I thought of asking whether it hurt, and suggesting it might if the cast came off early, but Jack would no more take that into consideration than he'd admit he was in any pain now. "It's just two more weeks, and you're getting around pretty well – "
"Like last night? Hitman with a crutch? Clomping around on a cast? Fucking bad joke. And dangerous. It's coming off. You wanna help? Appreciate it. Otherwise? Point me to the hacksaw."
I managed to persuade him it could wait until Sunday. He grumbled, but agreed.
I will admit to pangs of panic at the thought that Jack expected me to shelve the case until Sunday. But, having only last night sworn I wanted nothing more to do with the investigation, I could hardly complain at a forty-eight-hour delay.
As we headed in for breakfast, though, Jack told me Quinn would be expecting my call at four. I wanted to start discussing the how and when of handing the case over to the police, and while it could have waited until Sunday, I appreciated the excuse to do it earlier. Just as I appreciated Jack's suggestion that I join him in the shop before the weekenders arrived. Mechanically, I'd be no help at all, but it gave me an excuse to hang out with him… with the shop radio tuned to the Kingston stations for news of last night's murder.
It was like sneaking chocolates to a dieter – feeding me little bits to keep my resolve up. I felt guilty about that, but it didn't keep me from accepting the tidbits, and being grateful for them.
The dead girl was sixteen-year-old Mina Jackson. And, far from being stumped by the murder of a teenage mother at an auto wreckers, the police – or at least the media – had no end of suspects and theories… none of them being "a hitman whacked her to steal her baby."
Mina had lived in that office, courtesy of her boyfriend, Nate Hellqvist, owner of Hell's Wreckers. Nate had rung up more than his share of enemies, all of whom might send a message by killing his girlfriend. There was the bookie he owed fifty grand to, the gang cohorts he ratted out in a plea bargain, and, of course, his wife, who was a little annoyed with the whole "teenage mistress and baby" arrangement… and whose doting father had "reputed mob ties." No wonder Fenniger picked Mina. People might notice she'd disappeared, but it wasn't likely that any of them would care. Even Hellqvist would probably presume she'd had enough and run off.
With the ever-growing list of motives and cast of suspects, all centering on Nate Hellqvist, Mina herself would be lost in the soap opera, mere collateral damage. As for the baby, Hellqvist apparently didn't want him, which, all things considered, was probably the best thing that could happen to the kid. If Mina had any family, the reports didn't mention it. Her four-month-old son was currently in the care of children's services, which would find a suitable foster family.
If I informed the police that Mina died in a botched professional hit and kidnap scheme – completely unrelated to her personal situation – the cops would toss the theory in with the rest of the crazy-person leads. I wished we had left Fenniger's body out for the police to find. I considered tipping them off now, but then attention might turn to who had killed him, and Jack wouldn't want that.
When I spoke to Quinn, he agreed. With a half dozen more likely scenarios to explain the one death we could prove, we had little hope of getting the local police on the right track. They couldn't afford to devote valuable time investigating claims of a connection between three missing girls – two in another country – and one almost-solved murder.
Hell, I could send them a PowerPoint presentation with interactive maps leading them to Sammi's body, the Byrony Agency, and the house where Fenniger said he'd delivered Destiny, and it wouldn't make a difference… except that they'd probably consider the sender the murderer of Sammi Ernst, concocting this wild "black market baby" scheme as a cover-up.
That wasn't insulting the intelligence or competence of the police. When I used to dream up elaborate solutions for my father's unsolved cases, he always quoted Sherlock Holmes: "We balance probabilities and choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagination." When I was older, I'd shoot back Heraclitus: "A hidden connection is stronger than an obvious one," to which he'd only laugh and tell me that, given the choice between the words of the world's greatest fictional detective and some dead Greek philosopher, a cop was going with Mr. Holmes every time.
To woo the authorities, I needed more evidence, and I knew where to start collecting it.
"I have a couple days off coming up," Quinn said when we finished. "Compensation for my lost weekend, and the day off I'd requested after my Toronto visit. Jack gave me the okay to swing by and chat but… well, already being in Canada, no one would think it odd if I decided to spend my days off up here… or in Michigan."
"You mean to help me with this?"
"If that'd be all right with you."
"Absolutely."
A moment of silence. "While I'd love to say that's all that counts, I'd better let you run it past Jack first. When it comes to us, he seems to be warming to the idea." A laugh. "Or, I guess 'warming' is optimistic, but he seems resigned to it. Elbowing my way into a case you two are working, though, might be pushing my luck. And overstepping my boundaries. And invading his turf. While I'd normally say 'screw him if he doesn't like it,' I don't want to put you in the middle of our fights."
"I'll talk to him."
Chapter Thirty-two
Jack agreed. It wasn't an enthusiastic or even speedy agreement, but if I'd said, "Quinn wants to know if he can join us for a few days" and Jack said, "Sure, sounds like fun," I'd have been running inside for the thermometer, certain his broken ankle had somehow become infected.
His first word was, predictably, "Fuck," followed by a string of profanity-peppered mutters. I said it was totally up to him. He said he'd think about it. Sunday morning, he agreed. He wasn't certain we needed a third pair of hands, but Quinn's expertise would be invaluable, especially in building a law-enforcement-ready case.
As it turned out, though, that assistance would have to wait awhile longer. A complication in whatever case Quinn was working had him delayed in Montreal, and he had no idea when he'd get away. Jack didn't seem terribly broken up about the delay. In a damn fine mood, actually, though he credited it to relief at getting his cast off… with his foot still intact.
Monday morning. Detroit. Jack twisted in his chair, legs squealing against the linoleum, then grimaced as he tried to wedge his fingers under his pant leg without whacking his chin on the tabletop. After a few seconds of furious scratching, he straightened, wincing as his spine cracked.
"You're starting to regret removing that cast, aren't you? Did you use the lotion I picked up last night?"
"Yeah. Probably rubbed off by now."
"If you had a purse, you could carry it around with you." I nodded toward a middle-aged man with a pleather fanny pack sheltered by the belly spilling over his waistband. "How about I get you one of those?"
A muttered profanity. I reached into the tiny paper bag beside my elbow and popped a Swedish berry into my mouth. I struggled not to tap my toes and wriggled, trying to get comfortable, the plastic chair rock-hard against my tailbone. I'd spent the weekend on the go, hosting a full slate of activities, but I still couldn't relax and enjoy this quiet cup of coffee. Unfortunately, for now, progress meant sitting still.
I peered out the window, through the morning sun, at our target – a door across the road. The offices of the Byrony Agency, the private adoption firm where Fenniger's contact worked.
"Thank God for coffee shops, huh? It's the one place you can sit for an hour or two, and as long as it isn't too busy and you keep ordering coffee, no one bugs you. There's only one drawback." I lifted my mug. "The coffee. Emma makes decaf in the evening for me – I hate drinking caffeinated after dinner, like I need anything to keep me up at night. Hers is fine. Places like this, though? I swear they make the pot when they first get in and leave it stewing until it's empty." I took a sip and made a face. "I'm probably torturing myself for no reason, too. All we'll be doing is looking."