The Deceived Page 7

Ahead was the Mall. Monument Row, Durrie had once called it. Even the old son of a bitch had a certain amount of respect for the place.

  It stretched almost two miles east and west, with the domed Capitol building at the east end and the memorial to Abraham Lincoln at the west. Between were fields of grass and paths of dirt and memorials of stone.

  Even in his focused state, Quinn couldn’t help but feel the importance of what surrounded him. It was enough to make even the most jaded person crack a little.

  As usual, the Mall was packed with visitors. Most were wearing shorts and T-shirts. The smart ones also had on hats. The crowd’s pace was slow, lethargic—the heat and humidity draining whatever excess energy they’d had when the day began. Several people were holding ice cream cones, kids mostly, but some adults, too. All seemed to be in a constant battle to lick up as much as possible before it melted onto their hands. Few were winning.

  Quinn worked his way through the throngs, making sure his own pace was not much faster than that of those around him. He was just another tourist soaking up the history.

  Just before Madison Drive, he turned right down one of the wide dirt paths traversing the Mall. Two minutes later, he spotted a man and a woman walking away from him. The man was holding a fancy, twine-handled paper bag like those found in a gift shop, while the woman carried a large purse. They stood out from the rest of the crowd because they were dressed for work, not a day of exploring.

  The man was shorter than Quinn by several inches, no taller than five foot six. The woman’s heels raised her an inch above the man’s bald pate.

  Quinn had never seen her before, but he knew the man. Though they’d only met in person once, Quinn recognized Peter immediately. He reminded Quinn of a hair- and height-challenged Charles Bronson. Maybe it was the mustache, dark like Bronson’s, or perhaps it was his permanent squint, as if he was constantly sizing everyone up. Maybe it was both.

  Peter was the head of an organization known as the Office. For years, the Office had been Quinn’s sole client. Though Peter had made attempts to hire him full-time, Quinn always refused, preferring the independence of his perceived freelance status. But after the incident in Berlin the previous January, things had changed. Peter had been less than forthcoming then, holding back information that would have aided Quinn. Thankfully, despite Peter’s reluctance, Quinn had been able to stop Durrie and that psycho Borko before they had been able to complete their plan. But Quinn knew things would have gone considerably easier if Peter had been up-front with him.

  Because of that, he decided it was time he diversified his clientele. Besides, relying on a single income source had been profitable but foolish for the long run. He’d decided to remove himself from Peter’s active roster. The head of the Office hadn’t been happy about it, but he had also done nothing to stop Quinn.

  So it wasn’t without a bit of irony that Quinn approached his former employer in search of help.

  “You couldn’t have picked a place a little more...I don’t know, inside?” Peter said as soon as he noticed Quinn walking next to him. “Where it might be cool?”

  “Sweat’s good for your skin,” Quinn said. “It’ll help smooth out some of those wrinkles.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Who’s your date?” Quinn asked.

  “Ida? Can you give us a moment?”

  The woman gave Quinn a half smile, then slowed to let them walk ahead of her.

  Quinn and Peter continued down the path. In the distance, the white dome of the Capitol building shimmered in the afternoon heat.

  “Is that for me?” Quinn asked, pointing down at the bag.

  “These things aren’t cheap.”

  “Don’t worry. I said I’d pay you back.”

  “Yeah. Well, you’d better. It’s the end of our fiscal year. We’re starting to close out this year’s budget, and haven’t finalized next year’s yet, and damn if they don’t want me to cut back again. I can’t afford to have gifts like this on my books.”

  Peter had been complaining about budgets for years. Quinn wasn’t sure if he believed him. The truth was, Quinn wasn’t even sure the Office answered to anyone other than whoever hired them for a particular project. Quinn had always presumed Peter’s organization was an off-the-books operation of some government agency, but he didn’t know that for a fact.

  “Can I have it?”

  Peter hesitated a moment longer, then handed the bag over. Quinn looked inside. At the bottom was a phone very much like the one that had been destroyed in Houston. To most people, it would look like a regular cell phone, but just like his old one it was a hell of a lot more powerful than your standard, off-the-shelf Nokia or Samsung. Multi-encrypted, touch-screen interface, thumbprint recognition security system, eight megapixel camera—an upgrade from the previous ver-sion—with normal, infrared, and advanced heat-sensing capabilities, and both cell- and satellite-ready depending on signal strength.

  “Thanks,” he said. “But I asked for two things.”

  The left side of Peter’s mouth raised slightly in annoyance. “I’m not your supplier.”

  “Do you have it or not?”

  “You promise not to do anything stupid with it?”

  Now it was Quinn’s turn to be annoyed. “Just give it to me.”

  Peter stared at Quinn a moment longer, then looked over his shoulder. “Ida,” he said.

  The woman picked up her pace and rejoined them.

  “Give it to him,” Peter said.

  She slipped her purse around so she had easy access, then zipped it open. From inside, she removed a three-inch-thick gray plastic box. Like the bag the phone had been in, it had the feel of an upscale present. Quinn guessed it was about nine inches by twelve, and seemed to have taken up almost all the room inside the purse.

  “For you,” Ida said, handing Quinn the box.

  “Thanks.”

  Inside Quinn knew he’d find a SIG Sauer P226, a few mags, extra ammo, and a suppressor. In Houston, he’d hadn’t had time to get a gun, but he wasn’t going to make the same mistake in D.C.

  Without even being told, Ida fell back again, giving the two men privacy.

  “You said you wanted to talk,” Peter said. “You looking for work?”

  “Would you give it to me if I asked?”

  Peter looked over, his squint more pronounced than usual. “Of course I would. Nobody else I hire is as good as you. You know that.”

  Quinn smiled. “I’m not looking for work right now. But I’ll let you know.”

  Peter snorted, but said nothing.

  “I need something,” Quinn said.

  “I already gave you something,” Peter replied, motioning to the bag.

  “Information. I’m trying to find someone, and I think you can help.”

  Peter stopped and turned to Quinn. “Hold on. Are you asking me to do some work for you?”

  “Just a quick check. That’s all. You have resources you can get to quicker than I can at the moment.”

  “I don’t know, Quinn. I’m not sure how to handle this.” Peter was obviously relishing the moment.

  “It’s a favor. That’s all. Don’t get all worked up.”

  “Aren’t you the one who once told me you didn’t do favors?” Peter said. “So what would motivate me to do one for you?”

  “I seem to recall I did the favor anyway. I also seem to remember saving your ass in Berlin. If I hadn’t been there, you would have taken the fall for that one.” It was true to a point. But in reality, if Quinn hadn’t been there, it wouldn’t have mattered who took the fall.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Peter said. “I’ll do your favor. But next time I need you for a job, you say yes.”

  “That’s not a favor, Peter. That’s a trade.”

  “Whatever. That’s my deal.”

  “I’m not even on your active list anymore.”

  “Actually,” Peter said, “I never took you off.”

  Why doesn’t that surprise
me? Quinn thought.

  He looked over Peter’s shoulder toward the Smithsonian Castle across the Mall. It wasn’t like Peter was asking a lot. Quinn’s plan had never been to stop working for the Office entirely. But suggesting a tit-for-tat bothered Quinn. It was almost enough for Quinn to just walk away.

  Almost.

  “Fine,” Quinn said.

  Peter smiled. “What can I do for you?”

  Back at the Marriott, Quinn connected his new phone to his computer. Before uploading his address book and other vital information, he used a program Orlando had created to erase all unnecessary information from the phone’s memory, then replace it with his personal settings and thumbprint identification. It was a safety precaution in case Peter had installed any hidden tracking or monitoring software. Next he programmed the phone with his number, then transferred the backup of his contact list. Once done, he called Nate.

  “I’m up and running again,” he said.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Nate asked. “I assume it has something to do with that house fire in Houston.”

  “Been doing a little checking, have you?”

  “Just the Internet. Since it’s the same address as the one you wanted me to check out, I took a wild guess. One of the news reports says it was a gas leak.”

  “Is that what they think?”

  “Not gas, then?”

  “No,” Quinn said.

  “Intentional?”

  “I tripped a switch,” Quinn said, recalling the click as he’d been opening the bathroom window. “My guess is it was on a timer anyway. The booby trap was a backup in case someone tried to get in the house.” Quinn knew there was no way the suits in the Volvo would have left the house intact. They needed to destroy it and cover their tracks. “What did you find out?”

  “Jennifer Fuentes is listed as the current owner of the house.”

  “What about the history?”

  “That was a bit more difficult. The files had been flagged, which meant a higher level of security was added to them.”

  “Really?” Quinn said, interested.

  “Nothing too drastic. I used a few of the tricks Orlando taught me, and got in.”

  “Did you trigger any tracers?”

  “I found a trace program, but I bypassed it. Too risky to figure out who it was set to notify, but I could tell it wasn’t anyone at the county records office.”

  “What did you find?” Quinn asked.

  “The previous owners were Bradley and Gabriella Fuentes. Jennifer got the house four and a half years ago. Title transfer only, not a sale.”

  “Her parents?” Quinn asked.

  “I checked her medical records. Again, added security and a tracer.”

  “And?” Quinn asked.

  “Her parents are listed as Miguel and Cecilia Fuentes.”

  “Not Bradley and Gabriella.”

  “No. They’re her grandparents,” Nate said. “Bradley passed away eight years ago. Gabriella followed three years later.”

  Quinn nodded to himself. Now the house made sense. Jenny had inherited it. “Good work. What about the car?”

  “Stolen plates. Came off a Camry.”

  No surprise there. “I need you to check someone out for me.”

  “Okay.”

  “A woman named Tasha Laver.”

  “You got anything else on her?”

  “Early thirties at most. About five-six, in decent shape. Might live in Houston, but that’s not a for sure.”

  “That’s it?”

  “She claims to have gone to college with Jenny. Says they’re old friends.”

  “I’ll see what I can come up with,” Nate said.

  “Anything else for me? The message? The photos I sent you?”

  “The photos are running through the system. And I’m still nowhere with the message.”

  “You’re just full of useful information, aren’t you?”

  “I’m doing this by myself, you know,” Nate said. “I did ask for help, but if you recall, you said no.”

  “Relax, Nate. Do the check on Tasha Laver first, then go back to decoding.”

  “Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

  Quinn called Orlando next, but was routed straight to her voice mail. He left a quick message, then hung up.

  He rubbed his hands across his face, pulling the skin tight against his cheeks and jaw, then slipped his fingers up to his temples and began rubbing up and down. A low-grade headache had settled in like a cloud, hovering just below his skull but focused in no particular place.

  Part of it was due to his lack of sleep, he knew that. The hour-and-a-half nap he’d been able to grab on the plane had not been enough. But the bigger part, the thrust that was pounding hardest, was due to Markoff and Jenny. The uncertainty, the anger, the wanting to be able to do more.

  He stretched out on the bed, thinking at first that if he just closed his eyes for a few moments he might be able to recharge a little. But before a minute had passed, he was deep asleep.

  CHAPTER

  A SHRILL RING JOLTED QUINN AWAKE. HE OPENED HIS

  eyes and pushed himself up. The room was dark, lit only by faint light filtering in through the window. Outside, night had descended over the city.

  He looked to his left. His new phone was on the bed next to him, its ring not one he was accustomed to. He picked it up and thumbed the screen to disable the security lock.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Quinn?”

  Still a little disoriented, it took Quinn an extra second to recognize Peter’s voice.

  “Are you there?” Peter asked.

  “I’m here. Sorry.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “Hold on, okay?” Quinn said. “Just give me a second.”

  Quinn set the phone back on the bed, then walked into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face.

  He looked at his watch—9:23 p.m. It had been over six hours since he had returned to the room that afternoon. Sleeping that long had not been part of his plan. He frowned in self-annoyance as he

  walked back into the bedroom and picked up the phone.

  “I’m back.”

  “You all right?” Peter asked.

  “I’m fine,” Quinn said. “You have something for me?”

  “Something, yes. But not an answer.”

  Quinn nodded to himself. He’d figured as much. His request of Peter was to see if he could find out what Markoff had been up to. Since Markoff had once been CIA, it was possible Peter could pull a few strings and see if anyone at the agency knew anything about their former employee’s recent activities. What he hadn’t told Peter was that Markoff was dead. No sense setting that alarm off yet. “What did you get?”

  “Word is no one’s talked to Markoff in weeks. He just kind of disappeared. No one seems worried, though. He’s retired. Maybe he went on a vacation.”

  Quinn frowned. “Disappeared and no one knows where?”

  “Maybe he has other friends he’s told.”

  With the exception of Jenny, Quinn didn’t think Markoff had any other friends outside of the business. “You think he’s taken a freelance job?”

  “Perhaps, but I couldn’t turn anything up,” Peter said. “What makes you think he’s not sitting on a beach somewhere relaxing?”

  “Okay,” Quinn said, making no attempt to answer the question. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t forget our deal,” Peter said.

  Quinn hung up.

  The taxi followed the Potomac River north, staying on the Virginia side until the Key Bridge took them into Georgetown. The address Steiner had given Quinn for Jenny’s D.C. home was on one of the numbered streets that ran north and south throughout the city. Quinn had the driver drop him off two blocks away on M Street.

  The night was pleasant, no real need for a jacket, but Quinn wore one anyway. It was thin, more a windbreaker really, but what was most important was the built-in holster on the inside, under his left arm. His gun and su
ppressor fit snuggly into the customized space.

  As usual, there were plenty of people out on M enjoying the warm late summer night in the bars and restaurants. Quinn weaved his way through a group of college-aged kids. Two were wearing Georgetown sweatshirts, and all looked like they’d been drinking for a while.

  Instead of turning down Jenny’s street, Quinn kept walking, taking only a quick glance down the cobblestone road.

  It was one-way with the exit at M Street. Compared to the main road, it was a morgue. The only cars on it were parked, and no one was on the sidewalks. Like elsewhere in Georgetown, it was lined with brick townhouses—some painted white, some yellow, some gray, and some left in natural brick red.

  He continued to the next intersection, then turned right. He found himself on a street very similar to the one Jenny supposedly lived on. He walked down the empty brick sidewalk a half block, then turned onto the walkway of a darkened townhouse. He took the three steps up to the door, paused like he was pulling his keys out of his pocket, then checked back the way he had just come.

  The road was empty. He was alone.

  He descended the stairs and continued down the street, away from

  M. He had checked a map online before leaving the hotel, so when he reached the end of the block, he was not surprised to find that instead of an intersecting street there was a canal.

  It was the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal, more commonly known as the C & O. In the 1800s, it had been used to move goods from northern Maryland to D.C. and back. Now its sole purpose was to add to the area’s historical character.

  The canal cut a wide east-west swath through Georgetown. Not only was there the rock-walled waterway, but there was also the old towpath that ran parallel to the water. Beside the path was a narrow park, with trees and grass and benches.

  Quinn turned right onto the walkway and followed the canal back toward Jenny’s street. If the map was right, Jenny’s building would be the one butted up against the canal on the east side of the street.

  Quinn glanced ahead. The building was taller than the two-story, single-family townhouses that made up most of the neighborhood. It looked five stories high, though not much wider than the other buildings. That made sense. Jenny’s address had indicated she was in unit number 4, which would mean she was in a multi-residence building.