Damn Quinn!
Instead of getting into the cleaner’s head, it was like the cleaner was starting to get into his. That would never happen.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey.
Fun, remember? It’s going to be fun.
He toasted that thought, and poured himself another.
CHAPTER 20
“I’M NOT GETTING in there,” Burke told them.
They were standing next to Daeng’s rental car in the parking structure near the international terminal.
“Fair enough. A question first,” Quinn said.
“I’m telling you, I’m not getting in.”
“If you give me the right answer, you won’t have to.”
Burke looked at him warily, but said nothing.
“We know you were part of the termination in Monterrey,” Quinn said. “And that you were assisting the cleaner, Quinn. So what happened?”
Burke hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“That’s the question, Doug. You answer it right, and you can walk away.”
Burke held Quinn’s gaze for a second. “Did Pullman send you? Or…”
“Or who?” Quinn asked.
“No one. Never mind.”
“Or who?”
Burke shook his head. “I was just testing you.”
“You’re a horrible liar. Do you realize that?”
Before Burke could even respond, Quinn’s fist slammed into the man’s gut.
Burke let out a groan as he doubled over and clutched his stomach.
“What the hell?” he said, panting.
Quinn opened the car’s rear door, and shoved the bastard into the backseat. While he climbed in next to Burke, Daeng swung around the car and bookended the guy on the other side. Orlando slipped into the driver’s seat.
Quinn grabbed Burke’s shoulder and shoved him against the backrest. “See, this is what not being helpful gets you.”
Burke stared at him, not even attempting to hide the fear in his eyes. “Who are you people?”
“Well, we’re not with Pullman.”
Burke’s eyes widened. “Shit.”
“Come on, Doug. Tell me about Monterrey.”
“Look, I did everything your boss wanted. If you couldn’t catch him, that’s not my fault.”
Keeping his face neutral, Quinn said, “And why wouldn’t that be your fault?”
“I…I told you where we were going to be,” he pleaded. “If you hadn’t had cop cars waiting right there, Quinn would have never known anything. It’s not my fault. It’s your fault you couldn’t pull it off. The guy is good, man. He outsmarted you.”
It took every ounce of Quinn’s will not to punch Burke senseless. “What happened after he saw the lights?”
“He turned around and made a run for it,” Burke said, as if it were obvious. “Ask your people. They know what happened.”
“Where did he run to?”
“To that building he ditched the van behind. Where do you think?”
“And what did you do then?”
“I ran like hell.”
“Together?”
“No. He…he told me to leave first.”
“So, he didn’t get out of the van?”
“What are you talking about? Of course, he did. I saw him steal one of your…” Burke’s voice trailed off. “You’re…you’re not with Mr. Blair, are you?”
Quinn tapped Orlando on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Burke said as she started the engine. “Hey, come on. I’m being cooperative.”
Quinn’s hand shot forward, his fingers wrapping around Burke’s neck. As he squeezed, he said, “No, we’re not with Mr. Blair, either. We’re with Quinn.”
Burke began to shake.
__________
THERE WERE VALLEYS and canyons in the hills behind Malibu that, despite being within a few miles of over a million people, were surprisingly unoccupied. Quinn directed Orlando to one he’d used in the past.
“Here,” he said, after they’d traveled deep into the ravine.
Orlando pulled to a stop and shut off the lights, plunging them into a darkness the nearby city no longer knew. The only illumination was from the star-filled sky and the glow of Los Angeles to the north and east.
Quinn climbed out first. “Let’s go,” he told Burke.
“No way,” Burke said.
Daeng pushed him in the back. “Do as you’re told.”
“You’re going to kill me,” Burke protested. “Like hell I’m going to make it easy.”
“We might,” Quinn admitted. “But again, it’s up to you.”
“Oh, no. I’m staying here. If you’re going to shoot me, shoot me in the damn car.”
Quinn reached in and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt. With Daeng once more shoving from behind, he dragged Burke outside and dropped him on the ground.
“Up,” Quinn said.
Burke rose reluctantly to his feet.
Quinn waited until Orlando and Daeng had joined him before he said, “We’re going to take a little walk.”
Burke looked like he was beginning to accept what he assumed was the inevitable, and made no further protest.
In a loose line, they hiked up the side of the ravine until they reached the top. They could see lights in the distance from a few homes closer to the beach, and the flat blackness of the Pacific Ocean.
“On your knees,” Quinn said.
“Please. No,” Burke pleaded.
“On. Your. Knees.”
Daeng pushed down on the man’s shoulders, and Burke dropped to his knees.
“Please. Please,” he said. He was starting to cry. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”
“What happened?” Quinn said. “From the beginning. And don’t leave anything out.”
“Okay. Sure, sure. Um…we picked up the body, and, uh, uh, were taking it to the place where, uh—”
“No. How did you get the job in the first place?”
“M…Mr. Blair arranged it.”
“You knew ahead of time?”
A pause, a nod.
“Tell us.”
“He contacted me a couple weeks ago. Said there was a job he’d get me on, and would triple whatever pay I was usually offered.”
“And for this you had to…?”
“Keep tabs on the cleaner. They wanted him. I just needed to tell them where to be.”
“So you sold him out.”
“I, I mean, I thought that, well, I was given the impression that…he’d done something wrong.” He looked momentarily at each of them then focused back on Quinn. “Hey, it was going to happen whether I helped or not.”
Slowly, Quinn got the rest of the story out of him. How Nate was supposed to have been captured, about how he spotted the ambush, about the chase, and about how, as far as Burke knew, Nate had gotten away. By Nate’s continued absence, though, Quinn and the others knew he hadn’t.
“Tell us about Mr. Blair. Did you ever meet him in person?” Quinn asked.
“One time, when he first came to me.”
“Describe him.”
“About as tall as you, maybe. Bald. Decent shape.”
Quinn glanced at Daeng and nodded. Daeng pulled out his phone, brought up the picture of Mr. Thatcher in Bangkok, and held it in front of Burke’s face.
“Is that him?” Quinn asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s him,” Burke said, surprised.
Quinn said nothing for a moment. They now had confirmation that this had been more than just a job that had gone bad. Nate had been set up.
“I think we’ve heard enough,” Quinn said.
He held out a hand to Daeng, who gave him the suppressor-enhanced pistol he’d brought from the house. Armed, Quinn walked behind Burke.
“It’s better if you look at the ground,” he said.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” Burke said, rapid fire. “I cooperated. I told you what you wanted to know.”
“And you sold our friend out, too.”
“But he might have gotten away!”
“That doesn’t change what you did.”
Quinn put the end of the suppressor against the back of Burke’s skull.
“Wait! Please! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have done it! I know that. I’ll never do anything like it again. I promise!”
“You’re right,” Quinn said. “You will never do it again.”
A half second before he pulled the trigger, he moved the gun to the side of Burke’s head, pressing the barrel of suppressor hard against the man’s ear and cheek.
Thup.
The bullet slammed into the ground, inches from the man’s knee. A split second later, Burke yelled and fell on his side, his hand clutching his face. Quinn leaned down and moved the man’s hand away for a moment to make sure he’d done a proper job.
He had.
An inch-wide strip of deformed red flesh ran across Burke’s ear and down his cheek, almost all the way to the top of his mouth. It would create a scar that would grace the man’s face for the rest of his life. It was a symbol within their world, a brand, of a person not to be trusted. Though Quinn had come close to simply killing him, he knew he might need the man again later. So he settled for the fact that Burke would never work in their business again.
But if it turned out Nate was dead, he’d find Burke again and finish the job. And if his former apprentice was still alive, it would be up to Nate how to handle the double-crosser.
__________
THEY LEFT BURKE in the hills, and tossed his carry-on bag into a Dumpster in Calabasas as soon as they reached the San Fernando Valley.
“So who the hell is this bald guy?” Quinn asked as he drove them down the 101 Freeway back toward his house in the hills.
“We know one thing,” Orlando said. “He has a fondness for British prime ministers.”
Quinn had picked up the connection, too. Thatcher, Blair, Brown—all names of people who had led the British government. “Yeah, but that doesn’t answer the question.”
They fell silent.
Finally, Quinn said, “Let’s put some feelers out. Someone’s got to know him. Check with Albina and Roselyn.” They were both well-connected job fixers. “And Peter, too. Maybe he can get Helen Cho to run this guy’s picture through the CIA’s system.” Peter used to run an organization called the Office, and at one time had been one of Quinn’s primary employers. Helen Cho was now the head of a group that basically filled the void left by the Office’s dissolution.
Orlando pulled her laptop out of her bag. “On it.”
By the time they reached Quinn’s house, she had received replies from both Albina and Roselyn. Neither had ever seen the man before. Peter hadn’t replied yet. Which was a bit odd. Thought it was much later back east where Peter lived, he was typically a night owl, and usually responded to inquiries such as this quickly.
Once they were inside, Quinn decided to give him a call.
The direct number to Peter’s cell phone rang five times before clicking over to voice mail.
“Peter, it’s Quinn. Need to talk to you right away. Call me as soon as you get this.”
He hung up and joined the others in the living room.
“You know, it might not have been Nate they were after,” Orlando suggested.
“Yeah,” Quinn said. “I was thinking about that.”
“You mean you?” Daeng said.
Quinn shrugged. “He’s been using my name.”
“If that’s the case,” Orlando said, “shouldn’t you know who this guy is?”
Quinn pulled the man’s picture up on his phone again and gave it another look. “You would think so, but I’ve never seen him before.”
“What if he had hair?”
Quinn placed his thumbs over the top and side of the man’s head, and focused on the guy’s face. After a moment, he shook his head. “Nope. I’m sure I’ve never met him.”
Quinn looked across the room, lost in thought. After a moment, his gaze fell on a piece of paper sitting on the dining table. He pushed up and walked over to it. Liz’s handwritten note stared back at him.
Damn.
He’d momentarily forgotten about it.
“Can you do a location check on Liz’s phone?” he asked Orlando.
“Sure.” She opened her laptop, and a minute later said, “San Diego. Her GPS coordinates match up to a motel in Pacific Beach. The Otter House. Small place. Eighteen rooms.” She looked up. “I could call her if you want. She’ll talk to me.”
He considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “No. She needs time to think.”
Orlando frowned.
“What?” he asked.
“I know what you’re doing. You’re hoping this might break them up. You think it’s better if she’s not involved with someone in the business.”
“Don’t you think that, too?” he asked, surprised.
“I am involved with someone in the business.”
“Yeah, but you’re in it also.”
“You can’t decide her life for her.”
“Who says I am? I’m not telling her to leave him. I haven’t told her their relationship is a bad idea. All I’m saying now is that we give her some time for herself.”
“And if she comes back and still wants to be in a relationship with him?”
“That’s her choice.”
“You’ll support it?”
He paused for a moment. “Yes.”
“If you honestly mean that, fine.”
“I do.”
“Then fine,” she said, though the look she gave him was less than certain.
CHAPTER 21
QUINN ROSE AT five a.m.
Careful not to wake Orlando, he put on a clean T-shirt and pair of gym shorts, checked his phone and was surprised to see there was still no return call from Peter. It was already eight back in DC, and Peter—who not only stayed up late, but woke early—would have certainly listened to Quinn’s message by now.
He headed upstairs, and tried calling his old employer again, but was once more sent to voice mail.
“Peter, this is an emergency. I need to talk to you right away.”
He hung up and thought for a moment. Peter had given him a number once for use only in an emergency and Peter could not otherwise be reached, but that had been before the Office had disbanded. Quinn wasn’t even sure the number worked anymore.
He found it on Peter’s phone in the notes section of contact page. He punched in the number and listened, fully expecting to receive a “this number has been disconnected” message.
One ring. “Hello?” A woman’s voice.
“I think I might have the wrong number,” Quinn said, almost sure of it. “I’m looking for Peter.”
“Who is this?” There was a surprised tone to the voice, a voice Quinn realized he recognized.
“Misty?”
“Tell me who this is or I’m hanging up.”
“It’s Quinn.”
Dead air for a second. “Quinn? How did you…how did you get my number?”
“I didn’t know it was your number. Peter gave it to me a few years ago in case of an emergency.”
“Typical. That man…” He could almost hear her shaking her head.
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of him, but he hasn’t responded. I thought I’d give this number a try, but I don’t suppose you’ve seen him lately.”
“Not for a month or so.” Misty had been Peter’s assistant back in the Office days, and one of the few people Peter fully trusted. Since the end of their organization, she had been shuffled off to a far less interesting government job, while Peter had been labeled a consultant and stuck behind a desk. “When did you call him?”
“Last night, probably around midnight your time, and again just before I called you.”
“And you left messages?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not like him. He should have called you back by now
. Are you sure you have the right number?”
Quinn read off the number he had for Peter.
“That’s it,” she said, sounding concerned. “Let me check and get back to you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“No. I do.”
Quinn knew it didn’t matter who was officially paying her salary, Peter would always be her boss.
“I appreciate it.”
“I’ll call you right back.”
Quinn put on the coffee, and made a bowl of instant oatmeal. He’d only taken two bites when his phone rang.
“I can’t get through to him, either,” Misty told him. “I’m about to head into work, so I’ll swing by his place first and see if he’s even home.”
“If you don’t mind, that would be great.”
It was forty minutes before she called again.
“Quinn, something’s wrong.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Her words came out in a rush. “He didn’t answer his door. I know the code to his place, so I let myself in.”
“Slow down.”
He could hear her take a few deep breaths.
“He’s not here. But his bed’s not made, and his glasses are still on his nightstand. He needs those these days.”
“Maybe he has a second pair.”
“His alarm clock is hanging by the cord over the edge of the stand, and the picture of his wife is on the floor, the glass broken.”
Wife? Quinn didn’t even know Peter was married. “What about her? She’s not there, either?”
“Who?”
“His wife?”
“She’s been dead for ten years.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
A pause. “There’s more.”
“What?”
Another moment passed before she spoke again. “Some of the things on his dresser are knocked over.” She hesitated. “It looks like there was a struggle. Quinn, what could have happened?”
Quinn made her go through the entire apartment, looking for anything unusual. Other than the disorder in the bedroom, though, nothing else stood out.
“Can you take the day off?” he asked.
“Of course.”
The Collected (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) Page 11