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His brows shot up in mock offense, the eyes under them still dancing. "Don't believe me? Right in the neck. Perfect weapon. Melts. No evidence."
"No way."
"You don't sound so sure."
I searched his eyes but, as always, there were no answers there. He gave a dry rasp of a laugh and grabbed the door handle, then looked back over his shoulder.
"Okay?"
I smiled. "Thanks, Jack."
Fifteen minutes later, Quinn pulled a beige Crown Victoria into the Keyeses' driveway. He got out, stretching his legs as if it had been a long ride, then peered over his shades at the house. The sky was overcast, but with some disguises, you can get away with wearing sunglasses, just like you could get away with an earpiece that wasn't completely hidden.
As Quinn surveyed the house, Jack got out and adjusted the holster, making sure it would "accidentally" show if his suit jacket swung open. Again, just part of the disguise, not necessarily an accurate one, but sometimes expectation is more important than realism.
They proceeded to the door. A tiny woman with a dark ponytail answered their knock. From my vantage point down the road, I could only make out her size and hair color. Their voices, though, were clear, courtesy of the two-way earpieces.
"Leslie Keyes?" Quinn asked.
"Yes?"
"John Turnbull and Derek Walker, federal agents with the Department of Intrastate Regulation and Enforcement."
Quinn machine-gunned the words, nearly too fast to distinguish, but bolstered with a weight of authority that dared you - ignorant layperson - to suggest there was no "Department of Intrastate Regulation and Enforcement." He flashed a badge and a card, emblazoned with a logo mishmashed from several legitimate federal agencies.
When I'd expressed skepticism - after I'd stopped laughing - Quinn swore it worked. He'd been using the badge and ID for over a year, and never been questioned. The moment people heard the words "federal agent" from a big, solid-jawed guy in a suit and shades, the rest flew past in a jumble as they mentally scrambled to figure out what they'd done wrong.
Leslie Keyes certainly bought it, saying, "Yes, yes, of course" when Jack asked if they could come inside and ask a few questions. I watched the door close, then steered out to find a safer place to sit and listen.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Leslie led Quinn and Jack into the house, seating them in what was presumably the living room. A faint rattle crossed the transmission, then Jack's low laugh.
"I don't want to sit on this. Some little guy wouldn't be too happy if I broke it." Another rattle as he laid the toy on the table. "Boy or girl?"
"Boy. My friend's son. They were over yesterday. He must have left that there."
From the tautness in her voice, she was lying. Yet her response wasn't what we'd expected. Presumably, the Byrony Agency would have made the adoption as legal as possible. Legal enough to pass a federal inspection, though? Maybe she wasn't sure.
"Don't call her on it," I said. "Play it out."
"But you do want children, correct?" Quinn said. "That's why you engaged the services of the Byrony Agency."
A moment's silence, then, "Yes, we did. Is that what this is about? We're no longer with them, and we paid our bills - "
Quinn laughed. "We aren't bill collectors, ma'am."
"No, no, of course not. I just meant - "
"We're here on a routine check of the agency's procedures," Jack said.
"The agency? Have they done something wrong?"
"No, as I said, it's a routine check."
"Why?" Quinn cut in. "Did you have concerns about them?"
"Concerns? Not at all. They were wonderful. We just decided to pursue other options. But we'd recommend them, and we have. A great agency."
