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"If you try any harder not to, you'll give yourself an aneurysm."
I sputtered. "Okay, sorry, it's just... you don't look like a Quincy."
"I haven't been one since kindergarten, when my teacher misread the list, called me by my middle name, and I decided to stick with it."
I looked at the card. "Robert."
"Rob, usually, but yes."
"So Quincy... Quinn."
"Not the most original nom de guerre. Jack grumbled about the stupidity of picking it, but it was kind of a personal thing. First action flick I saw as a kid had a hero named Quinn, and then I heard the song 'The Mighty Quinn,' and so..."
"You went through a phase of wanting to be called Quinn?"
"It was more of an alter ego. Like when you play games, and you need to call yourself something? I was always Quinn, who, let me tell you, was way cooler than Robbie."
"I'll bet."
"Of course, I grew up and I'm totally over that now."
"I suppose you'll want me to keep calling you Quinn."
"Up to you." A sly look my way. "But I won't complain if you do."
I laughed, my gaze on the card still in my hands. When I looked up again, his face was right there, above mine. I blinked, and he pulled back.
"So this job you're working," he began.
"Job? Ah, right. The reason we're out here. It's not a job. More of a... private investigation."
I told him the story. In his face, I saw everything I'd felt: concern, dread, grief, rage, then disgust and fury at Sammi's fate. Sometimes, reading a newspaper article and feeling grief or outrage for a victim I've never met, I think there's something wrong with me. Seeing that in Quinn's face was a vindication.
"I'm sorry," he said when I finished.
"I didn't know her that well. Can't even say I liked her very much."
"But you helped."
"I don't think I - "
"You did."
Even without knowing about Amy, Quinn understood what consumed me - fear that I'd failed Sammi.
"I want to help," he said. "I can research similar disappearances."
"Which could risk your job."
"Nah, I'm an old pro at covering my tracks. I'll get whatever you need. I just wish I could do more, that I could stay and help."
He put away his license. Then we sat there, the silence turning awkward again.
"I guess you have a long drive to Montreal," I said finally. "And I should be getting back. Jack was taking my guests on a tour of the range."
Quinn choked on a laugh. "I hope they're behaving themselves. And if not, I hope they paid you in advance."
"It probably didn't last long enough for anyone to give him trouble. Locker. Guns. Ammo. Targets. Seen enough? Good. Done."
