The Deceived (20 page)

They started walking again, both quietly sipping their drinks and saying nothing. At the next intersection, they stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change.

“Before I go digging too much, are you sure this is something you want to get involved in?” Orlando asked. “I know Markoff was your friend. And I know you are trying to do the right thing by telling Jenny what happened. But this looks like it’s getting deep. You could be getting yourself into something that’s not worth the trouble.”

Quinn’s jaw tensed. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“That’s kind of why I’m bringing it up. Last time was a riot. You sure you can handle that kind of fun again?”

You can never fully repay someone who has saved your life.

“I can handle it.”

“This isn’t your game. You can just walk away.”

“You know I can’t do that,” he said with a finality he hoped would get her to change the subject.

“Because of Markoff?” she said.

Quinn took a deep breath. There were only a handful of people in the world Quinn would drop everything for, and do whatever he could to help them. Even posthumously. Markoff was number two on that list. Quinn was talking with number one.

“I don’t really have a choice,” he said. “I owe him.”

The look she gave him surprised Quinn. It was almost as if he had said anything else, she would have been disappointed.

“Then neither do I.”

“You know, you’re right. This could be a lot of trouble. You don’t need to help me out. I’ll take care of it.”

She laughed. “Like you could stop me now.”

“Orlando,” he said, “this is personal for me. Not for you. You don’t need to get involved.”

She laid a hand on his arm, and her eyes locked on his. “Last winter, when everything seemed lost, when...Durrie had taken my son. That was personal, too. But you were there for me.”

There was more she didn’t have to say. He knew she felt as he did. That whatever the problem either of them had, this is what they did for each other. They were there for the other one. Always.

The light changed and they began walking again. When they reached the other side, he said, “Thanks.” She looked up at him for a moment, then leaned against him. He

put his arm around her shoulder. “Maybe we should go back,” he said. He could feel her shaking her head. “Not yet.”

CHAPTER

DURRIE HAD BEEN A SON OF A BITCH. THAT WAS A FACT

no one would have ever argued. Even on his good days, it seemed like the simple act of waking pissed him off. The few friends he’d had learned early on to walk out on him if he was in one of his moods. But as Durrie’s apprentice, Quinn didn’t have that option. He’d had to stay until dismissed, acting the part of whipping boy more often than not.

For a long time, Quinn wasn’t sure if the bad moods were real or just a put-on. In the end, he decided they were a little bit of both. It bothered him for the first year or so, but after that, he realized it didn’t matter. He was there for one thing only: to learn how to be a cleaner. And while Quinn tuned out most of Durrie’s philosophical and life-coaching bullshit, his old mentor had been excellent at teaching him the nuts and bolts of the job.

Perhaps the bastard’s most valuable trait had been the ability to see the strengths of his student. He would use these as focal points, helping Quinn expand on his abilities. And as for any weaknesses, he’d push Quinn even harder on those, showing his apprentice ways to negate them.

In the strengths department, Quinn had many. Durrie had often called Quinn’s acting abilities his strongest quality, but they both knew it was Quinn’s observational skills and attention to detail that were really what topped the list.

Quinn saw things others missed, picking out the small details that made jobs go that much smoother. It was this skill, though raw at first, that had brought Quinn to Durrie’s attention in the first place. And it was this skill, honed sharp, that had carried him through his apprenticeship and allowed him to become a full-fledged cleaner.

“You’ve got to be aware of everything,” Durrie had said. “It’s what’ll set you apart from the competition.”

“From you?” Quinn said, the hint of a smile on his face.

“Never from me,” Durrie said, all business. “You’ll never reach my level.”

Durrie may have actually believed that, but there was no way Quinn was going to let that be true. He worked harder than he ever had in his life, studying late and sleeping little. All in an attempt to be the best he could possibly be. To be able to perform, one day, at an even higher level than his mentor.

Proof that Quinn’s training was paying off came during a job in Neuchâtel, Switzerland. It had been in an apartment above an antique shop. The building was within the walls of the old medieval city, in a crowded touristy area.

There were two bodies, a man and a woman. They were lying on their backs in bed; a duvet covered them from the waist down. The woman’s eyes were closed, but the man’s were open, cloudy and unfocused.

It was obvious they were dead, but there was no blood or visible wounds. Of course if they were still alive, Quinn and Durrie wouldn’t be there. They’d have still been waiting for word back at their hotel.

“Piece it together for me,” Durrie said.

They were standing just inside the bedroom doorway, neither having ventured further into the room. Quinn scanned from left to right, taking in everything.

“This is her place, not his,” Quinn said.

“Good. Why?”

“The curtains. The perfumes on the dresser. The color of the walls. None of it says male. She lives alone.”

“Okay. What else?” “I’d say he was more excited about being here than she was.” Durrie said nothing, waiting. “He was in a hurry to get his clothes off,” Quinn continued, point

ing to the pile of men’s clothes on the floor next to the bed. He then looked across the room at a chair near the entrance to the bathroom. The woman’s things lay on the seat, neatly folded. “She took her time.”

“How were they killed?” “Suffocation,” Quinn said without a pause. “You’re sure?” Quinn took a second look. There were no wounds he could see,

and it was doubtful the duvet was covering anything life ending. Even if it had, he would have expected blood to seep through, staining the cover. There was no stain. But most telling was the lack of the tangy smell of blood.

“Absolutely.” “No struggle?” “Drugged,” Quinn said. “Something recreational, easily obtained.

It would look like an accidental overdose if they’d been discovered be

fore we could get here.” “Then why suffocate them at all?” Durrie said. “Whoever killed them didn’t want to leave a calling card behind.”

He was talking about a bullet, but he didn’t need to tell Durrie that. Quinn’s mentor nodded to himself. “All right, smart guy. Tell me how.”

Quinn scanned the room again, not to see if there was anything he missed, only to make sure his thoughts were in order. “I’d say the assassin used that pillow over there.” He pointed to a pillow sitting on top of a blanket chest under the window. “It’s convenient, and it’s out of place.”

“Really? Where’s it supposed to be?”

“It goes on the bed when no one’s in it. There’re three others on the floor next to the man’s clothes. The fourth one should be there, too. The killers were sloppy.”

“There was more than one?” Durrie asked. “If there was only one, he would have shot them between the eyes,

and not worried about the bullet. He wouldn’t have been able to suffocate one without chancing that the other would put up a fight. So there had to be two. One for each victim.”

Durrie was silent for a moment as he stared into the room. Finally he turned to Quinn. “Right,” he said, sounding as if he’d expected Quinn’s answers. “Let’s clean it up.”

As it turned out, that was the last job Quinn went on as Durrie’s apprentice. He had just turned twenty-six, completing his training in four years. And though they did work the next several projects together, it was as colleagues, not as teacher/student, Quinn getting a full cut of the fee.

It was ironic that one of the most valuable lessons Quinn learned was on the jobs after his apprenticeship was over. Two or three times, Durrie had been forced to take on substandard help to fill out their team. A sloppy mistake had lost one man his life, and on another job, one man’s incompetence nearly got Quinn and Durrie arrested.

“It’s the people you surround yourself with that really make you look either good or bad,” Durrie had said as they shared a drink after the near miss with the law. “If the client finds out what happened today, I might not get work for months. Remember that, Johnny.”

Quinn did. That’s why he loved working with Orlando. He had no doubt that when it came to her specialties of information and technology, there were few in the business smarter. But it wasn’t just the areas she was trained in that made her valuable. She had a keen mind for all aspects of a job. Quinn often found himself running things by her to see what she thought. He trusted her implicitly. That wasn’t something he could say about anyone else. Nate someday, maybe. But he still had a ways to go.

If a job required more personnel than the three of them, Quinn would hire only those he knew would do it right and could improvise when necessary. If he couldn’t get the team he needed, he wouldn’t take on the project. It was the reason he had reached the level he had—a level higher than Durrie had ever reached. His clients knew the high-quality work they would get from him. There would be no problems, no accidental body discoveries, no unwanted attention from local authorities.

And when things got messy like they had in Berlin the previous winter, and now seemed to be getting with Jenny, he and his core team could deal with that, too.

“She’s up,” Nate said when Quinn returned to the hotel. “I heard her in the shower a few minutes ago.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow.

“Hey,” Nate said. “I didn’t go in and check. I just heard the water, all right?”

“Whatever makes you happy, Nate.”

“Why don’t you go check?” Nate said. “I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Nate smiled, then plopped back down on one of the beds. “Never mind.”

Quinn pulled off his suit jacket and hung it in the closet. Whatever garbage Nate was pushing, Quinn didn’t have time for it. He removed his tie, shoes, and slacks, and changed into his street clothes.

Nate, a sucker for vintage shows, was watching TV. A rerun of
The Rockford Files
.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Quinn said. “We’re leaving soon.”

“How was the funeral?” Nate asked.

“I was too late.”

“Then where have you been all afternoon?”

Quinn stared at his apprentice. “A, none of your business. But B, I said I was late to the funeral. I didn’t say I didn’t see Orlando.”

“Sorry,” Nate said. “How is she?”

“Ask her yourself. We’re meeting her in a little while.”

Quinn walked over to the door that separated the rooms. He knocked, but got no response. He pulled the door open and peeked in. No one was in the room, but the sound of water was coming from behind the closed bathroom door. He walked over and tapped on the door.

“Tasha?”

The water shut off. “Is someone there?” “It’s me,” Quinn said. “I need to talk to you when you’re done.” “Hold on,” she said. He could hear her moving around, then the door opened just

enough to reveal her head and her bare left shoulder. “Sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t hear you.” “When you’re done, come into our room.” “Okay,” she said. “What’s going on?” “We just need to talk.” “Give me ten minutes.” Quinn nodded and started to turn away. “Jonathan?” she said. He stopped and looked back at her. She smiled. “Thanks.”

Back in his room,
The Rockford Files
was just ending.

“I hope wherever we’re meeting her is someplace I can get something to eat,” Nate said. He hefted his suitcase onto the bed and unzipped it. From inside he removed two pistols. “You want this now?” he asked, holding up the SIG.

“Yeah.” Nate pulled out a suppressor from the bag, and handed it and the

weapon over to Quinn. “Extra mags?” Quinn asked. “I could only get one.” He grabbed the SIG’s magazine and tossed

it over.

Quinn donned his modified windbreaker and stowed his gun. He then pulled out his computer and got onto the Internet. Within moments, he was on the Sandy Side Yacht Club message board. He found the original message from Jenny, with his posted reply. There was now a third message.

Quinn clicked it open. It was from Jenny. Code word: Los Angeles. The message was an eleven-digit number, followed by a time and day.

4:00 p.m. GMT Saturday

Quinn quickly calculated the time difference between Greenwich Mean and the west coast of North America: 9:00 a.m. Tomorrow. The eleven-digit number before it had to be a phone number. Quinn wrote everything down on a piece of hotel stationery, then folded it and put it in his pocket.

As he was shutting down his computer, Tasha came through the door. She was dressed in the same sweatpants and T-shirt they’d picked up for her the night before. Her hair, still damp from the shower, was pulled back in a ponytail.