“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.
I told Emma I was taking off again. Then we dealt with the body and went back to the lodge to pack. By the time I came down the stairs, half an hour later, Jack was waiting in the car. I flew out the lodge door, flung my bag into the trunk, and settled into the passenger seat with a sigh.
Jack said, “Look like you ran a marathon.”
“I got a call just as I went to pack.”
“Wasn’t reporters, was it?” he asked as he pulled from the lodge lane.
“Believe me, I wouldn’t have held you up for that. It was one of my cousins.”
“You guys keep in touch?”
I fastened my seat belt. “We do. I’m still in contact with most of my extended family. It’s the immediate family that doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
Jack made a noise in his throat. I’d barely spoken to my mother since she remarried and moved to the States. Same with my brother. There was no precipitating fight, no ongoing feud. We just drifted apart, and the greater the physical distance, the less need for contact. I think we all embraced that excuse. My mother had never made any effort to know me, even as a child. Nor had Brad. Dad had been my real family, and he’d died before the Wayne Franco incident.
I continued, “I still see Neil a few times a year for dinner, and since his divorce, he’s been coming up to the lodge with friends. He lives in Burlington, so it isn’t too far.”
“Between Toronto and Buffalo. Right?”
I nodded. “Which is a segue to a question. Would you mind if we stopped in? He was at the station when I escaped from Aldrich, and he stayed with me while my dad and uncle went back for Amy. He was young, but he was family, which means he’d know . . . whatever there is to know.”
“About you. The rape.”
I flinched at the word. I tried to avoid it myself. I talked about “what happened” or “what Aldrich did.” I didn’t say the word. That was, I think, part of the problem. Use euphemisms and not only did it avoid the ugly reality of what happened, but it diminished Aldrich’s culpability. He hadn’t raped me. He’d just . . . done something.
“I want to understand what happened,” I said. “Did Neil know? Did I tell anyone? Why wasn’t Aldrich charged? How did I get raped and spend twenty years not knowing? Maybe he can fill in some of the blanks, because there are a whole lot of blanks.”
“Just tell me where to go.”
CHAPTER 20
I called Neil to warn him I was coming. It was past one when I rang his doorbell. It was the same bungalow I’d visited for the past fifteen years. He’d gotten it in the divorce. His ex had a McMansion in the suburbs with their two kids and her new husband. Fifteen years married to a vice cop had added up to too many nights when she knew he was out on a case and didn’t know a damned thing about it except that it almost certainly involved drugs and guns and all kinds of shit that ate away at him and left her jumping every time the phone or the doorbell rang. My cousin loved his career, and his career made her fall out of love with him. It happens. Too often.
The last time I’d seen him he’d been carrying some divorce-stress weight, but that was gone now. Maybe a sign he’d met someone. Or maybe just a sign he was trying. It was good to see.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey yourself.” He swung open the door. When I stepped in, he gave me a hug. Then he glanced over my shoulder. “You brought company?”
“A friend. We’re driving down to Buffalo for the weekend.”
“Would your friend like to come in?”
“He’s fine.”
I waved to Jack—for Neil’s sake, so he didn’t think I was being rude. Then Neil led me past the living room and into the kitchen. Stafford tradition. The living room is for guests; the kitchen is for family.
We chatted for a while. That, too, was tradition. A Stafford had to be polite and friendly, even with family. So we drank coffee and ate Oreos and chatted until talk turned to Aldrich.
“I don’t want to give that son of a bitch any due,” Neil said. “But I’m glad he confessed before he went. It makes it easier.”
“It does.”
“Have you heard from your mom?”
“Nope.”
He swore under his breath.
“Last I knew she was in Arizona,” I said. “And Brad was in New York doing some off-Broadway play.”
“Off-off-off Broadway, you mean.”
I quirked a smile. “Yeah.”
“You’re doing well, though. The lodge is getting bigger and fancier every time I’m there. You’ve got a dog. Got a friend.” He nodded in the direction of the driveway.
I laughed. “He’s not that kind of friend.”
“But you were seeing someone, weren’t you? Last time we spoke.”
“Yep. Last time we spoke.”
“Damn. I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “I’m fine. And you? Anyone special?”
“Working on it.”
“Good.” I cleared my throat. “As I said on the phone, I want to ask you a few things about Aldrich. About the case. His death is bringing it back and I just . . . I have some questions.”
“About all the ways we monumentally fucked up?”
“Of course not.” I met his gaze. “You know I wouldn’t do that.”
“Yeah, sorry. It still stings, obviously, and this vindication helps, but it’s not enough.” He reached for another cookie. “What do you want to know?”
“What happened to me.”
His hand stopped. It was just a momentary pause before he picked up the cookie, but it was enough.
“You did know,” I said.
He set the cookie, untouched, on his plate. Waiting to be sure we were talking about the same thing.
“I’ve had suspicions for a while,” I said. “Bad dreams. Confusing memories. Then this news hit and I saw his face online and it . . . I remembered. Amy wasn’t the only one Drew Aldrich raped.”