[Quinn 02] - The Deceived - Страница 4

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After they burned and buried the body, they removed their coveralls and gloves, adding them to the pile of plastic sheeting in a smaller hole thirty feet away. They used the rest of the fuel to set the pile on fire. Once that was complete, the only thing left to do was to drop the truck someplace where Albina’s people could get it.

“Who’s the woman?” Nate said as he drove them back toward the semi.

“What?” Quinn asked. He’d been lost in thought.

“The picture. Do you know the woman?”

Nate pointed toward Quinn’s hand. Held tightly between his thumb and his forefinger was the picture that had been in Markoff ’s collar. It surprised Quinn because he didn’t remember pulling it back out.

The woman in the picture was smiling into the camera, her light brown hair flowing to the side, caught in the wind. A hand was on her shoulder close to her neck, a spot only someone very close would touch. Markoff ’s hand. Though not in the picture, the Del Coronado Hotel in San Diego would have been just off to the right.

It had been a Saturday, just after lunch. Nearly a year earlier.

The woman’s name was Jenny Fuentes.

The person who’d taken the picture was Quinn.

CHAPTER

QUINN STOOD IN THE SHOWER, ARMS OUTSTRETCHED,

palms pressed against the wall holding him in place. For thirty minutes, he didn’t move. Instead, he let the water spray against his shoulders, splashing onto his head and running down his torso toward the tiled floor of the stall. He had hoped it would make him feel normal again, snap him out of the temporary spiral he felt himself sliding into.

He gave up near 1 a.m., knowing the anger and questions weren’t going to go away. He took his time toweling off, like someone whose every muscle ached from a day of intensive labor. But there was nothing wrong with his muscles. The work he and Nate had done hadn’t been overly strenuous. He’d handled more physical assignments with no problem. In his business, he had to keep himself lean and in good shape, like a distance runner ready to run a marathon at a moment’s notice.

It wasn’t even the image of Markoff ’s deformed corpse burning in a shallow grave that slowed Quinn down. Rather, it was the memory of Markoff himself, always with a quick smile and a disarming laugh. An insider who’d actually become a friend outside the realm of their secret world. A good friend.

“You’ve got to relax,” Markoff had kidded Quinn. “Enjoy things a little.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Quinn had said. They were in the Bahamas that time, sprawled out on two lounge chairs by the pool at their hotel.

“You’re doing what you always do,” Markoff said. “Which is what exactly?” “It ain’t relaxing, that’s for sure.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m relaxed twenty-four/

seven. So screw yourself.” Quinn took a drink from his rum and Coke, then leaned back in the lounge chair.

His friend laughed. “What you do has nothing to do with being relaxed. You’re talking about patience. That, you’ve got more of than anyone I know.”

“They’re the same thing,” Quinn said. “Not even close. Being relaxed means you don’t care. Being patient

means you’re waiting.” “Right,” Quinn said. “Whatever you want to believe.” They were silent for a few moments. “Let me ask you something,” Markoff said. “Okay.” “There’re two girls off to my right. What are they wearing?” Quinn started to turn his head. “Don’t look,” Markoff said. “Fine. Bikinis, both of them. The blonde’s got a baby-blue one on,

while her friend went with black. So what?” “All right, and the guy at the bar behind us?” “The older one or the teenager?” “Just proved my point, I think,” Markoff said. “What?” “You’re always on, always waiting, always observing. That’s not re

laxed. That’s waiting for something to happen.”

Though Quinn didn’t want to admit it, Markoff had been dead-on. A person could never be relaxed if he was always waiting. And for Quinn, waiting was a constant state.

The annoying part was that Quinn knew Markoff had done his own share of waiting, too. As a field op, there could have been no escaping it. But somehow Markoff always knew how to turn it off. How to go from waiting to relaxing without any notice. It was a trait Quinn

wished he possessed.

Of course, now Markoff would never have to wait again.

The thought took Quinn back to the body in the desert. It wasn’t the way it should have been. At the very least, he should have given his friend a proper burial. Maybe even taken him back home. Not D.C., he lived there because that’s where he worked. Michigan or Wisconsin, Quinn seemed to remember. Somewhere in the upper Midwest.

But that wasn’t an option. Not just because of the condition of the body. It was Quinn’s role in dealing with it. He’d been hired to dispose of a corpse, and in his business that meant getting rid of it so it wouldn’t be found. There could be no personal considerations.

Quinn stared at himself in the mirror, wondering what the hell could have happened, but no answer came.

After a while, he gave up. From his walk-in closet, he grabbed a pair of boxer briefs and a black T-shirt, pulled them on, then went into the bedroom.

There was only one light on in the room, a reading lamp on the nightstand next to his bed. It illuminated a space that was large but underfurnished. It was just the way Quinn wanted it; it gave him a sense of freedom.

The few pieces of bedroom furniture he owned were all dark, made of teak and built to last. A king-size bed rested against the far wall. Next to it a single nightstand with the lamp, a clock, and his current read—The Archivist’s Story by Travis Holland—on top. The only other piece of furniture was a low, wide dresser that did double duty as a stand for the seldom-used television. Reading was Quinn’s vice. The evidence was several stacks of books piled against the wall where the second nightstand should have been—a to-be-read pile nearly a hundred volumes strong.

A bead of sweat formed just above his brow. Unconsciously he reached up and wiped it away. It was September, and in Los Angeles that meant hot during the day and warm at night. Even up in the Hollywood Hills where Quinn lived, there was no escape from the late summer heat.

At the far end of the room was a sliding glass door that led out onto a balcony overlooking the back of his property, and beyond it the city. He walked over, unlatched the special lock that held the door in place, then slid it open.

A gentle breeze drifted into the room, lowering the temperature several degrees. He was tempted to grab a beer and stand outside on the deck, watching the lights on the Sunset Strip for a while, but in the end he opted for stretching out on the bed.

It was late, and he knew he should get some sleep. But after he shut his eyes, it wasn’t long before he knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Markoff ’s death had been like a vicious punch to the gut. And while Quinn couldn’t let it go, it wasn’t the main thing keeping him awake. That honor fell to his other problem. The one he’d been avoiding all day.

Someone had to tell Jenny.

No, not someone. He had to tell Jenny.

He glanced over at his clock on the nightstand: 1:19 a.m. Middle of the night, even on the East Coast.

Of course, if he called her, there was an excellent chance she’d be home. Only one problem, he didn’t have her phone number. He had only talked to her when Markoff was around. He had Markoff ’s number, but unless they had gotten married in the last six months and moved in together, Quinn assumed they still had separate places.

But it was worth a shot. He retrieved his cell phone, and selected Markoff ’s home number from his list of contacts, then pressed send.

It rang four times before an answering machine kicked in.

“I’m not home. Leave a message.”

Markoff ’s voice. Short and sweet.

And singular.

Quinn hung up. If they had been living together, they hadn’t been advertising the fact. Or, Quinn realized, there was the possibility they weren’t even together at all anymore. The picture Markoff had been carrying notwithstanding, anything could have happened in the six months since Quinn had last spoken to his friend.

He dialed D.C. information, requesting a number for either a Jennifer Fuentes or a J. Fuentes. There were over fifteen listings. All J’s, no Jennifers.

What now? Call each number and see if he recognized her voice? That seemed stupid. And given the hour, he couldn’t rationalize waking up fifteen different people with the very real potential none were even her. Hell, she might not even live in the city. There were dozens of bedroom communities within a sixty-mile radius of the district.

There were better ways to track her down, faster ways. And, he knew, ways that could wait until morning.

He lay back down, knowing he’d be awake most of the night, but he was wrong. Sleep did come, only it wasn’t deep or restful. And when he dreamt, he dreamt only of one thing: a body burning in a hole in the desert. And every time he knelt down to look at the corpse, it stared back at him.

Only the face that looked up wasn’t Markoff ’s.

It was his own.

The phone woke Quinn five hours later. Memories of his dream lingered for a moment, then disappeared, leaving him with only the vague sense of discontented sleep. He rolled onto his back, sat up, and stretched, letting whoever was calling go to voice mail.