Made to Be Broken

Chapter Thirty-five

We had a great dinner. Jack once told me that growing up he'd dreamed of being rich enough someday to have steak every night. He'd tried it, following his first job, and gave up after a few weeks, but a steak house is still his restaurant of choice.

So finding one was a way to put him into a good mood, relaxed, even voluble… or what passed for voluble with Jack. After a quick rundown of the security – couched in terms appropriate for a public setting – conversation turned to the more personal… or what passed for personal with Jack. He told me a story about an old job – also modified for the setting and containing no information to identify the target, location, or even time period, but entertaining nonetheless.

We had dessert at a patisserie three doors from the coffee shop where we'd staked out the Byrony Agency. We went in at 10:30 p.m., which seemed late for dessert, but I'd noticed earlier that the place was open until midnight, presumably to catch the postshow crowd from the theater down the road. Before the show got out, the place was nearly empty, and we easily got a window seat.

I ordered a chocolate torte. Jack got apple pie. I teased him about that – faced with a display of elaborate desserts, he picked something he could have any night at the lodge. When it arrived, he seemed a little annoyed by the attempts to fancy it up with caramel crackles, whipped cream, and chocolate drizzles. After a few bites, he pronounced it decent enough, but not as good as Emma's… and he left the broken crackles and blob of cream on the side.

As the shop started to fill with the theater crowd, two women entered the Byrony Agency. Cleaning staff. By 11:45, as we were settling the bill, they were already leaving, being either superefficient or figuring, with the empty office, no one would know how long they'd stayed.

We took our time. The staff, unlike the cleaners, seemed in no rush to get home, and when we left at 12:10, they'd done no more than dim the lights as a subtle hint to the remaining diners.

As I stepped onto the sidewalk, my gaze scanned the opposite side of the street. Dark and quiet.

"Fuck."

I followed Jack's glare to a homeless guy on the coffee shop steps.

"He's just catching the stragglers from the show," I murmured. "When the shop clears and closes, he'll leave. We can't move until then anyway."

We tucked ourselves into an alley. Twenty minutes later, the last of the dessert shop staff locked the door, the click echoing. Through the reflection in a store window, I watched the homeless man stand, stretch… then retreat farther into the alcove and curl up in its shadows.

"Fuck," I said.

Jack grunted his agreement.

We waited, hoping he was just resting or that a passing cop would roust him. But the man stayed in his corner, the sidewalk stayed empty, and the street saw a car only every few minutes.

"If he's asleep, maybe we can…" I shook my head. We couldn't risk it.

We waited until a distant church bell rang twice, and my nose and toes had gone numb. Then Jack shook his head and motioned me toward the car. We weren't getting into the Byrony Agency tonight.

"Three hours to Evelyn's," Jack said as we climbed in. "This time of night? Probably less."

"You don't need to come up with distractions for me, Jack. Yes, I'm disappointed, but we knew this wouldn't be an easy break-in. We'll try again tomorrow night, with backup plans for dealing with the guy, if that's his regular spot. If we're lucky, we'll have Quinn. I'm sure he can play cop and send him on his way."

"Wasn't a distraction. Just saving time. Getting it over with. Unless you're tired…"

"Even if I was, I don't think I'd sleep."

"Good." He opened the door and got out. "Take first shift. Head to 94 west."

There was no rush so we stopped for washroom breaks, leg stretches, and coffee runs, taking turns at the wheel. I'll admit I'd hoped one of those stops would be a cigarette break, so I could hear Jack's story. I wasn't as interested in knowing how he'd broken his foot as in the simple fact of his telling me, trusting me enough to share a story that was, as he said, embarrassing. But he didn't suggest it, and I started to feel a little silly about our deal, maybe even rude, asking for a personal story before I gave him the cigarettes. So at the last driver switch, thirty minutes from Fort Wayne, I opened the hatch and slid the pack from my bag to his.

We arrived at Evelyn's just before six. Jack parked at the usual strip mall around the corner. If it seemed like we'd stay longer than a couple of hours, he'd move the car to her garage.

As we climbed her steps, I asked what time she expected us.

"Doesn't."

"She doesn't know we're coming? We're showing up, unannounced, on her doorstep at six in the morning? That's not very nice."

"Yeah."

I laughed. He knocked, then waited ten seconds and knocked again.

After another minute came the faint sound of footsteps on the stairs. Now she needed to check who it was. There wasn't a peephole. In this neighborhood, populated with upper-middle-class retirees, I'm sure there were lots of peepholes. But Evelyn would never get one installed for fear she'd be mistaken for something a lot worse than a cautious retired criminal: a nervous little old lady. And, besides, peepholes? This was the twenty-first century. For Evelyn, nothing short of a wireless, motion-detecting, autotracking closed-circuit camera would do.

Locks sounded. I counted off all three, then waited for a sharp command to the dogs. It came, followed by the scrabble of their claws on the stairs as they headed back up to bed.

The door opened. Evelyn stood there, wearing a pale yellow linen shirt and gray slacks, the shirt slightly cockeyed, the only sign the outfit had been hastily pulled on. She raked her hand through her white bob and fixed Jack with a killer glare.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Visit," he said. "Owed you one, right?"

"Not at five o'clock in the goddamned morning."

"Six."

"Get the hell in here, before I catch pneumonia."

Her sharp eyes followed Jack as he entered, sliding down to his feet. "I thought you had another two weeks in that cast."

"Changed my mind."

"And yes, I tried to stop him," I said. "But it was help or let him do it himself and risk hacking off more than the cast. Apparently, it was hampering his ability to help me with the case. My case, may I point out, which I was perfectly happy to investigate alone while he rested."

She snorted and took my jacket. "Rest and Jack are two words that don't belong in the same sentence. Hol ing up in a backwoods shack isn't for him – as lovely as it may be." Her look said she doubted lovely was the word. Evelyn had made it clear from the start that her opinion of my primary occupation wavered between "how quaint" and "my God, why would someone actually choose to live like that?"

She continued. "He was probably climbing the walls… though not as frantically as he was in that motel room. Much longer in there and he'd have chewed off his cast." A glance my way. "How bad was it?"

I remembered the state of Jack's motel room. "Let's just say a mild case of cabin fever had set in."

"Mild, my ass."

She led me into the living room, where Jack had already claimed his usual end of the love seat. He jerked his chin, telling me to take the other, which I would have done anyway – my only other options being the two hard-backed postmodern pieces or Evelyn's armchair.

"I told you he'd follow you home," she continued as I crossed to the love seat. "I'm sure he put up a token struggle, of course. Probably went something like this: 'I'm fine. Nah. Fuck, yeah. I'm fine. Go on.' Then he let you get… oh, about as far the parking lot before he limped out after you, deciding maybe, since you'd come all that way, and since you were offering, he might as well go with you. He offered to pay, too, didn't he?"

Jack tensed, preparing for Evelyn's inevitable crowing about how well she knew him.

"Pay?" I lowered myself onto the love seat. "Damn, I gave in too fast, didn't I?"

"I'll pay," Jack said. "Just didn't want to mention it."

"Oh, I'm kidding. You know I wouldn't take your money."

The briefest flicker of consternation glimmered in Evelyn's eyes. If I felt any guilt at lying just to prick her ego, it was wiped out by the equally quick flash of gratitude in Jack's.

"Coffee?" he asked, pushing to his feet.

"Yes, please."

"You might as well round up breakfast while you're in there," Evelyn said.

A grunt. As he disappeared through the kitchen door, his voice rolled back to us. "Update her, Dee."

In other words, don't give her a chance to make her offer until he was in the room. I told her about our appointment and thwarted break-in.

"So we'll try again tonight," I said. "If Quinn's here, he can roust the guy and stand guard."

"Quinn? What's Quinn got to do with this?"

When I fell into silence, she twisted to look toward the kitchen.

"Did you forget to mention something, Jacko? Or someone?"

He appeared with two coffees. I mouthed "I'm sorry" while Evelyn still had her back to me. He shrugged, crossed the room and handed me my mug.

"Go on," he said. "Tell her."

"Tell her…?"

"Everything."

Meaning I should go all the way back to how Quinn first became involved – his unexpected arrival at the lodge and the reason for it. Jack gave Evelyn her coffee, then returned to the kitchen.

"Jesus Christ," Evelyn said when I said Quinn knew who I was. "And you didn't skin that boy alive, Jack? You're getting soft."

"Honest mistake," Jack called from the kitchen.

"You don't think it is?" I asked.

She sipped her coffee, considering. "Quinn's too much the Boy Scout to do anything that underhanded. And he's smart enough to know that if he did, Jack would skin him alive."

I told her the rest, how Quinn was now helping and due to join us soon.

"And Jack's fine with that?" she said, brows lifting. "Quinn sniffing around? Wriggling into your case?"

"He's not thrilled about it, but we could use Quinn's law-enforcement know-how and if he's offering – "

"Oh, I bet he's offering. Since day one, that boy's been panting after you like a junkyard mutt smelling his first bitch in heat."

"Colorful…"

"But true."

I eased back into the seat, cupping my mug. "Whatever Quinn's motivation, we gave Jack the final say, and he agreed."

"Making Jack now, officially, the first professional killer ever to aspire to sainthood via martyrdom."

"I know hanging out with Quinn isn't Jack's idea of fun, but all he has to do is say no – "

"Hear that, Jack?" Evelyn swiveled, leaning over the side of her chair to yell toward the kitchen. "All you have to do is say no."

Silence returned.

"So, back to the break-in – " I said.

"Dee? Would you be a sweetie and feed the girls for me?"

"Uh, sure…"

"Their food is on the basement landing and their bowls are outside. You'll need to take them out and watch them. Make sure Scotch gets her share. Ginger's been bullying her again."

"Okay…"

"I'll help Jack with breakfast."