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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.
