The Deceived (14 page)

Quinn drove the Lexus sedan north from the hotel, following the same path he’d taken in the cab to Georgetown the night before. He was armed again—the gun which he’d left at the hotel that afternoon was safely stowed under the passenger seat beside him.

He spotted the gallery a half block north of M Street, toward the eastern end of Georgetown, and less than a mile from Jenny’s burnt-out apartment.

There were over a dozen people standing outside the gallery’s front door talking and smoking. Some even held wineglasses. Several cars were stopped next to the curb, waiting to be helped by the blue-coated valets stationed nearby.

As Quinn pulled into the line behind a late-model Cadillac, he could see into the main entrance. Just inside was the familiar arc of a metal detector. The gun would have to stay in the car.

“Good evening, sir,” a valet said as he opened Quinn’s door. He handed Quinn a ticket as they switched places.

The front of the gallery was a series of floor-to-ceiling windows. Light from inside spilled through them onto the brick sidewalk beyond. Like most of the other structures in Georgetown, the rest of the building was made of the same red brick as the sidewalks.

Above the windows was a sign:
The Delaney Gallery.
And in smaller letters below it:
Fine Art.

There was a woman at the door, college aged and dressed in all white. It was an unfortunate choice. Her skin was almost as pale as her dress. In contrast, her hair was dark, almost blue-black. A dye job. No doubt about it. She was holding a clipboard, and beside her on a small table sat a stack of cards.

“May I have your invitation?”

“I was told you’d have my name on a list,” he said.

She nodded, not smiling. Quinn guessed it was part of her act.

“Name?” she said.

“Richard Drake.”

She consulted the top sheet on her clipboard, moving her finger down it until she almost reached the bottom.

“Yes. Of course. Mr. Drake.” She looked up, her face still neutral. “Please, enjoy the exhibit.”

Quinn entered the gallery and passed through the metal detector. There was a large man standing just past the device. He was wearing a dark blue suit and a smile. Security, no doubt, but more dressed-up rent-a-cop than serious muscle, Quinn guessed.

There was already quite a crowd inside. It wasn’t elbow to elbow, but it was enough to raise the volume to a loud buzz. Most of the men were dressed like Quinn in conservative, expensive suits, while the majority of the women wore the standard black cocktail dress. Quinn did note a few spots of color, but none of the dresses were too bold or too revealing. This wasn’t Hollywood, after all.

He checked for the congressman, but unless he was in some other room, he had yet to arrive.

Not far from the front door, a refreshments table with hors d’oeuvres and empty glasses for wine had been set up. Behind the table were two men, both dressed in all white like the girl at the door. They hovered next to bottles of Rutherford Hill wine, filling the glasses as guests came up and asked for a drink.

“May I pour you a glass?” one of the men asked.

“Please,” Quinn said.

“Cabernet sauvignon or chardonnay?”

“Chardonnay. Thanks.”

Once he had wine in hand, Quinn turned and surveyed the room again, this time ignoring the people and taking in the layout and exhibit.

The space seemed to consist of one main room with one or two smaller offshoots near the back. Those could have been offices or restrooms, Quinn couldn’t tell yet.

The front room was large, around sixty feet wide and half again as long. It was broken up in an almost mazelike way by canvases that hung in curving rows on wires attached to the ceiling. Even the paintings that lined the periphery of the room had been hung several inches from the walls in the same manner.

The effect was an interesting one. It gave the illusion of both space and confinement.

A closer look at the paintings showed the theme didn’t stop with the gallery décor. The images were stark—grays and blacks and whites blending together to form buildings and streets and homes. There were people, too, in the same tones, almost receding into the background as if they were ghosts. But on each canvas there was something in color. Bright, vibrant color. A child’s ball in reds and yellows and pinks, left alone on an abandoned sidewalk. A jacket in a deep, glowing blue, hanging from the back of a door. A kite, lying alone on a park bench, in all those colors and more.

There was a sadness in each piece. A deep, lonely sadness. Quinn was surprised to find himself drawn in by the work. He had to consciously tear himself away to finish his examination.

He began walking toward the back of the room. He stopped every few moments and pretended to examine a new painting. As he did he noticed a second refreshment table set up at the back of the room, between the doorways Quinn had spotted earlier.

As he neared the closest doorway, he realized it didn’t lead to another room, but to a hallway. At the far end was a metal door. It was propped open, and there was another metal detector and security man stationed just inside the doorway. There was no smile on this guy’s face. He just looked bored. Beyond the exit, Quinn could see several people standing outside talking and smoking. Halfway down the hall, three people stood in a loose line near a door marked
Restroom
.

Quinn moved to the next doorway. This one did lead to another room, though much smaller than the main gallery. He peeked in. More paintings, only smaller than the ones out front. A few people were examining the artwork, while several others stood in the middle of the room talking.

As Quinn turned away, it seemed to him that the crowd in the main room had grown larger than it had been a few minutes before. He even thought he recognized a few faces here and there. Not people he’d met before, but ones he’d seen on TV or in the newspaper—other lawmakers, a national news reporter or two.

But still no Guerrero.

Quinn glanced at his watch; it was 9:05 p.m. Part of being a politician, particularly one with higher aspirations, meant mixing with the people. And a smart politician would come when the crowd was at its height. So if Guerrero was coming, it had to be soon.

Quinn thought about getting an hors d’oeuvre, when his eyes were drawn to a new arrival at the front of the gallery.

“Son of a bitch,” he said to himself.

Tasha.

She hadn’t listened to him at all. She must have found out the congressman was going to be there, and was going to try to talk to him. She was becoming more than just a problem; she was becoming dangerous. He decided to wait until she moved further into the room before taking any action.

One thing he noticed as he watched her was that she seemed more confident than she had at either of their previous meetings. It was like she was willing herself to be a person who was in control, steeling herself so that she wouldn’t back down when the moment came to talk to the congressman. Quinn had seen other civilians do the same in similar situations. An appearance of toughness to do things Quinn could do without thinking.

As she squeezed past the other guests, her eyes moved across the room. She was doing a good job at looking like she was just interested in the exhibit while she checked out those around her. As her eyes moved toward Quinn’s position, he took a step to his left, effectively hiding behind one of the paintings.

Several moments later, she stopped at the refreshment table near the hallway. While she waited for her glass of wine, Quinn walked up behind her.

“Maybe you should wait on that,” he said.

Tasha turned. Quinn had seen her scared, nervous, even confident, but this was the first time he’d seen her surprised.

“What are you doing here?” she finally managed.

“Come on,” he said. He put a hand on her arm and pulled her toward the hallway.

“Wait. Where are we going?”

Quinn didn’t answer; instead he relied on the fact she wouldn’t want to make a scene. He led her down the hallway, through the metal detector, and out into a small alley.

“You’re hurting me,” she whispered. “Let me go.”

Without releasing his grip, he walked with her along the alley until they were out of listening range of the people who’d stepped outside for a smoke.

“How did you get in?”

She looked unsure for a moment, then said, “A friend back in Houston...works at a gallery. She was able to make a few calls and get

me an invitation.”

“Are you
trying
to get yourself killed?”

“I’m not going to stop looking for Jenny just because you told me to. I asked for your help, but you refused. So that means I’m on my own. The congressman is supposed to be here. I’m going to talk to him.”

“You really think he’s going to tell you anything?” Quinn said. “You probably won’t be able to get within five feet of him. I told you before, go home.”

“No.”

His fingers dug into her biceps as Quinn felt his anger rising.

“Stop it,” Tasha said, looking at his hand.

He loosened his grip. He wanted to scare her away, not hurt her. “Look, I’m not sure the congressman even knows anything. So please, just leave.”

“I have to tr—”

“You won’t get anywhere with him,” Quinn said, cutting her off. He took a breath, then added in a calmer voice, “But I might.”

She looked at him, skeptical at first. “You just want me to get out of your way, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” she said, after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll do that, but only if you tell me what you learn.”

Quinn started to say no, but stopped. The look on her face told him it wasn’t an answer she would accept. “If I do, then you need to promise me you’ll forget about all of this and go home.”

“Are you really trying to help Jenny?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She searched his face, as if she was trying to determine whether he was telling her the truth or not.

“Deal,” she finally said.

CHAPTER

“PULL OUT YOUR PHONE,” QUINN TOLD TASHA. “PRE

tend you’re texting someone.”

She looked at him as if she didn’t understand what he meant.

Quinn looked over at one of the groups of smokers, then back at her. “If you’re doing something, no one will pay you any attention.”

“You promise to come back?” she asked.

“I’ll come back.”

She nodded reluctantly, then pulled out her phone as he headed back into the building.

The crowd in the gallery had grown even larger since Quinn and Tasha had left. Quinn had to push his way through several groups until he found a spot where he was able to survey the entire room.

Once he did, it didn’t take long to spot the congressman.

Guerrero must have just arrived, for he hadn’t made it very far into the room yet. He seemed to know almost everyone, sharing a few quick words or a laugh, and shaking every hand that was thrust at him. A politician who could actually talk to the voters and appear to immediately relate to them. If his campaign ever caught fire, that would be the reason why.

Quinn recognized the woman with him immediately. It was the congressman’s wife. The TV-friendly Jody Goodman of the Texas Goodmans. Quinn had seen her picture in several of the news reports he’d read earlier. He’d even watched clips of her appearances on CNN and MSNBC on YouTube.

She was probably around the same age as the congressman. Caucasian, shoulder-length blond hair, and wearing a vibrant blue dress that accented her thin frame. But whereas her husband gave off the aura of being a man of the people, Ms. Goodman seemed more distant, more above the fray. Even across the room, Quinn got the impression she thought she was smarter than anyone else around. And that included the congressman.

Glancing back toward the front door, Quinn realized Guerrero and his wife hadn’t come alone. There was a man stationed near the entrance who hadn’t been there before. He was standing about five feet away from the man working the metal detector. He had the distinct look of personal security, his eyes constantly checking the room, but always coming back to the congressman. This one was a professional, not a rent-a-cop. But probably not Secret Service. Even though the congressman was running for President, he wouldn’t have rated that kind of protection yet. No, this guy was private and expensive.

Guerrero and his wife slowly moved further into the gallery, eventually stopping near the center of the room. Instantly a small crowd began congregating around them.

Quinn checked the man at the door again. He was still in position, his attention more on a new group of arrivals than those already in the room.

Good
, Quinn thought. It was time to make his move.

He walked toward the congressman, angling his approach so that most of the crowd was between him and the muscle at the front door. He weaved his way through the crowd until he was standing just a few feet away from Guerrero.

The congressman laughed at something a man standing in front of him said. As he finished, he swung his head around, taking in the crowd. When he noticed Quinn, he stopped for a second, a question crossing his face.