Made to Be Broken (24 page)

Chapter Forty-four

I set out, feet smacking the pavement, trying to jar free the ball of rage crystallizing in my gut.

Evelyn had set me up. This was a real hit that had nothing to do with the adoption murders.

I forced myself to consider the possibility it was a mix-up, that Honcho said he had a job for her new protégé and she'd jumped to the conclusion it was
"the
job." But Evelyn would never be that sloppy. Oh, I was sure she'd
claim
a mix-up, but Honcho had already said the "job" he had in mind was long-term, serial hits, with re-con and researching work. This was not that job.

Could Honcho have tricked Evelyn? Tossed her protégé a separate hit to test me while he worked out the other one? And risk pissing off one of the biggest names in the business? Never.

Evelyn had set me up.

I thought I was a real hitman? Well, here was a real hit. And what was I going to do about it? Run crying to Jack? If I even mentioned it to him, he'd do it for me. How she'd laugh at that – the ultimate proof that I was a wannabe hiding behind the big guns. A little girl letting the men do her dirty work.

I inhaled the icy air, feeling it scorch my lungs and gulping more, dowsing the rage.

Evelyn set me up to prove her point. Now what the hell was I going to do about it?

Would I kill an unknown mark to prove I was a badass hitman? I rubbed my face and swallowed more cold air. I
wasn't
a badass hitman. Never claimed to be. Never wanted to be. What was wrong with being what I was? If Evelyn despised me for it, why did I care?

I didn't care enough to prove her wrong. But to let Jack kill someone so I could keep my hands clean? My stomach churned with disgust.

What was the alternative, though? Refuse the hit? Evelyn would never let me back out and tarnish her reputation.

Again, what was the alternative? I did it or I didn't. Kill an innocent –

Maybe he wasn't so innocent?

I shivered. So that's how I was going to play this? Tell myself someone wanted this guy dead so he'd probably committed a crime?

I took a slow, deep breath, clearing my head. I couldn't decide anything in the next five minutes. I'd get the details, investigate, and hope an answer would come – fast.

Back at the park, the client was off the phone and checking his watch with little lip purses of irritation as if I was the one now keeping him waiting. As I strolled over, he cast a pointed glance my way.

"My wife expects me home by six and I have an hour commute."

"Really? Then I'd suggest you don't answer your phone again. Actually, in general, I'd suggest you don't answer it again."

I smiled, but something in that smile made him inch back, perhaps reconsidering the wisdom of treating a contract killer in the same way he'd treat a filing clerk temp.

"I presume you have a name for me?"

"I have an address and a photo. That's all you need."

His inflection turned the last words into a question, though I knew that wasn't what he'd intended, and I considered pushing the matter, but his lips were pursed, prissily, like an IRS flunky questioning a mobster's tax return. Act tough and he might back down... or he might get his back up. While I longed to hold the upper hand, if he had the address and my mark was the lone occupant, getting a name should be easy enough.

"Please tell me you at least have his schedule," I said.

"What?"

"If you want it done tonight, that means I don't have time for surveillance, meaning I can't get a feel for his daily routine."

"I want him killed at home, in his bed. He's in town, so he'll be there."

"All right, but understand that if he
isn't
there, in his own bed, alone, I can't do it. If I know his schedule, I can follow him from his workplace and ensure – "

"No, he'll be home. Alone. He doesn't have a girlfriend."

I thought of pointing out that this didn't preclude nighttime companionship, but the twitching of his lips warned me I was pushing him past nervousness into anxiety.

"So, presuming he's at home and alone – "

"He will be."

I met his gaze. "Please stop interrupting me. Now, presuming he's there, you want him eliminated, using a method of my choosing – "

"I need the house – " He stopped, flushing. "I'm sorry. I didn't meant to interrupt, but this is critically important. I need the house torched."

"Torched?"

"Burned to the ground, with him in it."

I stared at him until he wriggled in his seat like a three-year-old needing to go potty. "That's a joke, right?"

"Of course not." His voice started squeaking again. "I have very specific requirements and I'm paying a lot of money to get what I want."

"Did you clear this with Honcho?"

His mouth set in that prissy line. "I don't need to tell him the details."

"Because he presumes you have the sense to request something that can actually be done."

"It can be done. I've heard – "

"Even with notice, I can't burn a house 'to the ground.' Ignoring that small fact, though, you're asking for an elaborate scenario that will take time and research. I don't go to a job prepared to honor all possible requests. I'm a hired killer, not the Piano Man." I paused, as if considering. "But if you give me a few days..."

"It has to be tonight."

Damn.

He went on. "Do it however you need to, but you must torch the place."

"And by 'torch the place,' do you still mean 'burn it to the ground,' because I don't think you're following me on that one. It can't be done."

"Why not?"

I sucked in a groan. This was like being back in my cop days, dealing with an irate citizen, accusing me of laziness and incompetence because I wasn't combing his BMW for hairs, prints, and DNA after someone smashed the window and swiped the laptop he'd left on the seat.

"Burning a house 'to the ground' takes an incredible amount of work, material, and, most important, time. It cannot be done in a residential neighborhood. The minute someone sees smoke, they're calling the fire department. I'm presuming you want something destroyed, so let's do this the easy way – tell me what you want removed."

That prissy line again, but before he could refuse, I held up my hand.

"I'm not asking what information you need destroyed, just what items I'll find them on. Files? Com puter drives? CD?"

It took another ten minutes of wrangling before he finally agreed that torching the entire house might not be necessary. Then he handed me the photo and address, plus a contact number I was to call when I'd finished, so I could deliver the "proof."

I walked for a block, sloughing off the "hardened killer" facade and sliding back into myself. Then I called Quinn.

"Hey there," I said, hoping the poor connection would account for any tremor in my voice. "How are you guys holding up? Both still alive?"

"So far, though I've been on blind dates that were more comfortable. Fifty-seven minutes of awkward silence ... and yes, I was counting."

"I take it Jack's not there right now?"

"He escaped about ten minutes ago, claiming he needed a cigarette, but he left his jacket behind, with the pack in it. Do you need him?" The scrape of chair legs against a hard floor. "I can probably track – "

"No," I said quickly, then hoped it wasn't too quickly. "I was just calling to check in and say I'm not coming back just yet. You guys can take off, and I'll catch up with you later."

"Something wrong?"

"Nothing serious. Seems I sprouted a tail."

"Shit."

"I'm not worried. Someone's just being careful, checking out the new hire."

He started giving me tips on how to lose a tail, which only made the lie cut deeper. I let him go on for a minute, then pushed in with, "Actually, I'm thinking maybe I should play this out. Let him follow me and see I'm just doing my research, as expected."

"Anything we can help with?"

"Maybe later. For now, I've got it covered. I'm going to shut off my phone, though, just in case. You guys can go your separate ways, get some dinner, relax. I'll call you..." I paused as if checking my watch and working out the timing. "Around nine, and we'll see how things are going then."

"Oh, speaking of calls, you got one – on the cell number you gave that agency. Jack took it. A guy there wants to speak to you two as soon as possible. It sounded like they took the bait."

Great. If only they'd done that a few hours ago...

"Dee? Still there?"

"Um, yes. Sorry. So what did Jack do?"

"He took the name and number. He said it wasn't the guy you two talked to, but it's one of the employees. Alex... Andrew... Anyway, we're going to check out his employee record again when we get back."

"Go do that then. I'm not sure how well this will play out. We may still need to make that appointment."

"All right. We'll wait for your call. Take care of yourself. If you need anything... ?"

"I'll let you know."

There was no logical reason to turn off my phone if I was being tailed, and I only hoped they'd presume I thought it best and not question that. If I left it on, Jack would call the minute he got the message, and I'd never fool him as easily as I had Quinn. So off it went and, with it, my safety net disappeared.

Chapter Forty-five

I was reasonably sure I wasn't going to find evidence that my mark was an unpunished criminal I could justify killing. My client wanted him dead ASAP and all files in the house destroyed. That almost certainly meant the mark's only crime was having information the client didn't want getting out.

I kept telling myself there had to be a solution to this dilemma and, given time, I'd find it. But I suspected there were no easy answers – just tough decisions.

Where did I draw the line? What crimes did someone need to commit before I could justify taking a life? Where was the point where I could pull the trigger, and walk away with a clean conscience?

If I discovered my mark had an unrelated history of pedophilia but had apparently "reformed," could I kill him and tell myself he deserved it for the lives he'd ruined? What if he was a white-collar con man, bilking people of their life savings with shady investment schemes?

Where did I draw the line?

Would I know when I was about to cross it? Or was that something I wouldn't realize until I had?

These thoughts consumed me as I found Internet access and conducted a search on the address, my mind only partly aware of what I was doing, the rest snaking down these dark tunnels, balking at every shadowy corner, ready to turn and run, leave the question as I liked it best: unanswered.

I'd never had to consider where that line lay. The Tomassinis only gave me contracts I could fulfill with a clear conscience. That was purely good business. They knew my limits, and to offer me an unsuitable job once would soil our working relationship.

So if I'd never had to question where the line was, I hadn't been about to hunt for it as a purely intellectual exercise. What I did – killing thugs for money – was best left as unexamined as possible, those vigilante impulses undefined, the very word making my skin creep, gut-level denial rising.

Quinn had the impulse worked out, had probably examined every facet of it until he understood what he did, why he did it, and how far he'd go. Had he ever crossed his line and, if so, how did he get back? Could you ever get back? Or, once crossed, did the line blur, move, fade?

Would it make any difference, hearing Quinn's experience? He wasn't me. He couldn't help me find my line or know what would happen if I crossed it.

Finally, with great effort, I put those thoughts aside. Whatever decision I made, I wouldn't be able to make it until I had some answers.

Getting a name from an address wasn't as tough as it should be. In about fifteen minutes, I had it. Andrew Payne. As I stared at it, I cursed myself for ten kinds of idiot, and thanked the heavens I'd insisted on having solid facts before taking action. Otherwise, I'd have made a first-class fool of myself, damaged my credibility with Quinn and my friendship with Jack, accusing Evelyn of double-crossing me when, on seeing that name, I realized she'd done no such thing.

Andrew Payne. Thirty-nine. An unfinished bachelor's degree in sociology, followed by a college diploma in social work. Divorced three years. Owned his current residence. Made fifty-five thousand a year. And no, I didn't get all this with his address. It came from his employment file... the one I'd read last night.

Payne worked for the Byrony Agency. He was the one employee we hadn't seen Monday. My client – while he fit that "middle-aged pencil pusher" profile of two of the Byrony employees – was neither of them. So who was he? Why did he want Payne dead?

I could come up with a logical scenario. My client
was
Fenniger's contact. He worked for the agency, in a contract position, doing their dirty work, which now involved getting rid of an employee.

Quinn said the man who called Jack wanting to meet us was a Byrony Agency employee. Alex or Andrew, he'd said. Andrew Payne was the only employee with an A name.

While it was tempting to jump to the conclusion that Payne was in on the scheme and about to offer us a baby through it, that wasn't the only explanation. He could have found out about it and was calling to warn us. If so, that would be a good reason why my contact wanted him dead.

I needed to know more. And the only way to get answers was to follow through on the job.

I called Quinn at eight-thirty and, to my relief, found him alone. I told him that my tail seemed to have disappeared, but I was wary of leading anyone back to them. Was everything okay? Jack had grumbled about my disappearing act, but nothing more.

He confirmed that the man who called was Andrew Payne. He'd only said he wanted to meet us, giving no hint about the reason, so both my theories were still in play.

They'd spent the evening investigating Payne and the other agency employees and clients, with Jack doing the legwork while Quinn and Evelyn worked their magic online and by phone. Quinn told me what they'd learned, but while some of it would have helped hours ago, none of it mattered now.

I claimed exhaustion from two nights with little sleep. I said I'd rented a motel room to convince my tail I was hunkering down, and I really was going to take that nap, crashing for a few hours, then coming back before morning.

At 11:20, after watching the news, Andrew Payne went upstairs, used the bathroom, and crawled into bed. At 12:10 he awoke to a noise, blinking at what looked like a person sitting in the corner chair where he'd laid his pants. At 12:12 his eyes adjusted enough to see the gun pointing at him, and he let out a yelp, skittering backward across the mattress.

"Stop," I said.

He did.

A moment's silence, then he asked, "What do you want?"

"Well, I'd probably ask you to stop reaching under the other side of the mattress, except, if you look closely, you might notice this gun – " I waggled it. " – looks familiar. You don't mind if I borrow it, do you?"

The whites of his eyes glowed in the dark as he retracted his roving hand. His gaze flipped to the night-stand.

"I took the Swiss Army knife out of there, too, though I doubt it'd do more damage than a thumbtack. You really have to keep those things sharpened, you know. Oh, and as you can see, I've removed the phone from the night table. So, having established that you can't reach any weapon or method of communication, how about moving back over here, where I can see you better?"

He didn't budge.

"That wasn't a request."

He inched to the middle of the bed.

"Good enough. Now, I've been sent here to kill you, Mr. Payne."

His mouth worked like a fish's, eyes bulging as he blew nothing but air bubbles.

"I-I have money," he said finally. "Whatever they're paying you, I can pay more."

"I'm sure you can. Selling babies is a very lucrative business, isn't it? Especially if you don't need to pay off the mother."

"N-no, you don't understand. It wasn't my idea."

He babbled on, sounding remarkably like Ron Fenniger in the moments before his death. It wasn't his idea, so while he'd taken part in the scheme, he couldn't be held accountable.

"Like I said, I can pay. Whatever they're offering, I'll double it. Triple – "

"Do you think we'd be having this conversation if I planned to kill you?"

"What?"

"This isn't a James Bond movie, Mr. Payne. In real life, if someone wants you dead, they aren't going to chat you up first, explain their motivations, whine about their lousy childhood forcing them to a life of crime. Kind of a waste of time, don't you think? Explaining yourself to a guy you expect to be dead in five minutes?"

He huffed a few breaths, cheeks puffing as he calmed himself. "Okay, okay, so it's about money, then."

"I'm not interested in money."

He blinked, trying to assimilate that concept.

"I want the people you're working for. Like you said, this was their idea. Tell me everything you know and, if it's enough to put them away, I'll walk out and give you twenty-four hours to decide whether you want to pack and run with the money or turn state's evidence and hand it over."

He nodded, working it through as his head bobbed.

"Remember, though, that I've built a decent case. That means I already know most of it. I just need proof. So if you lie, I'll finish the job, collect my pay, and get that proof another way."

"Okay, okay."

He licked his lips and seemed to consider asking for a glass of water, then thought better of it, and started his story. As it unfolded, I saw that, once again, I'd been wrong. Very wrong.

"Thank you," I said as he finished.

Payne let out long shuddering breaths of relief.

I stood, lowering the gun. "You're going to give me fifteen minutes to download those files and leave. Then you can get up and decide what you want to do."

"O-okay."

"Fifteen minutes. Start watching the clock."

He rolled over to do that. I took three steps toward the door, then shot him in the back of the head.