Exit Strategy (Nadia Stafford 1)

Only it didn't happen that way. When we picked up Wayne Franco, he was downright gleeful in anticipation of the glory and recognition to come. There was no justice forthcoming. I'd been a fool to think so. Being arrested didn't mean you would pay the price for your crimes. Amy had taught me that.

As I stood there, watching Franco grinning, I knew I hadn't come here to see Wayne Franco arrested. I'd come here to see Dawn Collins get justice. So I waited. And when he made the mistake of reaching into his pocket, I put a bullet between his eyes.

By waiting for my mark to make that fatal move, I'd given the department the excuse they needed, and they fell on it like shipwreck survivors spotting a lifeboat. They claimed I was acting in self-defense; who knew what the killer was pulling from his pocket? No one ever asked whether I thought my life was in danger. I'm sure they suspected the answer. In the end, they were able to take my history, couple it with a psychiatric evaluation and claim post-traumatic stress disorder, allowing me to "retire" from the force.

The media hadn't been nearly so magnanimous.

After six months of hell, I'd cashed in my meager retirement savings, taken ten grand in "get out of our lives" money from my mother's new husband and put a down payment on the Red Oak Lodge.

By the time we reached a motel, my reflective mood had blown over, leaving only wisps of cloud. I'm no good at brooding. After "the Incident" I think I disappointed some people by not falling into a fit of depression like some Victorian heroine, retiring to my bed and wasting away until nothing remained but a melancholy epigraph for my grave. Then there were those who wanted to see me rage into battle, fight the establishment, middle finger extended to the world. When I'd simply shrugged and started over, I robbed both groups of the chance for some classic "wronged woman" drama. But I hadn't been wronged. I'd made a choice. I'd paid the price.

Given the chance to do it over, would I--could I--do any differently today?

Probably not.

Jack and I shared a motel room. I'll admit when he broached the "one room or two" question, my instinctive response had been to say "two...of course." And that wasn't because I suspected Jack wanted more out of this partnership. In two years he'd never looked at me in a way that suggested he'd even noticed I was of the opposite sex.

Yet sharing a room required a whole new level of trust. If we were partners, though, this wasn't the time to say, "Sorry, I don't trust you enough to sleep in the same room."

So I'd taken a deep breath, told myself "In for a penny, in for a pound" and asked him what he thought we should do. One room was safer, he said. In the future, he'd try to find suites with separate bedrooms and pullout sofas, to give me privacy, but it was too late for that tonight. So one room--two beds--it was.

The next morning after breakfast I called Emma at the lodge to check in. Then we headed out to our first stop of the day--a meeting with a contact of Jack's in a business district that looked as if it hadn't done much business in a while. The For Lease signs just barely outnumbered the pawnshops. After a half-block of silence, I cleared my throat.

"This guy we're meeting, am I allowed details? Like who he is and why we're talking to him?"

Jack skirted a trio of slow-walking seniors and didn't speak until we'd outpaced the three by at least twenty feet.

"Saul's retired," Jack said. "Like Evelyn. Old pro. But more..." He paused. "Involved. Keeps his ear to the ground. Listens to gossip, rumors. These days? Nothing else to do."

"So you trust him."

"Don't distrust him."

Jack stopped in front of a dilapidated coffee shop, checked the address--or the portion of it that hadn't peeled off the window--then opened the door.

To my surprise, the coffee shop was running at over half capacity. For a moment, I thought, Must be good coffee. Then I looked around at the customers, most of whom looked as if their current seat was the closest thing they had to a permanent residence. Not so much good coffee, then, as free refills, an unusually cold day and a management policy that didn't discourage loitering.

The shop looked better inside than out. Still shabby, but clean. A pregnant server made the rounds with a coffeepot in one hand and a dishrag in the other, relentlessly hunting for half-filled cups and dirty tables. Someone was baking in the back, the sweet smell of banana muffins overpowering the faint stink of unwashed bodies.

Jack nudged me toward a late-middle-aged man sitting alone near the rear of the shop. Presumably Saul. He had the newspaper spread across his table, doing the daily crossword as he nursed a black coffee.

Balding with a fringe of white hair, Saul wore a frayed button-down shirt that had been through the laundry cycle a few too many times. Maybe he was dressing down to fit in with the other clientele, but something about his ensemble--right down to the cheap watch and worn loafers--looked more lived-in than put-on. His sallow complexion didn't speak to many sun-drenched retirement getaways, nor did the frown lines etched into the corners of his mouth.

When Jack said Saul had retired, I don't know what I expected, but it sure wasn't this. The man had spent his life working a job that paid more than a surgeon's salary.

As we approached the table, Saul looked up from his paper. His gaze went to Jack first and his frown lines rearranged themselves into a smile. He rose, hand extended. Then he saw me. He looked between Jack and me, as if measuring the distance between us. Then he leaned slightly to the side, to look past me. Jack walked over and clasped Saul'

s hand, which he still held out in forgotten welcome.

"Saul. This is Dee."

Saul snuck another peek behind me, as if double-checking to make sure I was really the person Jack was introducing. The frown lines reappeared. Deepened to fissures.

"Have you lost your mind?" Saul hissed. "What the hell are you doing, bringing a...? Goddamn it, Jack. I don't believe this."

"I told you I was bringing someone," Jack said.

"A partner," Saul said. "A work partner, not a play partner."