turned on the TV and found an old movie on TCM.
“A classic,” Nate said. “One of the best movies about Hollywood ever.”
Quinn had grunted noncommittally. Movies were Nate’s thing.
He had to admit, though, Nate wasn’t wrong about the movie. It was definitely absorbing and helped to pass the time. Once the film was over, they left the Holiday Inn and headed to Gorham.
Back home in Los Angeles it still felt like summer, but here in Maine, not so much.
The state had fully embraced the two-week-old fall with cooler temperatures, browning ground cover, and leaves that had turned beautiful shades of yellow and orange and red.
They came at Gorham from the east on State Route 25. At some arbitrary point Route 25 became Main Street, and before long they were entering the outer regions of Gorham. Homes here were separated by acres, not feet. Most were set back from the road, many down long driveways and hidden by trees and brush.
As they drew nearer to the center of the small town, the homes began to cozy up to one another and draw closer to the road. Still, compared with a big city, the lot sizes were huge. The predominant house color was white, and the common theme seemed to be colonial clapboard. But these weren’t emulating a popular style. These were actual colonial homes, many a couple hundred years old.
As they passed a Burger King on their right, Nate began reading off the addresses, then nodded ahead. “Should be right up there.”
Twenty-three Main Street turned out to be an empty store in one half of a two-story-tall brick building on the south side of the street. The windows were covered on the inside by white butcher paper on which someone had written in large letters:
The other half was occupied by a cafe.
Quinn turned right on Cross Street and parked behind a small office building.
“Security cameras?” Quinn asked.
Nate took a quick look around. “None.”
Quinn nodded, then opened his door. Chances were they could leave the Toyota there all day and no one would question it.
“What about the gear?” Nate asked once he joined him outside.
“We’ll come back for it once we know what’s up,” Quinn said.
They walked to Main Street, waited for traffic to clear, then crossed to the other side.
“They can’t want us coming in through the front,” Nate said. “Gotta be a rear entrance.”
“Check it out,” Quinn said.
While Quinn examined the menu posted in the window of the cafe, Nate walked around to the back of the building.
When he returned, he nodded. “Three doors. Two for the cafe and one for the empty shop.”
Quinn looked at his watch. They were ten minutes early.
“Let’s get a coffee first,” he said.
“And a sandwich?”
Quinn frowned. “Fine. But to go.”
“It would probably draw less attention if you order something, too.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” But the untimely growl from his stomach belied his tone.
• • •
The man who greeted them at the back door of Alison’s Boutique was small only in height. Quinn guessed he wasn’t more than five foot five. He wasn’t fat, though. Muscles bulged, large and menacing and almost, but not quite, obscene. Steroids for sure, and about a million hours in the gym. If his muscle mass had been toned down even ten percent, he would have been more intimidating. Small guys could be wiry and unpredictable. But with this guy’s bulk, speed and agility were no longer options.
“You’re late,” he said as he moved out of the way to let them in.
Quinn and Nate crossed inside.
“You Donovan?” Quinn asked, once he and Nate were inside.
The man shook his head. “He’ll be back in a bit.” He nodded toward a rectangular table in the center of the room surrounded by folding chairs. There was no one else present. “You can make yourself comfortable there.”
“So who are you?”
“I’m Mr. Edgar.”
Quinn cocked his head. “We’ve worked together before, haven’t we?” He stared at the man for a moment. “Not Edgar. It’s …” He thought for a moment. “It’s Mercer, isn’t it?”
“Not bad,” Mercer said. “And you’re Quinn.”
Mercer had been a background player on a job three years earlier. A gig for the Office.
