The Deceived Page 6

  figure it out, is she?” “Yeah, but I could call her. She won’t mind.” “No,” Quinn said. There was a back door leading to the kitchen and a sliding glass

  door that opened onto what appeared to be a family room. Both were

  locked. “Did you get a port of origin on the ship?” Quinn asked. “I did.” A bit of confidence returned to Nate’s voice. “Shanghai.” “Interesting.” “Not what you were expecting?” “I wasn’t expecting any place in particular,” Quinn said. Actually,

  Shanghai made sense. Most West Coast shipping came from Asia, and Shanghai was one of the busiest ports not only on the Pacific Ocean but in the entire world.

  There was a smaller window just beyond the sliding glass door. Frosted. A bathroom. And it was open. The gap was only a few inches, no doubt to equalize the moisture buildup anytime someone took a shower, but even if it was locked in place, Quinn would be able to force it open.

  “I sent some photos to your e-mail,” Quinn said as he peeked through the window into the empty room beyond. “See if you can get a good image of each subject. You remember how to run the enhancement software, right?”

  “You ask me that every single time.” “Well, do you?” “Yes. I remember how to use it.” With one hand, Quinn popped the screen out. “Good. After you

  get that going, I need you to run a plate for me. You have a pen?” “Yes.” Quinn recited the license-plate number from the Volvo. He doubted it would net anything useful. With people this detailed, if the car wasn’t

  stolen, the plates were.

  “That it?” Nate said.

  “No,” Quinn said, then gave Nate Jenny’s address. “I want a comprehensive ownership history. You’ll probably have to dig a little.”

  “Got it,” Nate said. “I take it you haven’t found your friend yet.”

  Quinn’s jaw tensed. “Not yet,” he said.

  As his hand began pushing the window open, there was a sudden movement behind him in the bushes near the back fence. Just as he started to turn toward the noise, he felt a click from under the window frame, like it had just run over some sort of . . . switch.

  He took three quick steps away from the window, but that was as far as he got before the house behind him exploded.

  CHAPTER

  QUINN FOUND HIMSELF FLAT ON THE GROUND, HIS

  chest aching from the impact. His cell phone had flown out of his hand and lay smashed in several pieces a few feet away.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The house was filled with smoke. Whatever had exploded had been toward the middle of the structure, large enough to cause a lot of damage, but small enough not to bring the whole thing down. Through the now glassless windows he could see the flicker of flames. There would be little time before fire crews and police arrived on scene. He needed to get out of there, fast.

  He pulled himself to his feet, then paused.

  The noise at the back of the yard. The shock of the explosion had almost made him forget. He looked toward the rear fence but there was nothing.

  Forget it, he willed himself. He had to get out of there. That was priority one.

  Only which way? By now people from the neighborhood would have started gathering on the street out front. If he left the same way he’d arrived, he’d be spotted for sure. The immediate assumption would be that he caused the blast. He couldn’t risk that delay.

  As he began scanning the backyard for an alternate exit, the bushes moved again. No possum, he realized, unless it was at least five feet tall. It was a person; he could just make out its shadowy form between the branches.

  Quinn ducked down, reaching for a gun he wasn’t carrying, then swore silently to himself. Staying low, he ran quickly over to the garden shed, putting it between him and whoever it was sharing the yard with him. He chanced a look around the side. Nothing, except the vague forms of plants and grass almost indistinguishable in the half-light of the growing fire.

  From the distance came the first faint sounds of sirens. Quinn started to pull back behind the shed when suddenly two hands shot up above the plants, grabbing for the top of the fence.

  Quinn didn’t even think. He rushed toward the movement.

  The person who’d been hiding was almost over the top by the time Quinn got there.

  A woman, he realized. She was thin, agile, and had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Like Quinn, she was dressed in dark clothing.

  Jenny? he thought, pausing for a split second.

  He lunged forward, his hand grasping at her foot. But his hesitation had cost him. His fingers brushed the sole of her shoe, unable to grab hold.

  There was a thud on the other side of the fence, followed a second later by a groan.

  Quinn pulled himself up and over the barrier, landing on his feet.

  The woman was already heading across the yard toward a house that could have been a clone of the one that had just been destroyed. There were no lights on inside. Either no one was home, or the place was empty. The explosion would have drawn the attention of any occupants.

  The woman was favoring one leg, slowing her progress.

  “Jenny?” he called out. But the woman didn’t stop.

  Quinn sprinted across the lawn. In the distance, the wail of emergency sirens was nearing.

  When he was only a few feet away, he said in a low voice, “Stop.”

  The woman did just the opposite, moving faster toward the house.

  Quinn closed the remaining distance and grabbed her just below the shoulders, pulling them both to a halt.

  She flailed against him, trying to break free, but he held tight. As he turned her to face him, he realized he was wrong. She wasn’t Jenny. The height had been right, and the hair was close enough to his memory of Jenny’s, but the face belonged to someone else.

  “Please,” she said. “Let me go. I didn’t see anything, okay?” She winced in pain, but she didn’t cry out.

  “What were you doing back there?” Quinn asked.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Maybe watching to make sure the bomb got me?”

  “No. Please, just let me go.”

  “You were trying to kill me, weren’t you?” Quinn said.

  “Please. I just want to leave.”

  “Who are you?”

  As she started to speak, a jolt of pain crossed her face. She began to lean down, but Quinn’s grip held her in place.

  “I twisted my ankle,” she said. “Just let me check it.”

  “Slow and easy,” he said.

  As he released his grip, he moved behind her, keeping a hand on her back just below her neck. The sirens were closer now. Perhaps a minute away, no more.

  The woman rubbed her ankle for a moment, then one of her hands slipped under the cuff of her pants. Quinn reached down and grabbed her wrist just as her hand reemerged. She was holding a small pistol. By the looks of it, a .22. Not a lot of firepower, but at close range enough to kill.

  Quinn wrenched the weapon from her grasp.

  “Give that back,” she said.

  He slipped the gun into his pocket.

  “Fine. Keep it. I don’t care,” she said. She turned her head toward the sound of the sirens, then looked back at Quinn. “Can I go now?”

  Quinn knew they had very little time before they’d be discovered, but he didn’t move. “Who are you?”

  “Does it matter?” she said. “Look, they’re going to arrest both of us if they find us here. I didn’t have anything to do with the explosion, and I know you didn’t either or you wouldn’t have been standing so

  close when it went off. Right?”

  Quinn didn’t reply.

  “Can we just get out of here?” she asked.

  “Who are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Actually, it does.”

  He grabbed her by the arm and started pushing her across the yard toward the front gate.

  Quinn found an old Ford Bronco parked on the street with its do
ors unlocked.

  “Get in,” he said to the woman.

  She looked at him for a second, then climbed across to the passenger seat.

  “Don’t think about getting out and running, because I will catch you,” Quinn said.

  The look on her face told him she understood.

  It took him less than a minute to hot-wire the ignition. As the engine roared to life, he sat up and jammed the Bronco into drive.

  “Who are you?” he asked again.

  She hesitated, then said, “Tasha. Tasha...Laver.”

  Quinn drove carefully, keeping his speed down so as not to draw unwanted attention. “What were you doing in that backyard?”

  “I...I was looking for someone.”

  “Really? Who?”

  Ahead was a stop sign. Quinn slowed, then rolled through it when he saw the coast was clear.

  “A friend. The house belongs to her. But...” She paused, then looked at Quinn. “Who are you? What were you doing there?”

  Quinn said nothing.

  “I know you weren’t with them, or you wouldn’t have been trying to get into the house.”

  “Them?” he asked as he took the next right.

  “The people in the house. That family. The others. I’ve never seen any of them before. And I’ve known Jenny for...” She stopped herself. “You haven’t told me who you are.”

  “You’re right. I haven’t,” he said, beginning to feel he might be able to get a little more information out of the woman, but that it might not be worth the time.

  Woodway Avenue was a couple blocks away. Quinn could see dozens of cars passing by on the busier road. Just before they reached it, he pulled the Bronco to the curb and turned to the woman. “One last time: what were you doing back there?”

  She hesitated, then said, “I was looking for Jenny. Jenny Fuentes. That was her house, but I think you probably know that.” She paused. “You... called me Jenny when you were chasing me.”

  “Why were you looking for her?” Again a pause. “She’s a friend. We’ve been friends for a long time.” “Good for you. But that still doesn’t tell me why.” The woman seemed to think for a moment, considering her words

  before she spoke. “We kept in pretty good touch. Then a few weeks ago, it was like she disappeared. I called her work but they said she was on a leave of absence.” She looked at Quinn. “Jenny would let me know if something was wrong. She wouldn’t just go away without a word.”

  “You’re that important to her?” “Important enough,” she said defensively. “How do you know her?” “Why do you need to know that? Who the hell are you? And why

  are you looking for her?” “How do you know her?” he repeated, his voice impatient. Silence. “College,” she said, as if mad she had even opened her mouth.

  “Same major. Your turn now.” Quinn wasn’t sure if her story was true or not, but she had given

  him enough to check her out. “Get out,” he said. “What?” “Get out of the car. You can catch a ride here. Or call a taxi. I don’t

  care.” “No.”

  “Now,” he said.

  “I’m not leaving until you tell me who you are and why you’re looking for Jenny.” Her tone was defiant, challenging.

  Quinn stared at her for a moment. “Fine.”

  He opened his door and started to climb out.

  “Where are you going?”

  He didn’t answer.

  He walked back to the rented Lexus. The woman had followed him for a block, then stopped. As he glanced back over his shoulder, he could see her walking toward Woodway Avenue. Whether she was really a friend of Jenny’s or not, he wasn’t sure. But her fear had seemed genuine. Still, she was a loose end. Once he found a secure phone, he’d have Nate check her out.

  When he reached the Lexus, he saw that the street up toward Jenny’s house was filled with police cars and fire trucks. Bright lights on portable poles were erected in the driveway, lighting up the smoldering house like a Monday night football game. Firemen were fighting what was left of the flames, while most of the cops worked crowd detail.

  Quinn slipped quietly into his car. He kept his eyes forward as he started the engine, watchful in case anyone looked in his direction.

  He waited a full minute before pulling away from the curb, lights off. He made a quick U-turn, then headed back toward Woodway Avenue.

  If he’d been only mildly worried about Jenny before he came to Houston, he was now full-on concerned. And until proven otherwise, he had to assume that Markoff ’s death and the disappearance of his girlfriend were connected.

  He could feel the tension building in his shoulders.

  Nate had been right. This was one of those jobs they didn’t get paid for. Until Quinn knew Jenny was all right, he wasn’t going to be able to stop looking for her. The last thing he wanted was for what had happened to Markoff to happen to her, too.

  He only hoped he wasn’t too late.

  CHAPTER

  FROM THE SCANT INFORMATION HE HAD, THE LAST

  place Jenny had been seen was in D.C. So a return to L.A. was going to have to wait. D.C. would have to come first.

  The fastest way there would have been to head back to Bush Intercontinental and catch a plane. Hobby Airport was also an option. But both posed potential risks. The men who had been following him in the Volvo couldn’t have known he was at the house when it exploded. They might still be trying to find him. Which meant there was a good chance watchers were stationed at the airports, looking for him. There was no way to know for sure, so it was best to play it safe.

  Quinn took the I-10 heading east toward Louisiana. The after-midnight crowd was mainly big rigs hauling God knows what into the heart of the South. Scattered among them were the occasional sedans, almost all solo drivers.

  The night was dark, moonless. Quinn could make out some vegetation along the side of the road, but it was all silhouettes, no real definition to anything.

  Just before Beaumont, he exited the interstate and stopped at a twenty-four-hour gas station. He filled up the Lexus and grabbed a large cup of coffee inside.

  “Pay phone?” he asked the attendant. The man looked at him a little funny at first. “Oh ...um... out

  side, I think. Back near the bathrooms. If it’s still there.” “Thanks,” Quinn said. He walked back to his car, then pulled around to where the phone

  was supposed to be. Turned out the attendant’s memory was pretty good. The phone was there, though it didn’t look as if it had been used in a while.

  Quinn donned the leather gloves again, then grabbed one of the napkins he’d picked up with the coffee and got out of his car. He gave the phone a quick wipe-down, removing a layer of dust, before he put it to his ear. He then used a calling card he kept in his wallet for just such emergencies to call Nate.

  “Hello?” Nate’s voice was quick, abrupt. “It’s me,” Quinn said. “How are you?” “Decent enough.” The code again, only this time telling Nate he

  was okay, but on an unsecured line.

  He could hear Nate exhale on the other end. “Thank God. It sounded...” He paused, obviously trying to choose the correct word. “Abrupt.”

  “It was,” Quinn said. “I’ll tell you about it later.” “Are you coming back?” “No. Not yet. I’ll check in tomorrow. No specific time. If you have

  anything for me, e-mail is best for now.” “Wait,” Nate said, no doubt sensing Quinn was about to hang up.

  “Orlando called.” “What? Why?” Quinn asked. “She’s visiting her aunt and wants to talk to you.” Quinn was silent for a moment. Visiting her aunt would mean she

  was in San Francisco. Odd that she hadn’t mentioned coming to California the last time they talked. That wasn’t like her. Even though they both worked in the world of secrets, they had few between them. Orlando lived in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, with her son Garrett, so a trip to the States was not something she would have done on a whim.

  “Did she say what she wanted?”
Quinn asked.

  “No. Just to call her. She sounded... distracted.”

  “Distracted?”

  “I don’t know. Just not herself. Maybe she’s jetlagged and just wants to say hi.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Quinn frowned, then said, “I can’t call her right now.”

  “What if she calls again?”

  “Tell her I’ll get ahold of her as soon as I can,” Quinn said.

  Quinn was able to get on an early morning plane out of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. It wasn’t a direct flight, so when he arrived at Reagan National Airport it was just after 11:30 a.m. eastern time. He made a quick local phone call, then walked across the skyway toward baggage claim and caught the Metro Blue Line north one stop to Crystal City. There he walked down the tunnel to the Crystal City Marriott and checked in to a room. Once he’d taken a quick shower and dressed in jeans and a green short-sleeve shirt, he went back downstairs and caught a taxi into the city.

  After Houston, the temperature and humidity in Washington were almost bearable. Quinn guessed it was taking a whole minute longer for his shirt to soak through with sweat.

  As his cab was passing the Jefferson Memorial, Quinn leaned forward. “Drop me off at the Department of Agriculture,” he said.

  “Not the convention center?” the cabby asked. It was the destination Quinn had given him when he got in.

  “Agriculture. South Building.”

  The cabby huffed a little at the shorter distance and grumbled to himself for the rest of the trip. But a few minutes later, when Quinn double-tipped him as he got out, the man’s frown disappeared.

  Quinn took a few steps toward the entrance, casually looking around as he did so. He knew he was being overcautious, but after the near miss in Houston, he wasn’t going to take anything for granted.

  Once he was satisfied that he was alone, he turned again and made his way across Independence Avenue.