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For the case Quinn was now investigating, take that old one and multiply it several times over. An abusive husband had murdered his wife, and everyone in his town knew it. Yet the police couldn't dig up enough evidence to charge him. His wife's brother had tried to take matters into his own hands. The perp shot and killed the brother, and the DA decided it was self-defense. The perp remarried and started knocking around wife number two. She disappeared. Again, no one could pin it on him. Then his daughter from his first marriage accused him of sexually abusing her. He accused her of fabricating a story because she blamed him for her mother's death. The police didn't press charges. The daughter killed herself.
It's easy to blame the cops in a case like that. But if the police can't find the evidence, they can't lay charges, as much as they might like to.
For Quinn, this was a local case, about a hundred miles from his home. He'd have known about it and almost certainly would have thought, "I'd like to take that bastard out." When someone came and asked him to do exactly that? He'd have accepted the job. No question.
My research ensured Diaz was being straight with me--the case existed and it was one Quinn would take. Jack doesn't trust Contrapasso--we butted heads with them on our last investigation--so I was extra cautious. Yet from everything I dug up, this was on the level.
I also made sure Quinn really was out of contact. I phoned his personal cell. Phoned his work cell. E-mailed. Texted. I was careful in all of that, the calls going from the phone Felix gave me, which would scramble and reroute. Even then, I left no messages on voice mail, and my text and e-mail were vague, "Hey, you around? Call me."
I left the lodge right after dinner, but hit a post-weekend backup at the border and missed my flight. Diaz rebooked me on the first morning one, and I found a hotel for the night. I woke in the middle of the night to a text from Jack.
Fucking tech. All fine. Home as planned.
After a few years of knowing Jack I've become fluent at text shorthand, because that's the way he talks most of the time. From this message, I interpreted that he was having trouble placing outgoing calls on his phone. He didn't like texting--it left a permanent record of a conversation--so he'd only make this one exception. I wouldn't hear from him again until he got home "as planned." But I hadn't thought he'd set a date for his return. The last time we spoke he hadn't gotten his job details.
I puzzled on that until I decided I was overthinking it. He'd said he expected to be a week at most. Evidently, that was still all he knew. He'd make contact when he landed.
Knowing not to expect a call didn't mean I wasn't hoping for that nine a.m. checkin. My flight was due to land at 8:30. A delay in takeoff meant we were still descending at 8:56. I turned on my phone early and, yes, felt guilty about it, despite knowing it wouldn't send the plane into a tailspin. I got service at 8:57. By 9:08 we were unloading. No call from Jack. I sighed, pocketed the phone and prepared to disembark.
6 - Jack
Jack took Cillian three blocks before finding a suitable building to shove him into. The section of Dublin they'd met in was an old one, mostly empty, with sporadic attempts at "revitalization." He took three blocks to choose a spot because he was trying to figure out what the fuck he was going to do next. A rare bout of indecision, rising from the pounding knowledge that he'd fucked up. Fucked up so bad.
He'd spent a year telling himself he couldn't make a move on Nadia, that on the very offside chance she actually reciprocated, he couldn't endanger her by advancing their relationship. Then he'd told himself as long as he took precautions--scrubbing his list of anyone who might be even a remote concern--she'd be fine. But that didn't help against those who were trying to get on his list, did it?
As he walked, he kept telling himself the same thing he'd told Cillian. Stop whining. Give me something useful. Yet all he could think about was how to contact her. Anything he did would be risky. But he had to warn her. Had to.
Do you?
Of course he did. Fuck, what kind of stupid question . . .
Except it wasn't a stupid question. Because Nadia wasn't stupid. Yes, she'd go after Quinn. But that didn't mean blindly chasing leads into a trap. She cared about Quinn. But, fuck, Nadia cared about people, in a way he admired, even if he couldn't fathom it. He'd seen her do something dangerous because she'd been focused on saving a victim, and he'd given her proper shit for it, in a rare fit of temper. But even then how much danger had she actually been in? Minimal. He just didn't like her taking risks.
Nadia knew what she was doing. And Quinn was not some helpless victim. Like Nadia, he could take care of himself.
Moral of the story, Jack? Chill the fuck out.
Jack prodded Cillian to a building. They walked in and Jack squinted against the near darkness.
"Back there," he said.
"Here's good. There's some light and--"
"Back there."
Cillian's shoulders slumped and he made his way to the back room Jack had noted. He paused in the doorway, looking around, and Jack had to give him a shove inside. The second room was darker, filthy and full of crates and debris. The condition of the room wasn't the issue. It was what that room said--that it made a really good place to dump a body.
"How's it going down?" Jack asked.
"What?"
"Letting Dee know Quinn's gone. How's that happening? Can't just wait around. Hope she figures he's missing. Not fucking happening. Not on this timetable."
"Uh . . ."
Funny what a difference time and perspective makes. Thirty years ago, Cillian had been almost twice Jack's age and to Jack, he'd seemed the ultimate ball-busting, take-no-prisoners tough guy. The reality? Cillian was a third-rate thug, a big fish whose small pond dried up years ago. A complete fucking moron who'd gotten where he'd been through brute strength and brass balls, and when one failed, the other took over.
Cillian had no idea how these guys planned to lure Nadia in. Apparently, he really had just figured she'd magically realize Quinn was missing. This was, of course, the same guy who believed an antihistamine pill was slow-release cyanide.
