Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

nt."

"I'm sure she's long past believing we're actually related."

"Not that. Age difference."

"I doubt it," I said. "But I'll talk to her."

"Nah. I will."

"You don't have to--"

"Got it," he said and went into the house before I could argue.

Jack came out as I finished loading body-dump supplies into my old pickup. He was carrying a picnic basket and a thermos.

"Either you totally charmed her," I said, "or we aren't allowed to dine with civilized folks."

"Wasn't about that."

"No?"

He waited for me to accompany him down to the dock. I turned on the heater in the gazebo as he set up breakfast inside.

"Emma heard the news about Aldrich."

"His suicide?"

"Yeah. Said she was going to tell you and I offered to do it."

"That saves me from finding the right look of shock. Thank you." I poured coffee as he put out the plates.

"Emma said the papers are reporting that the suicide note was a confession. About Amy."

"Which is good on all counts. He's dead and she gets justice."

"And you? Your justice? How're you doing with that?"

"I think it still hasn't entirely sunk in. It feels like it happened to someone else." I lifted my hands. "Not that I'm claiming it did. I know what happened to me. It's just not . . . sinking in."

"You gonna talk to someone?"

"A therapist, you mean?" I shrugged. "Probably not. I had that after Amy died and after I shot Wayne Franco. I know it works for people, but I can't talk to strangers. Which sounds utterly ridiculous to anyone who knows me."

"It's different. Personal." He snagged my gaze. "You don't do personal."

I'm sure that if I did talk to a shrink, she'd tell me that my hyper-friendliness was a defense mechanism. If I'm open and extroverted, no one will notice that I don't really say anything about myself. In my own way, I carry a Do Not Trespass sign as big as Jack's. I'm just better at disguising it.

"Speaking of dealing with it, I still want to read that journal and see if I can give other families closure. But the first order of business is to track down this Roland guy before he realizes his pro is dead and sends a backup." I paused. "I believe we've been in this situation before. Pretty soon middlemen are going to stop sending their guys here. Eastern Ontario: the Bermuda Triangle for professional killers."

Jack snorted.

"So we need to find Roland and get a lead on the client, preferably without telling Roland he's lost a hitman. As much as I hate to cut out on the Waldens again, I think we're off to Pennsylvania."

Jack asked if he could talk to Evelyn. I had photos of Aldrich's killer's license plate and that might help her find who'd hired that hitman. Normally, I'd hand the plate number over to Quinn, but that wasn't happening.

While I did have other resources--and so did Jack--Evelyn was a convenient choice. There's always the worry that she's a little too convenient, kind of like a little store in the middle of nowhere, where you can get what you need easily, but you know you're going to pay through the nose for it. I knew the cost for this--she'd insist on talking to me about the Contrapasso Fellowship again. She wouldn't do it overtly, but she'd ask if I'd heard about some case or other of delayed justice, a victim finally vindicated, and then say, "I heard the Contrapasso did that," and the minute she saw my resolve wavering, as I thought "Maybe I was too hasty," she'd pounce. I didn't need that. I already saw such cases in the paper and wondered if it was them, and sometimes felt the pangs of regret, of thinking maybe they were what I needed . . . No, I didn't need that.

But Jack knew it and he wouldn't put me in a position where I'd need to hear it. He'd talk to her. He'd say he wanted her help, and he was the one person she couldn't refuse, even if she'd be gnashing her dentures, knowing he was asking on my behalf.