Free Exit Strategy by Kelley Armstrong Page A

commuting distance of Cleveland, small enough that every cop would know all the case details of Leon Kozlov’s murder, and small enough that a stranger could call the police station front desk, ask what time the day shift ended and get an answer without so much as a “who’s asking?”
    There are two kinds of women who could show up in a cop bar and get the guys talking. First, the handcuffs-and-pistols groupies, women who start bar conversations with, “Have you ever shot anyone?” I don’t understand the groupies, so it’s hard to impersonate one. Besides, the guys don’t take such women seriously—not outside the bedroom anyway—and those who are interested will tell them anything to get them there, so the reliability factor is shot. I’d go with type number two. The female cop.
    Evelyn had a cache of contact lenses, but I stuck with the ones Jack bought for me. All the cleaning in the world won’t make me use someone else’s contacts, though I did accept her offer of a new wig. I’m not keen on wearing another person’s headgear, but that platinum blond job had to go, so I’d taken a long-haired, dark brown wig and plaited it back.
    When it comes to disguises, I know all the tricks. What shade of hair color or eye contact color works best on me. How to wear a wig so it doesn’t slide around. Where to add padding so it looks natural. All the cosmetic variations of skin tone, freckles, moles, scars. I’d mastered the nuances, too. Regional accents, altering stance and mannerisms, everything it took to become another person.
    I owe a large part of that to my older brother. As a child, Brad had set his sights on an acting career. Every time our family entertained guests, he’d practiced his craft with a live performance. Being his only sibling meant being recruited into these plays and given multiple roles, so he could concentrate on the lead. He’d even bullied me into taking acting classes and joining the school drama club so my ineptitude wouldn’t ruin his performances. All this ended in ninth grade, when I got a role in the annual school play, and Brad got a place in the chorus. After that, Brad declared himself too mature for home dramas, and Mom declared my acting lessons a waste of money.
     
    I found the bar easily enough. It was what I expected: a dark, decrepit pub with little to recommend it except that its unrelenting dinginess ensured the BMW and Prada crowd was unlikely to wander in and start ordering martinis. And, really, when it comes to a good cop bar, that’s the only qualification that counts.
    When I stepped inside, I paused to let my eyes adjust to the semidark. A blond, beefy rookie at the bar was telling a story loud enough to drown out the television, earning him a few glowers from other patrons, but nothing more, as if they still remembered the day when they’d been up there relaying the tale of their first big takedown. The bar smelled of sweat, aftershave and fried food, with the faint scent of cigarette smoke wafting from the side hall, probably the bathroom—though in a place like this, it was just as likely to be coming from the kitchen.
    I walked to the bar and ordered a beer from a grizzled, mustached bartender. A few sets of eyes followed me, more curious than anything. Lacking the requisite blue eye shadow and gelled-to-the-rafters hairdo, I was unlikely to be mistaken for a groupie but, to avoid any lingering misconceptions, I met each look with a polite, professional nod and took my beer to a booth alongside the bar. Then I pulled a law enforcement magazine from my purse, laid it on the table and began to read.
    I flipped through the magazine, glancing up now and then. Approachable, but not screaming for attention. A trio of fortyish men stood at the bar. Detectives, judging by the department-store suit jackets draped over the back of their stools. When I caught them looking, I favored them with a polite smile. It took only a few minutes before they appeared at my