Made to Be Broken

Chapter Forty-three

Before I left to meet the client, Jack took me aside for a few words of advice. I tried not to notice the roll of Evelyn's eyes.

We walked behind the hotel again, to the delivery lane, and again he pulled out his cigarettes.

"Still want that story?" he asked as he lit one, cupping the flame against the wind.

"Only if you want to give it to me. And if it won't reveal anything that could compromise your privacy."

He waved me to our spot on the curb and sat beside me. "Nah. Wouldn't care." He exhaled the smoke through his nose. "I trust you. Happened after the job anyway."

He took another drag, then passed me the cigarette before continuing. "Backyard hit. Went down fine. Getting out? No problem. Big yards. Estates. Full of trees and shit. Had my path mapped out. So I'm moving. Not running. But moving. Then there's this wall. Maybe…" He lifted his hand about three feet off the ground. "Knew it was there. No surprise. So I'm coming to it. Lots of time. Could stop. Climb over. But no. Gotta jump it."

He took the cigarette back and inhaled, letting the smoke swirl out as he shook his head. "So I jump. Don't clear it. Foot hits the wall. I topple over. Face-plant into the fucking tulips."

I swallowed a laugh, but not before some of it escaped.

Jack waved the cigarette at me. "See? Told you. Boring and embarrassing. No close call. No fancy trick. Tripped over a fucking garden wall."

"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 worry 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.