The Cleaner (4 page)

Quinn picked up his phone and called local information.

Chapter 4

Quinn knew if the killer hadn't driven out of town, then his most likely destination had been the nearest alternate transportation, whatever would have gotten him out of town faster. There was really only one place they needed to check. The Goose Valley Community Airport.

And there it was – a white, late-model Caddy. It was parked at the far end of the almost deserted airport parking lot, so it wasn't a stretch to guess that the airport had closed for the day because of the coming storm. It wasn't a big facility in the first place. Quinn knew there couldn't be more than a handful of flights a day, mostly private.

Quinn parked the Explorer next to the Cadillac, Nate pulling up alongside him in the Cherokee. No one would see them, and even if someone did, it was doubtful they'd come over to see what Quinn and Nate were doing. Not in this weather.

Quinn got out of his car and stepped over to the Caddy. 'Who does this belong to?' Nate asked as he walked up.

'Not important,' Quinn said.

Quinn checked the doors. Locked. He walked back over to the Explorer and retrieved a long, flat piece of flexible metal from the surveillance kit. The metal strip was straight for about a foot and a half, then bent up and down like a T wave on an EKG, forming a hook at the end.

He carried the instrument over to the Caddy and handed it to Nate. 'Open it,' he said, pointing at the car.

Nate smiled, then slipped the modified slim jim between the window glass and the weather stripping on the front passenger door. Within thirty seconds, the lock released and Nate opened the door.

'You're better than before,' Quinn said. 'But you still need work. You've got to be able to get in under five seconds. Any make or model. Otherwise, there's a good chance you're dead.'

Nate's smile didn't falter. 'But I did do better.'

Quinn shook his head, a smile briefly touching his lips. 'A little.'

The inside of the car looked tidy, but not unusually so. Chances were Taggert's assassin was a day-player like Quinn – hired per job, but not part of any bigger picture. If searching the car hadn't been on the killer's to-do list, then it wasn't done. Why waste the effort on something you weren't getting paid for?

Quinn popped open the glove compartment. Inside he found an unused owner's manual, a maintenance log, a couple of maps, a disposable camera still sealed in a plastic bag, the vehicle registration, a rental agreement – so it wasn't Taggert's personal car – a pair of expensive Ray-Ban sunglasses, and two fully loaded magazines. He left the sunglasses, but stuffed the mags and rental agreement into his pocket.

Next he checked under the car's front seats, hoping to find a gun that matched the ammo. But there was nothing.

Nate was still standing outside the Caddy's door. Quinn looked out at him.

'I'll pop the trunk,' Quinn said. He removed one of the mags from his pocket and held it up. 'We're looking for a gun. A Glock 9mm.'

'Okay,' Nate said.

Quinn released the trunk, then began searching the rest of the interior of the Caddy while Nate checked out the back. Quinn had barely begun when he heard Nate's footsteps returning around the side of the car. He looked over as Nate leaned in.

'What is it?' Quinn asked.

'You need to see.'

Quinn was annoyed, but said nothing as he followed his apprentice back to the open trunk. 'She's dead,' Nate said, unnecessarily. Taking up a good portion of the trunk space was

the body of a woman wrapped generously in silver duct tape. There was none of the smell Quinn would have usually expected, but that was no doubt due to the cold.

He recognized her almost immediately. Even bound as she was, there was no mistaking her. It was Jills. Helpful Jills, informative Jills, happy Jills. Sometime coworker, sometime acquaintance. Quinn clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Now he knew why the arsonist had come back to the house. Taggert hadn't been alone.

Quinn had no idea if 'Jills' was her first or last name. It wasn't the kind of question you asked someone in this business. It probably wasn't her given name, anyway. Just like Peter wasn't Peter's. Or like Jonathan Quinn wasn't his.

She was a courier mostly, though Quinn had heard she'd done a little operations work recently. Never on one of his gigs, though.

Operations was a dangerous life choice. Which was why Quinn liked what he did. No one bothered with the guy who came in after the fact, nosing around a bit, making things pretty for the locals. Quinn's line of work was about as safe as it came in the world of freelance espionage. Not without its hazards, but he was usually able to sleep soundly at night.

I guess this is why Peter asked if anyone else had died,
Quinn thought as he stared down at her. What harm would it have done to tell Quinn that Jills was part of the program?

One thing was for sure. It looked like Quinn was going to have to do a bit of serious cleaning after all.

'You're sure it was Jills?' Peter asked.

It was almost noon. Quinn stood near the window in his motel room at the Holiday Inn, alone. The storm didn't look like it was going to let up soon. He was concerned that the roads back to Denver might close down in the next few hours, so he'd sent Nate off to pick up his stuff. As for Quinn's own bag, it was packed and waiting in the Explorer.

'No question,' Quinn said. 'But whoever did it

beat her up pretty bad first.' Peter was briefly silent. 'You took care of it?' 'It's handled,' Quinn told him. He'd called a

disposal guy based in Denver he'd used before. Jills and the Cadillac would disappear within a couple hours. He'd arranged for her cremated remains to be delivered to the Office, but he decided not to share that information with Peter.

'What about the local police?' 'They don't suspect anything. I'm assuming

Taggert's sister gave them a false lead on the car.' Peter wasn't biting. 'Good,' was all he said. 'What was Jills doing here? Was she working with

him, or was she working for you?' 'How should I know?' Peter said, sounding a bit

too rehearsed. 'So you're saying this wasn't your operation?' 'I never said it was.'
Why was Peter trying so hard to sell him?
Quinn

wondered. 'And Taggert wasn't your responsibility?' 'Not our responsibility,' Peter echoed. That cinched it. Peter was lying about something.

If he wasn't, he wouldn't have even answered Quinn's questions in the first place. There was definitely more going on here than Peter was letting on.

'I'm heading out now,' Quinn said. 'I'll e-mail you my report tomorrow when I get home.' 'Stay available,' Peter said. 'We might have something else coming up soon.' 'If I've got nothing else going on, we can talk.' Quinn hung up.

Chapter 5

Peter had always been a pain in the ass. But he did provide Quinn with consistent work, and seldom argued over fees. Since Quinn was planning an early retirement, that was enough. He'd long ago decided steady work at top dollar offset the annoyance factor that came with working for the Office.

The real problem was Quinn had actually stopped working for anyone else. It wasn't planned, it just kind of happened that way. Whether Peter was aware of the situation or not, Quinn didn't know. It was none of Peter's business, so Quinn never told him. The less Peter knew about Quinn's life, the better.

The same could also be said about Quinn's knowledge of Peter and the Office. The only thing Quinn knew for sure was that their main headquarters was located somewhere in D.C, nothing more. If pressed he would have guessed the Office to be some secretly funded agency of the U.S. government – maybe NSA, maybe military intelligence. But he wasn't sure. And honestly, he didn't really care.

That wasn't to say Quinn didn't have standards. He considered himself a patriot, though a jaded one. If he thought for one moment he was doing anything that would harm his country, he'd drop it. So far that hadn't happened with the Office. And until it did, he was content to do his job and take his money.

His standard rate was 30K a week, U.S., with a two-week minimum whether he worked all fourteen days or not. He averaged one job a month. It meant that, even without bonuses, Quinn was bringing in almost three quarters of a million a year. With bonuses he easily made double that. Not bad work, if you could get it.

Quinn and Nate left in the Explorer as soon as Nate returned. But instead of heading directly out to the interstate, Quinn turned the SUV toward downtown.

'I thought you wanted to get out of here,' Nate said.

'I need to make a couple stops first.'

As far as Peter was concerned, the Taggert investigation was over. But that wasn't the way Quinn worked. If there were still leads to be followed, he'd track them down. He would never leave a job half done. If Peter didn't want to know about it, so be it.

Valley Central Hospital was located about a mile from the police station in Allyson. As far as medical centers went, it was small even for the size of area it served. The building was a gray stone structure, only two stories high, and taking up the length of a short city block.

Quinn parked the Explorer in the sparsely filled visitors' lot. Immediately, Nate unbuckled his seat-belt and reached for his door.

'What do you think you're doing?' Quinn asked.

'You want me to come with you, don't you?'

Quinn thought for a moment. 'If you come along, you don't say one word. Understood?'

Nate smiled and nodded.

The receptionist in the main lobby told Quinn that Dr. Horner was in the morgue. As was typical, death had been relegated to the basement. Quinn and Nate took the stairs, and asked a passing nurse for directions. She pointed toward a small office halfway down the hall. There they found a man in his early forties, big but not fat, a college athlete who had started to go to seed, sitting at a desk and talking on the phone. A blue plastic badge on his chest identified him as Dr. Shaun S. Horner.

'I don't think so,' Horner was saying into a phone as Quinn and Nate entered. The doctor nodded a greeting, and gestured to an empty chair beside the desk, apparently not realizing there was only one place for two people. Quinn sat.

'No, no. Cardiac arrest,' Horner continued. 'No, ma'am. No signs of anything else . . . I'm sorry. That's all I've got. Okay. Thanks.'

Horner hung up the phone. 'Insurance investigator,' he said to Quinn. 'Looking for something that'll get them out of paying a claim, I think.'

'Doesn't sound like she got what she wanted,' Quinn offered. 'I can tell them what I know, but I can't tell

them what I don't.' The doctor extended his hand. 'Shaun Horner.'

Quinn grasped the man's hand and shook. 'Frank Bennett.' Quinn turned toward Nate. 'And this is . . .' He paused, then said, 'Agent Driscoll.'

'I thought so,' Horner said. 'Chief Johnson called to say you might stop by. What can I do for you, Mr. Bennett?'

'Actually, it's Special Agent Bennett.'

'Right. Sorry.'

Quinn smiled. 'It's about the Farnham fire.'

The actual morgue was two doors down from Dr. Horner's office. It was also small, boasting only ten body drawers and a single autopsy table. 'Seldom have more than three or four bodies here at one time,' Horner was saying. 'I had six once. But that was my record.'

'How many do you have now?' Quinn asked.

'Only two,' the doctor said. 'One's your fire victim. The second's a woman who lived across the valley. Slipped and fell on her own front porch.'

The doctor led Quinn and Nate to a drawer at the far end of the room. 'You've had burn victims here before?' Quinn asked. 'A few,' the doctor said. 'And if you ask me, I can wait awhile until the next one. It's not pretty.'

Without asking if his visitors were ready, the doctor pulled open the drawer. The body, or what was left of it, lay uncovered on the long tray. It was a charred mass of flesh. Quinn didn't even flinch at the sight of it, but Nate turned away, gagging.

'You okay?' the doctor asked.

'It's his first time,' Quinn said.

'I'm okay,' Nate said, clearly not looking at it.

'Maybe you want to step outside for a minute,' Horner said. Nate shook his head and resumed his spot beside the doctor as Quinn took a look at the body.

Taggert was lying on his back, his arms and legs bent upward in the pugilistic posture caused by shrinking tissue common to most burn victims. In some areas the flesh was completely burned away. Elsewhere the skin was sunken where the muscles and organs had cooked and contracted.

'Asphyxiation?' Quinn asked.

The doctor hesitated. 'Actually, no.'

Quinn looked over at Horner. 'No?'

'There appeared to be very little smoke damage to his lungs. I've sent some tissue off to the lab in Denver to be sure.'

Quinn made a mental note. That was one sample that needed to get lost. 'If he didn't die of the smoke, then what?'

The coroner shrugged. 'My best guess is that when he realized there was a fire, he panicked, tripped, and hit his head on something. Maybe a bedpost or a nightstand.'

'Was there damage to his skull?' Nate asked. Quinn shot his apprentice a quick look, but said nothing.

'Some,' the doctor said. 'Which could have happened after the house collapsed. But that's doubtful.'

'Why?' Quinn asked.

'There was a lot of blood loss that occurred around the wound,' Horner said. 'Since his lungs seemed clean, I'm pretty sure by the time the house fell apart, Mr. Taggert here was already dead.'

'You don't find that unusual?'

'Not really,' the doctor said. 'Given the circumstances, I mean. He was probably terrified. The house was burning up around him. Most people make mistakes under that kind of pressure.' Horner looked at Quinn for a moment. 'If you're really asking if someone else did this to him, I guess it's possible, but unlikely. Frankly, Agent Bennett, that kind of thing doesn't happen here in Allyson. You've been spending too much time in big cities.'

'Sorry,' Nate said, once they were back in the Explorer driving away. 'I just couldn't help myself. I mean, it's obvious he was murdered.'