Becoming Quinn

by Brett Battles

  The staging area for the second part of the evening was a parking lot behind a sporting goods store that had closed an hour earlier. It took them forty-five minutes to get the BMW, Officer Davies’ Charger, and the sedan Durrie had been driving all together there. The car Larson had obtained before meeting up with Durrie at the observation point, they abandoned. It, like the vehicle Larson had left in the impound yard’s visitor lot earlier in the day, would only lead to an owner who would be happy to get it back.

  Durrie and Larson parked the BMW and the Charger in the darkest part of the lot, then took Durrie’s sedan to Davies’s townhome complex. To complete the scenario Durrie had mapped out, they would need to pack several of the woman’s things into her own luggage and take them away.

  It was the classic leaving town in a hurry ruse. Some ops agents went overboard, creating complicated backstories to explain a person’s disappearance, but in Durrie’s experience, the less the better. If you seeded some basic information and took the right things from the person’s home, then people would jump to their own conclusions.

  As for the seeded information, that had been dealt with by another call to Peter, who, though not without displeasure, said he would handle it. It was now up to Durrie to make the woman’s departure look legitimate.

  They parked on the street a half-block away, then walked into the complex. The buildings were structurally identical, but the numbers for each unit were clearly displayed, and it was only a matter of minutes before they found the one that matched the address on the woman’s driver’s license.

  Durrie’s biggest concern was that it would turn out she had a roommate. That would present a whole new set of problems, ones he had solutions for, but would rather not employ. He took it as a good sign that there were no lights on in any of the windows. He then stepped to the door, and turned so that his ear was hovering right beside it. No sound of a TV, no one talking on a phone, nothing. Still, that wasn’t conclusive proof no one was inside. A roommate could be reading a book or even asleep.

  He shot Larson a look, telling him to be ready, then he rang the doorbell. Somewhere inside he could hear a faint double ding, but thirty seconds later, the house remained quiet, and the porch light off.

  Durrie pushed the button again. He could feel Larson getting impatient behind him, but it was best to be sure. When there was still no response, he donned a pair of gloves, then pulled out his lock-pick set and made quick work of the deadbolt and knob lock.

  They paused just inside, allowing their eyes to adjust to the diminished light. It appeared that they had entered directly into the living room. Immediately to their left was an open doorway that led into a kitchen, and against the right wall was a set of stairs leading up to the second floor.

  Durrie motioned for Larson to remain by the door, then indicated he was going to go upstairs and do a quick sweep. As soon as Larson nodded, Durrie eased into the living room, stepping carefully over to the stairs. Since the construction was still relatively new, the stairs barely even acknowledged his presence as he went up.

  When he reached the second floor, he found himself in a short hallway with three open doors leading off it. The first door was for the bathroom, the second the master bedroom, and the third a second bedroom. But this room was being used as an office, not someplace to sleep.

  No roommate. He activated the mic to his comm gear. “We’re clear.”

  By the time Larson joined him in the master bedroom, Durrie had already located a worn-looking suitcase in the walk-in closet and set it on the bed. He wasn’t worried about disturbing the bedspread. That would actually make things seem more believable, underlining the sense that she’d left in a hurry.

  The important thing now was to not randomly throw clothes into the bag. They had to be the right clothes, clothes she would definitely need and take with her.

  Turning their flashlights on, but keeping them on the floor so their beams wouldn’t be seen through the windows, Durrie directed Larson on what items to take from the dresser: bras, underwear, tank tops, sweats, T-shirts, and two of the most well-worn-looking pairs of jeans. Durrie then made a survey of the closet, choosing several tops, a single business suit, but leaving all except one of the dresses behind. The dress he did take was a simple black one that could be used for a variety of reasons.

  Shoes were next. He went for practical over fashion, assuming a woman cop would know to leave the stilettos in preference of the flats, but made sure to include one pair of dressier shoes with a slightly raised heel. He also grabbed a pair of everyday tennis shoes, and what appeared to be the woman’s workout shoes. He put all these in a canvas bag that had also been in the closet, then carried the bag into the master bathroom. There he gathered up make-up, toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, clippers, and a few other items he was sure would look odd if left behind. When he was done, he returned to the bedroom.

  Now the hard part.

  “Take these downstairs,” he told Larson, indicating the canvas bag and the suitcase. “Wait for me by the door.”

  Larson, apparently in obedient mode, did so without protest.

  Durrie conducted a new search of the room, his eye out for more personal items: papers, photographs, birth control pills, and the like. As he came across things he thought she wouldn’t leave behind, he piled them on the bed.

  It was a lockbox in the back of her closet that made him pause. Inside were the normal things you’d expect: a passport, insurance papers, title to her car, info on her townhouse—which she apparently owned outright—and a small stash of emergency cash. But there was also something else.

  In a worn manila envelope, folded over and wrapped with a rubber band, he found a will, a photo and a letter. The photo was of a man and a woman, taken maybe ten or fifteen years earlier. The letter was from an attorney.

  Berit,

  At the risk of repeating myself, I am so sorry for your loss. Your parents were not only my clients, they were also my friends. There is no way to explain the tragedy of their deaths, so I won’t even attempt to do so. I just want you to know if you need anything, you can always count on me. As you requested, enclosed is your parents’ last will and testament. We have kept a copy for our records in case anything comes up in the future, but there is no reason to think anything will.

  Again, if you need me, do not hesitate to call.

  It was signed by a lawyer named Brian Fredrick.

  Durrie looked at the will.

  Mr. and Mrs. Davies had left their entire estate, a little over two million dollars, to their only child, Berit. That explained why the townhouse was paid for. It also told Durrie there was unlikely to be any family pressure to find the missing woman.

  He should have been pleased. His job had just become easier. But Durrie didn’t feel pleased at all. The only thing he felt was angry.

  What a waste. The woman’s death had been unnecessary. She’d been a cop, for God’s sake, with all indications that she was going to be a good one. Durrie wasn’t sentimental, but for some reason the fact that her parents were already dead got to him. Tragedy on tragedy. And, at least in Davies’s case, absolutely unnecessary.

  Larson. If Peter didn’t do something about him, Durrie would. The asshole was a liability, and more good people would die in the future if he wasn’t dealt with. The last thing Durrie wanted was for one of those good people to be him.

  Reining in his anger, he found another canvas bag, loaded all the remaining items in it, then headed for the stairs.

  He was only halfway to the first floor when the doorbell rang.

  • • •

  Jake checked his watch. If Berit finished on time, she should be home by now. He turned and headed back to her complex.

  As he’d been walking, a plan had formed in his mind. What he needed to do was stress to the commander that he realized his mistake and sincerely regretted his actions. He would convince his superiors that he hadn’t been trying to show anyone up, that he was only curious, that’s all. In
other words, he would throw himself on their mercy, and hope that, given time, doing so would mean he’d still have a chance to advance as he’d planned. He didn’t know if it would really work, but he had to try.

  Tomorrow. I’ll go in tomorrow. The sooner, the better.

  He crossed the street, then walked down the path leading into Berit’s complex. As he neared her place, he could see that the lights were still off. He frowned, wondering if maybe she was putting in some overtime, and decided to see if her car was here before knocking on her door. But as he walked by, he could have sworn he saw movement in the upstairs window out of the corner of his eye.

  He paused to take another look. No movement now, but he was sure something had been there. He thought about the inside of Berit’s place, and recalled that the window was positioned right where the stairs let out on the second floor. If someone had been going up or down, they would have passed quickly by.

  Finally, he thought, thinking she was home after all.

  He headed over to her door and pressed the bell.

  • • •

  Staying where he was on the stairs, Durrie twisted to the side so he could look at the door. Larson was standing just a few feet away from it, staring at him.

  “Hold your position,” Durrie whispered just loudly enough for his mic to pick up.

  The bell rang again.

  Silence for several seconds, then feet moving a little ways back from the townhouse before stopping again.

  “Berit?”

  The voice was muffled by the wall, but distinct, and recognizable. Officer Oliver.

  Son of a bitch.

  Durrie could see that Larson had come to the same realization. The assassin had slipped a hand under his jacket, and was pulling out his Glock.

  “No,” Durrie whispered, taking the rest of the stairs down to the first floor.

  Larson paused.

  “Put it back. He’ll leave in a minute and never know we were here.”

  The gunman frowned, his hand still half in, half out of his jacket.

  As Durrie walked toward him, he could see the grip of the Glock. “Put. It. Back.”

  “Situation’s changed,” Larson said, his lips barely moving. “He’s a problem and needs to be eliminated.”

  He pulled the gun all the way out.

  “Stop,” Durrie ordered. “You may be right, but you kill him here, and you’ll ruin everything. They’ll realize something happened to the girl, and they’ll be forced to take a closer look at the information the guy gave them. If they do that, then you, my friend, will be on the hottest seat you’ve ever been on.”

  Larson seemed to consider this. “Then what do you think we should do?”

  “He isn’t going to be hard to find. So we stay quiet and let him go. Then we finish the job here and leave. When the time’s right, we’ll deal with him.”

  “And when do you think that will be?”

  “That’s not my call, or yours. That’s Peter’s.”

  Larson obviously didn’t like that answer, but he didn’t have a good response for it either.

  “Now put it back,” Durrie said.

  Larson did nothing for a moment, then he finally returned the gun to where he’d been carrying it.

  That problem temporarily solved, Durrie moved all the way to the door, and put his eye against the spy hole. Oliver was there all right, looking up at the second floor.

  “Berit?” he called again.

  It wasn’t hard to figure out why Oliver had come over. He’d been suspended that afternoon, and since the woman was obviously a close friend and had been involved in the investigation that had brought on the discipline, he would want to talk to her. Durrie had to assume Oliver had probably been trying to reach her on the phone since he’d been sent home, and had finally grown frustrated enough at not getting a response to come over. Which meant he was unlikely to leave anytime soon.

  They would have to be very careful.

  • • •

  Jake realized he must have been mistaken. A reflection on the window from another unit, most likely. That had to be it. In retrospect, he actually felt kind of foolish yelling out her name. She’d undoubtedly hear about it from her neighbors.

  He looked at her second-story window for a moment longer, then continued down the path to the parking area. He knew before he even saw the empty slip that her car wouldn’t be there. He decided, though, that it would be the best place for him to wait. This way, there would be no chance of him missing her.

  He propped himself up on the top of a split-rail fence that ran along the back, and waited.

  • • •

  “We need to know where he went,” Durrie said, more to himself than to his temporary partner.

  “I’ll go,” Larson offered immediately.

  “No. You stay right here. I’ll go. Is that understood?”

  “I hear you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Without any warning, Durrie shot out a hand, latching onto Larson’s throat, and shoving the younger man backward. At the same time, he stuck a leg behind the other man’s calves. Larson thudded to the floor with Durrie coming down on top of him. As the air woofed out of the assassin, Durrie jammed his knee into Larson’s gut, and removed the assassin’s gun with his free hand. He then leaned down so that their faces were only an inch apart.

  “You think you’re the smartest man in the room no matter where you are, don’t you?” Durrie said. “I know you think the rest of us are a bunch of idiots, and you could do everything better on your own. Well, I’ve got news for you, Mr. Larson.” He grinded his knee into the man’s stomach. “You’re going to have your chance to prove that, because after this, no one is ever going to work with you again. You are death waiting to happen. And the farther the rest of us can get away from you, the safer we’ll be.” He glared at Larson. “Now, back to the question. Do you understand my instructions?”

  “I…I understand,” Larson whispered, his voice raspy.

  “I’d like to think you learned a lesson here. But unlike you, I’m not that stupid. We finish this job my way, then we never work together again. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Durrie held his position a moment longer, then stood up, pushing all his weight through the leg still resting on Larson’s stomach.

  “My gun,” Larson squeaked when Durrie was finally on his feet.

  “What about it?”

  “Aren’t you going to give it back to me?”

  Durrie stared incredulously at the man lying on the floor. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you?” He stuck the gun in his kit bag, checked the spy hole once more, then opened the door and slipped outside.

  It took him several minutes, but he finally found Oliver sitting on a fence in the carport area. There were a couple of empty slots nearby so he guessed one must belong to Berit Davies.

  Sorry, kid, he thought, meaning it. You’re going to be waiting a long time.

  Holding his position, he activated his mic again. “Larson.”

  “What?”

  “Take the woman’s bags and move out now. Go right, not left, when you reach the path.”

  “But the car’s to the left.”

  “Go right.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Durrie suspected, Larson had learned nothing.

  Two minutes later, Larson’s voice came back over the comm. “I’m at the car.”

  “Put the things in the back. I’ll be right there.”

  Durrie pulled the earpiece out so that he didn’t have to hear any useless comments Larson might make, but he didn’t immediately leave his position. Instead, he continued to watch the cop.

  Are you going to give up? Is this it? Or are you going to keep giving me trouble?

  Admittedly, Durrie wasn’t sure what he wanted the kid to do.

  There was something about him. Something…

  No. Forget it. Not worth the effort.

  He pulled slowly back from where he’d been hi
ding, then disappeared into the night.

  • • •

  Jake finally gave up at 3 a.m.

  He told himself that something big must have gone down to keep her on the clock so long, but there was a small part of him, a little nagging peck, that kept saying it might not be that at all. He pushed the voice as far down as he could, and contented himself with the thought that he’d come back in the morning and buy Berit breakfast.

  Though he was exhausted, he thought for sure he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep when he got home. He was wrong.

  He slept, all right. Unfortunately, it was quite possibly the worst sleep he’d ever had.

  20

  When Berit’s car wasn’t there the next morning, Jake began to really worry. He decided to chance a call to work, asking for one of the rookies he knew who was working days, and who might—might—be willing to talk to him.

  “Why are you calling me?” Gary Andrews asked, his voice a tense whisper.

  “I just need to ask you a question, okay?” Jake said.

  “Are you kidding me? I can’t be talking to you. You’re in deep shit. I don’t want any part of that.”

  “I’m not going to get you into trouble or anything. I just need to know if Berit is on duty.”

  “Berit?”

  “Officer Davies.”

  “I know who Berit is,” Andrews said. “Why do you need to know that?”

  Jake had anticipated the question. “She loaned something to me that I was supposed to bring to work today, but, obviously I’m not coming in. I swung by her house, but she wasn’t home.”

  “Hold on.”

  Jake could hear the clicking of a computer keyboard, then Andrews came back on.

  “She’s not due in until four.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks. Hey, do you know if she was working last night? I tried then, too, but she wasn’t around.”

  “What are you doing? Stalking her?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  A couple more keyboard clicks. “Yesterday was her day off.”

  “She didn’t come in to cover for anyone?”