The Discarded

CHAPTER 26

Orlando’s alarm went off at 6:30 a.m., barely four hours after she’d fallen asleep.

Forcing herself up, she shuffled into the shower, shocking her body first with cold water and then gradually adding some heat. By the time she was toweling off, she felt like she probably wouldn’t spontaneously fall asleep in the next fifteen minutes. Anything beyond that, all bets were off.

Coffee. She needed coffee. Now.

Forgoing even the small amount of makeup she usually wore, she ran her fingers through her hair, pulled on some clothes, and headed downstairs to the coffee shop in the lobby. She knew there would be a line — there were always lines at hotel coffee shops, no matter the time of day — but what she didn’t expect to see was Abraham sitting at one of the small tables out front, sipping from a cup and eating a muffin.

Orlando purchased her coffee, waited for it to be prepared, and then joined her former mentor.

“You did get some sleep, didn’t you?” she asked.

“More than enough,” he replied. “The older you get, the less you need.”

“Then I need to get older fast.”

A small grin, but no snide comment. That wasn’t like him.

She stirred her coffee and gave it a taste. A little too hot still, but she was willing to risk a scorched mouth for the brew’s revitalizing effects.

“I…I tried again,” he said.

“Tried what?”

He touched the phone sitting next to his half-eaten muffin. “The number. I tried again.”

“And?”

“Same as before,” he said, disappointed.

“Whoever it belonged to probably tossed their phone.”

He nodded in reluctant agreement. “It’s just…whoever Eli called was trying to help him. So that has to mean they know something about Tessa, doesn’t it? I thought…I mean…” He took a breath and picked up his coffee. “I don’t know where we go from here.”

“I might,” she said.

He looked at her, hope creeping into his eyes. “Did you find something?”

She held up a hand. “Can I finish my coffee first?”

Despite Abraham’s persistent questioning, she refused to go into further detail until they were back in her room.

Once she woke up her laptop, she brought up the files Eli put on the memory card for the members of Operation Overtake. “According to Eli, three are dead,” she said. “I double-checked and he was right. These other two, though, were only listed as missing. Akira Hayashi and Desirae Rosette. I checked to see if either of them had taken any jobs after Overtake but found none. Granted, I didn’t have a ton of time so it wasn’t a thorough search, but it was enough of a sample to form my opinion. Before I went to sleep, I set up a few search bots. First, to see if any unidentified bodies had been recovered in the months following the job that matched either of them, and second, to hunt down any personal information such as friends and family who they might get in contact with.”

“What did they find?”

“Have no idea.” She moved the cursor across the screen. “Shall we take a look?”

She accessed the server where the bots had dumped their information into presorted files. She checked Hayashi first. During the time frame she had specified, three male bodies had been recovered in Japan with the correct height and general size. The one discovered nearly three months after the operation was the most intriguing.

It had been found in the wreckage of a building fire. Though the body had been severely burnt, the medical examiner found that the man had been shot in the back of the head and not recently. The doctor was able to extract some cells that hadn’t been wrecked by the fire, and discovered damage usually associated with extreme cold. To Orlando this meant only one possibility — the victim had been killed, put on ice, and, after a desired amount of time had passed, placed in a building that was then set ablaze.

“I’ve seen this method before,” Orlando said. “And if you ask me, that’s Hayashi.”

It took Abraham a bit longer to finish reading the file. When he did, he said, “I think you’re right.”

Orlando moved on to the files that might be the woman. There were four bodies — three in Canada and one in France.

“Why did you include Canada?” Abraham asked.

“That’s where Desirae is from.”

“I thought she was French.”

“French-Canadian. She’s from Quebec.”

“Oh,” he said, surprised.

Orlando went through the reports one by one, but while they found some similarities in each to Desirae Rosette, none was a perfect match.

“Could be they never found her body,” Abraham said.

She nodded. “Could be.”

She opened the file where information pertaining to Desirae’s personal life had been gathered. There were only a few names — a half dozen acquaintances in the business, and the name of a civilian woman the bots had dug out of a deep NSA file. The name was Nadine Chastain, and the search indicated an 85 % chance of the woman being Desirae’s mother. She lived in the town of Lac-Saint-Charles, north of Quebec City.

Orlando first checked to see how long Chastain had lived in Lac-Saint-Charles — nearly forty years at the same house — and then found the name of a local newspaper. She searched through the obituaries for the years right after Operation Overtake.

Five and a half months after the job was over, there was a small, two-paragraph obituary for a woman identified as Nadine’s daughter. An accident overseas. No memorial service scheduled. Most interesting of all was the daughter’s name. Desirae.

After letting Abraham read what she’d found, Orlando said, “So, how do you feel about a trip to Canada?”

Quinn stayed as far to the side of the two-lane road as he could get without stepping off the asphalt. The temperature the day before had topped out at forty-five degrees, and it was supposed to reach the same level again today, allowing the softening ground and melting snow to form a dark muck that seemed hell bent on tugging his shoes off his feet.

The morning traffic was heavy, most of it going north toward the two factories outside Welton, Pennsylvania, the small town where Quinn, Nate, and Daeng had spent the night. The convenience store that the motel clerk had directed Quinn to was just up ahead. Quinn could have driven, but being on foot gave him a better chance to look around and make sure no one was keeping tabs on them.

After his and Nate’s encounters in Maryland and Virginia the night before, he was sure they would be on McCrillis’s most wanted list, but Quinn thought it unlikely someone from there would come as far as Pennsylvania to look for them. Still, prudence was always the best course.

At the store, he purchased orange juice, fruit labeled FRESH FROM FLORIDA, and some bagels, then made his way back.

Nate looked up from the computer when Quinn entered the room. “Any problems?”

Quinn shook his head. “We’re clean.”

Nate pointed at the laptop. “Story here about Boyer. ‘Hilltop House Fire. One Dead.’ Doesn’t call him by name, ‘pending notification of next of kin,’ but says he was trying to get out when he was consumed by smoke. No mention of the guards. Think they’re going the natural-causes route.”

Quinn tossed one of the bottles of orange juices to Daeng, who was sitting up on one of the beds.

“Much appreciated,” Daeng said.

“Picked up some fruit and bagels, too.” Quinn set the bag on the other bed. “But I’m not serving anyone.”

“Cream cheese?” Nate asked.

“Sorry.”

“How are we supposed to eat a bagel without cream cheese?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

Orlando called as Quinn was helping himself to a tangerine.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning back,” she replied. “How’s the patient?”

Quinn glanced at Daeng. “You know him — always the same. What about Eli’s stuff? Anything of interest there?”

“Lots, actually.” She told him what they’d found, then said, “We’re going to check out the potential mother. Should be there in the afternoon.”

“You want company?”

“We could always use company.”

“I’ll see what I can work out.”