I turned to Jack. "What do you know about this Contrapasso Fellowship?"
"Him?" Evelyn squawked. "He doesn't even believe it exists. You're stacking the deck, Dee."
"I want to hear the legend first. Then you can tell me what parts of it you've heard are true. If Jack's willing…"
"Sure." He moved to the edge of his seat and took a muffin from the plate.
"Oh, God, this is going to take forever," Evelyn said. "Let me refill my coffee, and you can call me when he works up the energy to speak in full sentences."
She stood, glancing at Jack, as if still willing to hang around if he showed any signs of getting to the story soon. He took a bite of his muffin and chewed slowly. She stalked off into the kitchen.
Once she was gone, he put the muffin back on the table. "Contrapasso Fellowship? Revenge for hire. Kinda like what Quinn does. Only free."
I knew Quinn didn't always collect a paycheck, but didn't say so – to Jack this would be a mark of incompetence, not integrity. I could point out that Jack himself wasn't collecting a paycheck for this job we were doing, but he'd say it wasn't the same thing.
"Pro bono vigilantism?" I said.
"Anonymous, too. Send them a newspaper clipping? They investigate. Decide whether it deserves attention. Then they pick the punishment. Something fitting the crime."
"They administer their own brand of justice."
"Nah." He propped his injured foot onto Evelyn's glass and silver table. "Judge and jury? Yeah. Executioners? No. Get others to do that. They foot the bill."
"Vigilante philanthropists, then."
"Pretty much. Why? Everyone's got a theory. Rich folks who lost kids. Retired judges watched juries let too many assholes off. Even heard one about it being cops. Steal drug money to finance it."
"So it's bullshit, isn't it?"
"Seems to be." His lips parted again, then he rubbed his mouth.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You were going to say more. You've heard something, haven't you?"
"Nah. Just…" He paused, his gaze studying mine with that quiet intensity that said he was trying to get inside my head. "Hear Evelyn out. If there's anything to it? Check it out. I'll help."
Chapter Thirty-seven
"Well, I blew that," I said as I backed the car from the parking lot.
"Nah."
"Nah? She kicked us out of the house without a word about the Contrapasso Fellowship. She's furious."
"Sulking."
I glanced at him as I merged with morning traffic.
"If she's really angry?" he said. "You'll never see it. Acts angry? Just that. An act."
"And she's sulking because…"
"Wrong reaction."
"I thought you said she was sulking."
A look, mild exasperation. "Your reaction. To her news."
"Ah. I didn't respond appropriately. She tells me she's uncovered a legendary group of philanthropists who'll presumably pay me very well to avenge horrible crimes, and I should have reacted by, oh, I don't know, kissing her feet and pledging undying devotion."
A small twist of a smile. "That'd have worked."
"So now she's punishing me for my lack of excitement by making me wait."
"Pretty much."
We drove out of the city in silence. Then I said, "I do want to hear about it."
"I know. You will. Just…"
"Be patient. Let her come to me, and when she does, show moderately more interest, enough to satisfy her ego without stroking it."
"Yeah." He ratcheted back the seat, stretching his bad leg. "Probably more than that."
"Give her a stronger reaction, you mean?"
"Nah. Her getting pissy. More than sulking. She's backtracking. Dotting her i's. Crossing her t's."
"About what?"
"This fellowship thing. I questioned it. We demanded proof. Wanted facts. Gonna make damn sure she has them."
"To present a more solid case and avoid the risk of embarrassing herself by admitting she can't back up what she knows. But, naturally, she couldn't just say that, and admit you might be right to question her sources. Instead, she'll blame me, kick me to the curb as an ungrateful bitch, and make me stew for a while, worrying that I've blown a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity while she scrambles to check her facts."
"Pretty much."
I shook my head and adjusted my seat belt. "I know she has a lot to offer, Jack, but I really hate the games. I'm no good at them."
"Wouldn't say that."
"Maybe, but I don't like them."
"I know."
I looked over. "I never get that with you. We have our disagreements and our misunderstandings, but I never get the sense you have a bigger agenda, or that you want anything from me except exactly what you ask for up front. I appreciate that."
He nodded and bent to scratch his foot as I turned on the cruise control.
At eleven, I was slowing the car in front of the house where Destiny Ernst now lived. Or where we hoped she did. This sprawling two-story matched the Troy address where Fenniger said he'd delivered her. Whether Destiny was here remained to be seen.
Fenniger had no reason to lie, but just because he'd brought Destiny here in the dead of night didn't mean she'd stayed. Still, we were dealing with ordinary citizens, the kind of people so far removed from the criminal mindset that if they bought a hot stereo, they'd drive five blocks out of their way to pick it up… but would call the seller using their personal cell phone.
My research had shown that the house was owned by Kenneth and Leslie Keyes, a systems analyst and his advertising executive wife. A childless couple, but still within their childbearing years. A call to Leslie's workplace revealed she'd quit about a month ago, shortly before Sammi's death. Rearranging her life to accommodate her new baby? We couldn't jump to conclusions.
Getting proof wasn't going to be easy. It was a tough neighborhood to stake out. Our small rental, so inconspicuous in an urban setting, stood out here in the land of SUVs, Volvos, and Audis. I pulled in behind some weird SUV station wagon cross, then stretched a map over the steering wheel.
"Can you see the house okay?" I asked without looking up.
"Yeah."
"If anyone walks by, start bickering."
"Bickering?"
"You know. 'I told you to make a left back there.' 'Well, you're the idiot who wouldn't ask for directions.' ' I don't need directions.' "
"Got it."
"We've got about fifteen minutes before someone peering out a window makes us for private investigators. What can you see?"
"Car in the lane," Jack said. "Sedan. Foreign make. Got one of those… baby signs in the back."
"Baby on board?"
"Yeah. Yard's clear. No toys, strollers, shit like that. Got a light on. Looks like – " A pause. "Someone just passed the window. Woman, I think. Probably living room. Where the light is. Upstairs? Got curtains in the left window. Bright yellow. Frilly."
"A nursery… or someone with god-awful decorating tastes."
"Yeah."
He continued to watch.
"So are we going to execute phase two when Quinn gets here?" I asked.
"Yeah. Otherwise? Never gonna be sure."
"Will he be okay with the acting gig?"
"Playing cop? Better be. Seemed fine with it. Anything changes? You're in. Rather not, though."
"It'll work better with you two, and it's better to mix it up now that the Byrony Agency has seen you and me together."
I checked my prepaid cell for the umpteenth time, still hoping we might get a call from the Byrony Agency, with a special adoption offer for Debbie and Wayne Abbott. It was a long shot, but if it panned out, it would be better than the avenues we were pursuing now.