The Cleaner

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.