Made to Be Broken Read online

"So you miscalculated. That's easy enough to do."

  He took another drag. "Nah. Didn't miscalculate. No excuse but age. Mind's willing. Body says 'fuck that.' " He tapped the side of his head, ash tumbling to the grass. "Up here? Still thirty. Top of my game. The rest?" A slow shake of his head. "Starting to disagree. Young man's game. I'm on the side of the hill that goes straight down."

  "I don't think you're ready to be put out to pasture just yet, Jack."

  "Fifty next year." He slanted a look my way. "Since you'll never ask. But pasture? No. Not yet. Still, gets me thinking. Remember Saul?"

  I nodded. Saul was a hitman I'd met last fall, a colleague of Jack's who'd retired only after he'd bottomed out.

  "Seeing Saul? I feel..." He toyed with the cigarette, rolling it between his fingers. "Not contempt..."

  "Disdain?"

  "Yeah." He handed me the cigarette, like a prize for guessing right. "Disdain. Guy held on too long. Rep u ta tion went to shit. Forced to retire. His own fault. Got no time for that. Tell myself 'not me.' But then..." He shrugged. "Maybe it's ego. Bigger than I like to admit. Gotta slow down. Not retire. Just slow down. But like Evelyn says, I'm not good at sitting around."

  I handed him back the cigarette and he smoked it to the end, then ground it out against the curb and dropped the butt into his pocket.

  "So, when I'm helping you on this job?" he continued. "It's like the rest. Me coming around, teaching, giving you advice. It's not that I think you can't handle it. It's just... something new. Different. Interesting."

  He rubbed his thumb across his lips, silent for a moment. "Like those ATVs. Not saying you need me to fix them." He glanced at me. "You know?"

  "Actually, I do need you to fix them. Owen's been tinkering with them since we got them at auction last winter, and I think they're in worse shape than when he started."

  "Yeah. Maybe. But you know what I mean."

  "I do. But if you want to come back for a couple of weeks after this is done, get your fill of apple pie and get those babies running for me before the summer crowds start, I certainly won't argue."

  "Then I'll do that."

  I met the client at three, in a neighborhood park. I wasn't thrilled with a daytime meet. It meant there was no easy way to disguise the fact that I was female.

  I dressed as a jogger, making it easy to bulk up. Also an excuse for oversized sunglasses and a hoodie pulled tight. Under the hood I wore a blond wig, with a few strands slipping out, as if by accident.

  Because the hood covered my head, Jack wanted me to wear an earpiece. Quinn agreed. I was insulted. I reminded myself that they'd worn them to the Keyes house, but that had been my case, so it made sense that I'd want to have a say in the interview questions. To suggest I needed help meeting with a client, and having them both jump in, quick to presume I'd need it? That rankled. I won't deny it. So I refused.

  I also refused their offers of backup. It was a public place and a midday meeting with an "amateur" client. There was absolutely no reason I needed my friends hiding fifty feet away, ready to pounce. Having them there would only increase the risk. People were more likely to notice male strangers hanging around a park. And the client might notice them, too.

  Even having them there might make me act different. Same with the wire. Better to let me handle it while they waited off-site.

  To my relief, neither offered any resistance. Quinn cast a sidelong glance at Jack and, seeing he wasn't arguing, presumed I was right. They agreed to wait in a coffee shop down the street, a phone call away if anything went off track.

  I'd scouted the park before arriving. It was maybe three acres, all open. Stretched across the front was one of those bright red and yellow plastic playground structures that had replaced the wooden ones of my youth. Two older swing sets sat forlornly in the corner, one for children, one for babies, both with several of the swings wrapped over the top and a couple of others broken from their chains. Behind that was a brick box that I supposed housed equipment for the ball diamond.

  I jogged around the block to work up a sweat so, to any onlookers, I'd seem like a real runner. Not that it mattered. It was a chilly midweek afternoon and the park was empty.

  I headed for the bleachers - far enough from the playground that I could talk without whispering, should any parents show up. As I looked around, I realized I wasn't alone. A man stood behind the equipment building, wearing an overcoat, slacks, and dress shoes, his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders pulled in as if against the chill.

  Even if the guy hadn't matched Fenniger's description - thinning hair, narrow face, average height - I'd have known this was my client, and as much an amateur as Fenniger had said. I put my fingers in my mouth, and let out a low but sharp whistle.

  The man jumped as if he'd heard a siren. When he glanced my way, I beckoned him over. He looked around, confirming I wasn't waving to anyone else, then squinted at me and, even from where I sat, I could see the faint hope in his eyes that maybe, just maybe, the woman on the bleachers was hitting on him.

  I motioned again, more emphatic now. When he didn't move, I walked over.

  "I-I'm waiting for someone," he said.

  "Yes. Me."

  A blank look.

  "Through Honcho?" I prompted.

  "Er, yes, right, but..." His gaze traveled down me. "I, um, think there's been a misunderstanding."

  "Yes, I'm a woman. It's an equal opportunity job these days. If you want gender specificity, you have to request it on the order form."

  He stared, a note of panic behind his eyes, as if thinking there really had been a form, and he hadn't gotten it.

  "Is it okay?" I asked. "Does the job require a man?"

  "N-no. You're fine. Maybe better, even. Sure. Okay. It just... threw me. So, I guess the first thing we do is - "

  "Move over there." I waved back where I'd been sitting.

  "Isn't here safer?"

  "You look like Mr. Suburbanite waiting for his dealer... and I don't look like your dealer."

  A nervous twitch of a smile. "Right, right."

  I led him to the bleachers. "No one's around, so just play it cool. You came home from the office early and found your wife had gone for her jog, so you caught up with her and now we're having a nice little 'how was your day, honey' chat."

  "Right, right."

  We sat through twenty seconds of silence.

  "You have a job for me?" I said finally.

  "Right. I need someone... taken care of."

  He put a tiny growl in the last words, as if trying out for a guest spot on The Sopranos. I bit my cheek to keep from smiling.

  "That's what I figured."

  A giggle. "Right, I guess so. Not like I'd be asking you to, uh - " He massaged his throat, unable to come up with anything witty. "The, uh, job. It's this guy."

  I blinked to cover my surprise. Another moment of silence. When he didn't go on, I had to clarify.

  "You mean the mark is a man."

  "Right, right."

  The first prickle of apprehension set my arm hairs rising. I resisted the urge to rub them down and kept my face neutral.

  "Go on."

  "It needs to be done tonight?"

  "Tonight?" That time the surprise escaped. I covered it with, "Is he local, then?"

  He nodded. "He has a house right here in Detroit. That's where it has to... go down."

  "Family?"

  His eyes widened, lips parted in an O of horror.

  "Is there going to be family in the house?" I went on. "Because that's a problem, and not one I intend to 'take care of "

  A slow eye squeeze of relief. He'd thought I meant "do you want the family killed, too?" Further proof that the guy watched way too many crime dramas. That's not to say hitmen aren't asked to murder entire families - like the "job" Evelyn suggested - but it certainly wasn't a request so commonplace that they'd toss it off as easily as asking whether the client preferred a public hit or private.

  "There isn't any family to w
orry about," he said. "He's divorced and lives alone."

  My brain raced to figure out how this played into the baby scheme. A teen daughter maybe? Her baby so prized that they'd kill her father, too, the one person who might investigate?

  "Any kids?" I asked. "Because they could be sleeping over, even if it's not his scheduled time - "

  "No kids."

  I stopped my fingers from tapping against the bench. Move on and figure this out later. "Okay, so this guy is the first mark, and then you need me to..."

  My fingernails dug into the wood as genuine confusion filled his face.

  "There's only one mark?" I said. "I was told - "

  "Then someone's made a mistake," he said, his voice high, annoyance mixed with anxiety, ticked off that someone had screwed up. "I was very clear. I need - "

  His cell phone rang. I waited for him to apologize and shut off the ringer. Instead, without even glancing at the display, he answered, covered the receiver, and told me to give him a minute. In other words, "get lost."

  I would have complained if I hadn't been happy for the excuse to get away and collect my thoughts. I motioned that I'd jog around the block and be back in five minutes.

  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 protege 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 protege 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 ar
e 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.