[Quinn 02] - The Deceived - Страница 5

Доступ к книге ограничен фрагменом по требованию правообладателя.

As he stood, there was a chirp informing him that the caller had left a message. Quinn picked up his phone and headed toward the bathroom. After he set it on the counter, he switched it to speaker mode and hit speed dial for his voice mail. He then stared at himself in the mirror. It had been two days since he’d last shaved, and he was beginning to get scruffy. He knew he should do something about it, but he just didn’t feel up to it.

“You have one unheard message,” an automated voice said through his speaker.

There was a half-second of dead air, then, in a different mechanical voice, “Tuesday. Six forty-three a.m.”

“Quinn. It’s Jorge. Please call me. I...ah... just call me.”

Albina.

Quinn disconnected the call, switched the phone back to normal mode, then dialed Albina.

“May I help you?” The voice that answered was deep, not Albina’s.

“I need to speak to Jorge,” Quinn said. “Mr. Albina is still asleep. Please call back later,” the man said as if dismissing Quinn. “Yeah, I don’t think so. Just tell him Quinn called and I’d like him to lose my number.” “Mr. Quinn?” The man’s tone changed abruptly. Now he sounded helpful, even concerned. “Hold on.” A moment later, Albina came on the line. “Sorry if I woke you,” he said.

“Was there a problem with the truck?” Quinn asked. He’d dropped the Peterbilt off near an industrial park in Sylmar, and couldn’t imagine anything had gone wrong.

“No,” Albina said. “We got it. Thanks.” “Then what do you want?” “I just wanted to make sure everything went all right.” “You would have heard if it hadn’t.” “And the body? No problems?” “The body was the job, Jorge. Why are you calling me?” Jorge was

fishing for information, but Quinn didn’t feel like playing. “I have another job for you.” “Really? And this couldn’t have waited until a little later?” “I haven’t slept, okay? I wanted to call you hours ago.” “So what happened?” Quinn asked. “Somebody ship you another

body?” “Don’t even fucking joke about that,” Albina said. “Not a body. So

you don’t have to worry about that.” “I’m not worried about anything. I’m just not sure I’m available.” “I’d pay you a new fee.” Quinn’s jaw tensed. Paying a new fee for a new project wasn’t even

a question. That’s the way it worked. He wasn’t cheap. His price was thirty thousand a week with a two-week minimum. Per job. And, as all his clients should have known, there were no carryovers from one project to another. Ever.

“I don’t think I’m interested,” Quinn said. “I haven’t even told you what it is.” “Still not interested.”

“Please just listen for a second. It’s not that big of a deal. I only want you to find out who sent me the package.”

“You mean body,” Quinn said.

“Yes,” Albina said, his voice controlled. “The body. I don’t like living with unknowns, okay? But this situation, you know, it’s tricky. I don’t want to bring a lot of people in on it. You know about the body already. Finding out who put it in that container would probably be a snap for you. You’re a cleaner, so I’m asking you to clean up a few loose ends for me.”

“I don’t do that kind of cleaning.”

“Why don’t you think about it?”

“No.”

“Come on, Quinn. I’ve heard you’ve been branching out. Taking on a little more. Do this for me and I’ll—”

Quinn hung up.

Quinn’s house was in the Hollywood Hills, overlooking the Los Angeles basin. There was a downward slope to his property, but his home wasn’t one of those that cantilevered out from the edge perched on stilts. Instead, his had been built along the slope, using the hill to create two separate levels, with a third storage level at the very bottom. All the bedrooms were downstairs, a floor below street level. Upstairs was a semi-open space that served as living room, dining room, and kitchen.

After a shower, Quinn made his way up to the kitchen, stopping first to grab his laptop off the coffee table. While he contemplated breakfast, he set the computer on the counter and turned it on. Food was soon forgotten as he connected to the Internet and began searching for information about Jenny.

It didn’t take long. According to several sources, she was still working for the same Texas congressman that Markoff had told Quinn about—a guy named James Guerrero. He was a friend of Markoff ’s. They had both been Marines, though not at the same time. When Guerrero was on the Intelligence Committee, Markoff had once briefed him on a particular situation. The congressman had been impressed, and, as Markoff told Quinn later, he had been surprised and impressed by Guerrero as well.

The way he explained it to Quinn, he and the congressman had started meeting up for a drink or even dinner whenever Markoff was in town. In a town where politics was everything, they were very useful to each other. That was the way things worked in the District—it was all relationships and deals. But according to Markoff, they were more than just professional connections for each other.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Quinn had said after Markoff had told him about his friendship with the congressman.

“I know, I know. He’s a politician,” Markoff said. “But he’s different.”

“They all say they’re different,” Quinn countered.

Markoff smiled. “You’re right about that. Don’t get me wrong. I’d never trust him one hundred percent. But he’s not afraid to speak his mind. Even gets in trouble with his own party sometimes. That makes him okay by me. Till he proves me wrong, anyway.”

So when Markoff ’s new girlfriend was looking for a job on Capitol Hill, it was Guerrero who Markoff called.

Only Representative Guerrero was no longer just the Texas congressman Markoff had briefed years earlier. He was now the Majority Whip, one of the most powerful people in the House of Representatives. And, according to his website, he was the first politician to announce his intention to run for President, doing so a year and a half earlier. And now, as of the month before, Guerrero had made it official, and joined a growing field of candidates for his party’s nomination. And though Quinn knew that none of their chances were very good—they were running against a popular incumbent who was heavily favored to win reelection—the national exposure for the future would be extremely valuable.

“Lucky girl,” Quinn said to himself as he continued to scan the congressman’s website. Jenny had really picked a winner when she hooked up with Markoff. Without him, who knows where she would have ended up working. But because of her boyfriend, her career was on the rise. Even if her boss didn’t win the election—most news outlets put Guerrero in the middle of the pack at best—the campaign would make him a national figure. Perhaps in fours years he would be leading the pack, instead of being mired in it.

Quinn began searching for old news stories. Not surprisingly, they all seemed to support Markoff ’s idea that Guerrero was a bit of a maverick. Ascending to the position of Majority Whip didn’t seem to stop him from publicly disagreeing with other high-ranking members of his party. His approach was apparently blunt and direct—a lawmaker who knew how to cut through the BS. And if some of the latest stories were to be believed, it was starting to gain him the reputation of being a man of the people.

How a maverick like Guerrero had achieved such a high-level leadership position confused Quinn. That was until he found a profile piece on the congressman in the Washington Post.

It turned out Guerrero’s wife was none other than noted conservative spokesperson Jody Goodman. That was a name Quinn definitely knew. He’d seen her quoted dozens of times in news articles and had even caught her act on some of the political talk shows. According to the article, she was the former CEO of Taylor-Goodman, a large defense contractor based in Texas. Now her time was spent being an influential member of a well-known Washington-based think tank. Apparently this was enough to allow her husband more freedom within the party than others who might have started working their way up at the same time he had.

An article in the New York Post described their marriage as more of a partnership than a relationship. It cited a source close to the couple claiming, “They use each other’s positions to strengthen their own. More a power match than a love one.”

Returning to Guerrero’s website, Quinn found listings for two office addresses: one in Washington, D.C., and one in his home district of Houston, Texas. Quinn called the one in D.C.

“Congressman James Guerrero’s office. How may I help you?” The voice of the woman who answered had the perfect balance of helpfulness and efficiency. Quinn guessed she must field hundreds of calls each day.

“Jennifer Fuentes, please,” Quinn said.

There was a slight pause. “I’m sorry, Ms. Fuentes is not in the office at this time. Is there someone else who can help you?”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

This time the pause was longer. Almost a full three seconds. “Can you hold for a moment, please?”

She didn’t wait for Quinn to answer. There was a click, then music, the soft jazz kind that turned popular rock songs into bland background noise that would offend no one except people with taste.

All of a sudden the music cut out, and a man’s voice came on the line. “May I help you?”

“Yes, thank you,” Quinn said. “I’m trying to get ahold of Jennifer Fuentes.”

“This is regarding...?”