“With cops, I’m better at making friends,” I said, turning as Jack slid from a pickup truck’s shadow. “What happened to picking you up at the coffee shop when I was done?”

“Drank enough coffee.”

He started heading toward the passenger door, but I pulled him to a stop and handed him the keys.

“And I drank enough beer.”

I told him what I’d learned.

“I’m betting the rumors aren’t just rumors,” I said. “Maybe not the Russian mob, but Kozlov’s record does scream organized crime. Sporadic arrests, never convicted, then after one conviction, a downhill slide.”

“Washed their hands of him,” Jack said.

“But he may have earned enough clout for them to hire a lawyer for that murder charge. Either way, I shouldn’t be seen poking around Norfolk asking more questions, so maybe you—”

“Put Evelyn on it. We have an appointment.”

“Who—?”

“Called Quinn, too. He’s not talking.”

Jack’s voice and expression were passive, but his hands tightened on the steering wheel as he turned the corner.

“Not talking…? Oh, you mean about the Manson connection.”

“Yeah. Confirmed it. Won’t explain it. Protecting his sources.”

I stared out at the passing streetlights. “This Quinn. He was a cop, too, wasn’t he? Had to be, if he’s your go-to guy for police intel.”

“Not was. Is.”

Cold blasted down my spine as I swiveled to face Jack. “Jack, don’t tell me I’m working with—”

“You aren’t. That’s why.” He paused. “One reason.”

“For not meeting the others, you mean.”

“Yeah. Quinn’s legit. Not working undercover. But you two meeting?” He shrugged. “That cop at the bar? Fine. More police contact? Not if we can help it.”

“In case he recognizes me?”

Jack nodded. It took me a moment to unclog my throat and answer.

“It made national news at home.” My voice sounded odd. Like a newscaster reciting a story that had long since lost emotional impact. “And, yes, it was picked up in the States. But what makes headlines in Canada isn’t a big deal down here. No American cop would have recognized me a month later, and it’s been over six years.”

“That’s what I figured.”

I turned back to staring out the window, into the night. The distant wail of a police siren rose above the rumble of the car. I tracked the sound, wondering if it was coming or going. Unlike everyone else on the highway, I wasn’t glancing in the side mirror or checking the speedometer. For me, the wail of a siren evoked memories of home and childhood, the best and most comforting of both.