might be able to tell her more. Then she dove back into the Web, trolling for the others. The best we could find was a mention of Russ Belding as the commanding officer on a ship where a sailor had died in a port town. There was some possibility of “responsibility” there, but it would require more in-depth searching. Being an incident that involved the military, that might not be so easy, but Evelyn swore she had connections.

More insurance digging didn’t help prove that theory. Sanchez’s brothers didn’t seem in need of money. Both were married, with decent jobs. The one who’d done time had apparently gone straight. We’d found no sign of another policy for Kozlov.

As for Russ Belding, he had a hundred-thousand-dollar policy, the same one he’d had for decades. I can’t imagine anyone who’s been married for thirty-five years killing off her husband for a hundred grand, just after he’s retired from the navy and ready to spend his twilight years with her. According to Evelyn, though, that was a good reason to kill him.

“Pulled a job for that myself,” she said. “Couple married thirty years. Some”—a dismissive wave—“banking family. Wasn’t about money, though. Having money only meant the broad could afford my fee. He was set to retire and she couldn’t bear the thought of the old coot hanging around all the time, pestering her and messing up her social calendar.”

“So she hired you to kill him?”

“Wanted him popped as he left his retirement dinner. I thought it was symbolic or some shit, but she just wanted to be sure he wasn’t going to change his mind in the middle of his farewell speech. So I told her I’d be in a perch watching through my scope. If she came out with her hat off, I’d withdraw. But she had it on, so…” Evelyn pulled an imaginary trigger. “Permanent retirement.”

I tried to keep my mouth shut. But after a moment I said, “I bet he was really looking forward to enjoying his retirement, after working all his life.”

“If so, then he shouldn’t have stayed married to a woman who’d rather bury him than spend more time together. He was getting something out of that marriage, so he chose to stay in it and it cost him his life. Cold facts for a cold world, Dee. Spouses, children, friends, lovers—they’d all kill you under the right circumstances. Just a matter of finding their price.”

I looked into her eyes, trying to tell whether she meant that or was just spouting more rhetoric, but she turned back to her computer.

“Speaking of murderous families, time to move on to sons of Charles Manson…”

While we’d been at dinner, Evelyn had discovered there were more than a few. She showed me the list, and said she’d already contacted a source she described as a Manson freak. Then we had to declare the evening at an end and, like Jack, rest up for the day to come.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Or, I should say, where I assumed the ceiling would be if I could see it. Evelyn had top-quality blackout blinds, and I’d closed them completely, hoping the darkness might convince my brain it was time for sleep, but so far, all it had done was give my brain time to wander. Naturally it went to the place I’d been trying to keep it from since our discussion.

Justice.

I grew up with a very clear understanding of what that word meant. The concept had been formed at that early age where everything is clearly black and white. Right must triumph. Wrong must be punished.

From the time I was old enough to open a bag of potato chips, I’d played hostess to my father’s monthly poker games. As for whether it was appropriate for me to hear the conversations that went on over those games, I don’t think anyone considered that. They saved the darker talk, the angrier debates, for later, after I’d refilled my last bowl of peanuts and curled up on the recliner. There I’d pretend to be asleep, knowing this was what was expected of me. Eyes closed, I’d listen as the best stories came out, the tales of battles between good and evil, and the knights who fought them.

The beer, rye and Scotch would flow, the hour growing ever later, the importance of the game dwindling as the stories took over. Most times, that’s all it was: stories. But when the anecdotes didn’t have happy endings, the