Only the desk closest to the fireplace was occupied. Behind it sat a woman Quinn judged to be in her mid-forties. Her blonde, frosted hair fell to just above her shoulders. She was wearing a smart-looking blue business suit. She smiled broadly as Quinn entered.
“Good afternoon,” she said, standing. “Didn’t expect anybody else today.”
Quinn offered a friendly chuckle as he approached her desk. “Yeah, weather’s getting a little crazy out there. Don’t worry. I won’t keep you long.”
“I heard we’re in for almost two feet of snow by tomorrow.” She stuck out a hand. “I’m Ann Henderson.”
Quinn shook her hand. “Miss Henderson, I’m Frank Bennett.”
“Please, just Ann.” She indicated the guest chair, and they both sat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bennett?”
He pulled out his ID and showed it to her.
“FBI?” She looked perplexed. “Is something wrong?”
Quinn smiled again and shook his head. “I was just hoping you could help me with something.”
“Of course. Whatever I can do.”
“I’m looking into the fire at the Farnham house.”
Her face turned somber. “A tragedy. It’s such a shame.” A question formed in her eyes. “I heard it was an accident.”
“It looks that way.”
“Then why would the FBI be interested?”
“Truthfully, my involvement is totally off the record. Mr. Taggert was a relative of someone in the Bureau. I’m just here checking things out for him.”
She relaxed visibly. “I’m sorry to hear that. Mr. Taggert seemed like a nice guy.”
“Did you know him?”
“Not really. I only spoke with him twice. Once when he called to set up the rental, and then again when he came by to sign the agreement and pick up the key.”
“That’s why I stopped by. My colleague was hoping I might be able to get a copy of the rental agreement.”
She eased back. “Why would he want that?”
“Just trying to be thorough, that’s all.”
“Is he planning to sue or something?”
Quinn laughed good-naturedly. “Not at all. The family just wants to put this behind them. I’m just helping wrap up the details so they can move on. I can guarantee you there will be no lawsuit.”
Once again her relief was visible. “Well, I guess it’s not a problem.”
She got up and walked over to one of the filing cabinets. She pulled open the third drawer from the top and started flipping through the files. After a moment of searching, she removed a thin manila folder. “Just give me a minute,” she said. “The copier’s in the back.”
“Could I take a look first? To make sure it’s worth you making the effort?”
“Sure.”
She handed Quinn the file. There were only two sheets of paper inside. The first was a standard, boilerplate rental agreement. According to the information Taggert provided, he lived in Campobello, Nevada. Quinn had never heard of Campobello, but he was far from familiar with every city in Nevada. It was undoubtedly a false address anyway. Under emergency contact was written “G. Taggert, sister” and the same phone number Chief Johnson had given Quinn.
“So you were the one who provided Mr. Taggert’s sister’s number to the police.”
“That’s right. Mr. Taggert almost didn’t give it to me, though. I had to promise not to call his sister unless it was an absolute emergency.”
Quinn nodded, understanding, then looked back at the file. There was other basic information, but nothing that would be of use. Quinn flipped to the second sheet. It was a photocopy of a Nevada driver’s license. Robert William Taggert. Due to expire on November 22 of the following year. The photograph was grainy, but the image was discernible. A man in his late fifties, with short-cropped hair, and a thin, weathered face.
“This is Mr. Taggert?” Quinn asked.
She peeked around the edge of the folder. “That’s him.”
“Can I also get a copy of this?” he asked.
“Don’t you have a picture of him?”
Quinn shook his head. “Nobody thought to give me one,” he said truthfully.
Ann shrugged. “Just take that one. If I make a copy the picture will only be a black smudge.”
“Thanks,” he said. He folded the paper, careful not to crease the photo, and slipped it into his pocket.
Quinn and Nate were able to make it to Denver just in time to catch a 7:00 p.m. flight home to Los Angeles. While Nate was shoehorned into the cattle section in back, Quinn relaxed with a glass of Chablis in the comfort of his first-class seat. After they’d been in the air for an hour, Quinn pulled out his computer and wrote his report.
By the time he finished, it was only a page long. He liked to keep things brief. “Overload with facts,” Durrie, his mentor, had once told him. “They can never fault you for that. Leave out all the cream puff stuff and opinions. Nobody wants that shit. And if you find somebody that does, they’re not worth working for.”
Good advice, but it had taken a while for it to sink in with Quinn. When he’d first started working clean-and-gathers, he knew his task was to just hand over whatever he found out and move on. Curiosity was discouraged. But it had been frustrating. There were always so many unanswered questions.
“What the fuck do you want to know more for?” Durrie had asked him one time when Quinn wanted to keep probing after a particular assignment was nearly completed.
“It just seems so unfinished,” Quinn said. “Just once, I’d like to know what it’s all about.”
“What it’s all about?” Durrie asked. “Fine. That I can answer. You see this guy here?”
They were in an unpaved alleyway on the south side of Tijuana, Mexico. It was well after midnight. On the ground only a couple feet in front of them was the body of a man in his late twenties. “I see him,” Quinn said.
“This guy’s a runner. You know, a messenger boy? But he could’ve just as easily been a cleaner.”
“Like us, you mean?”
“Like me. You’re just an apprentice. You’ll be lucky to live through this year the way you’re going.”
“I’m careful,” Quinn said defensively.
“You’re not. Worse, you don’t even realize it.”
Quinn’s face hardened, but he said nothing.
“You want to know what it’s all about, Johnny boy?” Durrie continued. He pointed at the corpse on the ground. “That’s what it’s all about. The more you know, the more likely you’ll end up like him. We come in, gather whatever information’s been requested. Maybe do a little cleanup if necessary. Then get out. That’s the job.” Durrie’s eyes locked with Quinn’s. “Kill your curiosity, kid. For your own sake. Hell, for mine, too. Because until you’re working on your own, I’ll be responsible for your fuckups.”
It took nearly getting shot six months later before the lesson sank in. Still, Quinn was never able to completely dampen his thirst to know more. He later realized that despite what Durrie said, curiosity was an important part of the job. He just had to learn how to control it. As he reread his report about Taggert, he knew there was a lot that remained unanswered. Who had started the fire? Why had Jills been there? And who the hell was Taggert anyway? Questions that nagged at him, but ones he probably would never know the answers to.
Otherwise, the information Quinn had been able to gather wasn’t much more than what he’d already told Peter over the phone. The only omissions were his stops at the coroner’s office and Goose Valley Vacation Rentals. And the most those stops had done was to confirm what little Quinn already knew. The exception being the lung tissue sample, which Quinn had added into his report as something Chief Johnson had mentioned.