Becoming Quinn

Larson knew from the conversation he and Durrie had overheard that today was the woman’s day off. Once he’d established that she was inside her townhouse, he’d settled into the Jeep Cherokee he’d liberated from a box- store parking lot, and turned the air conditioner to full blast.

Why anyone chose to live in this oven, he’d never know. As far as he was concerned, it had already passed unbearable at least ten degrees earlier. And it was only May, for God’s sake. May! Give him a nice seacoast town with a constant breeze and steady seventy-degree temperature and he’d be in heaven.

When he left here two days earlier, he’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to come back for a long time, if at all. But then that bastard from the Office had called him, and insisted he get back here to “help clean up the mess” that the guy implied he had created. Last he checked, his job wasn’t cleanup. His job was killing. And he’d done that—twice, as a matter of fact. As far as he was concerned, any problems now rested squarely on the shoulders of that dipshit Durrie.

But as annoyed as he was, he was smart enough to realize that he should do what Peter asked. The guy was a revenue stream, and revenue streams were everything. So if coming back and taking care of the “mess” meant Peter would look on him more favorably, then so be it.

Durrie was a separate problem. As much as Larson hated the fact, the son of a bitch was in charge. Peter had told him as much when they’d talked on the phone. But screw Durrie. If the time came and Larson needed to show a little initiative of his own, he’d do it.

He looked back at the monotonous row of Spanish-style townhouses. The woman apparently wasn’t going anywhere today. Smart, in this heat. But it made Larson all the more antsy.

Then, thirty minutes later, the Dodge Charger appeared at the carport exit.

For the first time in hours, Larson smiled.

* * *

By the time Jake finished explaining everything, three other detectives had joined Young and Hubbard. On the desk was the printout of Mr. Redman and Mr. Walters from the entrance of the Lawrence Hotel, the matchbook in a plastic baggie, printouts of the pictures Jake had taken of the marks in the sand around the barn, and a piece of paper with the BMW’s license plate number written on it. Jake had not shown the picture of the third man from the hotel, since the only evidence that he might have been involved was the subtle reaction of Mr. Redman in the elevator when the man had entered the car.

Hubbard picked up the plastic bag and studied the matchbook inside. “So you found this at the crime scene.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn’t tell any of the investigators who were there?”

“I wasn’t sure if it was even important,” Jake said. “I was told the area had already been checked.”

A detective named Kearns said, “Well, don’t you think that—”

Hubbard held up a hand, cutting the man off. “Officer Oliver, do you mind waiting here for a minute? I need to consult with my partner.”

“Of course. No problem.”

Hubbard smiled, then gathered up the items Jake had displayed, and went out into the hallway with Detective Young. The other detectives hung there for a moment, then walked off. Kearns was last to leave. There was pity on his face as he finally went to his desk and picked up his phone.

It’s done. I did the right thing, Jake thought.

But the words didn’t give him as much comfort as he wished.

* * *

The impound yard was on the outskirts of town, a large fenced-off lot bordered on one side by desert and the other side by a concrete manufacturing facility. There were hundreds of cars on the lot, separated in an order that probably made sense to someone.

Berit parked in the visitor area out front, and headed into the office. There were five people queued up in the small, dirty lobby, and a sixth at the counter being helped by a bored-looking white guy who had to be pushing eighty.

She bypassed the line, and walked up to the counter.

“Hey!” a waiting guy called out. “Are you blind? Why do you think we’re standing here?”

She didn’t even bother replying. She merely pulled out her badge and flashed it at him, knowing that would shut him up.

“Is Stanley here?” she asked the old guy.

“What?” He looked at her, annoyed.

She showed him her badge. “Stanley. Is he here?”

He looked into the back office area, and called out, “Stanley. There’s a cop here to see you.”

A few moments later, a much younger man came out of the back. Younger, yes, but with the same tired look on his face that told Berit he had to be related to the old man.

“Can I help you?” Stanley said.

She showed him her badge and said, “I’m Berit Davies, with Phoenix PD. We talked earlier?”

“Right. What can I do for you, Detective?”

She cringed a little on the inside as he made an assumption of her position, but said nothing to correct him. “We talked about a car that had been brought in here yesterday. I’d like to take a look at it if I could.”

“Sure thing. This way.”

He put a hand under the counter and lifted a section like a drawbridge so she could get through, then led her out a back door into the lot. As they stepped outside, the machinery at the concrete plant whined and churned in a constant rhythm, creating a rumbling soundtrack that paid no attention to property lines.

The first row of cars was actually a double stack of vehicles, the top cars raised into the air by metal car holders to create space for another to be parked underneath. As far as Berit could tell, all these slots were filled.

“The newer cars are over this way,” Stanley said, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the machinery noise. He took her around the stackers to the third row back. No stackers here, just two parallel rows of cars parked side to side and trunk to trunk. “That was a Mercedes, right?”

“BMW,” she told him.

“Oh, right. Yeah, I remember now. It’s right down here.”

They walked past more than a dozen cars — sedans, station wagons, trucks, SUVs, Fords, Toyotas, Hyundais, Volkswagens. Whatever the make or model, the yard seemed to have one.

She saw the BMW before they reached it. Its black coat showed a layer of dust and grime that had accumulated since the night the car’s image had been captured by the traffic camera.

“This is it, right?” Stanley asked.

She checked the license plate number. “Yeah. This is it.”

“I gotta head back inside. Take as long as you need.” He started to turn away, then stopped. “Doors are unlocked. Didn’t have a key.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

She waited for him to move away, then she walked around the car. As she did, she removed a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and pulled them on. If Jake was right, this car would soon be part of a crime investigation, and the last thing she wanted was for her own fingerprints to cover up any evidence.

She was careful, though, not to touch anything on this first pass, and used only her eyes to do the examination. She’d hoped that she might spot some obvious fingerprints brought to life by the dust, but no such luck. When she reached the point where she’d started, she was satisfied that there was nothing else she could learn without getting more physically involved, so she opened the driver’s door, and looked inside.

No visible hairs or marks. A little dirt on the floor mats, but in the desert that was to be expected. She leaned in and looked under the seat. Nothing. Not even a scrap of paper or a candy wrapper.

The center console had two empty cup holders and a fold-down armrest that appeared to have a storage compartment under the padded leather. She wanted to open it, but she knew that would probably be pushing things too far. Leave that to the detectives if the car did indeed turn out to be evidence.

She stood back up and opened the rear door. The backseat and footwells were empty. Not even any dirt on