The Deceived

CHAPTER

A SHRILL RING JOLTED QUINN AWAKE. HE OPENED HIS

eyes and pushed himself up. The room was dark, lit only by faint light filtering in through the window. Outside, night had descended over the city.

He looked to his left. His new phone was on the bed next to him, its ring not one he was accustomed to. He picked it up and thumbed the screen to disable the security lock.

“Hello?” he said.

“Quinn?”

Still a little disoriented, it took Quinn an extra second to recognize Peter’s voice.

“Are you there?” Peter asked.

“I’m here. Sorry.”

“Is this a bad time?”

“Hold on, okay?” Quinn said. “Just give me a second.”

Quinn set the phone back on the bed, then walked into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face.

He looked at his watch—9:23 p.m. It had been over six hours since he had returned to the room that afternoon. Sleeping that long had not been part of his plan. He frowned in self-annoyance as he

walked back into the bedroom and picked up the phone.

“I’m back.”

“You all right?” Peter asked.

“I’m fine,” Quinn said. “You have something for me?”

“Something, yes. But not an answer.”

Quinn nodded to himself. He’d figured as much. His request of Peter was to see if he could find out what Markoff had been up to. Since Markoff had once been CIA, it was possible Peter could pull a few strings and see if anyone at the agency knew anything about their former employee’s recent activities. What he hadn’t told Peter was that Markoff was dead. No sense setting that alarm off yet. “What did you get?”

“Word is no one’s talked to Markoff in weeks. He just kind of disappeared. No one seems worried, though. He’s retired. Maybe he went on a vacation.”

Quinn frowned. “Disappeared and no one knows where?”

“Maybe he has other friends he’s told.”

With the exception of Jenny, Quinn didn’t think Markoff had any other friends outside of the business. “You think he’s taken a freelance job?”

“Perhaps, but I couldn’t turn anything up,” Peter said. “What makes you think he’s not sitting on a beach somewhere relaxing?”

“Okay,” Quinn said, making no attempt to answer the question. “Thanks.”

“Don’t forget our deal,” Peter said.

Quinn hung up.

The taxi followed the Potomac River north, staying on the Virginia side until the Key Bridge took them into Georgetown. The address Steiner had given Quinn for Jenny’s D.C. home was on one of the numbered streets that ran north and south throughout the city. Quinn had the driver drop him off two blocks away on M Street.

The night was pleasant, no real need for a jacket, but Quinn wore one anyway. It was thin, more a windbreaker really, but what was most important was the built-in holster on the inside, under his left arm. His gun and suppressor fit snuggly into the customized space.

As usual, there were plenty of people out on M enjoying the warm late summer night in the bars and restaurants. Quinn weaved his way through a group of college-aged kids. Two were wearing Georgetown sweatshirts, and all looked like they’d been drinking for a while.

Instead of turning down Jenny’s street, Quinn kept walking, taking only a quick glance down the cobblestone road.

It was one-way with the exit at M Street. Compared to the main road, it was a morgue. The only cars on it were parked, and no one was on the sidewalks. Like elsewhere in Georgetown, it was lined with brick townhouses—some painted white, some yellow, some gray, and some left in natural brick red.

He continued to the next intersection, then turned right. He found himself on a street very similar to the one Jenny supposedly lived on. He walked down the empty brick sidewalk a half block, then turned onto the walkway of a darkened townhouse. He took the three steps up to the door, paused like he was pulling his keys out of his pocket, then checked back the way he had just come.

The road was empty. He was alone.

He descended the stairs and continued down the street, away from

M. He had checked a map online before leaving the hotel, so when he reached the end of the block, he was not surprised to find that instead of an intersecting street there was a canal.

It was the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal, more commonly known as the C & O. In the 1800s, it had been used to move goods from northern Maryland to D.C. and back. Now its sole purpose was to add to the area’s historical character.

The canal cut a wide east-west swath through Georgetown. Not only was there the rock-walled waterway, but there was also the old towpath that ran parallel to the water. Beside the path was a narrow park, with trees and grass and benches.

Quinn turned right onto the walkway and followed the canal back toward Jenny’s street. If the map was right, Jenny’s building would be the one butted up against the canal on the east side of the street.

Quinn glanced ahead. The building was taller than the two-story, single-family townhouses that made up most of the neighborhood. It looked five stories high, though not much wider than the other buildings. That made sense. Jenny’s address had indicated she was in unit number 4, which would mean she was in a multi-residence building.

A building that size, it seemed a reasonable guess it was only one apartment per floor. Unit 4, fourth floor.

When his gaze reached what he assumed was Jenny’s apartment, he stopped and stared. Each of the apartments had two windows looking out over the canal. But the apartment on the fourth floor was different. Where the windows had once been, there were now large sheets of plywood. Even in the dim light of the streetlamps, he could tell the bricks around the sheets were dark, almost black.

He looked at the apartments on the fifth and the third floors. No curtains in these windows, not even knickknacks on the windowsill. Only darkness and the sense of abandonment. And though there were curtains drawn across the windows of the first and second floors, Quinn got the distinct feeling no one was home.

A fire, Quinn thought. There was no mistaking the signs. And the fourth-floor apartment had taken the brunt.

What the hell? he thought.

He willed himself to continue moving forward along the path. In the distance, he could hear the traffic on M Street, but here next to Jenny’s building there was an eerie quiet. Even the water in the canal seemed hushed as it moved through the old locks and tumbled from one level to the next.

When he reached the sidewalk running in front of the small apartment complex, he stopped again. The light above the main doorway was out, but the darkness didn’t hide the strip of caution tape strung across the top of the steps. As Quinn suspected, the building had been evacuated.

He checked the street, then walked up the steps and ducked under the tape. From the pocket of his leather jacket, he removed a pair of latex surgical gloves and pulled them on.

He tried the doorknob. Locked, but the door itself felt loose, like the deadbolt hadn’t been engaged. He tried the knob again, leaning against the door to see if it might be weak. The lock in the knob held for a moment, then gave way with a muffled pop. Quinn wasted no time crossing the threshold and closing the door behind him.

He found himself in a small community entry. The first thing he noticed was the smell. Smoke. But not as strong as he’d expected. It made him wonder how long it had been since the fire had occurred.

To the right was a set of metal mailboxes. There were five in total. To the left was the door to the first-floor apartment, and straight ahead was a staircase.

Quinn walked over to the mailboxes. There was enough illumination filtering in through a large window above the main door for him to read the labels on each without pulling out his flashlight. The boxes were all numbered 1 through 5, but there were no names.

Quinn forced the lock on the one labeled “4.” The box was stuffed full, like whomever it belonged to hadn’t been home for at least a week before the fire occurred. No mail would have been delivered after the blaze. Quinn pulled out several items. They were all addressed to the same person.

Jennifer Fuentes.

He put everything back, then pushed the box closed.

He turned to the stairs and headed upward. Except for the number on the apartments, the second and third floors were identical to each other: a simple landing, a door, and the stairs.

Quinn climbed to the fourth floor, this time stopping just short of the landing so he could take in the space before him. Perhaps it had once looked like the lower floors, but not anymore. The walls were black with smoke damage, and the door to apartment 4 lay in a heap off to the side. It looked as though fire crews had hacked their way into the apartment so that they would have a shot at saving the building.

Testing the floor first, Quinn stepped onto the landing and approached the threshold of the apartment but did not enter. The darkness inside was almost complete, the plywood over the windows blocking any outside light. Quinn pulled out his flashlight and turned it on.

The firemen may have saved the rest of the building, but they hadn’t been able to do anything for Jenny’s place. The destruction was total. The fire had been so all-encompassing it had left nothing untouched.

All of Jenny’s possessions, all of them, were gone.

Quinn left the building as quietly as he had entered. He started walking toward M Street, where he would be able to catch a cab back to the hotel. As he headed up the sidewalk, he heard an engine start up somewhere along the block behind him.

He kept facing forward, like he hadn’t noticed it. Perhaps it was nothing. A lot of people lived within a block or two of where he was walking. Any one of them could have been heading out on a late-night errand.

He continued on his way, waiting for the car to pass by, but it didn’t. The engine noise was still there, a low rumble thirty yards back. He focused on the sound, gauging its location with every step. It remained steady, constant, as if it was moving with him, at his pace.

His hand moved to the grip of his gun, ready to pull it out the moment he felt it was necessary.

He was almost to M Street, its lights and activity a complete contrast to his current surroundings. If this was some kind of snatch-and-grab, those in the car would be coming after him at any second. He might be able to take them out, then again, he might not.

Not worth the chance, he thought as he removed his hand from his gun.

Without warning, he sprinted to the corner and turned right on

M. Seeing a gap in the traffic, he raced into the street. A car heading west on the other side honked at him, but he ignored it as he ran to the far sidewalk.

When he reached it, he glanced over his shoulder back at Jenny’s street. He expected to see the car that had been following him, but it wasn’t there. Quinn moved into the darkened entrance of a closed gift shop and watched the corner.

It was a full half-minute before a Honda Accord appeared at the end of the street. The car was surprisingly empty. There was no team of men readying to take up the chase. There was only a single occu-pant—the driver.

The Honda sat at the curb for several minutes, passing up multiple opportunities to go. Quinn could see the driver looking back and forth as if expecting to find something.

Finally the car turned right onto M Street, and drove past Quinn’s position. Though it was on the opposite side of the street, the driver was now close enough for Quinn to make an ID.

Son of a bitch, he thought.

Tasha Laver.