The Deceived (15 page)

“We’ve met recently, haven’t we?” Guerrero said.

“This afternoon at your office.”

The question cleared from the congressman’s brow. “Of course. You’re the reporter. Mr. Drake, right?”

“That’s right. Richard Drake.”

“From...Denver.”

“Right again.”

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Guerrero said.

Quinn shrugged. “A friend recommended I come. He had an invitation he couldn’t use, and I had a free night.”

“Your friend was right. Marta is a tremendous artist.”

Quinn had seen the name on a sign near the door. Marta Harmon. This was her exhibit.

Guerrero’s wife looked around her husband at Quinn. “Hello. Mr. Drake, is it? I’m Jody.” She held out a hand. Her handshake was quick and firm, and her smile was forced and plastic.

“My wife,” Guerrero said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mrs....” Quinn paused. “Do you go by Guerrero or Goodman?”

“I see someone’s been doing their homework,” she said. “Did I hear James correctly? You’re a reporter.”

“Yes, but strictly profile pieces.”

“Not a troublemaker, then?” Again with the fake smile.

“No. I leave that to others.”

She gave him a small courtesy laugh as she looked him up and down. “In social situations, it’s Mrs. Guerrero. But you can call me Jody. I save ‘Goodman’ for business.”

“Nice to meet you, Jody,” Quinn said.

“Are you enjoying the exhibit?” the congressman’s wife asked.

“The work is certainly unique.” Quinn glanced at one of the paintings. “It’s very sad, isn’t it?”

“Sad?” the congressman said. “I have to disagree with you there. I think there’s hope in every picture.”

“No,” Jody said. “I think Mr. Drake might be right.”

“Hope is lost, or almost,” Quinn said.

Jody tilted her head and smiled, only this time it wasn’t plastic, it was more intrigued.

“What do you think?” Quinn asked her.

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” she said. “But I’m impressed. It’s obvious you know your art.”

“I know a little bit about everything,” Quinn said. “You never know when it might come in useful.”

“That’s a very smart approach to life,” Guerrero said. “In my job, I have to do pretty much the same thing.”

The congressman’s wife looked across the room. “I could use another glass of wine.”

“I’ll get it for you,” her husband said, then looked at Quinn. “Mr. Drake, if you’ll excuse us.”

As Guerrero started to turn away, Quinn said, “Actually, since we’re both here, I did have one thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

Guerrero and his wife looked back at Quinn.

“Just a quick follow-up for the article. Shouldn’t take more than a minute or two.”

Guerrero was somehow able to combine a sigh with a welcoming smile. “It would be best if you set up an appointment. Come see me at my office tomorrow.”

“Unfortunately, I have to be in New York tomorrow,” Quinn said.

“Perhaps next week, then.”

“We’ll be out of town next week,” Jody said.

“You’re right. I’d forgotten,” the congressman said, though it was obvious he hadn’t forgotten and was annoyed she had mentioned it.

His wife smiled. “Why don’t I get my own drink, and you two have your little chat.”

“It won’t take that long,” Quinn said.

“Fine,” Guerrero said. “But if it goes more than a few minutes, we’ll have to schedule a follow-up for later. I’m not here to do interviews. I’m here to support Marta and her art.”

“I understand,” Quinn said. “I won’t keep you long.”

By unspoken agreement, Quinn and Guerrero left the center of the room and found a quieter spot near the back. Quinn positioned himself so he could keep an eye on the man at the front door. The security man was watching them, but he didn’t appear to be alarmed.

“So what can I answer for you?” Guerrero asked.

“It’s about Jennifer Fuentes.” Guerrero looked surprised. “Jennifer? What about her?” “I’m trying to find her, and I think you might be able to help me.” At the front door, the bodyguard had turned to talk with two new

arrivals, men who didn’t look like they were here for the art. The con

versation looked more business than casual. Colleagues, perhaps? “She’s on a leave of absence.” “Where did she go?” “That’s none of your business, Mr. Drake.” “Actually, it is,” Quinn said. “I need you to—” He stopped. The two new security men had finished their conversation and

had turned to look across the room. Quinn nearly froze. He had seen these men before. In Houston. Riding in the Volvo that had followed him.

If they’re part of the congressman’s security detail, then that means...

He suddenly missed the feel of his SIG against his side. “You need me to what?” Guerrero asked. “I need you to tell me where she is.” Guerrero raised his chin a couple of inches so that he was almost

looking down at Quinn. “I think we’re done here.” “No. We’re not.” Quinn put a hand on the congressman’s arm, stopping Guerrero

from leaving. He moved to his left so that the congressman hid him from view of the new arrivals.

“You aren’t the least bit worried about her, are you?” Quinn asked. “You know her apartment was destroyed. You also know the same thing happened to her home in Houston, don’t you?”

“Who are you?” Guerrero said. “You’re not a reporter.” “Where is she? What have you done with her?” “I haven’t done anything—” Guerrero stopped himself. “I don’t

like what you’re insinuating. Let go of me, Mr. Drake. Right now!”

Quinn leaned forward and said in a low voice, “I’ll make this very clear. I think you do know where she is. I think you have something to do with her disappearance. And if it turns out I’m right, I’m going to come back here. I promise you, you don’t want that.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No,” Quinn said. “I don’t threaten people.”

This time when the congressman tried to pull his arm from Quinn’s grasp, Quinn didn’t fight him. There was little more Quinn was going to be able to get out of him. But he’d learned enough to know something was definitely wrong, and Guerrero was involved.

As the congressman walked away, his security team started walking toward him. Quinn tried to melt into the crowd and get out of sight, but he wasn’t quick enough. One of the men from Houston got a good look at his face, then said something to his partner.

Instantly they both began pushing their way through the crowd.

Quinn moved toward the rear exit. Just before he disappeared into the hallway, he glanced over his shoulder. His pursuers were closer now, but the crowd was hindering their progress. At best, Quinn figured he had a thirty-second lead.

Before he was even two steps into the passage, he was running.

“Out of my way,” he yelled at two women who were standing near the bathroom entrance.

They moved against the wall just in time.

As Quinn neared the exit, the guy working the metal detector stepped into the opening, blocking the way. Maybe he thought Quinn had stolen something. Maybe he thought this was his chance to be a hero. But whatever he thought was soon forgotten as Quinn smashed into him, knocking him into the metal detector with a loud “Oomph.”

A couple of the people standing just beyond the doorway yelled out in surprise when Quinn raced outside.

Tasha had moved across the alley and was standing alone. Quinn raced over to her, grabbed her arm, and began pulling her down the alley to the left.

“What’s going on?” she said.

“We have to get out of here now!”

“What happened?”

“Come on,” he said. “Just run.”

She looked confused, but instead of asking another question, she pulled off her high heels and began running barefoot beside him.

They sprinted toward the street at the end of the alley. When they were only a few feet away, Quinn heard more shouts behind them. He looked back and confirmed what he already knew he’d find. It was the men from inside. They appeared to hesitate for a moment. Thrown off, Quinn thought, by the fact that there were two people running from them. Not just Quinn.

“Go right,” Quinn said as they came to the street.

They ran down the sidewalk.

“Who are those guys?” Tasha asked.

“Two of the congressman’s security team,” Quinn said. “They were in Houston, too. At the house.”

“What?” she said, surprised.

Quinn angled between two parked cars, then ran across the street. Tasha was right behind him. At the intersection, they shot to the left down the new road.

For a moment, they were alone. They still had at least a thirty-second lead. Forty, tops.

“Go across the street,” he said. “Hide behind those cars. I’ll get them to follow me.”

“What if they catch you?”

“They won’t. Once they’re gone, head up to M Street and I’ll meet you there.”

She didn’t look confident, but she did as he said.

Alone now, he made sure to run heavy so that his steps would be loud and traceable. At the same time, he scanned the road ahead of him looking for someplace to hide. A few seconds later, he spotted it, another alley. This one off to his left.

He hesitated at the opening just long enough so that the first of his pursuers turning onto the street saw him. Then he continued forward.

The alley turned out to be another dead end. Its only purpose seemed to be to provide access to several private garages along the right. About three-quarters of the doors were closed. Those with open doors were empty, but hiding in any of them would be suicide. Guerrero’s men would flush him out in a hurry. The left side of the alley provided even less opportunity. The only thing there was a ten-foot-high brick wall.

He processed all his choices in the first second of his arrival and came up with only one viable option. The garage at the far end abutted the corner of the building the alley deadended against. It also had its door open.

Quinn rushed forward and, grabbing the side of the open doorway, climbed up the wall, using the V formed by the meeting of the two buildings like a staircase.

As he pulled himself up and onto the roof, he could hear the men again, this time nearing the alley. Quinn scrambled up the slope of the roof, slipping over the apex seconds before the others arrived. Gravity wanted to pull him down the slope and into the small backyard of the townhouse behind him, but he held on, and tried to remain as quiet as possible.

“Where the fuck is he?” a voice said from the alley. “He’s not in any of these,” another called out. “Check the closed ones.” Quinn could hear metal rattling, and wood groaning in protest. “They’re all padlocked,” the second voice said. “He must have hopped the wall.” Quinn could hear hands slap against brick. Then a grunt of exer

tion, followed by a strained voice. “There’s another alleyway. He’s got

to be back there somewhere.” “Come on. It’ll be faster if we go around.” Quinn listened as their footsteps echoed down the alley. Knowing there was no time to waste, he crawled back over the top

and eased himself down in front of the garages.

Two minutes later, he was back on M Street. Tasha was standing near the entrance to a bar, blending in with the small crowd outside.

Good,
he thought.
She’s learning.
She looked relieved when she saw him. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Fine.” “Where are they?” “Still looking for me,” he said. He told her to wait where she was while he returned to the gallery

to retrieve his car. A twenty to the valet got his rental brought over in a hurry, and he was able to leave without anyone else noticing him.

“Did you talk to the congressman?” Tasha asked, after he’d picked her up and they were heading out of Georgetown.

“Yes,” he said.

“And?”

“And he didn’t have much to say.”

“He must have said something.”

“The only thing he said was that Jenny was on a leave of absence,” Quinn told her. Though it was more what the congressman hadn’t said that had got Quinn’s attention. “But I didn’t have all that much time before our friends saw me.”

Tasha was silent for several moments.

“Those men,” she finally said. “What do you think they would have done if they caught us?”

“Taken us for a ride. Asked us a few questions,” Quinn said. “Then killed us.”

Tasha grew noticeably quiet.

CHAPTER

TASHA TOLD QUINN SHE WAS STAYING AT A SMALL

motel about twenty minutes south of the District, in Virginia. Quinn’s plan was to dump her there. What she did after that was her problem. He was going to head back to Los Angeles and use other methods to figure out where Jenny might have gone. There was, though, one person he wanted to talk to before he left the area.

About halfway to Tasha’s motel, Quinn pulled out his phone and

called Nate. “I need you to get me an address,” he told his apprentice. “Sure. Name?” “Derek Blackmoore.” “Anything else you can give me?” “He should be in the D.C. area. At least he was last time I heard.” “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.” “Nate, he’s not going to be listed in any phone book.” “I didn’t expect he would be.” “And I need you to text the address to me in the next thirty min