Doctors couldn’t agree on the source of Quinn’s particular malady, but the consensus pointed to a form of Proteus Syndrome, a condition so rare that less than a hundred cases have been documented world wide.
Proteus would explain the deformed facial features on one side of Quinn’s head and face, but none of the reported cases shared the strange, multi-colored striations that covered the left side of his face and neck. It wasn’t a skin disease, and there was no odor to his skin, so one theory was that the splotches were a giant, multi-colored birthmark.
Bottom line, Quinn’s poster boy looks were closer to Joseph Merrick than Brad Pitt. As you might imagine, there were gaping vacancies on Quinn’s social calendar, a situation that afforded him plenty of time to ogle the women that entered his field of vision.
A model-thin stunner entered the main dining room at Smith & Wollensky’s and took a seat at a table where three suits had been waiting. Her glimmering platinum hair was chopped shoulder length, and she had on some sort of purple makeup that looked like war paint.
“Oh Mama,” Quinn said. “What would you do to that one?”
“How long do I get?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“I’d turn her more ways than a monkey can turn a coconut.”
He looked at me. “Can I make an observation?”
“Please do.”
“You’re saying all the right things about these chicks, but your heart’s not in it.”
“Like I said, tonight’s more of a test drive.”
“You know what you need? You need to get your pipes cleaned. You’re in my town, let me make a call. Right now you’re sitting in a steakhouse, but you’re only thirty minutes away from the best night of your life.”
“What’s her name?”
“Her name? Jesus, you really are a mess,” he said.
I shrugged. “I’m a detail guy.”
“You are that,” he said. “Her name is Heavenly.”
“What makes this hooker better than all the rest?”
He did that smile thing with his face, and when he did it, I smiled too.
“She got a friend for you?” I said.
“Her roommate’s Delight.”
“Heavenly Delight, huh? What are they, a tag team?
He cuffed me on the arm. “I won’t pretend I don’t know,” he said.
We sat in silence awhile, me thinking again about how we’re all just a phone call away from a life-changing event. Quinn’s eyes fairly danced with anticipation, like a kid hoping I’d take him to get ice cream.
“What the hell,” I said. “Make the call.”
“Really? That’s great! You won’t be sorry!”
He stepped away from the table. A moment later he returned, still on the phone, but didn’t sit down. I heard a click.
“Tell me you didn’t just take my picture,” I said. He pointed behind me. “Chick with the boobs.” He pressed a few buttons, ended his call.
We finished our fine dinner with a sauterne as rich and thick on the tongue as syrup.
“That some kind of wine?” Quinn said. “Are you kidding me?”
“It is and I’m not.”
“Tastes more like desert. What is it?”
“Lafaurie Peyraguey,” I said, showing off my French accent.
“Those words could never come out of this fucked-up mouth of mine,” he said, “but I can see why it’s your favorite.”
“Actually, purists prefer Chateau d’Yquem.”
“What do they know,” he said.
His phone buzzed and he checked the text. He winked at me.
“We’re on! The girls are excited.”
“Excited hookers?”
“I told them I was bringing a movie star.”
“You didn’t!”
“I had to, they were already booked.”
“Let me guess: they didn’t believe you, so you took my picture and forwarded it to them.”
“Well, what was I gonna do,” he said, “send her a picture of the chick with the boobs?”
“You took a picture of her too?”
He did that grinning thing again. “You want to ride with me or follow me there?”
I thought a moment. “I’d better follow you. We’ll probably be there awhile; the restaurant might be closed by the time we’re done with the girls.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ bout!” Quinn said, cuffing my arm again.
The valet guys retrieved our cars. Quinn rolled out and I followed from a short distance. I reached under my seat and found the small box Callie had put there while Augustus and I were in the restaurant. I placed it on the seat beside me.
Car bombs are as diverse as they people they kill. They can be wired to ignition systems, set to timing devices, attached to tilt fuses that detonate when the car hits a bump in the road, or detonated wirelessly from a distance. The payload can be placed under the driver’s seat, dash, or attached magnetically to the underside of the car, or, as in this case, inside the wheel well. The detonator on the seat beside me was good for a distance of at least a hundred yards line-of-sight, or fifty if obstructed.
Quinn was my best guy friend, and one of the last people I’d ever want to kill. But he was also the guy who’d kidnapped Alison Cilice and held her captive in his warehouse for the past three years. I knew this as well as I knew my name. Well, scratch that. I knew it as well as I knew anything. It began as a hunch, and became a near certainty after having Lou Kelly’s geeks run a full-out search on Alison. When they found that her trail dried up less than a month after I went into my coma, I measured her disappearance against my in-depth knowledge of Quinn. I’d been ninety-nine percent sure before talking to Quinn at the restaurant. By the time we’d gotten our cars, I had no doubts at all.
If Quinn had told me Alison was dead and buried in a specific place, or that she’d taken up with someone or changed her name, or given me any plausible explanation for her current whereabouts, I could have Lou follow up on it. But Quinn said all the wrong things.
He admitted to dating Alison. He also said she bolted after a few weeks, and I believed him. But I had entrusted Quinn with Alison’s care and well-being, and whether she wanted anything to do with him or not, he’d have kept tabs on her these three years.
Because he’d still be guarding her, would in fact have guarded her for the rest of her life, since that had been my last request, just as I would, had our positions been reversed. It’s how we’re wired. We keep track of the people we guard, period. So his claim that he hadn’t heard from her in three years was preposterous.
My guess is that after being spurned, Quinn tracked her down and tried to get her back. She would have refused, and he would have kidnapped her. Like Beauty and the Beast, he probably hoped in time she’d grow to love him. But of course, Beauty and the Beast were from a time and place where women had fewer options.
And it was a fairy tale.
And Augustus Quinn was a real life monster.
Quinn turned left on Clancy, and as I followed him I glanced at the compact rectangular box with the toggle that meant life and death for Augustus Quinn.
Did I have to kill him?
I could pretend I didn’t know about Alison, and hope Augustus would release her someday. Except that I knew Quinn well enough to know that the only way he’d let her go is if he killed her. Which he wasn’t likely to do, because as his captive, she’d represent everything he wants in a woman: she’d be subservient, faithful, always available, and grateful to see him return. By that I mean he held the key to her survival. If he failed to return, she’d starve to death, so of course she’d be relieved and grateful when he returned to the warehouse.
I didn’t want to kill Augustus. We’d worked together so long I could hardly imagine going after the bad guys without him. Of all my assassins, Quinn and Callie were the only ones I trusted with my life. To a point. But I needed to save Alison, and there’s no way I could save her if Quinn was alive. I’ve seen his warehouse, and I knew the room he’d be using to hold her, and it was virtually impenetrable. I’d need a great deal of time to bust her out, whether it was through the steel door or one of the reinforced walls that held her.