[Quinn 02] - The Deceived

by Battles, Brett

  “May I help you?” she asked, her Texas accent evident.

  “Yes, please. I’m here to see Dylan Ray,” Quinn said.

  “Your name?”

  “Richard Drake. I have an appointment for two-thirty.”

  The woman glanced at her computer, then smiled again, apparently finding his name on the list.

  “Please have a seat,” she said. “I’ll let Mr. Ray know you are here.”

  All the furniture in the room was well crafted, expensive—cer-tainly not government issue. Quinn sat down on one of the soft leather chairs that lined the walls on either side of the main entrance. In front of him was a low table stocked with the latest issues of news and political magazines the congressman must have thought his visitors should read.

  Quinn took in the rest of the room, making a more thorough examination than he had when he first entered. A dark wood wainscoting ringed the room. Above it, the walls were painted off-white and curved at the top, easing into the ceiling.

  On one wall hung a photograph of Congressman Guerrero. Quinn recognized him from a similar photo on the congressman’s website. On the wall opposite was a collage of several photos, each framed in black metal, and all featuring Guerrero with different political figures and celebrities. Prominent among them were a few shots with the former President, the last man from the congressman’s party to hold the nation’s highest office.

  In each of the photos, Guerrero exuded an intensity that gave the impression he was completely focused on whatever he was doing at that moment. It made him seem intelligent and concerned. His salt-and-pepper hair didn’t hurt either—old enough to know a thing or two, and young enough to do something about it. Quinn put his age around fifty. It reinforced Quinn’s suspicion that if the congressman lost this current attempt at the presidency, he could try again in four years, or even in eight.

  The door to the right of the receptionist opened, and out stepped a man, perhaps five foot five. He was well dressed and appeared to be no more than thirty years old. And as if it was some unwritten policy, the man’s sandy brown hair was cut in a similar style to the one the congressman sported in the photos that lined the room.

  The man walked over to the receptionist and exchanged a few hushed words. When he looked up, he began walking toward Quinn. He looked a little tired, and the smile on his face seemed to say he’d rather be doing something else.

  “Mr. Drake?” the man said, holding out his right hand. “I’m Dylan Ray.”

  Quinn stood and shook Ray’s hand. “Thank you for seeing me,” Quinn said.

  “Well, as you can imagine, things are always busy here,” Ray said, then added quickly, “But I’m happy to squeeze you in. Please, follow me. We’ll go to my office.”

  Quinn smiled and indicated for Ray to lead the way.

  Using the same door Ray had used moments before, they passed into the heart of the congressman’s suite. There was a central bullpen surrounded by several individual offices. Dozens of people were busy doing the congressman’s work: typing, making calls, talking to each other.

  “Which one’s Congressman Guerrero’s?” Quinn asked, playing up the part of curious journalist.

  Ray stopped and turned. “Over there,” he said, pointing in the opposite direction. “See that hallway? He’s down that.”

  Quinn nodded as if it was one of the most interesting things he’d learned that week.

  A few moments later, Ray led him into a small, windowless office. A desk, two visitors’ chairs, and a couple of bookcases with pristine sets of leather-bound books on the shelves.

  On the walls were more pictures of the congressman. Action shots again. Guerrero smiling, or shaking hands, or visiting a factory, or listening to citizens. Only this time there were no notable celebrities or political figures. This was the wall of the real congressman, or at least that’s what Quinn assumed they expected people to think.

  “You keep a pretty clean office,” Quinn said as he sat in one of the visitor chairs. Except for a phone, a dark blotter, and a blank legal pad, the desk was clean. No computer, no in/out trays, no files.

  Ray let out a quick, embarrassed laugh. “Truthfully, I’m at one of those desks we passed by out there. Assistant Press Secretary doesn’t rate an office. Besides, we’re a little cramped for space. This was the congressman’s idea, actually. An office anyone can use when necessary.”

  “The paper has me in a cubicle next to the bathroom,” Quinn said. “That’s why I prefer fieldwork.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Ray said. “I love it when we have an event outside the office. Nothing like stretching your legs and mingling with the people.”

  “Very true.” Quinn sensed a shift in the staffer’s demeanor, a relaxing as if Ray had detected some sort of common connection. Perfect.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Drake?”

  “It’s Richard. I’m hoping you can give me a little more background information. Fill in a few holes I still have in the story.”

  “Of course,” Ray said. “This is a profile piece on the congressman, right?”

  “Exactly. We’ve seen an increase in his poll numbers back home in Colorado,” Quinn said, using some of the information he’d dug up that morning. “Looks like he might be starting to get noticed. My editors thought it would be good to be ahead of the curve instead of following the story. So they sent me out here.”

  Ray beamed. “We’ve seen those numbers, too. And Colorado isn’t the only place we’re trending up. I can’t tell you how good it is to see the congressman’s message is getting out.”

  “I can understand that.” Quinn gave Ray a knowing smile. “My guess is this time next year, you may be close to moving out of that cube and into a real office down the Mall from here.”

  “That’s still a long way away,” Ray said, unable to hide the hope from his voice. “A lot could happen between now and then.” He raised a hand off the desk. “But if you want to talk about the election, I could put you in touch with someone on his campaign staff. Technically, I can only deal with things directly related to the congressman’s current job.”

  “Of course, I understand,” Quinn said. “And that’s why I’ve come to you.”

  For fifteen minutes, Quinn asked questions that sounded important, but were really softballs Ray would be able to answer at length. As Ray spoke Quinn wrote in the pocket notebook he’d brought along, acting interested and intrigued by the man’s answers.

  After a lengthy recounting of the congressman’s most recent trip back to Texas, Quinn said, “Certainly sounds like he cares about the people he represents.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “When I met Jennifer Fuentes on my last trip out, she mentioned the congressman was not someone who blindly followed party lines. Do you think that’s going to be a problem for him in the election?”

  “Again, I’d have to direct you to his campaign press person. Her name is Nicole Blanc. Let me give you her number.” Ray began writing on the legal pad. “Someone had mentioned you’d initially talked to Jennifer. Odd she didn’t have you go through the press secretary or myself.”

  He ripped the piece of paper off the pad and handed it to Quinn.

  Quinn smiled. “Not so odd. Jennifer and I have a friend in common. A guy I knew back in college. He connected us.”

  “Okay.” Ray gave an exaggerated nod, understanding. “That makes sense. Still, we’d rather handle press requests through our office. Someone in her position, we’d rather not bother her unless we really need to.”

  “I did get the impression she keeps pretty busy.”

  “Her position is very demanding,” Ray said.

  “Well,” Quinn said, “I think I’ve got everything I need. I appreciate you giving me the time.”

  They both stood up. “My pleasure,” Ray said. “Before you leave, I have something for you.”

  He leaned back down and opened one of the drawers on the desk. From inside, he pulled out a canvas tote bag. It was dark
blue, and printed in white on the front was Compliments of Congressman James Guerrero. He handed the bag to Quinn.

  “Thanks,” Quinn said.

  “What you’ll find most interesting inside is the copy of Houston Living. It has a wonderful article about the congressman. They even put him on the cover.”

  “I’ll take a look at it.” As Ray came around the desk, Quinn said, “I was wondering if I could say hi to Jennifer since I’m here.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ray said. “She’s currently not in D.C.”

  “Business trip?” Quinn kept his question light, like he didn’t even expect an answer.

  “Family emergency, I’m afraid.”

  “I hope everything’s all right.”

  Ray gave Quinn a concerned smile as he motioned him toward the door. “We all do.”

  They walked back through the bullpen, Quinn casually scanning the room. The activity level seemed to have picked up some since they’d last passed through.

  As they were near the exit, Ray said in a low voice, “There’s the congressman.”

  Quinn followed the aide’s gaze across the room toward the offices on the opposite side. Guerrero had just emerged with an older woman walking beside him taking notes.

  The congressman was wearing an expensive-looking dark gray suit and was carrying a black leather notebook. From the pictures, Quinn had guessed he was tall, and he’d been right. Guerrero looked to be around six foot three.

  Ray hesitated as if considering something, then said, “Wait here for a moment.”

  The assistant press secretary headed across the room and stopped a few feet away from Guerrero. When he got his chance, he said a few words to the congressman, then looked in Quinn’s direction. With a nod, Guerrero followed Ray back across the bullpen.

  “Congressman Guerrero,” Ray said after they reached Quinn, “I’d like to introduce you to Richard Drake. He’s doing an article for the Denver Post. A profile piece on you.”

  Guerrero smiled and held out his hand. Quinn returned the gesture. “Very glad to meet you, Mr. Drake. Colorado is one of the most beautiful states in the nation. You’re a lucky man.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Quinn said. “Our readers will be glad to know you feel that way.”

  “What part of Denver do you live in?”

  “Actually just west of the city. In Golden.”

  “Very nice,” Guerrero said. “You’re basically in the mountains at that point.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “A few times, yes.” He smiled good-naturedly. Not a politician’s smile, but a natural one, like he meant it. “Went on a few road trips to Vail when I was in college. We’d stop in Golden to tour the Coors

  plant and get a free beer.”

  They all shared a laugh.

  “Mr. Drake is a friend of Jennifer Fuentes,” Ray said, simplifying the lie Quinn had told him, and hitting closer to the truth than he realized.

  For a millisecond, a look of concern passed over the congressman’s face. “You’re a friend of hers?”

  “Not very close,” Quinn said. “I actually just met her a few months ago. Mr. Ray tells me she’s away on personal leave.”

  The congressman stared at Quinn for a moment, a put-on smile frozen on his face. “Yes. Well, too bad you missed her,” the congressman finally said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get over to the Capitol.”

  “Of course,” Quinn said. There was something the congressman wasn’t telling him, but now was not the time to press. “Thank you for taking a moment to speak with me.”

  “The pleasure was all mine.”

  They shook again, then the congressman was off.

  “You’re lucky,” Ray said.

  “Why?”

  “If you’d have come next week, you would have missed him.”

  Quinn looked at the aide, his brow creased in a question.

  Ray smiled. “He’s going overseas with several other members of the Intelligence Committee.”

  “Really? Where’s he headed?”

  “Singapore.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “A fact-gathering trip,” Ray said. “Pacific Rim security. These days you can’t afford to be uninformed.”

  “One of the main rules I live by,” Quinn said.

  CHAPTER

  QUINN EXITED THE LONGWORTH BUILDING AND TOOK

  the steps down to the sidewalk. As he walked west down the Mall, he

  pulled out his phone and made a call.

  “I need another favor,” he said once Peter answered.

  “Of course,” Peter said. There was an underlying sense of greed in his voice. Just one more thing he would use in future job negotiations, Quinn knew.

  “There’s someone I need to talk to, but I don’t want him to realize that.”

  “An accidental meeting?”

  Quinn paused. For a brief second, he’d had the sensation someone was watching him. He stopped and casually looked back the way he had come. “Yes,” he said into the phone. “The more public, the better.”

  Several people were walking up and down the sidewalks on either side of Independence Avenue. But no one seemed to be paying him any attention. He began walking again.

  “Tell me one more time. You’re not involved in something stupid, right? Like a hit?” Peter said.

  “A hit?” Quinn asked, surprised.

  “Look, we haven’t worked together for over six months, so God knows what you’re into now. And I can’t be connected with anything like that. Not here.”

  “That’s not my thing, Peter. Nothing’s changed,” Quinn said. “I just want to talk with him.”

  “I have your word on that?”

  “I’ve never lied to you.”

  “But you have withheld information.”

  “You’re right,” Quinn said. “I have.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can find out,” Peter said. “Who is it?”

  “Congressman James Guerrero of Texas.”

  “The presidential candidate?”

  “You know him, then.”

  “I know who he is.” A pause, then Peter said, “Let me see what I can find out.”

  Quinn thought if he could get the congressman out of his office, someplace Guerrero couldn’t make a quick escape, maybe he’d be able to see if the wannabe President truly knew more than he was letting on.

  “Thanks,” Quinn said.

  Next, he tried Orlando again. He was surprised she hadn’t returned his call. After all, she’d attempted to get ahold of him first. But it had been over twenty-four hours since he’d called her back. At the very least, she should have sent him a text message. It wasn’t like her.

  Four rings, then “Please leave a message after the tone.” It was the same generic, prerecorded voice as before.

  “Orlando, it’s me,” Quinn said. “What’s going on? Where are you? Call me. Doesn’t matter what time.”

  Once he hung up, he held the phone in his hand for a few moments, staring at the display. He was thinking—hoping—she’d just been slow to answer and was already in the process of calling him back.

  But the phone remained silent.

  As he was slipping it back in his pocket, the feeling he was being watched returned. He looked around again. There seemed to be more people on the sidewalks now as some of the government employees got an early start to their evening.

  Quinn slowly scanned both sides of the street, taking in every face.

  Even then he almost missed her. She was standing on the other side of the road, tucked up against one of the trees in front of the Hirshhorn Museum. Not exactly hiding, but close enough.

  As Quinn stepped onto the street and began walking toward her, he expected her to run. But she held steady, her eyes never leaving him.

  “Hello, Tasha,” he said as he reached her.

  “You are looking for her, aren’t you?” she said.

  Quinn stepped in
close, a smile on his face. “Who are you?” His voice was calm and low, but the stare he gave her was anything but friendly.

  “I...I already—”

  “You’re not Tasha Laver. I checked.”

  “How? I mean—”

  “Who are you?” he repeated.

  She hesitated. “My name really is Tasha,” she said “But...but Douglas, not Laver. I... panicked in Houston. I didn’t know who you were.”

  “You don’t know who I am now.”

  Her eyes looked into his for a moment. “Are you looking for Jenny? Please tell me that’s what you’re doing. Tell me that you’re trying to help her.”

  Quinn started to say something, but stopped. They were in the middle of a busy sidewalk, having a conversation anyone could hear. He looked out at the street. Several cabs were heading in their direction. He waved one down.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  He answered by putting a hand on her upper arm, squeezing tight, then pulling her toward the cab with him.

  “FDR Memorial,” he said once both he and Tasha were in the back seat.

  Tasha gave him a bewildered look, but said nothing, obviously getting the message that this wasn’t the time for conversation.

  In the late afternoon traffic, the ride to the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial took nearly twenty minutes. When they arrived, Quinn paid the driver, then pushed Tasha out the door.

  “What are we doing here?” she asked.

  He squeezed her arm again, letting her know it wasn’t time yet, then led her into the memorial.

  Unlike most of the other monuments in D.C., the FDR was low-lying and sprawling. Statues and red granite walls and waterfalls weaved in and out of the memorial, creating distinct areas that represented different eras of the Roosevelt administration. To most people, it was probably beautiful and inspiring. To Quinn it was useful.

  He led her past the life-size images of FDR and quotes etched in granite until they reached the very end of the monument. There they found the last and the largest of the waterfalls. Rivers of water cascaded down from the top of the wall onto granite blocks, creating a hypnotic and, more importantly, loud display. Quinn moved in as close as he could.