Free Exit Strategy by Kelley Armstrong Page B

booth.
    The first one, a beefy redhead, gestured at the magazine. “What force?”
    He injected a healthy dose of friendly curiosity in the question, but I knew it was more test than interest.
    “OPP,” I said, closing the magazine. “Ontario Provincial Police.”
    He nodded. I had details at the ready, but he didn’t ask. Canada was only a few hours’ drive north, but it might as well be Iceland, for all he cared.
    “Mark Waters,” he said, extending a hand.
    I smiled and shook his hand. “Jenna Andrews.”
    The other two men introduced themselves as Chris Doyle and Brad Cox. Good small-town cop names, WASP-bland. They reflected their names—solid, average-looking guys, both with short brown hair and blue eyes, both bloodshot, either from overwork or overdrinking. For Cox, I was betting the latter. He was fast developing the watery eyes and sloppy gut of a cop who had a bottle stuffed in his locker and another in the glove box of his car.
    Doyle’s bloodshot eyes didn’t look like anything a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure, but from the strain lines around his mouth, I doubted he’d be getting that rest anytime soon. It was him I looked at when I waved at the opposite bench and invited the men to join me. Waters, the ring-leader, claimed the seat beside me. Doyle slid into the opposite side, Cox beside him.
    “Just passing through?” Waters asked.
    “Visiting some cousins in Cleveland,” I said. “When the family togetherness started getting to me, this seemed like a good place to escape to.”
    Waters laughed. “They won’t follow you here, that’s for sure. Pretty quiet tonight…though it sure wasn’t like that last week.”
    He waited, a smug half-smile on his lips, as if his city’s recent claim to infamy was a personal accomplishment.
    “The Helter Skelter killing.” I shook my head. “Helluva thing.”
    Waters’s lips parted, needing only a word of encouragement to start expounding on the case.
    “Bet the TV crews descended like vultures on roadkill, eh?” I said. “We had a serial killer up north, passed through our town, grabbed a girl. You couldn’t walk down the street without having a microphone shoved in your face.”
    Cox leaned across the table. “I thought you Canucks didn’t have serial killers.”
    “Everyone has serial killers these days,” Doyle said, his voice soft. He lifted his gaze to mine. “You’ve got one big case up there now, don’t you? Out west?”
    “The pig farmer,” I said with a nod. “Gave some of the biggest parties around. Lots of hookers came. Not all of them went home.”
    “What’s this?” Waters said.
    Fortunately, this was one case I did know about. Although there was a publication ban, Lucy and I had discussed it on the weekend. She had a friend in Port Coquitlam who’d filled her in on the details, which she’d passed on to me, and which I now passed along to these guys, solidifying my credibility.
    Doyle asked a few questions, and I focused my attention on him, leaning his way, making plenty of eye contact. This was the guy I wanted to talk to. Part of that had to do with the wedding ring on his finger—an easy excuse if he expected more than a friendly chat. And part of it was that if I had no other agenda in mind, this would be my choice, not a blowhard like Waters who probably wore his gun to bed, or a cop like Cox who’d surrendered to the bottle. I wanted the one who still cared enough to lose sleep over his cases.
    After a few minutes, Waters seemed to notice the way the tide was turning. He play-punched Doyle’s arm.
    “We’ll be at the bar,” he said, and jerked his head at Cox.
    Doyle watched them go, then looked back at me. Uncertain, but not uninterested, as if it had been a long time since he’d been left alone with a woman in a bar, and he didn’t quite remember what to do next. Before I could say something, he grabbed my empty glass.
    “Can I get you a refill?”
    I nodded. “Miller,