a breath, then Jack's hand darted out, as if he was ready to snatch it from me before I saw some grisly relic. Then he looked and stopped. I reached into the box and picked up a hair clip. It was bronze--a crossed pair of old-fashioned pistols.

"This was mine," I whispered. "When my dad took me shooting for the first time, he bought me this afterward. Annie Oakley guns, he called them. It was my favorite clip until it disappeared. It must have fallen out at the cabin. But--" I shook my head. "No, it can't be. I was sure my mom had taken it. She hated it. Said it wasn't ladylike. I figured she'd made it disappear. But obviously I left it . . ."