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.

I slipped inside, keeping my back to the wall, gun drawn as I took out my penlight. It barely cut a pinprick through the dark. I waited for my eyes to adjust, then stepped forward and banged my shin on something solid, but pliant. I shone the light down to see two stacked tires, invisible in the dark. To my left and right were virtual walls of tires, six feet high, transforming the entrance into a small black foyer.

Someone was using the warehouse to fence tires? It seemed a tough item to steal and awkward to resell, but as my light crossed the ones nearest me, I saw the treads were cracked and bald. Not reselling tires – illegally dumping them.

I picked my way across the tire-strewn entranceway and around the end of the "wall" twenty feet down. There, the unrelenting darkness lifted, as some light managed to sneak through the filthy windows. There were more tires in here, plus a stack of cans – paint, oil, and other toxins you couldn't toss in the trash. I shuddered to think what would happen if kids snuck in here, smoking cigarettes or playing with matches.

Headlights cut an arc across the dirt on the nearest window. I moved to it, but couldn't bring myself to wipe the glass, even wearing gloves. The lights swung my way as the car backed between warehouses one and two. Not an ideal parking spot. Better than pulling up to the front door, though.

I moved back to that tire-enclosed foyer and holstered my gun, but kept my jacket open for easy access. Jack always said a nervous client was more dangerous than a ruthless one. Lurking in the dark, even with a penlight on, probably wasn't the safest way to greet MacIver.

I opened the door as he hurried over. His eyes rounded and he frantically motioned me back inside as he scanned the yard. Sure, now he worries about looking suspicious.

I retreated into the building. A moment later, he slid in, shutting the door behind him.

"Do you have the ring?" he whispered.

"Yes." I resisted the urge to respond with, "Do you have the money?" He wouldn't get the joke and would probably think I'd seriously expected him to bring a briefcase of cash.

I handed him the ring. As he studied it with a flashlight, I studied him. Knowing now what he was, and how he was involved, put him in a whole new light, one that made my hands itch to fly to his throat, throttling him as I shouted, "How could you?"

Maybe knowing he wasn't in it for the money should have made it better, but it didn't. All I could do was remind myself he'd see justice soon enough. Calmly, I asked about the wire transfer, which was going into Evelyn's offshore account. I didn't care about the money – she could keep it as debt repayment. But MacIver would expect that to be foremost in my mind, so I had to ask.

"I'll transfer it in the morning," he said as he lowered the flashlight.

"Why not tonight?" I asked.

"It's late. My wife is waiting."

With your new baby, I thought. But I couldn't say that, so I settled for, "Just have it in the account by nine. Now, you're right, it is late, so if that's everything…"

He rubbed the ring, as if calling forth a genie to help him think. "You shredded all the papers, right?"

"Yes, and I removed the hard drive from his desktop computer and took the laptop."

"Did you bring them?"

"Was I supposed to?"

He rubbed the ring harder. I aimed my foot and shoulder toward the door, hinting I wanted to be going, but the second I moved, he jumped back, as if I'd pulled a gun.

As I sucked in my annoyance and lifted my hands to say, "Look buddy, I just moved, okay?" I sensed someone behind me. Maybe it was a faint change in the light. Maybe it was a click so soft only my subconscious recognized it. Maybe it was just a sixth sense. But my body reacted, sending me diving for the floor, brain screaming "what the hell -?"

The pfft of a silenced shot cut the thought short.

The bullet sliced through my jacket as I hit the floor in a roll. A second shot bounced off the concrete beside me. I came out of the tumble and shot forward, hunched over, head down, hand going for my gun. A third shot, this one so far from hitting me I didn't even see where it went.

I caught a glimpse of MacIver, still standing where I left him, his hands at his sides, eyes wide – not in shock that I'd nearly been shot, but that I'd avoided it.

I swung around as a shadowy figure spun, lifting his gun to take aim.

"Stop," I said.

He hesitated, gun still aimed down, lowered as he'd moved. He started to lift it.

"That goes for the gun, too," I said. "Move it and I'll shoot."

He adjusted his hands on the gun, as if considering his odds, only to decide they weren't in his favor. He let it drop an inch as he looked up, his face turning into the glow of MacIver's half-lowered flashlight.

"Hello, Ken," I said.

His brow furrowed.

"No, we haven't met," I said. "But I know who you are. Kenneth Keyes, proud papa to a new baby, just like MacIver here. Two new babies, courtesy of a pyramid scheme. How did you guys come up with that one? Sitting around the country club after a few holes, and someone says, 'Hey, I know how we give our wives those babies they want'?"

"We don't need them to give us anything," said a voice behind me as a gun barrel poked my spine. "I'm perfectly capable of getting what I need."

"Leslie," I said, striving to keep my voice neutral, hiding my surprise. "You hired a baby-sitter for the evening, I take it? Better keep this short, then. I hear they charge double after midnight. But I suppose when you've paid the big bucks to kill a girl and steal her baby, that's a minor expense."

The gun didn't even waver. Damn.

I inhaled through my teeth, telling myself it might not be a gun. For all I knew, she was poking me with a stick. But was I willing to bet my life on that?