Becoming Quinn

by Brett Battles

  Unfortunately, Jake’s partner hadn’t been concerned about footprints or marks in the sand. His own steps had trampled over much of what had been there before, but they hadn’t completely obscured everything.

  Jake crouched down. If he wasn’t mistaken, someone had been sitting next to the tree, perhaps even leaning against it. He looked quickly back toward the others. No one was looking his way, so he pulled out his camera and took a couple of quick shots, then examined the markings again.

  What he couldn’t figure out from looking at them was the same thing he couldn’t figure out about the kicked dirt back at the tank—when they had actually been created.

  With a sigh, he started to stand up, but paused, his eye catching sight of a dark blue piece of paper under a tumbleweed near the base of the tree. Leaning forward, he eased the paper out, then saw that it wasn’t just a piece of paper, it was a matchbook. Not necessarily unusual to find discarded in the desert. What was unusual, though, was the fact it didn’t appear weathered at all. Even after a few days in the desert, a colored piece of paper or cardboard would start to fade, and become either brittle from the heat or softened by the wind as it tumbled across the ground. There was absolutely no fading of color on the matchbook, nor was it brittle or soft. As far as Jake was concerned, it looked like it had just come out of a fresh package.

  There was a logo on the front of the flap, a sun rising over the mountains. And on the back was printed LAWRENCE HOTEL. Below this was an address and phone number.

  As he turned it back over, it hit him that he wasn’t wearing gloves. He groaned. If this was a piece of evidence, he’d just contaminated it with his fingerprints.

  Maybe it’s not so bad, he thought. He’d basically only touched the sides and a little bit of the surface. What he really should do was put it in a plastic bag. Of course, he didn’t have one.

  He could ask the ID techs for one, but knew the second they saw what he was holding, he’d be in trouble. Drop it back on the ground and call them over? They’d still find his prints.

  A good cop would turn it in, no matter what, a voice in his head said.

  Yes, but the detective named Pat had said this area had already been checked. Maybe they looked at it, and decided it had nothing to do with the case.

  It was a matchbook at the scene of a fire, though. If one of the matches was missing…

  With trepidation, he gingerly teased the flap open.

  He almost smiled. None of the matches inside had been used. So, at the very least, this hadn’t been what started the fire.

  It was probably nothing, he told himself. Most likely dropped there by some teenager out for a smoke. Jake’s mind took the story a step further. The kid probably grabbed it from a drawer at home. His parents would have put it there after picking it up at a cocktail party at the hotel. All nice and easy.

  The matchbook was already in his pocket before he realized he’d slipped it there.

  It’s nothing, he told himself again.

  6

  Durrie lay on the top of a small rise, a half mile northwest of the barn. Mounted on a short stand in front of him was a pair of high-powered binoculars through which he had a clear view of the activity around the burnt-out structure. At full magnification, he could read license plate numbers and see blemishes on the faces of the cops who were crawling all over the place.

  The fact that he was still in town was more than a little annoying. Typically, within an hour of finishing an assignment, he was gone, his mind already purging the details of the previous few days and preparing for whatever was next.

  “I need you to make sure we’re not going to have any problems,” Peter had said when Durrie called in after going back for his van so that there was nothing left anywhere near Goodman Ranch Road.

  “No way. I’m done,” Durrie told him. He didn’t want to be stuck with any mess that might arise from Larson’s arrogant stupidity. “My job ended when I disposed of the body.” That was something he had done right before he called, by way of a pre-dug grave in the middle of absolute nowhere and a slurry of chemicals that would accelerate body decomposition.

  “You’re done when I say you’re done,” the head of the Office told him. “Unless you’d rather I start hiring someone else.”

  The muscles in Durrie’s jaw tightened.

  “This should have been an easy in and out,” Peter went on. “I’m not happy. My client’s not happy. And until we are, you shouldn’t be happy, either.”

  “What do you want me to do, Peter?” Durrie asked. “Shove a gun in your assassin’s mouth and pull the trigger?”

  Peter was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was matter of fact. “Your job is to make sure there are no ties back to us. From your own report, you can’t guarantee that. Therefore, your job is not done. What I expect is for you to finish it properly, and make sure there will be no future problems.” He paused. “Tell me if there’s any fault to my logic.”

  There wasn’t, of course, and that had made Durrie even angrier. But all he could really do was say, “I’m on it.”

  That was the reason he was lying on the small rise, watching the location of a job he should have been hundreds of miles away from by now. He was annoyed and tired, but he was also a professional and knew how to suppress those feelings and concentrate on the task at hand.

  To this point, there had been nothing unusual going on. Just the normal crime scene stuff. Durrie was sure nothing incriminating would be found.

  He was starting to feel pretty good about things. Before he arrived at his lookout spot, he’d been concerned that the fire department might have been able to put the fire out before it could do its job, but that had not been the case. The structure was destroyed.

  And though he’d seen a tech taking pictures of a few tire tracks that hadn’t been obliterated by the fire crews, he knew they would never find the matching tire. The car Owens had arrived in was already across the border in Mexico, and would soon be disassembled for parts. Durrie was nothing if not thorough.

  It looked like he was going to be able to report back to Peter that everything was fine, and in another hour or two he should be heading home. The only open question at the moment was what, if anything, the cops might have found when Durrie hadn’t been on scene to keep an eye on things. But that was being dealt with, too. Peter had put Durrie in contact with a reliable source inside the Phoenix Police Department, a detective named Kearns.

  Durrie checked his watch. It had been two hours since he’d talked to the detective. For God’s sake, even if the guy was a complete waste of a badge, he should know something by now. Durrie retrieved his phone and called the detective.

  “Kearns,” the man answered after two rings.

  “This is Special Agent Marsh,” Durrie said, using the FBI identity Peter had given him. They were using Kearns’s hope of getting hired by the bureau as their means of obtaining his cooperation.

  “I haven’t got much for you, Agent Marsh.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you do have?”

  In the distance, Durrie could see a car turn off the road, and stop at the opening in the fence of the property the barn was on. He leaned down and looked through the binoculars.

  “Really, all we have is a body that’s been shot and burned,” Kearns said. “There’s not much else at all.”

  Definitely good news. “Any progress on the investigation otherwise?”

  Kearns hesitated. “Sir, I’m not sure why you can’t go through normal channels on this. If you have questions, you should just call Detective—”

  “I was told you could help us,” Durrie cut in. “Is that not the case? Because if it isn’t, I’ll need to let the assistant director know.”

  “No,” the detective said quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “It’s just, well, maybe if you told me why you’re so interested I’d be able to assist you better.”

  Durrie
increased the magnification on the binoculars to see if he could get a look at the driver of the car, but the angle was wrong. From the occasional smile on the face of the cop manning the opening, Durrie got the sense the cop and the driver knew each other.

  “Detective, what I’m about to tell you is off the record,” Durrie said, making it up on the fly.

  “Of course.”

  “I’m working in a special unit focusing on domestic terrorism.”

  “Domestic terrorism,” Kearns said, surprise in his voice. “Did the fire last night have something to do with…”

  Durrie followed the car as it headed toward the barn.

  “I’m not saying whether your fire has something to do with what we’re working on or not, but after Oklahoma City last year, we’re being cautious.”

  “Oklahoma City? Jesus. Is something like that going to happen here?”

  “Relax, Detective,” Durrie said. “Most likely not, but we have a list of things we look for. When a case ticks something on that list, we like to check it out. Quietly, of course, so that we don’t cause a lot of unnecessary excitement. Understand? That’s why we’re talking to you.”

  “Oh,” the detective said, relief evident in his voice. “I get it.”

  “Good. Then can you give me an update on the investigation’s progress?”

  “Absolutely,” Kearns said. “The current theory is that it’s gang-related. Probably a drug runner or something like that. They don’t have any proof, but it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “I figured it might be something like that.” At the barn, the car had parked near the others. Durrie aimed the binoculars so he could get a good look at the driver when he got out. “If that’s the case, then I’m sure this will have nothing to do with us.”

  The car door opened, and a man exited. He was at least a year or two south of twenty-five, and close to six feet tall, though that was hard to tell without an accurate reference. Durrie hadn’t seen him before, and figured he must be another crime scene tech—or ID tech, as they called it in Phoenix—because he looked too young to be a detective.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Kearns said.

  “You still have that number I gave you?” Durrie asked, no longer giving his full attention to the new arrival at the barn.

  “Of course.”

  “Then call me if something new comes up.”

  “I will.”

  “Take care, Detective. I’ll be in touch.” Durrie hung up.

  The number he’d given the detective was a temporary relay that would send the detective’s calls directly to Durrie’s cell phone. In three days, the relay would reroute any future calls to the Office, where a brief summary would appear on an operator’s computer screen so he or she would know how to respond to the detective. In all likelihood, though, the detective would never call the number.

  Focusing back on the barn, Durrie noted that the new arrival was talking to one of the detectives. As they finished, the cleaner expected the man to walk over to the remains of the building and join his friends, but instead, the man headed toward the water tank.

  Durrie followed the man with the binoculars, his interest growing. About thirty feet out from the barn, the man paused and looked at the dirt. It was as if he were searching for something specific. What, Durrie had no idea.

  After a moment, the man straightened up, and headed over to the tank. Again, he was looking at the ground. When he reached the tank, he moved around back. Since Durrie could only see the portion that faced the building, he couldn’t see what the guy was doing back there.

  The fact that the man had headed directly for an area where Durrie had been the night before made the cleaner a bit antsy, but the man’s interest could be logically explained. The tank would have been a natural hiding place from where an arsonist could observe his fiery creation.

  After several seconds, the man reappeared from the other side, then started moving around the back of the barn. For the most part, he was looking at the ground, but every ten to fifteen seconds he’d take a quick look at the crime scene. What Durrie saw in the man’s eyes at those moments was unexpected. The guy looked wary, like he was making sure no one was paying attention to him.

  Odd.

  The man kept coming around the building, slow but steady. When he reached the near side, he glanced over at an old, dead tree off to the side of the lot, then altered his path and walked toward it.

  At the tree, he looked around, then crouched down. After a moment, he reached into one of the bushes. When he pulled his hand back out, he was holding something in it.

  Durrie tried to focus on the object, but it was half hidden by the man’s hand. The only thing he could make out was that it was dark blue.

  He watched as the man examined the object, turning it over, then flipping it…open.

  A matchbook.

  And not just any matchbook—one that looked brand new.

  Now that Durrie knew what it was, he recognized something else.

  Details, that was the backbone of good cleaner work. The better you were at noticing them, the better you were at your job. Miss an important detail, and your career—perhaps even your life—would end quickly.

  Durrie had seen this matchbook before, or at least several just like it. Not at the job scene, though. It had been at the hotel the Office put them up in. Matchbooks with the place’s logo on it.

  Son of a bitch.

  Timmons? He was the only one positioned outside the barn who had been staying at the Lawrence Hotel. It must have been him, because the only others staying at the hotel had been Durrie and—

  Larson. He’d gone outside to bring Timmons back. Could it have been him? Durrie frowned. In truth, it didn’t matter who had dropped it. It was there, and now the police had it. A crime scene like this, they’d follow it up for sure.

  Then Durrie witnessed his biggest surprise of all.

  Instead of putting the matchbook in an evidence bag and carrying it over to his friends, the man slipped it in his pocket.

  What the hell?

  The guy then circled back around to the front, and climbed into his car. Durrie got a good look at the vehicle’s license plate number as the Civic pulled away, then he removed his gaze from the binoculars and stared blankly at the sky as his mind ran through everything.

  Who was this guy and what was he up to?

  He could find the answer to the first part easily enough. The second would take a little more effort.

  So much for leaving town in a couple of hours.

  Annoyed all over again, he picked up his phone, scrolled through his contact list, then punched the desired number.

  “Steiner? I need you to run a plate for me.”

  7

  The Lawrence Hotel was an upscale establishment in the neighboring city of Mesa. It no doubt sold itself as the refined alternative to the traditional business hotel. The guests who stayed there wouldn’t be mid-level employees, though. The Lawrence was for the upper tiers. Well-appointed and expensive, it catered to its guests’ every need.

  Jake had never stayed in a hotel like it before. In his meager travels, he tended to go on the cheap. Youth hostels on his four-week trip to Europe three years earlier, and bargain motels pretty much anywhere he’d gone in the States.

  On the drive over to the Lawrence, he thought about what he was going to do when he got there. The approach he came up with would get him in trouble if anyone ever found out, but he didn’t see how they would. Besides, the matchbook could be nothing. He was just…curious, that’s all. And if his curiosity helped him break the case, that would be a bonus.

  He made a stop at a gas station before he reached the hotel, and changed into his uniform in the restroom. It would provide him instant credibility, and open doors that his civilian clothes wouldn’t.

  He parked around the corner so no one would see the car he arrived in. At the entrance, a doorman in black tails and bowtie opened the glass door and said, “Welcome to the Lawre
nce, Officer.”

  Jake gave him a nod as he passed inside.

  The lobby was smaller than he expected, but was still large enough to encompass several ornate couches and chairs, a water fountain aged to look like it had been uprooted from an Italian piazza, and a coffee bar with the most elaborate coffee maker Jake had ever seen. At the far end were the reception counter, the concierge desk, and the bellhop station.

  Jake headed straight for reception. Both of the people working the desk were with customers, but when the woman nearest him caught sight of him in his uniform, she picked up a phone. A moment later, a third woman came out of the back room.

  “Can I help you, Officer?” she asked with a smile.

  As he approached the counter, his first instinct was to smile back and put her at ease, but he kept his expression neutral, knowing the uniform would be a more effective tool than a smile. “Yes, thank you. I’d like to speak to the person in charge of security.”

  Her brow darkened. “Yes, of course.” As she picked up a phone, she said, “Is there a problem?”

  “Just a routine matter.”

  She nodded, then said into the phone. “I have an Officer…” She looked at Jake’s uniform, reading his nameplate, “…Oliver at the front desk. He says he needs to speak to Mr. Evans…yes, yes…okay. Sure.” She hung up, then motioned to one of the chairs in the seating area behind him. “If you’d like to wait over there, he’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “Thank you.” Jake moved over to the chair, but didn’t sit down.

  Two minutes later, a woman and a man came out of an unmarked door near the concierge desk, and walked over to him. The woman looked to be in her fifties and was dressed in a smart, dark gray business suit. The man was maybe a few years older, and wore a black suit and the unmistakable look of retired cop.

  “Officer Oliver, is it?” the woman said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jake said.