Flight 12: A Jonathan Quinn Thriller

CHAPTER 6

“Samuel Morgan and Thomas Fischer,” Orlando said over the speakerphone. “Fischer would be the trigger man. Morgan is more the operations end.”

“Never heard of them,” Quinn said. “Experienced?”

“Yeah. They’ve been active for a while. Morgan at least nine years, and Fischer six. Eastern Europe mostly.”

“Pictures?”

“I’ll text them to you in a minute.”

“Good,” Quinn said. “Did Berke know anything about the chip?”

“Berke didn’t even know it was a chip,” she said. “He put Morgan and Fischer in touch with Loban then got out of the way.”

“You have anything else about these guys that might be helpful?”

“I’ve e-mailed you what I found, but it’s not much. From what I understand, Fischer has problems with subtlety, while Morgan seems to be pretty buttoned up. I’ve checked with a couple people who’ve worked with them. Both said they were competent, but that Fischer could get a little overzealous at times.”

Quinn checked his rearview mirror. They were on the Saw Mill River Parkway, traveling right through the middle of Yonkers, five or so cars strung out behind them.

“What’s the word on Daeng?”

“Haven’t heard from him yet,” she said. “But I’ve been monitoring the NYPD and I know they haven’t found him.”

“So the SUV was empty?”

“They’ve got a diver going down right now, but I can’t imagine he stayed in the car.”

Quinn couldn’t imagine it, either, but he’d continue to be concerned until one of them heard from their friend.

Ahead, a sign informed him their exit was only a mile away. “Okay. If he gets ahold of you, let us know. Gotta go.”

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too.”

“I also love you,” Nate said.

“Shut up,” Quinn and Orlando said.

Morgan watched the sedan take the off-ramp for Yonkers Avenue. As he neared the exit, he pulled the Mercedes onto the shoulder under the bridge and stopped.

“You’re going to lose them again,” Fischer said.

Instead of answering, Morgan flipped off the headlights and started forward again.

The ramp made a big, looping curve. He hadn’t expected that, and was momentarily worried the sedan would be sitting at the top, making it easy for the other guys to see the Mercedes. But the car had already pulled away.

Morgan drove as fast as the bend would allow and then paused at the top, looking both directions down Yonkers. About four blocks to the right, he spotted the sedan’s taillights glowing in the dark.

Eternal Grace Mortuary was located a couple blocks off Yonkers Avenue, within a stone’s throw of the Saw Mill River.

It was an old brick building, with white trim along the roofline and around the windows. Four similarly painted columns held up a roof covering the front portico. The only indication of the building’s purpose was a sign on the wall that surrounded the property, near the parking lot entrance.

Quinn pulled into the parking lot and drove around to where three hearses were parked at the side of the building, next to a closed garage. Two looked to be in working order, while the third, Quinn knew, hadn’t moved in over ten years.

“Should I try calling him again?” Nate asked. So far, their attempts to get ahold of Barry Alvarez had been unsuccessful.

Quinn shook his head. “Let’s see if he’s even home, first.”

After hopping out of the car, Quinn led the way over to the garage. Both the roll-up door and the walk-through one on the left were locked. The latter’s lock, though, took only a few seconds to pick.

Given Barry’s lack of response, Quinn had expected to find the garage empty, but there, sitting slightly askew in the middle of the space, was the Lexus IS 350 sedan the mortician had been driving the last time Quinn saw him.

“Maybe he’s just ignoring us,” Nate suggested.

They headed back to the main building. Not counting the front entrance, there were three other ways inside, one on the side and two around back. The one on the side was located down a ramp, at basement level. This was the delivery entrance, where bodies entered the mortuary and were taken either straight to embalming or to what Barry referred to as the “waiting room.”

The French-door entrance in back was another way into the business’s public area, while the smaller door off to the side opened onto a staircase that went up to Barry’s private apartment, which took up half the second floor.

Stickers in several of the first-floor windows proclaimed that the building was monitored by Westec Security. Knowing Barry, though, Quinn suspected the alarm system only covered the ground-floor windows and doors, not the second floor. The man was fond of money, and would much rather use it on a cruise to the Caribbean than something he thought he would never need.

The portico out front proved to be the easiest way up. After a boost from Nate, Quinn used one of the columns to pull himself onto the roof, and then lowered himself onto the small balcony outside one of the second-floor offices. Using his pocket flashlight, he examined the inside of the window. As he’d predicted — no alarm sensors.

“Glass cutter,” he whispered down to Nate.

Nate pulled a small plastic box out of his kit and tossed it up to Quinn. The box contained two items — a small suction cup and a five-inch-long metal handle cutter. Quinn stuck the cup to the glass and made a circular cut through the first pane of the double-paned window. When the glass was out of the way, he did the same on the second pane, and then reached inside, unlocked the latch, and pushed the window up.

He looked back down at Nate. “Get the body ready. I’ll be down in a minute.”

He ducked inside. Clearly, the office was not one mourners were ever shown. File boxes were stacked here and there, and loose papers covered the desks. It was so messy, Quinn had to watch his step so that he didn’t knock anything over as he made his way through the room and out the door.

The center of the building was an open space rising from the ground floor, all the way to the ceiling of the second. A tasteful yet subdued grand entrance, with a stairway between levels. On the upper floor, a balcony rimmed the back wall, serving as a hallway between the door to the office half of the floor and the back door to Barry’s apartment.

Quinn tried the knob on the latter door, thinking he would have to pick it, but it was unlocked.

Barry had never brought Quinn into his apartment. All their business had taken place either in his first-floor office or in the crematorium. Quinn wasn’t surprised, though, to find the apartment looked nothing like the rest of the building. It was modern and sleek with a high-end open kitchen, beautiful bamboo floors, and a living room area that was both intimate and inviting — very much the bachelor pad of someone wanting to impress. Quinn couldn’t help but wonder how many dates Barry had actually convinced to come up to his place inside a mortuary.

As he crossed over to the hallway that he assumed led to the bedroom, he spotted a suit jacket draped over the arm of a chair, its sleeve touching the floor. Not far beyond was a right shoe and then a left.

The hallway itself was dark, but the open door to the bedroom at the end let enough ambient light in that he didn’t have to use his flashlight.

He found Barry on the bed. Though the covers had been pulled back, the mortician hadn’t taken the time to get under them. Nor had he fully undressed. He’d managed to get his pants off and leave them on the floor below his dangling feet, but he’d left his socks and shirt and tie on. If not for the occasional loud snore, he could easily have been another body for Quinn to disappear.

Quinn moved over to the bed and shook Barry’s ankle. “Barry, time to wake up.”

A snort and a cough released the strong scent of alcohol into the air, but the man’s eyes remained closed. No mystery now as to why Barry hadn’t answered his phone.

Quinn tapped the mortician’s cheek a few times. “Hey, wake up. You have a customer.”

No snort this time, just a smacking of lips as Barry twisted onto his side.

It appeared stronger actions were necessary. Thankfully, Barry was not a large man. Quinn lifted him off the bed, carried him into the bathroom, and set him on the beautifully tiled floor of the rainwater shower.

“Barry, are you going to wake up?”

Clearly the answer was still no, so Quinn turned on the water, full cold.

Barry spluttered as he flailed his arms, blinking rapidly. After a moment, he put his hands on the floor and tried to push himself up, but he quickly slipped and fell back down onto his hip.

Quinn winced. “That’s going to hurt in the morning. Well, maybe afternoon.”

Barry looked over in surprise. He stared at Quinn. “Whatthehell?” he asked, his words running together. “Who…” His eyes narrowed. “Quinn?”

Quinn turned off the water. “Sorry for the rude awakening. But you weren’t answering my calls and you know how I worry about you.”

“What?”

Quinn grabbed a towel off the rack and tossed it to him. Barry didn’t see it coming until a moment before it whacked him in the face.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Quinn said. “Need to use your facilities.”

“What?”

The mortician’s comprehension gap didn’t seem to be closing.

“How much did you have to drink?” Quinn asked.

“Uh…uh…I’mnotsure.”

“You’re too old to be hanging out at bars, you know that, right?”

“Notabar. Itwasawake.” He stopped himself for a moment, and then nodded. “Okay, technick…technical…technically wasabar. Butonlycausetheservicewasthere. KnowwhatImean?”

“Where are your keys?” Quinn asked.

“Mykeys?”

“To the crematorium.”

“Inmypants.” Barry patted his thigh and then looked down. “Ohmygod! Wherearemypants?”

“Relax. I know where they are.”

“Ohgood. BecauseIhave—”

“What’s the alarm code?”

“Alarmcode?”

“Do you need to keep repeating everything I ask? Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t think you’ll enjoy hearing the alarm blaring when I open the basement door, do you?”

“Ohgodno. Thatwouldbe…ungood.”

“Don’t think that’s a word, Barry.”

“Huh?”

“The alarm code?”

“Right. Umm…fivefiveonesevenfive.”

“That’s a lot of fives.”

“Vickysfavoritenumber,” Barry said, his eyelids drooping.

“Who’s Vicky?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Quinn helped Barry up, but made the mortician remove his clothes on his own. Barry then fell face-first back into bed.

“Try to get some sleep. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

Barry’s voice was muffled. “Okay. Soundsgood. NicetoseeyouQuinn.”

“Always a pleasure.”

Morgan saw the sedan turn onto another street several blocks ahead, but when he made the turn himself, the other car was gone.

Fischer sat forward. “Where are they?”

Annoyed, Morgan said, “Keep your eyes on that side. I’ll check this one.”

He sped ahead, glancing down each side street they passed, but they went nearly a mile and had still spotted no sign of the sedan. Morgan drove back the way they’d come, slower this time, hoping they’d see the car parked somewhere.

The sign was on Fischer’s side of the car, so Morgan would have missed it if he hadn’t been glancing over every block or so to make sure his partner was paying attention.

Could it be possible?

He passed by the entrance and parked at the curb.

“What are you doing?” Fischer asked.

“I just want to check something. I’ll be right back.”

Morgan climbed out of the car.

He had been operating on the assumption that the men in the sedan were standard low-level operatives who worked for the same people as the courier and had been sent to collect her. But what if they were more than foot soldiers? What if they were specialists? Body men?

No, they have a different name. What was it? Cleaners. That was it.

The work he and Fischer usually took never called for a cleaner. When they terminated someone, they would simply leave the body where it lay.

A cleaner’s priority would be to dispose of a body, not return it to anyone. And where better to do that than at a mortuary?

The good news was, Morgan and Fischer would have no problem dealing with a couple of cleaners. They were behind-the-scenes guys who’d likely never seen any real action. The potentially bad news was, the cleaners were preparing to incinerate the courier. If Morgan and Fischer couldn’t stop them before the girl was put into the flames, the chip would be destroyed.

Morgan moved along the property wall to the driveway opening. Looking in, he saw a two-story brick building with a smaller structure around the side. He scanned the parking lot but it was empty. Had he been wrong? Had they not stopped here?

A low voice drifted from around the side of the building. It was too distant to understand but the tone was definitely male.

He slipped into the lot and moved quickly across to the main building. He then crept to the corner and looked around.

About halfway back was a brick wall, maybe three feet high, running about a dozen feet from the building into the lot. There appeared to be a second, identical wall about ten feet from the other side of the first.

Morgan heard a noise, not a voice this time, but like wrinkling plastic. It had come from between the two short walls. He remembered the plastic he’d seen wrapped around the messenger when the others placed her in the sedan’s trunk.

He looked around to make sure there was no one about, then hurried forward to the nearer of the two walls.

A new noise — footsteps, growing distant.

He rose carefully above the wall and leaned forward so he could see beyond it.

Between it and the other wall was a ramp going down to a double door — a basement entrance. And parked on the ramp was the same sedan he and Fischer had been following. The trunk was open and empty.

As much as he wanted to race down and stop them from throwing the woman into the oven, he knew he’d be a fool to do it alone.

He hurried back to his partner.