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.
Chapter Forty-six
I left Payne where he fell, facedown on the bed. I downloaded the files from his laptop onto the drive I'd bought, then stole from the darkened house into the yard. Staying along the fence line, I cut through three yards and came out on the street behind an apartment building. The rental car was in the lot.
Once on the road, I called the client: Palmer MacIver, as I now knew him. He answered on the second ring.
"Done," I said.
"And you have the proof?"
"I wouldn't be calling you if I didn't."
A soft sigh rippled down the line. "Good. And the files?"
"Destroyed."
He gave me an address and told me to meet him there in thirty minutes. Along the way, I disposed of Payne's gun. Then, as I drove, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the item that was supposed to prove I'd killed Payne.
I lifted my hand over the steering wheel and turned the ring over, the silver glinting against my dark driving gloves. Payne's high school class ring. How this proved he was dead was beyond me. Maybe MacIver had always seen Payne wearing it, but what was to say he didn't take it off at night? What if he'd taken it off, and I hadn't been able to find it?
Amateurs. Probably saw it in a movie, like everything else about this job.
Speaking of which... When I saw where the address led, I let out a curse.
A cluster of warehouses. Abandoned warehouses.
I idled near the entrance, then shifted into reverse to find a place off-site to park. As I tramped back to the warehouses, I swore under my breath the whole way.
The problem with abandoned warehouses? They're abandoned. That means if anyone sees you near one at one-thirty in the morning, they'll remember it. They might even call the cops.
The yard held a quartet of warehouses, long narrow blocks illuminated by a haphazard scattering of area lights, the buildings themselves black against the night. Water slapped against the distant breaker and the air was damp and icy, stinking of Lake Erie. A ship sounded its horn, long and mournful, making me stop a moment, peering into the night.
A dog barked by the row houses a block west; just a lonely call for attention, no one paying it any. Between the houses and the warehouse yard was a cushion of industrial buildings in better condition and with better lighting, presumably still owned by someone who cared about security. The lights inside were all off, the parking lot empty.
I continued on, shoulders hunched against the lake wind, one hand resting on my gun. I could see no sign of a car near the warehouses, which I hoped meant MacIver had the sense to park elsewhere, but probably only meant he hadn't arrived yet.
I contemplated walking away from this. If MacIver's car squealed around the corner, lights on, radio blasting, I'd go... and be happy for the excuse. I didn't need anything from him. But skipping the meeting would let him know something was wrong, and I wasn't giving him and his coconspirators the chance to fold their operation and run.
I unholstered my gun. Unit three, MacIver said. The one nearest to me was marked with a dingy white four. Beside it was one, which made perfect sense. I continued on to the next, to find the number half missing, only a top loop remaining, which could make it a two or a three, but when I checked the last one, farthest out and behind the others, it bore a clear three.
I slid the gun under my jacket, keeping it at hand, but hidden. MacIver might come armed, and I didn't want to spook him. I'd already killed tonight and wasn't eager to do it again. But if I had to? I wouldn't regret it.
Earlier I'd pondered where I drew the line. Now I realized it wasn't that simple. Payne hadn't been a murderer, rapist, or pedophile - just a guy whose moral compass valued money over life. Someone who, when given the chance to join a plan to sell babies by hiring a hitman to kill their teenage mothers had apparently said, "Cool, sign me up!"
Payne's role at the agency had been exactly what we'd expected. He searched for wealthy and desperate couples with personal black marks that made adoption difficult. Then he contacted them. After a long interview process, he made them an offer. Only he didn't make that offer without approval. As it turned out, Payne was only a cog in this wheel, and a low-level one at that. Well paid, he took all the risks - contacting the prospective parents and playing point man with Fenniger - while others made the decisions.
Because he wasn't in charge, though, he insisted he couldn't be blamed. The scheme hadn't been his idea. He didn't pull the trigger. If he'd said no, they'd have found someone else. Classic criminal justification, just like we'd heard from Fenniger.
Did Payne deserve to die for that? No.
But did I have a problem killing him when he could tip off his colleagues? Or run and escape justice? No. And that's what it came down to: circumstance.
Half the marks the Tomassinis gave me didn't "deserve" death. What they deserved was to be locked up. But if that wasn't about to happen and the Tomassinis wanted them dead, I had no problem executing the writ.
Even those that I agreed had earned death - like Wayne Franco, like Wilkes, like Fenniger - I would have been happy to see behind bars for life. I remembered the moment when I went on the warrant to arrest Franco. It wasn't my warrant - I'd only been allowed in because of the extra work I'd done catching him. I'd gone with no thoughts of killing the man. I only wanted to see justice done, to relish that moment when he knew he'd been caught.
But when I saw no horror in his face, no expectation that his life was over, I remembered Drew Aldrich bouncing down the courtroom steps, grinning and hugging his supporters, free to live while Amy rotted in her grave. That's why I shot Franco. Not because he deserved it, but because I knew from experience that the only way to guarantee justice was to take care of it yourself.
But with MacIver, justice would be served without a bullet. If he didn't go to jail, he'd spend everything he had on legal fees. Even if he managed to bolt, his life would be lived on the run, as a fugitive. Good enough for me.
I drew up alongside the warehouse and paused under the filthy windows, searching the smoke-gray rectangles for any glint of light within. None. I checked my watch. I was five minutes early.
I circled the building. Just those two doors - the front door and the loading bay, side by side. As I stood by the door, I weighed the risk of breaking in versus the danger of hanging around outside. MacIver said to meet him inside. He probably expected me to whip out a state-of-the-art lock pick gun and open the door for him.
As I crouched to examine the lock, I noticed the plate was bent, with rust along the fold, meaning it'd been jimmied open long ago. The lock had probably been fixed, but I tried the handle anyway. The door opened.
I slipped inside, keeping my back to the wall, gun drawn as I took out my penlight. It barely cut a pinprick through the dark. I waited for my eyes to adjust, then stepped forward and banged my shin on something solid, but pliant. I shone the light down to see two stacked tires, invisible in the dark. To my left and right were virtual walls of tires, six feet high, transforming the entrance into a small black foyer.
Someone was using the warehouse to fence tires? It seemed a tough item to steal and awkward to resell, but as my light crossed the ones nearest me, I saw the tre
ads were cracked and bald. Not reselling tires - illegally dumping them.
I picked my way across the tire-strewn entranceway and around the end of the "wall" twenty feet down. There, the unrelenting darkness lifted, as some light managed to sneak through the filthy windows. There were more tires in here, plus a stack of cans - paint, oil, and other toxins you couldn't toss in the trash. I shuddered to think what would happen if kids snuck in here, smoking cigarettes or playing with matches.
Headlights cut an arc across the dirt on the nearest window. I moved to it, but couldn't bring myself to wipe the glass, even wearing gloves. The lights swung my way as the car backed between warehouses one and two. Not an ideal parking spot. Better than pulling up to the front door, though.
I moved back to that tire-enclosed foyer and holstered my gun, but kept my jacket open for easy access. Jack always said a nervous client was more dangerous than a ruthless one. Lurking in the dark, even with a penlight on, probably wasn't the safest way to greet MacIver.
I opened the door as he hurried over. His eyes rounded and he frantically motioned me back inside as he scanned the yard. Sure, now he worries about looking suspicious.
I retreated into the building. A moment later, he slid in, shutting the door behind him.
"Do you have the ring?" he whispered.
"Yes." I resisted the urge to respond with, "Do you have the money?" He wouldn't get the joke and would probably think I'd seriously expected him to bring a briefcase of cash.
I handed him the ring. As he studied it with a flashlight, I studied him. Knowing now what he was, and how he was involved, put him in a whole new light, one that made my hands itch to fly to his throat, throttling him as I shouted, "How could you?"
Maybe knowing he wasn't in it for the money should have made it better, but it didn't. All I could do was remind myself he'd see justice soon enough. Calmly, I asked about the wire transfer, which was going into Evelyn's offshore account. I didn't care about the money - she could keep it as debt repayment. But MacIver would expect that to be foremost in my mind, so I had to ask.
"I'll transfer it in the morning," he said as he lowered the flashlight.
"Why not tonight?" I asked.
Made to Be Broken Page 28
