Broken (51 page)

BOOK: Broken

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As I told myself this, the agent manning my booth waved the vehicle in front of me over to the search area. It was a minivan driven by a white-haired woman who could barely see over the steering wheel. I was doomed. I assessed my chances of jumping into another line, where the agent might be in a better mood. Impossible. Nothing says smuggler like lane-jumping.

I removed my sunglasses and pulled up to the booth.

The agent peered down from his chair. “Destination?”

“Heading home,” I said. “Hamilton.”

I lifted my ID, but didn’t hand it to him. Prepared, but not overeager.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Buffalo.”

“Purpose?”

“Shopping trip.”

“Length of stay?”

“Since Tuesday. Three days.”

The agent waved away my receipts, but did accept the proffered driver’s license. He looked at it, looked at me, looked back at it. It
was
my photo. A few years old but, hell, the last time I’d changed my hairstyle was in high school. I didn’t exactly ride the cutting edge of fashion.

“Passport?” he asked.

“Never had any use for one, I’m afraid,” I said. “This is about as far from home as I get.” I dug into my purse and pulled out three other pieces of fake ID. “I have a library card, my health card, Social Insurance Number…”

I held them up. The agent lifted his hand to wave the cards away, then stopped. The wordless mumbling of a distant radio announcer turned to English.

“—fifth victim of the Helter Skelter killer,” the DJ said.

“Sorry,” I murmured, and reached for my radio volume, only to find it already off.

The agent didn’t hear me. He’d turned his full attention to the radio, which seemed to be coming from the truck on the other side of the booth. As the announcer continued, in every booth, every car, the occupants seemed locked in a collective pause, listening.

“Police are searching for a suspect seen in the vicinity. The suspect is believed to be a white male…”

I exhaled so hard I missed the rest of the description.

“Although police are treating Dean Moretti’s death as a homicide, they are dismissing rumors that he was the Helter Skelter Killer’s fifth victim. Yet speculation continues to mount after a witness at the scene claimed to have seen the killer’s signature…”

The announcer’s voice faded as the truck pulled away. As the world around us shifted into drive, the agent leaned out from his booth to check the back seat, gaze traveling over the crunched up drive-through bag. I’d had to grit my teeth every time I’d glanced in the rearview mirror and seen it, but a spotless car can seem as suspicious as one piled hip-high in trash.

I held my breath and waited for him to tell me to pull over.

“Have a nice day,” he said, and handed me my fake license.

I nodded, drove to the garbage can by the currency exchange booth and threw out the fast-food bag.

The ten o’clock news on CBC brought word of the Moretti case.

“It is expected that police will provide a description of the man wanted in connection with yesterday’s subway murder. Authorities stress that the man is wanted only for questioning. He is not considered a suspect, but police believe he may have witnessed…”

Uh-huh. Amazing how that “wanted for questioning” line actually works. I’ve known perps who’ve shown up at the station, thinking they’re being smart, then been genuinely shocked when the interview turns out to be an interrogation.

Unless they really
were
looking for a witness…What if the “male suspect” being sought was really a witness, meaning someone had seen me shoot Moretti? No. It had been a good hit, a clean hit. No second-guessing allowed. Not now.

The newscaster continued, “Yesterday’s subway killing is believed to be the fifth in a series of murders that began two weeks ago.”

Okay, here it comes. The recap. I turned up the volume another notch.

“The last confirmed victim was sixty-eight-year-old Mary Lee, who was found strangled in her Atlanta convenience store yesterday morning. Again, we will bring you details from the press conference as they become available. Up next, a panel discussion on the problems with health care in this country…”

I whacked the volume button so hard it flew off and rolled under my feet.

So much for a decent recap.

Four killings in two weeks, in different states, seemed more like a cross-country spree killer than a serial killer. How were the police connecting the murders? Why would they think the hit on Moretti was part of the series? An elderly woman strangled in her shop and a Mafioso punk killed in a subway? How did you connect those?

I spun the radio dial, searching for more information, but, for once, the media was silent.

In Peterborough, I stopped at a storage shed I rented under another name and dropped off my subcompact work-mobile. A few blocks away, I picked up my regular wheels, an ancient Ford pickup. Then I left the city and drove north until the fall foliage ceased being jaw-droppingly spectacular and became merely monotonous. Ontario cottage country. My year-round home.

I slowed near a roughhewn sign proclaiming
Red Oak Lodge: No Vacancy
. Well, that was a nice surprise. This time of year, the lodge was rarely at more than half-occupancy, even on weekends. Not that the lodge would make me rich anytime soon. It had yet to break even. In fact, my contract work with the Tomassinis was the only thing that kept it open, and there was only so far into the red a place could go before Revenue Canada would wonder why you hadn’t declared bankruptcy.

Three years ago, I
had
almost declared bankruptcy, hanging on for months fueled by nearly irrational desperation. I’d destroyed my life once. To rebuild it only to lose it again…? I didn’t know if I was that strong. When that first job offer from the Tomassinis came, under circumstances I can only chalk up to fate, I took it, and the lodge and I survived.

I signaled my turn. No one was behind me, but I still signaled. It’s the law.

Before I could steer into the lane, the roar of tires accelerating on dirt sounded behind me. I glanced in my rearview mirror to see a car pulling out to pass me. A small car, which around here meant tourists. I shook my head. Why come up for the autumn colors if you’re not going to slow down enough to see them?

As the car zoomed up beside mine, gravel clinked against my fender. I raised my hand—my whole hand, not just my middle finger. Being semi-dependent on tourists for your livelihood means you can’t afford to make obscene gestures, no matter how justifiable.

In mid-wave, I caught a glimpse of the driver. Dark-haired. Male. Features shaded into near-obscurity by the tinted glass, but the shape of his face familiar enough to warrant a double-take. The man leaned toward the window, so I could see him a little better.

“Jack?” I mouthed.

He nodded. I stopped the truck, but he’d already pulled away, message conveyed. He wanted to talk to me, but no such conversation would take place until the sun set.

Jack. In the world of professional killers, there are a million shades of mysterious. In my own zeal for secrecy, I’d be considered borderline paranoid. Compared to Jack, though, I might as well be advertising in the Yellow Pages with a photo. In the past two years, Jack had visited me over a dozen times and I’d never seen him in daylight. If he wanted to visit, he’d phone pretending to be my brother, Brad, which worked out well, since Brad himself last called me in 1999.

For Jack to just show up meant something was wrong, and I was sure that “something” had to do with the Moretti hit.