Chicago, Friday, June 24, 10:06 p.m.
One more drink and he was out of here.
Lincoln Reece nodded to the bartender, an unspoken order for
another of the same. He exhaled a lungful of relief that his
latest assignment was successfully behind him.
There was no greater rush than the one that came with victim
vindication. No one should be allowed to get away with
taking advantage of little old ladies. Particularly not a
man operating under the guise of the Good Book. The three
elderly widows on whose behalf Linc had acted had gotten
back the deeds to their homes, and the unsavory counterfeit
minister who'd done the swindling was behind bars
without bail, awaiting the next step toward prosecution.
The bartender left the glass on the counter and moved on to
the next patron without missing a beat.
Linc took a long swallow as he turned on the bar-stool to
watch the Friday-night crowd. Most nights he was not on
assignment he was here. He liked it here at Hazel's
House. The music was low enough for conversation, not that
he ever talked to anyone. Best of all he could slide deep
into oblivion and walk the three blocks to his
rent-by-the-week room. No one cared who you were or what
your deal was here in Hazel's House.
Unless you dogged out the Cubs or the Bulls.
A table overturned on the other side of the room. Shouting
broke out as bodies collided and fists swung. Linc leaned
back and propped his arms on the counter to watch the show.
A woman hollered that she didn't belong to no man. Ah,
the other reason the occasional brawl broke out in
Hazel's House. Jealousy.
Bouncers swaggered over to clear up the debate. Linc rotated
the stool, turning his back to the ruckus. He didn't
need any trouble tonight. He was here to chill. The last
time he'd let his old cop instincts guide him he'd
spent the night in lockup. His boss had gotten the charges
dropped within mere hours of Linc's call.
Slade Keaton, head of the Equalizers, had a seemingly
endless supply of resources. Linc downed the rest of his
bourbon. Keaton was a decent boss. Linc hadn't enjoyed
anything about a job—and he'd had
several—or about life in general for seven years.
Working as an Equalizer gave Linc the closest thing to
satisfaction he'd experienced in that time. If you could
call existing to work a sense of satisfaction.
Linc laughed, the sound little more than a growl in his
throat. Not living… just existing. Sad. So sad.
"Thought I'd find you in a place like this."
Linc recoiled. What the hell? His bleary gaze cleared
instantly. But his brain reacted a little more slowly. He
blinked to banish what was no doubt an alcohol-induced
hallucination.
The man laughed, near loudly enough to drown out the blues
melting from the speakers mounted in the joint.
"That's priceless." He leaned in close.
"What's it been? Five years?"
Linc gave his head a mental shake as he looked at the man
with the gray hair, matching scraggly beard and laser-beam
blue eyes. Mort Fraley. Enough long-exiled memories abruptly
bombarded Linc to leave him shell-shocked.
Anger rammed his gut. "How'd you find me?" Linc
hadn't seen or spoken to anyone from his old life since
he'd given up on the idea that she might still be alive.
She. He couldn't even bear to think her name,
much less say it out loud.
Mort slid onto the stool next to Linc. He raised a hand to
the bartender, pointed to Linc's glass and held up two
fingers before turning his attention back to Linc. "I
can't believe you asked that question." His eyebrows
reared upward. "I've been a cop for thirty years.
Besides," he said as he picked up one of the two glasses
the bartender dropped off, "I was your first partner. I
taught you everything you know. Finding you was amateur
hour, amigo."
Linc knocked back a long swallow. Didn't do a thing for
the tangle of emotions roiling in his belly. He swiped his
mouth and met his mentor's gaze. "How long've
you been keeping tabs on me?"
"Since the day you hit I-10 and put the City of Angels
in your rearview mirror."
That too-familiar searing pain roared through Linc's
chest. He decided to cut to the chase. "What do you
want?" Linc had moved around a lot the past five years.
He'd landed in Chicago just six months ago. Six weeks
later he'd hired on with Keaton as an Equalizer. L.A.
was a place and time he had no desire to revisit.
Mort contemplated the question for an irritatingly long time
before answering. "I retired last year." He
shrugged. "Finally started to travel the way the wife
has always wanted."
A smile attempted to crack Linc's defensive disposition.
"You been driving a motor home around the country like
one of those old geezers who retire to Palm Springs every
year?"
Mort made a face. "It beats sitting around the house
waiting to die of boredom."
Linc shook off the moment of nostalgia. He didn't deal
with that sentimental stuff anymore. "You two passing
through?"
Mort glanced around the crowd, then turned a deadpan
expression in Linc's direction. "Is there someplace
quiet we can go?"
That face was another blast from the past Linc could have
done without. The impulse to tell his old friend and mentor
to get back in his motor home and hit the road pressed
against his chest. But Linc knew this man…really knew
him. Mort wouldn't have gone to the trouble to find him
if it wasn't important. And he sure wouldn't be
hiding behind that mask he saved for interrogations.
"You dying or something?" The possibility added
another layer of uneasiness to the churning in Linc's gut.
Mort pushed off his stool and threw a bill on the bar to
cover the two drinks. "I saw an all-night diner down the
street."
Linc dropped the cash for his own tab tonight. "I know
the place."
Mort jawed all the way to the diner, catching Linc up on the
old narcotics team, whether he wanted to hear it or not. But
he'd put that life behind him; he wasn't going back
for anything. As if to defy his determination, Linc's
bum leg ached, adding a noticeable hitch to his gait.
The instant they slid into a booth Mort ordered a round of
coffee. Black. This was serious.
"You know the wife always had a thing for country
music." He chuckled before sipping his coffee. "All
I've heard for thirty years is Nashville, Tennessee.
'I want to go to the Opry.'"
The coffee was hot and smelled strong enough to have been
brewed at breakfast that morning. Linc fingered his cup.
"Nothing wrong with having a dream." He'd had
dreams once. Before he'd realized that it was better not
to care. A man had nothing to lose if he owned nothing,
cared about nothing. Especially dreams.
"Nothing at all," Mort agreed. "I figure I owe
it to her for sticking with a narcotics detective for thirty
years."
The abrupt lure of much-needed caffeine got the better of
Linc, and he sucked down a gulp, then gritted his teeth at
the bitterness after all that smooth bourbon.
"Last week," Mort went on, "we drove from Music
City to a little Tennessee town named Blossom, of all
things, outside the nursery capital of the world." He
harrumphed. "Little village cluttered with antique
shops, historic homes and nurseries filled with every sort
of blooming bush and tree you can think of. As you can
imagine, I was in heaven."
A deep, guttural laugh burst from Linc's throat. He
couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed—a
real one, anyway. "I'm surprised you got out alive."
Mort didn't meet Linc's gaze. He stared into the
coffee cup, both palms down on the table.
A choke hold tightened around Linc's throat. Something
was definitely wrong here.
"The wife and I took one of those hokey historic
tours." He shrugged. "You know, where they show you
the oldest houses in town and whatever it is that puts the
place on the map. Like the oldest Holly tree in the country.
It's on the National Register of Historic Places, by the
way. But none of that got my attention."
His instincts thumping like the subwoofers in a drug-dealing
pimp's newest ride, Linc braced. Whispers, images from
seven years ago seeped past the wall he'd built to block
those memories.
Mort looked directly at Linc. "It was at the pink
antebellum house, the Dowe house, that I saw
her."
The urge to run hit Linc hard. He shook his head. "I
don't want to hear this." He held up his hands. They
shook. "I gotta go."
Mort grabbed him by the arm before he could slide from the
booth. "Sit." He nodded to the seat. "Listen."
When Linc hesitated, Mort pressed, "You know me." He
searched Linc's eyes, winced at what he no doubt saw
reflected there. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't
sure."
Linc jerked free of Mort's hold and dropped back into
the booth. He leaned across the table. "My wife is dead.
You're the one who forced me to accept that fact!"
Mort heaved a heavy breath. "I can't argue with the
truth." He nailed Linc with an unwavering stare.
"But I know what I saw and heard."
Her body was never found. But then neither were the remains
of most of the others who died that day. Only two survived.
A thug. And Linc. Not a day had gone by since when Linc
didn't wish he'd died, too. If he weren't such a
damned coward he would have pulled the trigger one of those
mornings when he'd stuck the muzzle of a gun in his
mouth instead of coffee.
"Her face is a little different."
Linc scrubbed at his jaw, stroking the scar that slashed
across his left cheek. "Then you could be wrong."
Not
could be. He
was wrong.
She
was dead. Linc's wife was dead. It had taken two
years for him to face that fact. Then he'd spent the
next five running from the reality.
Mort shook his head. "It's her. The voice was hers.
The way she moved. She goes by Mia Grant. The folks I talked
to said she's lived there for about six years. The whole
town loves her. But not one of them could say where
she'd come from. I checked out the name. There was no
Mia Grant matching her description prior to six years ago."
Linc couldn't do this. "I appreciate that you went
to all this trouble to let me know." He was done here.
If he sat here a second longer he would explode.
"I watched her restoring plaster molding in one of the
houses on the tour."
Every single cell in Linc's body ceased to function.
"Her hands. The way she held the tools." Mort moved
his head side to side again. "It's her."
Lori had been a tough cop. A narcotics detective. One
who'd skipped her way to detective because she had
uncanny instincts and an amazing ability to fall into
character instantly. In her off time she loved driving
around looking for old homes. She'd searched for months
to find the perfect historic home before they'd decided
to buy. A real fixer-upper. They'd hit a wall when it
came to restoring the plaster. Hiring it out would have cost
a small fortune. Lori had set out to master the skill of
restoring plaster and she'd done it so well, her work
had made a California home-builders' magazine.
A dash of hope combined with the agony that was churning
deep inside Linc. He shook his head. What Mort was
suggesting was impossible. "She's dead," Linc
said. If she had survived she would have found a way to come
home. No way would she be hiding out in some small Southern
town. She had loved Linc. She wouldn't do that. His
mentor was clearly growing senile or suffering from dementia.
Mort was the one to throw up his hands this time.
"Believe what you will, but know that I watched and
analyzed her for days before I came here."
Linc wanted to shake him. The man was pulling out all the
stops. "Mort, I—"
"It's her."
Linc shook his head. "Why would she do this?"
The resolution in Mort's eyes held steady. "If you
don't believe me, go see for yourself. What've you
got to lose?"
Nothing. The agonizing truth sank deeper into Linc's
bones. He had lost everything seven years ago. The day his
wife died trying to bring down a major West Coast scumbag,
Linc had, for all intents and purposes, died with her.
"Just go," Mort urged. "Lori's alive."
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