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was for his work—his legit work—so anything he’d kept on this job would be on the desktop. His security was set up by Contrapasso, another condition of employment. They said it was to guarantee he had the best security possible, but he knew it was so they had access. It was one of the things that had kept me from signing up. Today, I was glad they’d done it.
    Their security didn’t make the computer accessible remotely. Quinn’s data was completely fire-walled. That left him safe from cyber attacks. It also explained why we were in his condo, rather than connecting to his home network from some safer location.
    Quinn’s search history showed he’d definitely been doing research on his target. Hours of prep work, digging through every news article and cross referencing wherever possible. He’d found a home address, vacation home address, work address, cell numbers, car license and registration.
    “One thing I’m not finding?” I said. “Any record of that plane ticket.”
    “Here,” Diaz said. “Let me try.”
    He ran a few things across the screen, his fingers flying as fast as Evelyn’s when she was working her Internet magic. He pulled up some piece of software I’d never seen, one that apparently hunted for deleted data on the hard drive.
    “Nothing,” he said. “I’ll get someone on that. We confirmed the ticket existed and was in his name, but we didn’t dig deeper. I’ll find out how it was purchased and from where. Good catch.”
    That was the advantage to working with Contrapasso—as good as Evelyn was, they had access even she couldn’t match. That’s what happens when you have attorneys, judges, FBI agents, CIA agents and more on the payroll. Part of the price for those members joining is providing that access, even if it risks their jobs. Contrapasso isn’t about furthering a career or padding one’s income. It’s an ideological choice. Which is why I struggle with
not
joining. I share their ideology. I’m just not ready to take the leap and risk the rest.
    We finished the search, and I compiled my notes, checking for any gaps.
    “Okay,” I said, straightening as I turned to Diaz. “Show me the last place your GPS picked him up.”
    I was in a coffee shop, sitting by the window, watching the building where Contrapasso had lost contact with Quinn. I’d told Diaz I needed to do this alone, to focus on my thoughts, but that was bullshit. Even if he’d have sat and said nothing, I’d have felt obligated to talk to him, to hash this through with him. And he wasn’t the person I wanted to hash it through with.
    I checked my phone. No call from Jack, which I expected but still . . .
    I fingered the numbers on my cell. Maybe a quick call?
    Except this wouldn’t be quick. Nor was it important enough to break the rules for. I just wanted to talk to him.
    I pocketed the phone and sipped my coffee as I gazed at the building. It housed the office of a private investigator the family of Quinn’s target had hired when the daughter took her own life. It made sense that Quinn would have gone there. It also made sense the GPS tracker stopped working late at night. This wasn’t a Marshal case—Quinn wasn’t going to walk in, flash his badge and question the investigator. He’d have been breaking in to copy the files. Quinn needed to be absolutely sure his target was guilty before he began figuring out how and where to pull the hit.
    So all that made sense. But the rest . . .
    Damn it, Jack. I wish you were here. I really need someone to talk to.
    No, I need
you
to talk to.
    Then talk.
    I heard his voice, that laconic tone, as if even those two words had to be pulled out by force. I looked up at the chair across from me. Of course he wasn’t there. But I could picture him. He’d sit with his back to the building because that didn’t concern him. This was my job. He’d do what I asked, but otherwise he’d be there only as a sounding board. He’d drink his coffee, comfortable in the