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[Quinn 01] - The Cleaner

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Доступ к книге ограничен фрагменом по требованию правообладателя.

Quinn chuckled to himself. This sort of cloakand-dagger bullshit was really kind of amusing, if you thought about it. Asinine, but amusing.

He got out of the Explorer, his teeth clenching against the frigid air. The leather jacket he was wearing was a lousy barrier to the cold, but it was all he'd had with him when his vacation on the islands was cut short.

He hurried around the front of the vehicle and got into the driver's seat. The moment he had the door closed and the engine started again, he flipped the heater on full blast, letting the warm air fill the cabin. One of his first stops would be a place he could buy a winter coat, maybe even a couple of sweaters. Thermals, too. God, he hated cold weather.

Once he was reasonably warm, Quinn reached into the back and retrieved the padded envelope. He poured the contents onto the passenger seat. Inside were two business-size envelopes, a folded map, and three sheets of paper. Two of the sheets were a wire-copy news report about a fire in some place called Allyson. Apparently a vacation rental had burned down, and the person who'd been staying there – an unnamed man – had died.

Quinn picked up the final piece of paper and scanned it. It was the job brief containing his instructions and a limited amount of background information. Peter, as always, was trying to control what Quinn knew. Still, it was more information than the news article had revealed.

The dead guy's name was Robert Taggert. Quinn's assignment was to determine if the fire had indeed been an accident – which the local authorities were leaning toward – or something else.

That was all there was. Nothing else on Taggert. No helpful hints as to what Quinn should look for. Just an address – 215 Yancy Lane – and a contact name with the local police force. On the surface, a piece-of-cake job. No reason for Quinn to have been brought in. Which to Quinn meant there was probably more to it than the brief was letting on.

He grabbed the map and unfolded it. The location of the fire was marked with a small red X. It was at least a couple hours' drive from Quinn's current position. He set the map down and opened the first envelope. Cash, about five grand. A week's worth of expense money if nothing too costly came along. Longer if Quinn didn't have to pay anyone off. And if this really turned out to be a one- or two-day job, a little extra cash for his own pocket.

The other envelope held two identifications, both with Quinn's picture. The first was a Colorado driver's license. The second was an authentic-looking FBI ID. He'd played a Fed before, but it had been a while.

His new name, he was amused to see, was Frank Bennett. Peter had a thing for classic pop singers. Quinn guessed that 'Tony Sinatra' would have been a little too obvious.

He set everything back down, then reached under the driver's seat looking for the one thing that hadn't been in the packet. When he pulled his hand back out, he was holding a soft leather case. He unzipped it and found what he expected inside, a 9mm SIG Sauer P226 and three fully loaded magazines. It was his weapon of choice. He put his hand back under his seat and pulled out a second pouch, this one containing a sound suppressor designed to attach to the end of the gun's barrel. Anything else he needed would be in the standard surveillance kit that was undoubtedly in the back of the vehicle.

He stored the gun, mags, and suppressor in the glove compartment, then put the Explorer in drive.

Chapter 2

Breakfast the next morning was scrambled eggs and sausage, in the restaurant at the Allyson Holiday Inn, where he'd spent the night. He sat alone in a booth, with a copy of the local paper on the table next to his plate.

It was full of the usual stuff small-town papers were interested in. A couple of short blurbs made up the international section: one about curbing ethnic tensions in Europe, and another on the continuing chaos in Somalia. The national news items were longer stories, with footers directing readers to other pages for the rest of the story – an ailing Supreme Court justice, a corporate fraud trial in Chicago, and a rundown of the expected highlights in the President's upcoming State of the Union address.

But it was the local stories that commanded the bulk of the front page. Rather, one local story. The Farnham house fire. The story was a follow-up to the piece that had been included in Quinn's brief. It contained nothing new. Just old information reworked to sound fresh and feed the curiosity of the local population. The fire investigators were calling the blaze an accident. Faulty wiring. One tourist dead. There was little else. Taggert's name still hadn't appeared. That seemed a bit unusual, but Quinn suspected Peter might have something to do with it.

A waitress walked by carrying a pot of coffee. She stopped when she saw what Quinn was reading. 'That was awful, wasn't it?' she asked.

He looked up. Her nametag identified her as Mindy. 'The fire?'

'Yeah,' she said. 'That poor man.'

'Did you know him?'

'No,' she said. 'He might have come in here to eat, I guess. A lot of tourists do. Coffee?' 'Please,' Quinn said, pushing his cup toward her. She refilled it. 'What I can't help wondering is

if he has a family somewhere. Maybe a wife. Maybe some kids.' She sighed. 'Awful.'

'It sure is,' Quinn said.

She shook her head. 'They say it happened while he was sleeping. Probably a nice guy, just enjoying a vacation, then suddenly he's dead.'

She moved on, refilling a few more cups of coffee on her way back to the register. Happens all the time, Quinn thought to himself.

The Allyson Police Department's headquarters was located about a mile from the Holiday Inn. Quinn's contact was the chief of police, a guy named George Johnson.

Quinn flashed his FBI ID to the desk sergeant and was quickly ushered into Chief Johnson's office. The chief stood as Quinn entered.

Johnson was a tall man. He'd probably been in good shape once, but now carried a few extra pounds from too many years behind a desk. His face showed the strain of his job, too, eyes baggy and dark, jowls heavy and drooping. But his smile was genuine, and his handshake was firm. Quinn took both as signs of a man who liked his job despite its difficulties.

'Agent Bennett,' Chief Johnson said. 'I can't say that I've ever really had to deal with the FBI before. But I guess this is a day of firsts for me.'

The chief motioned to the empty chair in front of his desk. As Quinn sat down he wondered what Chief Johnson meant by 'a day of firsts,' but knew better than to ask right away.

'What can I do for you?' Johnson said as he eased himself back into his chair.

'Quite honestly, Chief, I'm not sure you can do anything,' Quinn began. 'I'm not really here on official Bureau business.'

Johnson eyed Quinn curiously. 'Then why are you here?'

'It's about the fire you had the other day.'

'The Farnham fire,' the chief said as if he'd

expected it all along. 'That's right,' Quinn said. 'I'm here about the victim. Robert Taggert.' The chief paused, obviously surprised Quinn knew the man's name. 'What about him?'

'He's apparently a relative of a special agent back in D.C. Somebody a bit higher up the food chain than I am. Since I was in the area on other business, they asked me if I could swing by and check things out. It's more soothing someone's concerns

than anything else. I'm sure you have everything well in hand.' The chief was silent for a moment. 'Is that why that other guy was out here earlier this morning?' Now it was Quinn's turn to hesitate. 'I'm not sure I know who you're talking about.'

The chief opened the center drawer of his desk and pulled out a business card. Reading, he said, '"Nathan S. Driscoll. Department of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."'

'May I see that?' Quinn asked.

The chief shrugged, then handed the card to Quinn. 'I've never talked to anyone from ATF before either,' the chief said.

The card was high-quality, printed on government-issued card stock, and complete with the ATF symbol embossed on one side.

'I don't know him,' Quinn said. 'But could be he's here for the same reason I am. If my guy back in D.C. was desperate enough, I'm sure he'd call in as many favors as he could.' Quinn handed the card back to Johnson. 'What time was he here?'

'Left no more than thirty minutes ago,' Johnson said.

Outwardly Quinn forced himself to smile. 'I hate to make you go over this stuff again, but would you mind?'

The chief shook his head. 'No problem. But like I said to Agent Driscoll, there's really not much to tell. It was an accident. That's it.'

'I heard that. But Andersen – that's the guy back in D.C. – he wasn't satisfied. I guess when all your information is coming from what you read in the

paper, you just want to make sure you're not missing something.' 'If he's getting his information from the paper, how did he know Taggert was the one killed?' 'That's a great question,' Quinn said honestly. 'I have no idea.' The chief seemed to give it some thought. 'Maybe it was the sister.'

'The sister?' Quinn asked.

'Taggert's sister,' the chief said. 'She's the only one we told.' Quinn nodded. 'That makes sense. Is there anything else you can tell me?'

The chief shrugged, then said, 'It's not much.'

'Anything will help.'

Johnson pulled a thin file off the top of a stack on the right side of his desk. He perused its contents for a moment, then gave Quinn a halfhearted smile. 'As I said, it's not much. The fire was apparently electrical. We think it started in the living room. A space heater that caught fire or something similar. Taggert was in the upstairs bedroom. He was probably overcome by smoke before he could get out. By the time the fire department got there, it was too late. Once the flames were finally out, there wasn't really much left of anything.'