The light changed and they began walking again. When they reached the other side, he said, “Thanks.” She looked up at him for a moment, then leaned against him. He
put his arm around her shoulder. “Maybe we should go back,” he said. He could feel her shaking her head. “Not yet.”
CHAPTER
DURRIE HAD BEEN A SON OF A BITCH. THAT WAS A FACT
no one would have ever argued. Even on his good days, it seemed like the simple act of waking pissed him off. The few friends he’d had learned early on to walk out on him if he was in one of his moods. But as Durrie’s apprentice, Quinn didn’t have that option. He’d had to stay until dismissed, acting the part of whipping boy more often than not.
For a long time, Quinn wasn’t sure if the bad moods were real or just a put-on. In the end, he decided they were a little bit of both. It bothered him for the first year or so, but after that, he realized it didn’t matter. He was there for one thing only: to learn how to be a cleaner. And while Quinn tuned out most of Durrie’s philosophical and life-coaching bullshit, his old mentor had been excellent at teaching him the nuts and bolts of the job.
Perhaps the bastard’s most valuable trait had been the ability to see the strengths of his student. He would use these as focal points, helping Quinn expand on his abilities. And as for any weaknesses, he’d push Quinn even harder on those, showing his apprentice ways to negate them.
In the strengths department, Quinn had many. Durrie had often called Quinn’s acting abilities his strongest quality, but they both knew it was Quinn’s observational skills and attention to detail that were really what topped the list.
Quinn saw things others missed, picking out the small details that made jobs go that much smoother. It was this skill, though raw at first, that had brought Quinn to Durrie’s attention in the first place. And it was this skill, honed sharp, that had carried him through his apprenticeship and allowed him to become a full-fledged cleaner.
“You’ve got to be aware of everything,” Durrie had said. “It’s what’ll set you apart from the competition.”
“From you?” Quinn said, the hint of a smile on his face.
“Never from me,” Durrie said, all business. “You’ll never reach my level.”
Durrie may have actually believed that, but there was no way Quinn was going to let that be true. He worked harder than he ever had in his life, studying late and sleeping little. All in an attempt to be the best he could possibly be. To be able to perform, one day, at an even higher level than his mentor.
Proof that Quinn’s training was paying off came during a job in Neuchatel, Switzerland. It had been in an apartment above an antique shop. The building was within the walls of the old medieval city, in a crowded touristy area.
There were two bodies, a man and a woman. They were lying on their backs in bed; a duvet covered them from the waist down. The woman’s eyes were closed, but the man’s were open, cloudy and unfocused.
It was obvious they were dead, but there was no blood or visible wounds. Of course if they were still alive, Quinn and Durrie wouldn’t be there. They’d have still been waiting for word back at their hotel.
“Piece it together for me,” Durrie said.
They were standing just inside the bedroom doorway, neither having ventured further into the room. Quinn scanned from left to right, taking in everything.
“This is her place, not his,” Quinn said.
“Good. Why?”
“The curtains. The perfumes on the dresser. The color of the walls. None of it says male. She lives alone.”
“Okay. What else?” “I’d say he was more excited about being here than she was.” Durrie said nothing, waiting. “He was in a hurry to get his clothes off,” Quinn continued, point
ing to the pile of men’s clothes on the floor next to the bed. He then looked across the room at a chair near the entrance to the bathroom. The woman’s things lay on the seat, neatly folded. “She took her time.”
“How were they killed?” “Suffocation,” Quinn said without a pause. “You’re sure?” Quinn took a second look. There were no wounds he could see,
and it was doubtful the duvet was covering anything life ending. Even if it had, he would have expected blood to seep through, staining the cover. There was no stain. But most telling was the lack of the tangy smell of blood.
“Absolutely.” “No struggle?” “Drugged,” Quinn said. “Something recreational, easily obtained.
It would look like an accidental overdose if they’d been discovered be
fore we could get here.” “Then why suffocate them at all?” Durrie said. “Whoever killed them didn’t want to leave a calling card behind.”
He was talking about a bullet, but he didn’t need to tell Durrie that. Quinn’s mentor nodded to himself. “All right, smart guy. Tell me how.”
Quinn scanned the room again, not to see if there was anything he missed, only to make sure his thoughts were in order. “I’d say the assassin used that pillow over there.” He pointed to a pillow sitting on top of a blanket chest under the window. “It’s convenient, and it’s out of place.”
“Really? Where’s it supposed to be?”
“It goes on the bed when no one’s in it. There’re three others on the floor next to the man’s clothes. The fourth
