“I’m not seeing the connection here.”
“Platt and Edmondson were best…friends in high…school.”
“Oh, really? I take it they’ve remained in contact.”
“Daily.”
“Do you happen to know if Mr. Platt is at work right now?”
“He works…the graveyard shift.”
“So he’s home?”
“Satellite data shows him…arriving home…at 7:41 a.m. Would…you like his…address?”
Leaving Nate and Danielle at the safe house was not an option. They’d been at the location far too long already. Unfortunately, Quinn also knew they couldn’t count on the woman’s cooperation once they were on the move, so as much as it pained him, the only real choice they had was to drug her again.
She spotted the needle in Quinn’s hand the moment he and Nate entered the room. But instead of fighting, she rolled up her sleeve and stared into the distance, expressionless.
Quinn was under no illusion that the cooperation was a sign of anything permanent, and knew she would run if given the opportunity. So while Nate went out to obtain a new vehicle, Quinn inserted a tracking chip in one of her shoes.
Nate returned with a khaki green Jeep Grand Cherokee and pulled it into the garage, where they transferred the unconscious Danielle into the backseat. Nate then drove off again, tasked with staying on the move until Quinn contacted him.
Using the sedan they’d first arrived in, Quinn headed north.
Roger Platt lived in a working-class neighborhood of single-family homes east of Sea-Tac International Airport. Some of the houses had undergone extensive renovations, while others looked like they hadn’t been touched in the decades since they’d been built, all signs of slow but steady gentrification.
Platt’s house fell somewhere in the middle of old and new. It had no obvious addition to the outside, but it had been repainted recently, and the roof couldn’t have been more than a year or two old.
Quinn drove past, looking for the best way to approach the man’s place, and hit pay dirt five houses down. Plunked in the middle of the front yard was a FOR SALE sign. From the lack of curtains in the windows, he could see the house was empty. Better yet, there was a lockbox on the front door that would contain the house key, meaning neighbors would be used to seeing people going in and out.
He pulled into the driveway like he was a Realtor, and then used his phone’s camera to zoom in on the lockbox. It was one of the new versions. Instead of operating with one specific combination, it was wireless enabled and could accept individual Realtor codes. This served two purposes: preventing Realtors from having to hunt down different numbers for each property, and allowing the selling agent to know who had visited.
A quick text to the Mole garnered a usable code. Quinn pulled on his gloves, climbed out of the car, and, less than thirty seconds later, was through the house and into the backyard. He sneaked across the neighboring yards until he reached Platt’s.
After easing onto the deck that protruded from the back of the house, he crept up to the set of French doors leading inside, and looked in. A family room, dim and unoccupied.
Using his detection app, he discovered that the house was protected by a surprisingly high-end security system. Fortunately, it was still civilian grade, so the software Orlando had created was able to rapidly disable it. Quinn then picked the lock and let himself in.
A quick search revealed that Platt was sound asleep in the master bedroom. Before waking him, Quinn took a look around.
No woman’s touch here, just a house-sized man cave for a rabid Seattle sports fan. Leather seemed to be the covering of choice when it came to furniture, and no expense was spared on the seventy-five-inch TV and accompanying sound system. The kitchen, however, had not seen the same infusion of cash, and was filled with appliances that looked to have been there for decades. In light of the trash can full of takeout containers, Quinn concluded cooking was not one of Platt’s talents.
Wondering if the man’s garage was equipped with its own secret basement, Quinn checked it but found only a vintage Ford Mustang, dozens of storage boxes, and a solid concrete floor.
Back in the house, he searched a closet near the front door and then the one in the hallway right outside the man’s bedroom. In the latter, he found a hidden compartment in the back, a space more than large enough for the three photo albums it contained.
Quinn pulled out the top album, opened it, and tensed. There was no question now of Platt’s involvement with his high-school buddy.
The album was full of pictures of women, all unclothed and lying on the same mattresses Quinn had seen in Edmondson’s cells. A few of the shots were closer, taken by someone on top of the subject, and in several the photographer’s hand was visible — strong and callused. Not Edmondson’s hand.
It was only Quinn’s years of experience that kept the rage boiling in his chest from taking over as he put the album back and reentered Platt’s bedroom.
The man hadn’t moved since Quinn had first seen him. His hair was cropped short, military style, though his graying goatee was definitely not regulation. One of his arms lay atop the blankets, bearing the muscles of someone who’d seen a lifetime of physical work. And then there was the hand on the blanket, the same hand from the pictures.
Platt would likely put up a good fight if given the chance, but Quinn was in no mood to let him try. He placed the muzzle of his suppressor against Platt’s hip, grabbed the spare pillow with his free hand, and said, “Hey, asshole.”
Groaning, Platt’s eyes slowly fluttered open. As soon as he realized he wasn’t alone, he tried to push himself up, but he’d barely raised his head before Quinn pulled the trigger. As Platt started to scream, Quinn shoved the pillow in his face, muffling the sound, and pressed his gun against Platt’s groin.
“If you don’t shut up, the next shot goes here.”
Platt continued to cry out as if he hadn’t heard the threat, one hand on his wound, the other trying but failing to push the pillow away.
“One…two…thr—”
“Okay, okay,” Platt yelled, his voice distorted. “I’ll stop!”
Quinn kept the pillow in place for a few more seconds before moving it to the side.
“You son of a bitch! What the fuck, man?”
Quinn switched his aim to the man’s forehead. “Samuel Edmondson.”
A split second of confusion, then fear. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He closed his eyes, wincing. “Oh, man. Call an ambulance.”
“Samuel Edmondson,” Quinn repeated.
“Yeah, all right, I know him. So what?”
“Samuel Edmondson.”
“We went to school together, that’s all. What do you want?”
Platt may have thought himself subtle, but he was far from it. When the guy’s arm swung out, Quinn was already moving out of the way, allowing it to catch only air.
“Bad call.” Quinn jammed the gun against the man’s offending shoulder and pulled the trigger.
Another scream brought a return of the pillow. Platt was a quick learner, however, and when his cries became whimpers, Quinn removed the pillow.
“Samuel Edmondson.”
“I didn’t know it was going to turn out like this, okay?” Platt said, tears rolling down his cheeks. “He just asked for my help, that’s all. I didn’t realize what he was into until it was too late.”
Lies, of course, but ones that Quinn could work with. “And what was he into?”
“If you’re asking about him, you already know the answer, man. Come on. I need help!”
Quinn moved the gun to the man’s other shoulder.
“No! No!” Platt yelled.
“What was he into?”