The building was an old, one-story house that had been converted into an office. Hanging on the wall near the front door was a sign that read, 'Goose Valley Vacation Rentals & Realty.' There was a covered porch where Quinn dusted the snow off his jacket. He then opened the door and went inside.
The front room had at one time probably made for a comfortable parlor, but now it was crowded with three desks, several bookcases, and a row of black metal filing cabinets. A radio was playing an old Neil Diamond song softly in the background. Against the far wall, a fire burned in a brick fireplace.
Only the desk closest to the fireplace was occupied. Behind it sat a woman Quinn judged to be in her mid-forties. Her blonde, frosted hair fell to just above her shoulders. She was wearing a smart-looking blue business suit. She smiled broadly as Quinn entered.
'Good afternoon,' she said, standing. 'Didn't expect anybody else today.'
Quinn offered a friendly chuckle as he approached her desk. 'Yeah, weather's getting a little crazy out there. Don't worry. I won't keep you long.'
'I heard we're in for almost two feet of snow by tomorrow.' She stuck out a hand. 'I'm Ann Henderson.'
Quinn shook her hand. 'Miss Henderson, I'm Frank Bennett.'
'Please, just Ann.' She indicated the guest chair, and they both sat. 'What can I do for you, Mr. Bennett?'
He pulled out his ID and showed it to her.
'FBI?' She looked perplexed. 'Is something wrong?'
Quinn smiled again and shook his head. 'I was just hoping you could help me with something.'
'Of course. Whatever I can do.'
'I'm looking into the fire at the Farnham house.'
Her face turned somber. 'A tragedy. It's such a shame.' A question formed in her eyes. 'I heard it was an accident.'
'It looks that way.'
'Then why would the FBI be interested?'
'Truthfully, my involvement is totally off the record. Mr. Taggert was a relative of someone in the Bureau. I'm just here checking things out for him.' She relaxed visibly. 'I'm sorry to hear that. Mr. Taggert seemed like a nice guy.'
'Did you know him?'
'Not really. I only spoke with him twice. Once when he called to set up the rental, and then again when he came by to sign the agreement and pick up the key.'
'That's why I stopped by. My colleague was hoping I might be able to get a copy of the rental agreement.'
She eased back. 'Why would he want that?'
'Just trying to be thorough, that's all.'
'Is he planning to sue or something?'
Quinn laughed good-naturedly. 'Not at all. The family just wants to put this behind them. I'm just helping wrap up the details so they can move on. I can guarantee you there will be no lawsuit.'
Once again her relief was visible. 'Well, I guess it's not a problem.'
She got up and walked over to one of the filing cabinets. She pulled open the third drawer from the top and started flipping through the files. After a moment of searching, she removed a thin manila folder. 'Just give me a minute,' she said. 'The copier's in the back.'
'Could I take a look first? To make sure it's worth you making the effort?'
'Sure.'
She handed Quinn the file. There were only two sheets of paper inside. The first was a standard, boilerplate rental agreement. According to the information Taggert provided, he lived in Campobello, Nevada. Quinn had never heard of Campobello, but he was far from familiar with every city in Nevada. It was undoubtedly a false address anyway. Under emergency contact was written 'G. Taggert, sister' and the same phone number Chief Johnson had given Quinn.
'So you were the one who provided Mr. Taggert's sister's number to the police.'
'That's right. Mr. Taggert almost didn't give it to me, though. I had to promise not to call his sister unless it was an absolute emergency.'
Quinn nodded, understanding, then looked back at the file. There was other basic information, but nothing that would be of use. Quinn flipped to the second sheet. It was a photocopy of a Nevada driver's license. Robert William Taggert. Due to expire on November 22 of the following year. The photograph was grainy, but the image was discernible. A man in his late fifties, with short-cropped hair, and a thin, weathered face.
'This is Mr. Taggert?' Quinn asked.
She peeked around the edge of the folder. 'That's him.' 'Can I also get a copy of this?' he asked. 'Don't you have a picture of him?' Quinn shook his head. 'Nobody thought to give
me one,' he said truthfully. Ann shrugged. 'Just take that one. If I make a copy the picture will only be a black smudge.'
'Thanks,' he said. He folded the paper, careful not to crease the photo, and slipped it into his pocket.
Quinn and Nate were able to make it to Denver just in time to catch a 7:00 p.m. flight home to Los Angeles. While Nate was shoehorned into the cattle section in back, Quinn relaxed with a glass of Chablis in the comfort of his first-class seat. After they'd been in the air for an hour, Quinn pulled out his computer and wrote his report.
By the time he finished, it was only a page long. He liked to keep things brief. 'Overload with facts,' Durrie, his mentor, had once told him. 'They can never fault you for that. Leave out all the cream puff stuff and opinions. Nobody wants that shit. And if you find somebody that does, they're not worth working for.'
Good advice, but it had taken a while for it to sink in with Quinn. When he'd first started working clean-and-gathers, he knew his task was to just hand over whatever he found out and move on. Curiosity was discouraged. But it had been frustrating. There were always so many unanswered questions.
'What the fuck do you want to know more for?' Durrie had asked him one time when Quinn wanted to keep probing after a particular assignment was nearly completed.
'It just seems so unfinished,' Quinn said. 'Just once, I'd like to know what it's all about.'
'What it's all about?' Durrie asked. 'Fine. That I can answer. You see this guy here?'
They were in an unpaved alleyway on the south side of Tijuana, Mexico. It was well after midnight. On the ground only a couple feet in front of them was the body of a man in his late twenties. 'I see him,' Quinn said.
'This guy's a runner. You know, a messenger boy? But he could've just as easily been a cleaner.'
'Like us, you mean?'
'Like me. You're just an apprentice. You'll be lucky to live through this year the way you're going.' 'I'm careful,' Quinn said defensively. 'You're not. Worse, you don't even realize it.' Quinn's face hardened, but he said nothing. 'You want to know what it's all about, Johnny
boy?' Durrie continued. He pointed at the corpse on the ground. 'That's what it's all about. The more you know, the more likely you'll end up like him. We come in, gather whatever information's been requested. Maybe do a little cleanup if necessary. Then get out. That's the job.' Durrie's eyes locked with Quinn's. 'Kill your curiosity, kid. For your own sake. Hell, for mine, too. Because until you're working on your own, I'll be responsible for your fuckups.'
It took nearly getting shot six months later before the lesson sank in. Still, Quinn was never able to completely dampen his thirst to know more. He later realized that despite what Durrie said, curiosity was an important part of the job. He just had to learn how to control it. As he reread his report about Taggert, he knew there was a lot that remained unanswered. Who had started the fire? Why had Jills been there? And who the hell was Taggert anyway? Questions that nagged at him, but ones he probably would never know the answers to.
Otherwise, the information Quinn had been able to gather wasn't much more than what he'd already told Peter over the phone. The only omissions were his stops at the coroner's office and Goose Valley Vacation Rentals. And the most those stops had done was to confirm what little Quinn already knew. The exception being the lung tissue sample, which Quinn had added into his report as something Chief Johnson had mentioned.
It wasn't until he'd put away his computer that he remembered there was one other thing he had negl
ected to include in the report, the silver-colored bracelet Nate had found at the house. At first Quinn thought it had meant nothing, but in light of finding Jills, maybe he'd been wrong.
Chapter 6
Quinn and Nate separated at LAX, Quinn telling his apprentice to meet him at his house in a couple hours to go over everything. Before that, Quinn wanted to have a nice quiet dinner alone.
He picked up his car, a black BMW M3 convertible, from the VIP lot he had parked it in before he'd left on his vacation. The drive across town took a little longer than he'd planned, but soon enough he arrived at the Taste of Siam restaurant on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. It wasn't the most popular Thai restaurant in L.A., nor the biggest, but it was Quinn's favorite. His usual table was open when he arrived, so he took a seat and ordered pad kee mao with chicken, choosing as always to wash it down with a Singha beer.
Occasionally, one of the waitresses would stop by to say hello. They would smile and say how good it was to see him again, or ask him why he'd waited so long to come back. And each time he'd thank them and say he'd been out of town, then promise not to be gone so long again.
A couple of years earlier, he'd done a favor for one of the girls who worked there. Somehow she'd picked up an 'admirer' who convinced himself that she felt the same for him. He took to stalking her, day and night. Once she'd come home to find the man in her kitchen making her dinner. When Quinn heard about what was happening, he had a conversation with the guy and convinced him there were better things to do with his time. There had been no more problems after that.
Though the waitress he'd helped had eventually moved back to Thailand, the rest of the staff hadn't forgotten what Quinn had done. Now they were always glad to see him, and he never had to pay for a meal. That was one of Durrie's rules he had consciously broken. 'Never use your training to help someone on the outside.' The 'outside' being anyone not in the business or directly related to a job. Durrie's theory was that if you did, you could expose a weakness an adversary could exploit.
With that in mind, Taste of Siam was a perk Quinn tried not to take advantage of too often. But it was hard to stay away. The food was always good, and the waitresses were very easy on the eyes.
While he waited for his food, Quinn reached into his pocket and pulled out the bracelet Nate had found in Colorado. As he had noted before, it was basically a ring of metal squares joined together by small, thin, wire hoops that gave the bracelet flexibility. Each square had a different pattern etched on its surface. Now that he had time for a closer look, the designs reminded him of family crests. None, though, were familiar to him. The squares were thick, too, maybe an eighth of an inch from top to bottom, maybe more.
At first he thought they were all solid, but on the one next to the hasp he detected a faint line running along the bottom edge. Plated? he wondered. Before he could investigate further, his food arrived. He put the bracelet back in his pocket to study later.
As usual, the food was just what he needed. When he asked for the check, he received a smile and the standard 'No charge.' He laid a twenty down on the table as a tip, then left.
Quinn's job afforded him the ability to live anywhere in the world. And after careful consideration, he had chosen Los Angeles. The location was optimal. Via LAX, he could get almost anywhere in a hurry, essential for his professional life. Then there was the weather. Warm, low humidity. Few bugs. And no snow. Essential for his personal life.
He'd been born in Warroad, Minnesota, a small town on the edge of the Lake of the Woods, a stone's throw from the Canadian border. A couple thousand people on a good day, competing with the heat and mosquitoes in the summer and the cold and snow in the winter. And nearly every one of them counting their blessings that they didn't have to live in the big city.
Everyone, that was, except Quinn. As soon as he could get out, he was gone. California was his home now.
His house in the Hollywood Hills was on a quiet, winding street, high above the chaos of the L.A.
basin. It sat on a half acre of downward-sloping land, and was surrounded by a tall stone wall complete with a steel security gate across the driveway entrance. As he drove up, he noticed Nate standing off to the side, waiting.
That was one thing Nate had going for him, he was never late. Overeager, a little raw, but never late.
Quinn hit the remote button mounted under his dash and waited while the gate rolled aside. As soon as there was enough room, he drove in. He glanced in his rearview mirror to make sure Nate had walked in behind him, then hit the remote again to close the gate.
Quinn got out of his car, then pulled his suitcase out of the trunk. 'Here,' he said. 'Carry this.' He handed the suitcase to Nate, then walked past him and up the steps to the front door.
As he unlocked it and pushed it open, he asked Nate, 'Thirsty?'
'Sure,' Nate said.
'Did you eat?'
Nate shook his head. 'Just dropped my bag off at my place. Had an errand to run.'
'There might be a can of soup in the cupboard. If not, you're out of luck.'
Quinn stepped across the threshold and stopped at the security panel just inside the doorway. He pressed the pad of his left thumb against the touchscreen monitor, then punched in his release code. He and Nate were the only ones the system would recognize.
A moment later he was greeted with a double beep telling him the system was now on standby. Nate followed him into the house.
Quinn scrolled through a series of menus and reports, checking on the security status of his house. When he was satisfied that all was well, he switched the system to House Occupied. Number of people present: Two. This allowed the system to remain in an active mode while still accounting for his and Nate's presence.
'So, did you enjoy your Thai food?' Nate asked.
'Thought you said you had an errand?'
'I did.'
'You decided you'd try following me, didn't you?' Quinn asked.
'Just trying to get in a little practice,' Nate said, barely able to contain a smug smile. 'At first I thought you'd made me. You definitely didn't take the most direct route. But then you gave up, and I realized you hadn't seen me after all.'
There was triumph in Nate's voice. 'What's the one thing I've told you about following someone in a large city?' A bit of Nate's smile disappeared. 'That it's easy to do. Too many cars. Hard to be spotted.'
'Especially at night, right?'
'Right.'
'So how much skill would it have taken to follow me around?' Nate shrugged. 'Not a lot, I guess.' 'And how skillful would I have to be to have spotted you?'
'You'd have to be the best,' Nate conceded.
'Try following me at three in the morning if you want me to see how good you are.' Quinn paused. 'Besides, tonight you were always at least three cars behind me. A dark blue Nissan Altima.'
Nate stared at him.
'Arizona plates. I can give you the number if you'd like.' Now it was Quinn's turn to smile. 'How about a drink?'
Nate continued to gape. 'You knew I was there the whole time?' 'Try to keep up with the conversation, all right? What do you want to drink?'
'Eh . . . Scotch and soda?'
Quinn eyed him curiously. 'That's an old man drink. Since when do you have those?' Nate shook his head. 'Never had one before.' 'Then why would you want to start now?' 'Saw someone have one on TV,' Nate said.
'Thought I'd give it a try.' 'Why don't we save that for your sixtieth birthday. I'll make you a mai tai.' 'Haven't had one of those, either,' Nate said agreeably.
Quinn walked over to the built-in bar near a large stone fireplace on the left side of the living room and began making the drinks. 'What do you think your biggest mistake was?'
'When I was following you?'
'In Colorado. Where did you mess up the most?'
'Oh. I guess going to see the police on my own.'
'That was a close second, I'll give you that. Try something else.'
'That I didn't do as you
told me?'
'We'll make that one-B,' Quinn said.
Nate was silent for a moment. 'I'm not sure what you're looking for.'
Quinn emerged from behind the bar carrying two drinks. He walked over to Nate and handed him one. 'What name did you use when you were out there?'
Nate glanced away for a second. 'Nathan Driscoll. And before you even ask, I know. Never use any part of your own name.'
'That's a pretty simple one.' 'I didn't want to get tripped up,' Nate said. 'Besides, I only used my first name.'
'It's enough,' Quinn said, then took a sip of his drink. 'Tripped up in Colorado this morning or killed ten years from now in someplace like St Petersburg because someone ID'd you from the name you used with the chief of police. It's pretty much the same thing, isn't it?' Quinn raised his glass in a mock toast. 'Here's hoping that one never comes back to bite you in the ass.'
When Quinn bought his house, it had been a twelve-hundred-square-foot fixer-upper. By the time he'd finished his renovations, it was more than twice its original size, and little trace of the old structure remained.
The main floor was located at street level. It was a large, open space that stretched nearly the entire length of the house. Through a series of half-walls, bookcases, and furniture, it was divided up into a dining room, living room, study, and kitchen. Only the bathroom was truly private. The three bedrooms and office were all downstairs, below street level, following the slope of the hill.
The house had a warm feel to it, due in part to a large amount of exposed wood. Nate said it reminded him of a rustic farmhouse stuck on the side of a hill. That image cut a little too close to Quinn's farm-boy roots. He preferred equating it to a comfortable mountain cabin.
Quinn carried his drink across the room, then opened the curtains that were drawn across the entire back wall of the house.
'I never get over your view,' Nate said.
The rear of the house was mostly glass. And Nate was right, Quinn's view of the city was spectacular. Lights spread across the L.A. basin as far as the eye could see. Closest to them was the Sunset Strip. Beyond that, Century City, and a little more to the right in the distance was the dark void of the Pacific Ocean.
The Cleaner Page 4
