Shadow of Betrayal

CHAPTER 20

Primus seemed intelligent enough to know when to speak and when to follow directions. He allowed Quinn to lead him through the central court area and down the walkway that led out to the sidewalk along Wilshire Boulevard.

If this had been New York, in no time they’d have been sitting in the back of a cab heading safely away. But this was L.A., where if you wanted a taxi you had to call for one, then wait at least twenty minutes until it arrived. So they were on foot until Quinn could secure a ride.

There was a crosswalk to the left of the LACMA entrance. A small group of people were already waiting at the curb, several leaning forward, anticipating the changing of the traffic light on Wilshire. A second later the pedestrians got their green light to cross the street.

“Come on,” Quinn said.

He yanked the man toward the street. The red palm that meant wait started blinking in the crosswalk signal just as they stepped off the curb.

“Faster.”

Primus complied, matching Quinn stride for stride.

They had already passed the divider in the middle of the road and were halfway across the two eastbound lanes when something whizzed through the air several feet to the left of Quinn’s head.

“What the fuck was that?” Primus said, his step faltering.

Quinn knew exactly what it was, but this wasn’t the time for talk. Instead, he pushed Primus to the right. Another bullet flew behind them, and a woman’s voice cried out in pain. And then screams everywhere.

Quinn pulled Primus to the right, altering their path again, before reaching the curb.

“Jesus,” Primus said. “Someone’s shooting at us!”

Quinn held on tight, willing the man to remain calm. Just beyond the sidewalk was one of the older parking lots used by LACMA.

“Follow me,” Quinn said.

He guided Primus between the parked cars, then pulled Primus behind a Ford SUV and stopped. Quinn peered through the vehicle’s windows toward the museum. There was no one on the street. The pedestrians had scattered when the attack began.

Since the bullets had come at a downward angle, Quinn scanned the roofline of the Bing Building looking for the other suit. He spotted him almost at once. The man was hidden behind one of the small concrete blocks that decorated the roofline. But either he was a lousy shot, or he’d just reached the roof as Quinn and Primus began crossing the street and was rushed.

“That was meant for me, wasn’t it?” Primus said.

Quinn glanced over, then followed Primus’s gaze back toward the street.

The woman who had been hit was leaning against the back side of a large metal utility box near the corner. It was just big enough to shield her and the man with her from the shooter. The man, her husband perhaps, was talking to her as he pressed his hand down on her wound. She seemed to still be conscious, but she would need medical attention very soon.

“I think it might have been meant for both of us,” Quinn said.

He looked back at the roof where the assassin had been, but he was gone.

Sirens, dozens of them, wailed their way toward LACMA. The assassin would have heard them sooner up where he had been, and realized it was time to cut out.

“Let’s go,” Quinn said. He started to turn, but Primus stopped him.

“We’re going to get shot!” he said.

“He’s gone,” Quinn told him.

“Gone?” Primus glanced at the building, then back at Quinn. “How can you be sure?”

“You hear the sirens?”

The man nodded.

“He’s gone. Now come on.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“I was right about getting you the hell out of there, wasn’t I?” Quinn said.

Primus looked at Quinn for a moment, then nodded.

Fearing the whole museum complex, including the parking lots across the street, would go into lockdown the moment the police arrived, Quinn led Primus into the neighborhood farther south of Wilshire, then over to Olympic before heading west toward Fairfax.

He found what he was looking for near the intersection with San Vicente Boulevard. Another parking lot, this one serving a Shakey’s Pizza at one end and a Starbucks Coffee at the other. There was enough room for maybe forty cars, not huge but big enough.

Quinn concentrated on the cars behind the pizza parlor. The restaurant had no windows along the back, so he could work unobserved. And since it was only a little after noon, most of the car owners would most likely be in the middle of their meals and not returning soon.

It took him under a minute to find a car that was open.

“Get in,” he said to Primus.

“You’re going to steal a car?” the man asked like it was the crime of the year.

“Get in,” Quinn said. His tone left no room for further conversation.

Primus climbed in through the driver’s door, then maneuvered himself over the center console and into the passenger seat. Quinn followed him in and closed the door.

“Belt up,” he said as soon as he got the engine running.

“You’ve done this before,” the man said.

“Once or twice.”

Quinn dropped the transmission into reverse, and looked out the rear window as he began to back up. Their new ride was only halfway out of its space when two men came around the corner of the building. Young guys, in slacks and dress shirts. They came to a dead stop at the sight of the car pulling out of the space.

“Shit,” Quinn said.

“What?”

Quinn didn’t have time to answer. He hit the accelerator, whipping the car the rest of the way out of the space, just missing the passenger van parked in the next spot. There was a moment’s pause as Quinn shoved the car into drive, and the two men continued to stare at them. Then they all began to move at once, the car and the two men.

The men were able to pull level with the rear fender as Quinn reached the exit, but that was as close as they got. Quinn swung to the right and sped off down an apartment-lined street. In his rearview mirror, he could see the men give up running.

But not the chase, Quinn thought as he saw one of them pull out a cell phone.

Quinn zigzagged through the streets, moving south, then west, then south until they reached Venice Boulevard. He headed west, keeping pace with other cars and blending in. Soon they would be in Culver City, an independent city with its own police force. A stolen car from Los Angeles would not be high on the priority list of the Culver City PD.

He glanced over at his passenger. Primus had sweat beading on his brow and balding dome. His right hand was rubbing the spot on his left arm Quinn had been holding on to, a grimace of pain on his face.

“You all right?” Quinn asked.

“Fine,” the man said.

“Good. We agree on that,” Quinn said, knowing Primus would have been dead without him.

He slipped his hand into the interior pocket of his jacket and retrieved a square piece of plastic, half the length of a business card, and a quarter-inch thick.

“What’s that?” the man asked.

Quinn glanced over again, but said nothing.

The answer to the question was, “A digital recorder,” but if Primus was too stupid to figure it out on his own, Quinn wasn’t going to enlighten him.

There were a couple of buttons along the top. Quinn pushed one of them, then wedged the square into the partially opened, unused ashtray, mic facing out.

“Time to talk,” Quinn said.

“I told you the meet is off.” The man looked out the window. “In fact, you can just drop me off here.”

Quinn whipped the car to the right, ignoring the honks from the car he cut in front of, then brought them to a sudden stop at the curb. He reached over and turned off the digital recorder, then pulled his gun out of his shoulder holster and rested it in his lap below window level. One pull of the trigger and Primus would be looking for a new way to digest his food.

The sudden stop must have surprised Primus, for he hadn’t moved an inch.

“You want out? Fine,” Quinn said. “But the step you take onto the curb will be your last.”

“W-What?”

“Who are you?”

The man’s gaze flicked from Quinn’s eyes to the gun and back. “You shoot me and you’ll lose everything that I know.” The words came out slow, as if the man were trying them out as he spoke.

“True,” Quinn said, the gun unmoving. “But at the moment it would be pretty damn satisfying.”

Quinn continued to stare at the man, daring him to give a reason to pull the trigger. After only a few seconds, the man turned away.

“So, are you leaving or are you staying?” Quinn asked.

The man mumbled something.

“What?”

“Staying.”

Quinn stared at him for a few seconds longer, then pulled the car back out into traffic, aiming the gun away from his passenger only after they were in the flow with the other cars.

He reached over and turned the recorder back on.

“Let’s start with a simple one,” Quinn said. “Who are you?”

“No,” the man said. “That’s not part of the deal. It has nothing to do with what I know.”

“It’ll tell us how serious to take it.”

Quinn could feel the man tense beside him. “That gunman back at the museum should have told you that.”

“You could have set it up,” Quinn said. “To convince us.”

“You think I’d—” He stopped himself.

For half a minute neither of them spoke. Then the man said, “My name isn’t going to tell you if the information is any good.”

“Then tell me something that will.”

Again, silence.

“I know who you are,” the man said.

“Don’t count on it.”

The man let out a small laugh. “You’re that cleaner.”

Quinn kept his eyes forward and his left hand lying across the grip of his pistol, his outward demeanor as cool as ever.

“Quinn,” Primus said. “Jonathan Quinn.”

Quinn did nothing to confirm or deny.

“You were in Singapore last September. Right?”

Quinn remained quiet.

“You had an unfortunate encounter with an assassin. I believe she killed a friend of yours.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Me?” the man said. “I’m one of the ones she worked for.”