The Deceived Page 10

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Turn around,” he said. When she didn’t move right away, he added, “Now.”

  While the phone was multifunctional, a built-in bug detector was not one of its options. Still, using the heat-sensing mode, he’d be able to identify any energy sources that might be powering a transmitter. Nothing on her body, but he did get a hit from her purse.

  “Open it up,” he said, pointing to the bag.

  As soon as she did, he stuck his hand in and started feeling around.

  “Hey,” she said. “Those are my things.”

  He pulled out a cell phone, then scanned the bag again. The heat source was gone. As he suspected, it was her cell.

  He slipped his own phone back in his pocket, then spent several seconds examining Tasha’s. It looked all right. Cheap. One of those models cell phone companies gave away to increase sales. He popped open the cover and did a quick check for anything that shouldn’t have been there. It was clean as far as he could tell. But to be safe, he popped out the battery, then put the cover back on. He put the phone and the battery into the back pocket of his pants.

  “That’s mine,” she said.

  “Why are you following me?” he asked.

  She glared at him. “Give me back my phone.”

  “We’ll see. Answer my question first.”

  She was silent for several moments. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “None of your business. Why were you following me?”

  “You know mine,” she said.

  “Do I?” he said.

  “I just told you. I’m Tasha Douglas.”

  “And last time you told me you were Tasha Laver.”

  “I’m not lying now.”

  “There’s no way I’m going to believe that until I check it out.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I understand. Can you at least give me something I can call you?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Jonathan.”

  “Jonathan,” she repeated.

  “Tell me why you’re following me,” Quinn said.

  “I haven’t been following you.”

  “Really? So you just happened to be standing on Independence Boulevard when I walked by?”

  Her eyes darted away.

  “And last night, in Georgetown? It was just chance we both ended up there at the same time?”

  She tensed. “You saw me?”

  Quinn just looked at her, waiting.

  “I was already there when you got there,” she said. “I just didn’t know how to get inside. Breaking and entering isn’t something I usually do.”

  “Then why were you there?”

  “I was there because of Jenny.” It almost looked like she was going to cry. She covered her face with her hands as she took a deep breath.

  “Because this Jenny was your college buddy?” Quinn said.

  “No,” she said. “More than that. Jenny’s one of my best friends.”

  “Really? That’s sweet,” he said, his voice flat. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re following me.”

  “I told you, I wasn’t following you,” she insisted. “Don’t you see? We’re doing the same thing. We’re both trying to find Jenny.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Why are you following me?”

  “Don’t you get it? Everywhere you go is another potential clue to Jenny’s whereabouts. And since I’m looking for her, too, those would be the same places I’d go.”

  Quinn laughed. “That’s one of the most convenient answers I’ve ever heard.”

  Her cheeks started to turn red, and her sudden anger spilled over into her voice. “So fucking what? Talking to someone Jenny works with seemed like a logical thing to do, to me. Unfortunately, when I went into the congressman’s building, they wouldn’t let me go up without an appointment. I was trying to figure out what to do when suddenly you came out.”

  Quinn took a step back, preparing to leave. This was getting him nowhere except more annoyed. “If I see you again,” he said, “I won’t be as nice. Understand?”

  “Please.” She took a step toward him. “I...I don’t have anyone left to turn to. No one else can help me.” She stopped for a moment and took in a nervous breath. “I tried to find her boyfriend, but he’s missing, too.”

  Quinn paused and turned back toward her. “Maybe they ran off together and just didn’t tell anyone.”

  “I know that’s not true. Jenny and Steven would never do that.”

  Steven. Steven Markoff.

  Quinn took a deep breath. “If you’re really Jenny’s friend, I suggest you drop it.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “You saw what they did to her house in Houston, and what happened to her apartment. These people aren’t just playing. They will kill you. Go home. You can’t do anything for her.”

  For the first time, she started to smile. “You are trying to find her. If you were one of them, you wouldn’t have warned me.”

  “Think what you want, just get the hell out of here,” he said again. “You’re only going to get yourself in trouble.”

  “I can’t just let this go,” she said. “Jenny asked me to help her.”

  Quinn stared at her for a second. “What are you talking about?”

  She looked at him, her face serious. “Three weeks ago she called me. Said that she was in trouble and needed to leave town.”

  “You didn’t mention this before,” he said. “You just told me she suddenly dropped out of communication.”

  “I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

  “And you can trust me now?” Quinn asked, his eyebrows lifting in disbelief. “You don’t even know who I am.”

  “I’m not sure I do trust you, but I don’t know what else to do.” She looked down for a moment, then tilted her head back up. “When she called, I asked her if there was anything I could do. She said no at first, but then she changed her mind, and said she’d call me every two days to let me know she was all right.”

  “And?”

  “She kept to her word. For a while anyway,” Tasha said. “The last call I got from her was six days ago.”

  “Was there something you were supposed to do if she didn’t call?” Quinn said, still skeptical.

  “She said I should find Steven. Tell him what happened.” She paused. “But he’s gone, too.”

  “So you’re trying to figure out where she is on your own?” Quinn asked.

  “What else was I supposed to do?”

  Quinn looked at the waterfall for a moment. Was she telling him the truth or just feeding him some bullshit? He was trained to think the worst, so there was no way he was going to believe her on the spot. But if she was lying, she was putting on a pretty damn good act.

  “How did you contact each other? Did she give you a phone number?” he asked, looking for holes in her story.

  “No. She always called me.”

  “What about caller ID?”

  Tasha shook her head. “The numbers always came up blocked.”

  Quinn frowned, annoyed. “Fine,” he said.

  “Fine? Fine what?”

  He leaned toward her, his face stopping only six inches in front of hers. “Fine, we’re done. And this time I’m not suggesting it, I’m telling you. Go home.” Whether what she was saying was the truth or not, it seemed pretty clear she was going to keep getting in his way. It was a complication he didn’t need.

  “Only if you tell me you’re trying to help Jenny. That you’re going to find her,” she said.

  He knew he should just remain silent and walk away. But if he did that, she’d continue to be a problem.

  He pulled Tasha’s cell phone and battery out of his back pocket and handed them to her. “I’ll find her,” he said. “Now don’t let me see you again.”

  “There’s a reception tonight. Eight p.m. An art gallery opening in Georgetown.”

  “An art gallery
?” Quinn said into his phone. Peter had called him as he was riding in a cab back to his hotel.

  “In Washington, even a gallery opening is a political event.”

  “You’re sure he’s going to be there?”

  “He RSVP’d.”

  “Everybody RSVPs,” Quinn said.

  “True,” Peter said.

  “Give me the address.” It might turn out to be a bust, but it was Quinn’s best chance.

  “You’ll need to get on the list,” Peter said.

  “I’m sure you can arrange that.”

  Quinn could almost hear the smile in Peter’s voice when he said, “Of course I can.”

  CHAPTER

  WITH THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF CASH, A GOOD HOTEL

  can get you anything in a hurry. The Crystal City Marriott was no exception. After tipping the concierge a hundred dollars, the man seemed to take a personal interest in making sure Quinn had exactly what he needed.

  By a quarter to eight, Quinn was dressed in a dark blue Brooks Brothers suit, white shirt, and a tie that was just nice enough to say he might have money, but not so garish as to stand out in a crowd. His overall look was conservative, successful, and confident. In a room full of politicians and D.C. insiders, he would blend in and barely be noticed.

  Instead of a cab, Quinn had the concierge rent him a car for the night. He needed to be flexible. He wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to get a moment with the congressman at the gallery or would have to follow him afterward—all, of course, depending on whether the congressman showed up in the first place.

  Quinn drove the Lexus sedan north from the hotel, following the same path he’d taken in the cab to Georgetown the night before. He was armed again—the gun which he’d left at the hotel that afternoon was safely stowed under the passenger seat beside him.

  He spotted the gallery a half block north of M Street, toward the eastern end of Georgetown, and less than a mile from Jenny’s burnt-out apartment.

  There were over a dozen people standing outside the gallery’s front door talking and smoking. Some even held wineglasses. Several cars were stopped next to the curb, waiting to be helped by the blue-coated valets stationed nearby.

  As Quinn pulled into the line behind a late-model Cadillac, he could see into the main entrance. Just inside was the familiar arc of a metal detector. The gun would have to stay in the car.

  “Good evening, sir,” a valet said as he opened Quinn’s door. He handed Quinn a ticket as they switched places.

  The front of the gallery was a series of floor-to-ceiling windows. Light from inside spilled through them onto the brick sidewalk beyond. Like most of the other structures in Georgetown, the rest of the building was made of the same red brick as the sidewalks.

  Above the windows was a sign: The Delaney Gallery. And in smaller letters below it: Fine Art.

  There was a woman at the door, college aged and dressed in all white. It was an unfortunate choice. Her skin was almost as pale as her dress. In contrast, her hair was dark, almost blue-black. A dye job. No doubt about it. She was holding a clipboard, and beside her on a small table sat a stack of cards.

  “May I have your invitation?”

  “I was told you’d have my name on a list,” he said.

  She nodded, not smiling. Quinn guessed it was part of her act.

  “Name?” she said.

  “Richard Drake.”

  She consulted the top sheet on her clipboard, moving her finger down it until she almost reached the bottom.

  “Yes. Of course. Mr. Drake.” She looked up, her face still neutral. “Please, enjoy the exhibit.”

  Quinn entered the gallery and passed through the metal detector. There was a large man standing just past the device. He was wearing a dark blue suit and a smile. Security, no doubt, but more dressed-up rent-a-cop than serious muscle, Quinn guessed.

  There was already quite a crowd inside. It wasn’t elbow to elbow, but it was enough to raise the volume to a loud buzz. Most of the men were dressed like Quinn in conservative, expensive suits, while the majority of the women wore the standard black cocktail dress. Quinn did note a few spots of color, but none of the dresses were too bold or too revealing. This wasn’t Hollywood, after all.

  He checked for the congressman, but unless he was in some other room, he had yet to arrive.

  Not far from the front door, a refreshments table with hors d’oeuvres and empty glasses for wine had been set up. Behind the table were two men, both dressed in all white like the girl at the door. They hovered next to bottles of Rutherford Hill wine, filling the glasses as guests came up and asked for a drink.

  “May I pour you a glass?” one of the men asked.

  “Please,” Quinn said.

  “Cabernet sauvignon or chardonnay?”

  “Chardonnay. Thanks.”

  Once he had wine in hand, Quinn turned and surveyed the room again, this time ignoring the people and taking in the layout and exhibit.

  The space seemed to consist of one main room with one or two smaller offshoots near the back. Those could have been offices or restrooms, Quinn couldn’t tell yet.

  The front room was large, around sixty feet wide and half again as long. It was broken up in an almost mazelike way by canvases that hung in curving rows on wires attached to the ceiling. Even the paintings that lined the periphery of the room had been hung several inches from the walls in the same manner.

  The effect was an interesting one. It gave the illusion of both space and confinement.

  A closer look at the paintings showed the theme didn’t stop with the gallery décor. The images were stark—grays and blacks and whites blending together to form buildings and streets and homes. There were people, too, in the same tones, almost receding into the background as if they were ghosts. But on each canvas there was something in color. Bright, vibrant color. A child’s ball in reds and yellows and pinks, left alone on an abandoned sidewalk. A jacket in a deep, glowing blue, hanging from the back of a door. A kite, lying alone on a park bench, in all those colors and more.

  There was a sadness in each piece. A deep, lonely sadness. Quinn was surprised to find himself drawn in by the work. He had to consciously tear himself away to finish his examination.

  He began walking toward the back of the room. He stopped every few moments and pretended to examine a new painting. As he did he noticed a second refreshment table set up at the back of the room, between the doorways Quinn had spotted earlier.

  As he neared the closest doorway, he realized it didn’t lead to another room, but to a hallway. At the far end was a metal door. It was propped open, and there was another metal detector and security man stationed just inside the doorway. There was no smile on this guy’s face. He just looked bored. Beyond the exit, Quinn could see several people standing outside talking and smoking. Halfway down the hall, three people stood in a loose line near a door marked Restroom.

  Quinn moved to the next doorway. This one did lead to another room, though much smaller than the main gallery. He peeked in. More paintings, only smaller than the ones out front. A few people were examining the artwork, while several others stood in the middle of the room talking.

  As Quinn turned away, it seemed to him that the crowd in the main room had grown larger than it had been a few minutes before. He even thought he recognized a few faces here and there. Not people he’d met before, but ones he’d seen on TV or in the newspaper—other lawmakers, a national news reporter or two.

  But still no Guerrero.

  Quinn glanced at his watch; it was 9:05 p.m. Part of being a politician, particularly one with higher aspirations, meant mixing with the people. And a smart politician would come when the crowd was at its height. So if Guerrero was coming, it had to be soon.

  Quinn thought about getting an hors d’oeuvre, when his eyes were drawn to a new arrival at the front of the gallery.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said to himself.

  Tasha.

  She hadn’t listened to him at a
ll. She must have found out the congressman was going to be there, and was going to try to talk to him. She was becoming more than just a problem; she was becoming dangerous. He decided to wait until she moved further into the room before taking any action.

  One thing he noticed as he watched her was that she seemed more confident than she had at either of their previous meetings. It was like she was willing herself to be a person who was in control, steeling herself so that she wouldn’t back down when the moment came to talk to the congressman. Quinn had seen other civilians do the same in similar situations. An appearance of toughness to do things Quinn could do without thinking.

  As she squeezed past the other guests, her eyes moved across the room. She was doing a good job at looking like she was just interested in the exhibit while she checked out those around her. As her eyes moved toward Quinn’s position, he took a step to his left, effectively hiding behind one of the paintings.

  Several moments later, she stopped at the refreshment table near the hallway. While she waited for her glass of wine, Quinn walked up behind her.

  “Maybe you should wait on that,” he said.

  Tasha turned. Quinn had seen her scared, nervous, even confident, but this was the first time he’d seen her surprised.

  “What are you doing here?” she finally managed.

  “Come on,” he said. He put a hand on her arm and pulled her toward the hallway.

  “Wait. Where are we going?”

  Quinn didn’t answer; instead he relied on the fact she wouldn’t want to make a scene. He led her down the hallway, through the metal detector, and out into a small alley.

  “You’re hurting me,” she whispered. “Let me go.”

  Without releasing his grip, he walked with her along the alley until they were out of listening range of the people who’d stepped outside for a smoke.

  “How did you get in?”

  She looked unsure for a moment, then said, “A friend back in Houston...works at a gallery. She was able to make a few calls and get

  me an invitation.”

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “I’m not going to stop looking for Jenny just because you told me to. I asked for your help, but you refused. So that means I’m on my own. The congressman is supposed to be here. I’m going to talk to him.”