Quinn looked at the waterfall for a moment. Was she telling him the truth or just feeding him some bullshit? He was trained to think the worst, so there was no way he was going to believe her on the spot. But if she was lying, she was putting on a pretty damn good act.
“How did you contact each other? Did she give you a phone number?” he asked, looking for holes in her story.
“No. She always called me.”
“What about caller ID?”
Tasha shook her head. “The numbers always came up blocked.”
Quinn frowned, annoyed. “Fine,” he said.
“Fine? Fine
He leaned toward her, his face stopping only six inches in front of hers. “Fine, we’re done. And this time I’m not suggesting it, I’m telling you. Go home.” Whether what she was saying was the truth or not, it seemed pretty clear she was going to keep getting in his way. It was a complication he didn’t need.
“Only if you tell me you’re trying to help Jenny. That you’re going to find her,” she said.
He knew he should just remain silent and walk away. But if he did that, she’d continue to be a problem.
He pulled Tasha’s cell phone and battery out of his back pocket and handed them to her. “I’ll find her,” he said. “Now don’t let me see you again.”
“There’s a reception tonight. Eight p.m. An art gallery opening in Georgetown.”
“An art gallery?” Quinn said into his phone. Peter had called him as he was riding in a cab back to his hotel.
“In Washington, even a gallery opening is a political event.”
“You’re sure he’s going to be there?”
“He RSVP’d.”
“Everybody RSVPs,” Quinn said.
“True,” Peter said.
“Give me the address.” It might turn out to be a bust, but it was Quinn’s best chance.
“You’ll need to get on the list,” Peter said.
“I’m sure you can arrange that.”
Quinn could almost hear the smile in Peter’s voice when he said, “Of course I can.”
CHAPTER
WITH THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF CASH, A GOOD HOTEL
can get you anything in a hurry. The Crystal City Marriott was no exception. After tipping the concierge a hundred dollars, the man seemed to take a personal interest in making sure Quinn had exactly what he needed.
By a quarter to eight, Quinn was dressed in a dark blue Brooks Brothers suit, white shirt, and a tie that was just nice enough to say he might have money, but not so garish as to stand out in a crowd. His overall look was conservative, successful, and confident. In a room full of politicians and D.C. insiders, he would blend in and barely be noticed.
Instead of a cab, Quinn had the concierge rent him a car for the night. He needed to be flexible. He wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to get a moment with the congressman at the gallery or would have to follow him afterward—all, of course, depending on whether the congressman showed up in the first place.
Quinn drove the Lexus sedan north from the hotel, following the same path he’d taken in the cab to Georgetown the night before. He was armed again—the gun which he’d left at the hotel that afternoon was safely stowed under the passenger seat beside him.
He spotted the gallery a half block north of M Street, toward the eastern end of Georgetown, and less than a mile from Jenny’s burnt-out apartment.
There were over a dozen people standing outside the gallery’s front door talking and smoking. Some even held wineglasses. Several cars were stopped next to the curb, waiting to be helped by the blue-coated valets stationed nearby.
As Quinn pulled into the line behind a late-model Cadillac, he could see into the main entrance. Just inside was the familiar arc of a metal detector. The gun would have to stay in the car.
“Good evening, sir,” a valet said as he opened Quinn’s door. He handed Quinn a ticket as they switched places.
The front of the gallery was a series of floor-to-ceiling windows. Light from inside spilled through them onto the brick sidewalk beyond. Like most of the other structures in Georgetown, the rest of the building was made of the same red brick as the sidewalks.
Above the windows was a sign:
There was a woman at the door, college aged and dressed in all white. It was an unfortunate choice. Her skin was almost as pale as her dress. In contrast, her hair was dark, almost blue-black. A dye job. No doubt about it. She was holding a clipboard, and beside her on a small table sat a stack of cards.
