The Deceived

CHAPTER

QUINN STOOD IN THE SHOWER, ARMS OUTSTRETCHED,

palms pressed against the wall holding him in place. For thirty minutes, he didn’t move. Instead, he let the water spray against his shoulders, splashing onto his head and running down his torso toward the tiled floor of the stall. He had hoped it would make him feel normal again, snap him out of the temporary spiral he felt himself sliding into.

He gave up near 1 a.m., knowing the anger and questions weren’t going to go away. He took his time toweling off, like someone whose every muscle ached from a day of intensive labor. But there was nothing wrong with his muscles. The work he and Nate had done hadn’t been overly strenuous. He’d handled more physical assignments with no problem. In his business, he had to keep himself lean and in good shape, like a distance runner ready to run a marathon at a moment’s notice.

It wasn’t even the image of Markoff ’s deformed corpse burning in a shallow grave that slowed Quinn down. Rather, it was the memory of Markoff himself, always with a quick smile and a disarming laugh. An insider who’d actually become a friend outside the realm of their secret world. A good friend.

“You’ve got to relax,” Markoff had kidded Quinn. “Enjoy things a little.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Quinn had said. They were in the Bahamas that time, sprawled out on two lounge chairs by the pool at their hotel.

“You’re doing what you always do,” Markoff said. “Which is what exactly?” “It ain’t relaxing, that’s for sure.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m relaxed twenty-four/

seven. So screw yourself.” Quinn took a drink from his rum and Coke, then leaned back in the lounge chair.

His friend laughed. “What you do has nothing to do with being relaxed. You’re talking about patience. That, you’ve got more of than anyone I know.”

“They’re the same thing,” Quinn said. “Not even close. Being relaxed means you don’t care. Being patient

means you’re waiting.” “Right,” Quinn said. “Whatever you want to believe.” They were silent for a few moments. “Let me ask you something,” Markoff said. “Okay.” “There’re two girls off to my right. What are they wearing?” Quinn started to turn his head. “Don’t look,” Markoff said. “Fine. Bikinis, both of them. The blonde’s got a baby-blue one on,

while her friend went with black. So what?” “All right, and the guy at the bar behind us?” “The older one or the teenager?” “Just proved my point, I think,” Markoff said. “What?” “You’re always on, always waiting, always observing. That’s not re

laxed. That’s waiting for something to happen.”

Though Quinn didn’t want to admit it, Markoff had been dead-on. A person could never be relaxed if he was always waiting. And for Quinn, waiting was a constant state.

The annoying part was that Quinn knew Markoff had done his own share of waiting, too. As a field op, there could have been no escaping it. But somehow Markoff always knew how to turn it off. How to go from waiting to relaxing without any notice. It was a trait Quinn

wished he possessed.

Of course, now Markoff would never have to wait again.

The thought took Quinn back to the body in the desert. It wasn’t the way it should have been. At the very least, he should have given his friend a proper burial. Maybe even taken him back home. Not D.C., he lived there because that’s where he worked. Michigan or Wisconsin, Quinn seemed to remember. Somewhere in the upper Midwest.

But that wasn’t an option. Not just because of the condition of the body. It was Quinn’s role in dealing with it. He’d been hired to dispose of a corpse, and in his business that meant getting rid of it so it wouldn’t be found. There could be no personal considerations.

Quinn stared at himself in the mirror, wondering what the hell could have happened, but no answer came.

After a while, he gave up. From his walk-in closet, he grabbed a pair of boxer briefs and a black T-shirt, pulled them on, then went into the bedroom.

There was only one light on in the room, a reading lamp on the nightstand next to his bed. It illuminated a space that was large but underfurnished. It was just the way Quinn wanted it; it gave him a sense of freedom.

The few pieces of bedroom furniture he owned were all dark, made of teak and built to last. A king-size bed rested against the far wall. Next to it a single nightstand with the lamp, a clock, and his current read—The Archivist’s Story by Travis Holland—on top. The only other piece of furniture was a low, wide dresser that did double duty as a stand for the seldom-used television. Reading was Quinn’s vice. The evidence was several stacks of books piled against the wall where the second nightstand should have been—a to-be-read pile nearly a hundred volumes strong.

A bead of sweat formed just above his brow. Unconsciously he reached up and wiped it away. It was September, and in Los Angeles that meant hot during the day and warm at night. Even up in the Hollywood Hills where Quinn lived, there was no escape from the late summer heat.

At the far end of the room was a sliding glass door that led out onto a balcony overlooking the back of his property, and beyond it the city. He walked over, unlatched the special lock that held the door in place, then slid it open.

A gentle breeze drifted into the room, lowering the temperature several degrees. He was tempted to grab a beer and stand outside on the deck, watching the lights on the Sunset Strip for a while, but in the end he opted for stretching out on the bed.

It was late, and he knew he should get some sleep. But after he shut his eyes, it wasn’t long before he knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Markoff ’s death had been like a vicious punch to the gut. And while Quinn couldn’t let it go, it wasn’t the main thing keeping him awake. That honor fell to his other problem. The one he’d been avoiding all day.

Someone had to tell Jenny.

No, not someone. He had to tell Jenny.

He glanced over at his clock on the nightstand: 1:19 a.m. Middle of the night, even on the East Coast.

Of course, if he called her, there was an excellent chance she’d be home. Only one problem, he didn’t have her phone number. He had only talked to her when Markoff was around. He had Markoff ’s number, but unless they had gotten married in the last six months and moved in together, Quinn assumed they still had separate places.

But it was worth a shot. He retrieved his cell phone, and selected Markoff ’s home number from his list of contacts, then pressed send.

It rang four times before an answering machine kicked in.

“I’m not home. Leave a message.”

Markoff ’s voice. Short and sweet.

And singular.

Quinn hung up. If they had been living together, they hadn’t been advertising the fact. Or, Quinn realized, there was the possibility they weren’t even together at all anymore. The picture Markoff had been carrying notwithstanding, anything could have happened in the six months since Quinn had last spoken to his friend.

He dialed D.C. information, requesting a number for either a Jennifer Fuentes or a J. Fuentes. There were over fifteen listings. All J’s, no Jennifers.

What now? Call each number and see if he recognized her voice? That seemed stupid. And given the hour, he couldn’t rationalize waking up fifteen different people with the very real potential none were even her. Hell, she might not even live in the city. There were dozens of bedroom communities within a sixty-mile radius of the district.

There were better ways to track her down, faster ways. And, he knew, ways that could wait until morning.

He lay back down, knowing he’d be awake most of the night, but he was wrong. Sleep did come, only it wasn’t deep or restful. And when he dreamt, he dreamt only of one thing: a body burning in a hole in the desert. And every time he knelt down to look at the corpse, it stared back at him.

Only the face that looked up wasn’t Markoff ’s.

It was his own.

The phone woke Quinn five hours later. Memories of his dream lingered for a moment, then disappeared, leaving him with only the vague sense of discontented sleep. He rolled onto his back, sat up, and stretched, letting whoever was calling go to voice mail.

As he stood, there was a chirp informing him that the caller had left a message. Quinn picked up his phone and headed toward the bathroom. After he set it on the counter, he switched it to speaker mode and hit speed dial for his voice mail. He then stared at himself in the mirror. It had been two days since he’d last shaved, and he was beginning to get scruffy. He knew he should do something about it, but he just didn’t feel up to it.

“You have one unheard message,” an automated voice said through his speaker.

There was a half-second of dead air, then, in a different mechanical voice, “Tuesday. Six forty-three a.m.”

“Quinn. It’s Jorge. Please call me. I...ah... just call me.”

Albina.

Quinn disconnected the call, switched the phone back to normal mode, then dialed Albina.

“May I help you?” The voice that answered was deep, not Albina’s.

“I need to speak to Jorge,” Quinn said. “Mr. Albina is still asleep. Please call back later,” the man said as if dismissing Quinn. “Yeah, I don’t think so. Just tell him Quinn called and I’d like him to lose my number.” “Mr. Quinn?” The man’s tone changed abruptly. Now he sounded helpful, even concerned. “Hold on.” A moment later, Albina came on the line. “Sorry if I woke you,” he said.

“Was there a problem with the truck?” Quinn asked. He’d dropped the Peterbilt off near an industrial park in Sylmar, and couldn’t imagine anything had gone wrong.

“No,” Albina said. “We got it. Thanks.” “Then what do you want?” “I just wanted to make sure everything went all right.” “You would have heard if it hadn’t.” “And the body? No problems?” “The body was the job, Jorge. Why are you calling me?” Jorge was

fishing for information, but Quinn didn’t feel like playing. “I have another job for you.” “Really? And this couldn’t have waited until a little later?” “I haven’t slept, okay? I wanted to call you hours ago.” “So what happened?” Quinn asked. “Somebody ship you another

body?” “Don’t even fucking joke about that,” Albina said. “Not a body. So

you don’t have to worry about that.” “I’m not worried about anything. I’m just not sure I’m available.” “I’d pay you a new fee.” Quinn’s jaw tensed. Paying a new fee for a new project wasn’t even

a question. That’s the way it worked. He wasn’t cheap. His price was thirty thousand a week with a two-week minimum. Per job. And, as all his clients should have known, there were no carryovers from one project to another. Ever.

“I don’t think I’m interested,” Quinn said. “I haven’t even told you what it is.” “Still not interested.”

“Please just listen for a second. It’s not that big of a deal. I only want you to find out who sent me the package.”

“You mean body,” Quinn said.

“Yes,” Albina said, his voice controlled. “The body. I don’t like living with unknowns, okay? But this situation, you know, it’s tricky. I don’t want to bring a lot of people in on it. You know about the body already. Finding out who put it in that container would probably be a snap for you. You’re a cleaner, so I’m asking you to clean up a few loose ends for me.”

“I don’t do that kind of cleaning.”

“Why don’t you think about it?”

“No.”

“Come on, Quinn. I’ve heard you’ve been branching out. Taking on a little more. Do this for me and I’ll—”

Quinn hung up.

Quinn’s house was in the Hollywood Hills, overlooking the Los Angeles basin. There was a downward slope to his property, but his home wasn’t one of those that cantilevered out from the edge perched on stilts. Instead, his had been built along the slope, using the hill to create two separate levels, with a third storage level at the very bottom. All the bedrooms were downstairs, a floor below street level. Upstairs was a semi-open space that served as living room, dining room, and kitchen.

After a shower, Quinn made his way up to the kitchen, stopping first to grab his laptop off the coffee table. While he contemplated breakfast, he set the computer on the counter and turned it on. Food was soon forgotten as he connected to the Internet and began searching for information about Jenny.

It didn’t take long. According to several sources, she was still working for the same Texas congressman that Markoff had told Quinn about—a guy named James Guerrero. He was a friend of Markoff ’s. They had both been Marines, though not at the same time. When Guerrero was on the Intelligence Committee, Markoff had once briefed him on a particular situation. The congressman had been impressed, and, as Markoff told Quinn later, he had been surprised and impressed by Guerrero as well.

The way he explained it to Quinn, he and the congressman had started meeting up for a drink or even dinner whenever Markoff was in town. In a town where politics was everything, they were very useful to each other. That was the way things worked in the District—it was all relationships and deals. But according to Markoff, they were more than just professional connections for each other.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Quinn had said after Markoff had told him about his friendship with the congressman.

“I know, I know. He’s a politician,” Markoff said. “But he’s different.”

“They all say they’re different,” Quinn countered.

Markoff smiled. “You’re right about that. Don’t get me wrong. I’d never trust him one hundred percent. But he’s not afraid to speak his mind. Even gets in trouble with his own party sometimes. That makes him okay by me. Till he proves me wrong, anyway.”

So when Markoff ’s new girlfriend was looking for a job on Capitol Hill, it was Guerrero who Markoff called.

Only Representative Guerrero was no longer just the Texas congressman Markoff had briefed years earlier. He was now the Majority Whip, one of the most powerful people in the House of Representatives. And, according to his website, he was the first politician to announce his intention to run for President, doing so a year and a half earlier. And now, as of the month before, Guerrero had made it official, and joined a growing field of candidates for his party’s nomination. And though Quinn knew that none of their chances were very good—they were running against a popular incumbent who was heavily favored to win reelection—the national exposure for the future would be extremely valuable.

“Lucky girl,” Quinn said to himself as he continued to scan the congressman’s website. Jenny had really picked a winner when she hooked up with Markoff. Without him, who knows where she would have ended up working. But because of her boyfriend, her career was on the rise. Even if her boss didn’t win the election—most news outlets put Guerrero in the middle of the pack at best—the campaign would make him a national figure. Perhaps in fours years he would be leading the pack, instead of being mired in it.

Quinn began searching for old news stories. Not surprisingly, they all seemed to support Markoff ’s idea that Guerrero was a bit of a maverick. Ascending to the position of Majority Whip didn’t seem to stop him from publicly disagreeing with other high-ranking members of his party. His approach was apparently blunt and direct—a lawmaker who knew how to cut through the BS. And if some of the latest stories were to be believed, it was starting to gain him the reputation of being a man of the people.

How a maverick like Guerrero had achieved such a high-level leadership position confused Quinn. That was until he found a profile piece on the congressman in the Washington Post.

It turned out Guerrero’s wife was none other than noted conservative spokesperson Jody Goodman. That was a name Quinn definitely knew. He’d seen her quoted dozens of times in news articles and had even caught her act on some of the political talk shows. According to the article, she was the former CEO of Taylor-Goodman, a large defense contractor based in Texas. Now her time was spent being an influential member of a well-known Washington-based think tank. Apparently this was enough to allow her husband more freedom within the party than others who might have started working their way up at the same time he had.

An article in the New York Post described their marriage as more of a partnership than a relationship. It cited a source close to the couple claiming, “They use each other’s positions to strengthen their own. More a power match than a love one.”

Returning to Guerrero’s website, Quinn found listings for two office addresses: one in Washington, D.C., and one in his home district of Houston, Texas. Quinn called the one in D.C.

“Congressman James Guerrero’s office. How may I help you?” The voice of the woman who answered had the perfect balance of helpfulness and efficiency. Quinn guessed she must field hundreds of calls each day.

“Jennifer Fuentes, please,” Quinn said.

There was a slight pause. “I’m sorry, Ms. Fuentes is not in the office at this time. Is there someone else who can help you?”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

This time the pause was longer. Almost a full three seconds. “Can you hold for a moment, please?”

She didn’t wait for Quinn to answer. There was a click, then music, the soft jazz kind that turned popular rock songs into bland background noise that would offend no one except people with taste.

All of a sudden the music cut out, and a man’s voice came on the line. “May I help you?”

“Yes, thank you,” Quinn said. “I’m trying to get ahold of Jennifer Fuentes.”

“This is regarding...?”

“Nothing that important,” Quinn said, keeping his voice light and unassuming. “I was just going to be in Washington, and thought maybe we could get together for dinner.”

“You’re a friend, then.”

“Yeah. We went to college together. She told me to call any time I was in town.” Quinn paused. “Is everything all right?”

The man hesitated a moment, then said, “She’s not in the office this week.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, do you know if she’ll be back next week?”

“That I couldn’t tell you. She’s... away for a few weeks. A personal matter, I believe. I’m not sure when she’s due back.”

“Personal? Is she okay?”

The man hesitated. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I’ll try calling her at home, then,” Quinn said.

“Yes. Why don’t you do that? Sorry I couldn’t have been more help.”

The line went dead.

The back of Quinn’s neck tingled as he disconnected the call. What the hell was that all about?

He set the phone on the counter next to his laptop and replayed the conversation in his mind. Jenny out on a leave of absence? At the same time Markoff turns up dead? Granted, there was no direct connection between her personal leave and the end of Markoff ’s life, but Quinn didn’t like the timing.

He heard a car pulling up in front of his house. It had to be Nate. No one else could get through the security gate without being buzzed in. A few moments later, the front door opened. Quinn walked over to where the kitchen transitioned into the living room as Nate entered from the foyer.

“Come in here,” Quinn said. “I need you.”

“Good morning,” Nate said.

Quinn gave his apprentice a half smile. “Morning. Now, come in here.”

He turned and walked back into the kitchen. Once Nate had joined him, Quinn explained what he wanted, then handed over his cell phone. He had already punched in the number for Guerrero’s Houston office, so all Nate had to do was hit Send.

There was a brief delay while the call connected and someone answered. After a moment, Nate said, “Yes, good morning. This is Dan Riley from Overnight Advantage Delivery. I’m not sure if I have the right number or not, but I’m hoping you can help me.” Nate listened, then smiled. As he spoke, his voice took on the tone of a confiding friend. “Here’s my problem. Some people just shouldn’t be allowed to fill out shipping information by hand. I tell ya, the packing slip I’m looking at right now is a mess. About the only thing I can make out is the name of the addressee and most of the phone number. You’re the third person I’ve tried.” Again he waited while the person on the other end spoke. “Let me see. The name on the package is...Jennifer Funtes or Fentes.” Pause. “Fuentes? Yes. That’s it. So I do have the right number. Great. The most annoying part is it’s person-to-person. I had no idea what I was going to do if I didn’t find her. Is she in today?” This time, the person spoke for several seconds. Nate let out a few grunts of subdued surprise, then understanding. “That’s too bad. Do you know when she’ll be back?” The look on Nate’s face foreshadowed his words. “So you have no idea, then.” A pause. “I wish I could. But she’s got to be the one to sign. I guess we’ll try to track down the sender and see what he wants to do.”

Quinn looked at Nate, waiting. His apprentice set the phone on the counter. “The lady said Jennifer Fuentes mainly works out of the

D.C. office, but that according to the staff schedule, she’s on a leave of absence. The lady wasn’t sure when she was coming back. I guess I could have pushed more.”

“No,” Quinn said. “You did fine. Pressing more could have drawn attention.”

“Is Jennifer the girl in the photo?” Nate asked.

Quinn had started to turn away, but paused, the question taking him by surprise. “What?”

“The photo you took off the body yesterday. Was it Jennifer Fuentes?”

Quinn stared at his apprentice for a moment. It wasn’t like what Nate was asking was such a mental stretch. Still, it wasn’t something Quinn was eager to discuss.

“You knew the guy, too, didn’t you?” Nate asked. “Markoff, right?”

“Drop it.”

“I’m just trying to understand what we’re doing.”

“This isn’t a job,” Quinn said.

Nate shrugged, then opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of orange juice. “Seems a little like a job.”

“We don’t have any clients right now.”

Nate retrieved a glass from the cabinet, then filled it with juice. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve taken on a job without a client.” He lifted the glass and took a drink.

Quinn drew in a slow breath, checking his emotions. “First, we don’t take jobs,” he said. “I take them.” He started to say something more, then stopped.

After a moment of silence, Nate said, “And second?”

Quinn looked away. He had planned on saying that second, he decided what information Nate got and what he didn’t. But Nate didn’t deserve that. Quinn knew sometimes he kicked into harsh instructor mode too readily.

“Second,” he said, “yes. She’s the girl in the picture. She goes by Jenny, not Jennifer. And you’re right about the body, too. It belonged to... someone I knew. A guy named Steven Markoff.”

Quinn expected Nate to probe more, but his apprentice just smiled and downed the rest of his OJ. When he was through, he asked, “What next?”

Quinn shook his head and started walking toward the living room. Then, more to himself than to Nate, he said, “I wish I knew.”