Dead to the Last Drop (10 page)

“Excuse me, I’m here to see Michael Ryan Francis Quinn—”

“I’m here!” Mike bellowed, thundering down the steps.

My eyes widened.
Is Quinn streaking?

No. Though dripping wet, Mike had managed to wrap a towel around his hips after jumping out of the shower.

He might have at least grabbed a robe!

Apparently Quinn decided his Department of Justice shield was more important. With one hand he held the towel in place, while the other waved the DOJ ID.

When she caught her first glimpse of the man she came to see, the mystery woman smiled wide.

“Come in,” Mike insisted.

As soon as she stepped over the threshold, he checked the street, then closed the door.

“You’re alone?” he asked.

Glancing at me uneasily, the woman nodded.

Finally Quinn faced me. I expected an explanation, or at least an introduction. I got neither.

“Thanks, I’ll take it from here,” was all he said.

The implication was clear. It was time for me to give them privacy.

“I’ll make coffee,” I announced.

On my way to the mansion’s cavernous kitchen, I told myself that I was behaving quite rationally for a woman who’d been sent packing by her half-naked man so he could be alone with an incredibly attractive stranger, who appeared at my door with a mysterious purpose—

Hey, wait a minute!

T
wenty-two

I
turned on my heel and marched back to the front entryway, where I stopped by the decorative column, close enough to eavesdrop without being seen.

“I got your text, but I wasn’t expecting you this early,” I heard Quinn say.

“Sorry, they want me at the precinct, after all,” the stranger replied. “So I’m going straight back to Baltimore. Since the DA doesn’t want anyone to deviate from their normal schedule, I had to make this delivery super early.”

“That’s okay,” Quinn said, securing the towel around him. With both hands free, he accepted the parcel and shook it. “Are they all here?”

“If the theft was reported within your time frame, it’s there,” she replied.

He tore into the thick package, yanked out a cover sheet, and began to read. Within seconds he’d forgotten he had a guest.

“Those reports. That’s all small-time stuff,” the woman remarked.

“It only looks that way,” said Quinn, still scanning the page.

Another uncomfortable moment passed. Finally, I decided it was time to intervene. After loudly clearing my throat, I reentered the hallway.

“I’m sorry, Ms. . . .”

I let the words hang, but the woman refused to fill in the blank.

“Detective,” she gently corrected.

“Can you stay for coffee?”

“I have to go. Thanks anyway.”

I opened the door, and she tossed me a friendly nod. Then she paused to make a final, frank appraisal of Quinn.

He absently combed back his shower-slicked hair with one hand, still immersed in his paperwork.

“You’re one lucky woman,” she told me. Then her gaze moved to my left wrist, and she lifted a smooth eyebrow in a kind of amused admiration.

When she vanished into the misty morning, I closed the door and finally
looked
at my wrist. Quinn’s handcuffs were still locked on to it.

I would have died of embarrassment, but I was too curious.

“What was that about? . . . Mike? . . . Mike!”

Quinn finally looked up. “Oh, uh, it’s just material I need for my work.”

“That’s not the first delivery to arrive at an odd hour,” I pointed out. “Last week, there was that guy in a trench coat, and the Metro DC patrolman the week before.”

“It’s just work, Clare.”

“And they couldn’t be delivered to your office at the Robert F. Kennedy Building?”

Quinn stuffed the envelope into the attaché case he’d left beside the hall closet. Then he wrapped me in his arms. “I needed to see those reports outside of the office, that’s all. I’ve been away for a week, and I want to get up to speed . . .”

The man’s body was an island of warmth and comfort in the large, drafty foyer. I pressed my cheek against his damp chest and enjoyed the scent of his favorite soap, still clinging to his skin.

But I smelled something else, too . . .

“This is about Katerina, isn’t it? You’re making a case against her, behind her back.”

“Try not to worry,” he whispered. “I have to do this. I’m the only one who can. Do you understand?”

“I understand it’s a terrible risk. Because if she catches you, and she’s smart enough, then you’re the one who’s going to end up in handcuffs . . .”

That’s when I remembered what was on my own left wrist.

Given the First Daughter’s dangerous stunt, the collapsed State Department drunk, and my false statements to the DC police, I wondered how long I’d be able to stay out of them.

T
wenty-three

“K
EEP your eyes open, Clare. We need to find that address . . .”

In the glow of the Baltimore streetlights, I watched block after block of rundown brick row houses crawl by, most with bars on the windows, some with graffiti-tagged walls or boarded-up doors.

As for the sidewalks, they were eerily empty. No brightly lit bodegas or busy take-out joints—the kind you’d see peppering even the poorest sections of New York. I did catch sight of a dreary tavern with metal bars covering the windows. The door had blackened glass, and a dozen vehicles were double-parked outside, a disturbing mix of junkers, high-end SUVs, and pristine muscle cars.

“What part of Baltimore is this?”

“Not one of the nicer areas . . .”

“An unnecessary clarification.”

We were on Jefferson Street, that much I knew. A glowing light in the distance illuminated a small municipal park and basketball court. This late at night, there were no moms or dads or children playing; only dozens of teenagers, many sporting gang colors.

“One thing I know, we’re not in Georgetown anymore.”

“Better this than an interview room at the U.S. Custom House.”

“Custom House?”

“The Department of Homeland Security’s headquarters here in Baltimore.”

“Point taken.”

I called out the street at the next intersection, and Quinn made his turn.
This road was narrower than the others with more row houses flanking us. Near the end of the block, the residential buildings ended with a string of empty lots—cracked concrete and neglected weeds.

The final lot on the corner held an old body shop with a pair of worn gas pumps out front. I saw no sign and the square cinder block building lacked any windows.

It didn’t appear as if this crumbling edifice had been occupied since Jimmy Carter was President, but Quinn rolled right up to the graffiti-covered garage door and cut the engine.

“Mike, who exactly are we meeting here?”

Holding up his left hand to me, he reached his right into his jacket.

I thought he was going for his weapon, but instead he pulled out a phone and began to dial.

“Wait! Didn’t you say our phones could be traced?”

“This is a prepaid phone, Clare. I picked it up in Union Station.”

“Then, where’s your smartphone?”

“In a FedEx box, on its way to my son in New York.”

“You sent Jeremy your—”

Once again, Quinn’s hand put me on pause. “It’s me,” his deep voice told the phone. “We’re here.”

Quinn listened a moment for the reply and quickly ended the call. Then he reached across me, flipped open the glove compartment, and placed the .45 on the dashboard between us.

“Why did you do that?”

“She told me we’d have to wait here about an hour—”

“She?”

“Yes. And like I said, this isn’t one of the nicer areas of town. So let’s just say if anyone takes an interest in us”—he tipped his head toward the cannon-sized handgun—“I’m sending a signal.”

The signal I understood—after all, I was a New Yorker. It was the “she” part of Quinn’s reply that threw me.

“So who is—”

“You’ve met her,” he said before I could finish asking.

A woman in Baltimore?
Then it came to me.

“The
she
on the phone was that young, black detective, wasn’t it? The woman who banged on our door at six in the morning? The young,
beautiful
, black woman,” I amended.

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Was she beautiful? I didn’t notice.”

“Well, she noticed you. That I remember.”

“Really?”

I stared at him. “For a detective, you don’t notice much.”

He touched my cheek. “I notice what’s important . . .”

Mike’s sweet gesture was unexpected—unfortunately, so was the harsh clatter and screech of the garage door lifting, which effectively shattered our private little moment.

I tensed as the rising door revealed a large patch of oily concrete. The rest of the dimly lit interior was swathed in shadow.

Quinn started the engine and rolled in anyway.

T
wenty-four

T
HE heavy metal door thundered down so quickly it nearly scraped our rear bumper. Quinn cut the engine again and our vehicle’s interior lights dimmed.

For a breathless second we sat in total darkness. Then the garage lights flipped on and fluorescent glare burned into our retinas.

Blinking the white spots out of my eyes, I discovered our SUV was now surrounded by a half-dozen youths in identical black jackets, black work denims, and steel-toed boots. Two of them wore Baltimore Orioles caps—backward—and all had unfriendly expressions framed by dark, scruffy facial hair I can only describe as neo-conquistador.

Though no one wore a name tag,
gangbanger
was written all over them.

A heavyset young man stared through my passenger window. He had visible tattoos on his bull neck, and a gold tooth punctuating his sneer.

The big dude looked me over with a combination of snickering disdain and animal interest—until he spied the .45, which was no longer on the dash. Then his predatory smile vanished, and he met Quinn’s eyes with a kind of grudging respect.

“You got business?” he asked.

Quinn cracked my window, just enough for his deep voice to carry: “I’m here to see Chan. He’s on his way.”

The big dude nodded, turned to his posse, and whirled his finger above his head. Immediately they backed off, and after a brief discussion in Spanish, the gang left through a clanging steel door—all but one.

A skinny, tattooed twenty-something moseyed over to a table and
chairs set up across the room. He turned one of the chairs to face Quinn’s car, presumably to keep an eye on us.

When he put his booted feet up on a crate and began to play a smartphone game, Quinn put the gun back on the dash, and I released a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“Take it easy, Clare. It’ll be okay.”

“Who’s Chan?”

“He works with our detective friend. You’ll see.”

“You know I trust you, Mike?”

“I know.”

“But I have to ask . . . what are we doing here? I thought that young detective was helping you build a case against your boss at Justice.”

“You thought right.”

“So what does that have to do with the mess I’m in? Is your boss involved in framing me?”

“I can’t say for sure.”

“Well, what can you say?”

Quinn shifted in his driver’s seat.

“Mike, what are you keeping from me?”

Quinn met my eyes. “Katerina Lacey was the one who told me you were in trouble.”

Wide-eyed, I was stunned I’d misjudged her so badly. “So she was trying to help?”

“In a way,” Quinn said. “But not in a good way.”

“I don’t understand.”

Quinn rubbed the back of his neck, clearly wrestling with how much to tell me.

“Please, Mike. I want to know everything.”

Reluctantly, he nodded.

“This morning Katerina called me into her office and shut the door. I figured she was going to hit on me again, and I was ready for that. But I wasn’t ready for what happened next . . .”

T
wenty-five

“S
IT down, Michael,” Katerina said, tone somber. She rose and walked around her desk, fluffing her strawberry blond bangs with manicured fingers.

“What’s up?” Quinn asked.

“We need to talk.”

Lowering her slender form on the office sofa, she patted the cushion next to her.

At least she’s not crossing her legs
, Quinn thought
. So I won’t have to put up with her pointy high heel bobbing up and down at me like a patent leather ice pick. Now, if she would only stop staring at me like I’m lunch . . .

Quinn took the seat. “Well?”

Katerina reached into her jacket pocket, tugged out a sheet of folded paper, and held it up. “This is highly classified. I’m risking my career sharing it. But I respect you, Michael. And I like you. That’s why I don’t want to see your career destroyed.”

As she handed over the paper, Quinn caught a whiff of her
parfum
.

Eau de cloying
, he thought, unfolding the sheet and scanning the photocopy, an official document with a simple list of names. A few of them, he recognized:
Gardner Evans, Sergeant Stanley McGuire (Ret.), Clare Cosi—

“What the hell is this?”

Quinn immediately realized his mistake, but he couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice. It was exactly the reaction Katerina wanted, and he saw it in her barely hidden smile.

“The FBI is planning to pick up these individuals for questioning . . .”

Katerina then revealed what the authorities were keeping from the public. The President’s daughter, Abigail Parker, was discovered missing that morning and was believed to have been kidnapped sometime during the night. Even worse, the kidnapping was violent.

Blood was found in the course of tracing her movements through Glover-Archbold Park to Georgetown Waterfront Park. It was Abigail’s type—and the authorities were now rushing DNA tests to determine whether or not it was really hers.

“I don’t understand,” Quinn said, forcing his tone to sound blandly professional. “What does all that have to do with the people on this list?”