Made to Be Broken (20 page)

She'd started by impressing me with her knowledge and her vast network of contacts. Then she'd wooed me with offers of vigilante work, and promises of a long, storied, and moneyed career pursuing only the cases that would scratch my itch. I'd played coquette, listening to her offers, but wary of the price tag. Mentor and protégée was no marriage of equals for Evelyn. She'd demand unswerving loyalty – even servitude – and slowly encroach on my regular life until there was nothing left but the job.

I hadn't refused her outright. I knew she'd be useful, but feared I'd end up the one used. What she was offering was exactly what I wanted, and while I felt I had the maturity and stubbornness to keep my life intact while enjoying her jobs, I was still wary.

All the while, Jack had stood to the side, the third party in this proposal, supporting and advising me, while letting Evelyn know that even if I accepted her offer, he wasn't stepping aside.

And now, she was back with something new to tempt me.

"Have you ever heard of the Contrapasso Fellowship, Dee?"

"Ah, fuck."

She shot Jack a glare.

"Contra... ?" I began.

"Contrapasso. It's from Dante's
Inferno"'

"Right," I said. "The punishment fits the crime. The idea that whatever sins you committed will dictate your suffering for eternity. Fortune-tellers walking backward blind. Adulterers stuck together. Sometimes the punishment is ironic, sometimes not."

Evelyn tried to hide her surprise and, maybe, dismay that I wasn't rendered clueless by her literary reference. I'd been taking college courses for a few years, for a diversion, not a degree – at this rate, I'd be fifty before I
got
a degree. I'd read the
Inferno
last year, so it was still fresh in my memory. But if Evelyn wanted to think I spent my free time reading Dante, let her.

"Yes, that's it," she said. "Ultimate justice, you might say, which supposedly is the goal of the Contrapasso Fellowship."

"Goal?" Jack made a rude noise. "The goal is entertainment. It's a story. One of those..." His lips pursed as he searched for the word. "Urban legends."

Evelyn fixed him with a look. "And that means it can't be true?"

He met her gaze. "That'd be the definition of urban legend."

"And it's not true because... ?"

"Because it's not. I've been on the street how long? Never run into this 'Fellowship.' Never met anyone who did. All friend of a friend shit."

"So, having never personally encountered proof, it must clearly not exist?" She turned to me. "Have you noticed this about Jack, Dee? He deals only in tangible fact. If he can't hear it, see it, or touch it, it isn't there. It doesn't matter if it's dead obvious to the rest of the universe. If he can't prove it, it doesn't exist."

I sipped my coffee and waited for her to get back on track.

She threw up her hands. "Why am I asking you? It's like asking the skunk if he's noticed those other black-and-white vermin smell funny."

"I have no idea what this Contrapasso Fellowship is or isn't, but Jack's right. I won't chase rumors. If it exists, great. I'd love to hear about it."

"If it didn't exist, why would I bring it to you?"

"One, to get me chasing a rumor that interests you. Two, it's like the old joke about the guy asking a woman if she'd go to bed with him for a million dollars. You want me to work for you. I say I'm not interested. You offer me something incredible, and I accept it, which proves that I will work for you. You just haven't found my price."

A low rumble from the other end of the love seat. I turned to see Jack laughing.

"Oh, you liked that, didn't you?" Evelyn snapped. "You poison her against me, then get a good chuckle out of it?"

He dismissed her with an eye roll. She scowled, but there was no more anger in it than a mother cuffing her son for being cheeky. Evelyn once called Jack her favorite protégé, and he'd countered by saying he was just the only one still talking to her. I think there was some truth in both. Jack was her best and most successful student. But he was also probably the only one who saw through her, and didn't judge what lay beneath. He said, "I won't feed your ego and I won't take your bullshit, but if you want me to keep coming around, I will." And that was more valuable to Evelyn than the loyalty of any bootlicking sycophant.

I turned to Jack. "What do you know about this Contrapasso Fellowship?"

"Him?" Evelyn squawked. "He doesn't even believe it exists. You're stacking the deck, Dee."

"I want to hear the legend first. Then you can tell me what parts of it you've heard are true. If Jack's willing..."

"Sure." He moved to the edge of his seat and took a muffin from the plate.

"Oh, God, this is going to take forever," Evelyn said. "Let me refill my coffee, and you can call me when he works up the energy to speak in full sentences."

She stood, glancing at Jack, as if still willing to hang around if he showed any signs of getting to the story soon. He took a bite of his muffin and chewed slowly. She stalked off into the kitchen.

Once she was gone, he put the muffin back on the table. "Contrapasso Fellowship? Revenge for hire. Kinda like what Quinn does. Only free."

I knew Quinn didn't always collect a paycheck, but didn't say so – to Jack this would be a mark of incompetence, not integrity. I could point out that Jack himself wasn't collecting a paycheck for this job we were doing, but he'd say it wasn't the same thing.

"Pro bono vigilantism?" I said.

"Anonymous, too. Send them a newspaper clipping? They investigate. Decide whether it deserves attention. Then they pick the punishment. Something fitting the crime."

"They administer their own brand of justice."

"Nah." He propped his injured foot onto Evelyn's glass and silver table. "Judge and jury? Yeah. Executioners? No. Get others to do that. They foot the bill."

"Vigilante philanthropists, then."

"Pretty much. Why? Everyone's got a theory. Rich folks who lost kids. Retired judges watched juries let too many assholes off. Even heard one about it being cops. Steal drug money to finance it."

"So it's bullshit, isn't it?"

"Seems to be." His lips parted again, then he rubbed his mouth.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You were going to say more. You've heard something, haven't you?"

"Nah. Just..." He paused, his gaze studying mine with that quiet intensity that said he was trying to get inside my head. "Hear Evelyn out. If there's anything to it? Check it out. I'll help."

Chapter Thirty-seven

"Well, I blew that," I said as I backed the car from the parking lot.

"Nah."

"Nah? She kicked us out of the house without a word about the Contrapasso Fellowship. She's furious."

"Sulking."

I glanced at him as I merged with morning traffic.

"If she's really angry?" he said. "You'll never see it. Acts angry? Just that. An act."

"And she's sulking because..."

"Wrong reaction."

"I thought you said she was sulking."

A look, mild exasperation.
"Your
reaction. To her news."

"Ah. I didn't respond appropriately. She tells me she's uncovered a legendary group of philanthropists who'll presumably pay me very well to avenge horrible crimes, and I should have reacted by, oh, I don't know, kissing her feet and pledging undying devotion."

A small twist of a smile. "That'd have worked."

"So now she's punishing me for my lack of excitement by making me wait."

"Pretty much."

We drove out of the city in silence. Then I said, "I do want to hear about it."

"I know. You will. Just..."

"Be patient. Let her come to me, and when she does, show moderately more interest, enough to satisfy her ego without stroking it."

"Yeah." He ratcheted back the seat, stretching his bad leg. "Probably more than that."

"Give her a stronger reaction, you mean?"

"Nah. Her getting pissy. More than sulking. She's backtracking. Dotting her i's. Crossing her t's."

"About what?"

"This fellowship thing. I questioned it. We demanded proof. Wanted facts. Gonna make damn sure she has them."

"To present a more solid case and avoid the risk of embarrassing herself by admitting she can't back up what she knows. But, naturally, she couldn't just say that, and admit you might be right to question her sources. Instead, she'll blame me, kick me to the curb as an ungrateful bitch, and make me stew for a while, worrying that I've blown a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity while she scrambles to check her facts."

"Pretty much."

I shook my head and adjusted my seat belt. "I know she has a lot to offer, Jack, but I really hate the games. I'm no good at them."

"Wouldn't say that."

"Maybe, but I don't like them."

"I know."

I looked over. "I never get that with you. We have our disagreements and our misunderstandings, but I never get the sense you have a bigger agenda, or that you want anything from me except exactly what you ask for up front. I appreciate that."

He nodded and bent to scratch his foot as I turned on the cruise control.

* * * *

At eleven, I was slowing the car in front of the house where Destiny Ernst now lived. Or where we hoped she did. This sprawling two-story matched the Troy address where Fenniger said he'd delivered her. Whether Destiny was here remained to be seen.

Fenniger had no reason to lie, but just because he'd brought Destiny here in the dead of night didn't mean she'd stayed. Still, we were dealing with ordinary citizens, the kind of people so far removed from the criminal mindset that if they bought a hot stereo, they'd drive five blocks out of their way to pick it up... but would call the seller using their personal cell phone.

My research had shown that the house was owned by Kenneth and Leslie Keyes, a systems analyst and his advertising executive wife. A childless couple, but still within their childbearing years. A call to Leslie's workplace revealed she'd quit about a month ago, shortly before Sammi's death. Rearranging her life to accommodate her new baby? We couldn't jump to conclusions.

Getting proof wasn't going to be easy. It was a tough neighborhood to stake out. Our small rental, so inconspicuous in an urban setting, stood out here in the land of SUVs, Volvos, and Audis. I pulled in behind some weird SUV station wagon cross, then stretched a map over the steering wheel.

"Can you see the house okay?" I asked without looking up.

"Yeah."

"If anyone walks by, start bickering."

"Bickering?"

"You know. 'I told you to make a left back there.' 'Well, you're the idiot who wouldn't ask for directions.' '
I
don't need directions.' "

"Got it."

"We've got about fifteen minutes before someone peering out a window makes us for private investigators. What can you see?"

"Car in the lane," Jack said. "Sedan. Foreign make. Got one of those... baby signs in the back."

"Baby on board?"

"Yeah. Yard's clear. No toys, strollers, shit like that. Got a light on. Looks like – " A pause. "Someone just passed the window. Woman, I think. Probably living room. Where the light is. Upstairs? Got curtains in the left window. Bright yellow. Frilly."

"A nursery... or someone with god-awful decorating tastes."

"Yeah."

He continued to watch.

"So are we going to execute phase two when Quinn gets here?" I asked.

"Yeah. Otherwise? Never gonna be sure."

"Will he be okay with the acting gig?"

"Playing cop? Better be. Seemed fine with it. Anything changes? You're in. Rather not, though."

"It'll work better with you two, and it's better to mix it up now that the Byrony Agency has seen you and me together."

I checked my prepaid cell for the umpteenth time, still hoping we might get a call from the Byrony Agency, with a special adoption offer for Debbie and Wayne Abbott. It was a long shot, but if it panned out, it would be better than the avenues we were pursuing now.

"Anything?" Jack asked.

"No."

He reached behind the seat, grabbed a parcel he'd picked up at the courier depot, and tossed it onto my lap.

"Are those the expedited goodies from Felix?" I asked.

"Yeah."

I peeked in and pulled out one package.

"Bugs?"

"Yeah. Ever place one?"

"No."

"Want a lesson?"

I smiled. "Please."

We left without seeing any definitive signs of a baby in residence. With only fifteen minutes to stake out the house, we would have been extremely lucky if we had. The cool, dreary, and overcast day wasn't "push the pram around the block" weather. Probably not even "take the baby shopping" weather if you were a new and nervous mom.

Jack took over the driving and went in search of a shopping mall for our bug practice. The Web site for Troy, Michigan, had bragged that it was in the second most prosperous county in the U.S. and, while it was only the twelfth biggest city in the state, it was the second "biggest" for property values. So it was no surprise that when we located a mall, it was high-end. The valet parking gave it away.

We drove right past it before I saw the signs for Saks Fifth Avenue. By then we had to make a left to get back, which sounds a whole lot easier than it was, because we were on a divided highway, which meant the notorious "Michigan left" – to go past the light, make a U-turn in a designated lane, double back, and quickly cross traffic to make a right to where you originally wanted to go.

On a Tuesday afternoon, the mall patrons were mostly Martha Stewart devotees checking out bronze Buddha knickknacks that would look so nice next to their five-thousand-dollar leather sofas. It was a world removed from my reality and, from the way Jack looked at the thousand-dollar Mont Blanc pens – as if searching for the button that would release a cache of uncut diamonds – it was a
universe
away from his. It was, however, the perfect place to play "hide the covert listening device."

While neither of us looked like anyone who'd pocket a thousand-dollar pen, we didn't look likely to buy one, either, so while salespeople weren't watching our every move, we did stand out. Therein lay the challenge.

Still, that wasn't enough for Jack. He had to up the ante by turning it into a real game with dares and rules, the basic premise being that one of us would pick an increasingly difficult location, then the other would lay the bug, retreat, listen, then recover it.

We went about ten rounds. After I managed to retrieve it from the men's washroom, Jack declared my training was complete... the declaration roughly coinciding with the moment that I started eyeing the Victoria's Secret changing rooms for his turn.

* * * *

At three, I was in our hotel room, taking a much-needed bath. When I got out, I realized I'd forgotten to bring my clothes into the bathroom. I was going to have to get used to these coed living arrangements again. Fortunately, I was alone, Jack having left on a supply run.

So, towel haphazardly wrapped around me, I stepped from the bathroom and caught a glimpse of a tall man in a ball cap. I backpedaled into the bathroom, looking for a weapon, gaze settling on a can of hair spray.

"Dee," Quinn called.

"Jesus Christ," I said, peeking out. "How the hell did you – ?"

He brandished a key card. "I passed Jack as he was leaving. He gave me this, muttered 212, and drove off."

I put the hair spray back on the counter. He stayed there, a foot from the bathroom door, his gaze traveling down me as I realized how small the towel was. It covered everything it needed to cover, but not by much. From his expression, though, he didn't mind. I could have closed the door. Or asked him to step outside while I got my clothes. But I didn't.

After this morning, I understood what was keeping me from taking what Quinn was offering. I'd been holding out hope that somehow I'd missed the signs and Jack felt the same way I did, and if I opened the door to Quinn, I'd be slamming it on Jack.

Well, that door had been slammed. And not by me.

With that possibility gone, I felt once again a shuddering sense of relief. Now I could take what both men were offering, and be happy with it.

Quinn stepped toward me, then leaned against the bathroom doorway, as if waiting permission to cross the threshold. Waiting for me to make the first move. And I wanted to make that move. Yet I stood there, clutching my towel, looking as sexy as a headlight-stunned deer.

I'd read about things like this – meeting your lover in a towel, doing a little tease – and it always sounded sexy and fun. I could certainly see how a guy might appreciate it. But it was like reading about the customs of another culture – I had no idea how to proceed.

Fortunately, the fact that I hadn't run away yet was encouragement enough for Quinn. He covered those last few steps slowly, giving me every opportunity to say no. Then he stopped in front of me, fingers running down the edge of the towel.

"Are you done with your shower?" he asked. "If you aren't, I've had a very long drive. I'm sure I could use one."

"Actually, I had a bath." As the words came out, I mentally smacked myself. Bad enough I didn't know the steps to a dance of seduction. Surely I could follow someone else's lead. I stepped closer, moving against him as I looked up. "But a shower would be nice."

I lifted on tiptoes to kiss him, but he motioned for me to wait. Then he peeled off his cap and wig and turned away, taking out and discarding his contacts. When he turned back, he looked like he had at the lodge, the dark blond brush cut and light green eyes.

"Better?" he said.

"Much."

I reached for the back of his head, his short hair bristling against my fingers, and pulled him down into a kiss. He tried to swing me against the wall, but my foot slipped on the wet floor. He caught me, but awkwardly, and ended up on one knee, holding me before I hit the floor.

"Um, okay..." He struggled not to laugh, cheeks coloring. "So much for graceful."

"The trick is to pretend this is where you were heading the whole time."

I wriggled from his grasp and lowered myself to the floor, then wrapped my hands around the front of his shirt and pulled him down.

His hands went to my thighs, shoving the towel up over my hips as he pushed between my legs. I undid the buttons on his shirt and slid my hands over his chest, feeling his muscles move. I broke the kiss, and traced a trail down his neck with my lips, tasting him, teeth grazing his skin as he arched up, grabbing my hips and thrusting.

He slid his hand between us, finding the edge of the towel. Wriggling to give him room to pull it off, I knocked over the wastebasket. He gallantly pretended not to notice, and peeled the towel –

The doorway darkened, a figure wheeling in, gun barrel swinging my way. I let out a yelp. Jack stood there, gun drawn, eyes widening, lips forming a silent "Fuck," as he tore his gaze away.

"Jesus-fucking-Christ," Quinn swore, scrambling to cover me as I squirmed from under him. "How the hell – ? I thought you gave me your key card."

"Gave you Dee's," Jack said. "Forgot to leave it. I said that."

"You
muttered
something. It's hard enough to figure out what the hell you mean even when I
can
hear you – "

"Can I get dressed now?" I said as I scrambled up, Quinn moving in to block me while I pulled the towel into place. "Please?"

"And can you lower that gun now?" Quinn said. "Please?"

Jack had looked away, but kept the gun poised, aimed at a spot where Quinn would probably rather not be shot. Jack turned, careful to keep his gaze away from me. He glanced at the gun. Glanced at Quinn. Paused. Then hol-stered it.

"Outside," he said. "Let Dee dress."