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"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.
