The corner of his mouth turned up as he looked back at the booklet. Her birth date put her age at thirty-two. Her birthplace was listed as Waltham Abbey. He checked for arrival and departure stamps. She’d made two round- trips from London to New York. First in May, and a second in August. Each time she stayed for less than two weeks before returning to the U.K. The final stamp denoted entry into the United States the previous evening.
“You’ll want to see this, too,” Nate said.
He gave Quinn a business card.
WRIGHT BAINS SECURITIES
Annabel Taplin
There was an address in London and a phone number.
The name of the company tugged at Quinn’s mind. Familiar, yet he couldn’t place why.
He handed the card back to Nate, then leaned over. “See what our contact can find out about this place. I think I’ve heard of it before.”
Nate nodded, then went into the bathroom to call Orlando, shutting the door behind him.
“Okay, Annabel. Why don’t you tell me why you’re in New York?”
“I’m here on business.”
“I’m your business?”
She took a second, then said, “No. Not exactly.”
“Not exactly? That answer falls into the ‘not cooperating’ category. We had an agreement. But if you’re going to break your end, I’m going to have to break mine.”
Her face was tense, her lips pressed tightly together. Then, as if someone had flicked an off switch, she slumped forward, her head falling into her hands.
“Oh, God,” she said as she began to cry.
It lasted only a few moments, then she wiped her eyes and looked up. Her mascara was smeared, creating a thick black outline on her lids.
“I was doing a favor, okay?” she said. “Someone at work. They knew I was in New York and called me this morning. I was told to get that stupid phone.” She waved in the direction of Quinn’s pocket. “Then to come here and wait for you.”
“Only me?”
“Another man, too. They emailed me pictures of each of you.”
“The pictures weren’t on your phone. Where are they?”
“On my computer,” she said, trying hard not to look at her briefcase. “At my hotel.”
Quinn stepped over and looked inside the case. Besides a small stack of business cards, some pens, and two unused legal pads, there were also several folders. He picked them up.
“Those are confidential,” Annabel said.
Ignoring her, Quinn looked inside the first: letters, an unlabeled graph, and a report that looked of little interest. Most of the other folders contained similar documents. The second to last, though, contained printouts of three photos. The first was of David Wills, and the second of Quinn. The third was of a man Quinn didn’t recognize. It was a headshot, the kind used not by actors, but by businessmen and politicians for PR purposes. The picture itself looked dated.
“Who is this?” Quinn said, holding up the man’s photo.
“I don’t know,” she said. “They didn’t give me any names. Just said that there was a chance that man might show up, too.”
“This shot’s from at least twenty years ago. He’d be an old man now.”
She shrugged. “I guess it was the only one they had.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I can tell you only what I know.”
Quinn returned the files to the briefcase, all but the one with the three pictures in it. That one he set on the dresser by itself.
“Once you spotted us, what were you supposed to do?” he asked.
“I was to wait until you were both here, then make a phone call.”
“And after that?”
“After that I could leave.”
“What number were you supposed to call?”
She looked at him, then looked down, resigned. She took a clip out of her hair and handed it to him. On its back side was a local New York number. From the area code, he could tell it was a cell phone. Probably another disposable.
“Do you know whose number this is?” Quinn asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Not the person who asked you to do this?”
