The Collected Part 17

"Sure." She opened her laptop, and a minute later said, "San Diego. Her GPS coordinates match up to a motel in Pacific Beach. The Otter House. Small place. Eighteen rooms." She looked up. "I could call her if you want. She'll talk to me."

He considered it for a moment, then shook his head. "No. She needs time to think."

Orlando frowned.

"What?" he asked.

"I know what you're doing. You're hoping this might break them up. You think it's better if she's not involved with someone in the business."

"Don't you think that, too?" he asked, surprised.

"I am involved with someone in the business."

"Yeah, but you're in it also."

"You can't decide her life for her."

"Who says I am? I'm not telling her to leave him. I haven't told her their relations.h.i.+p is a bad idea. All I'm saying now is that we give her some time for herself."

"And if she comes back and still wants to be in a relations.h.i.+p with him?"

"That's her choice."

"You'll support it?"

He paused for a moment. "Yes."

"If you honestly mean that, fine."

"I do."

"Then fine," she said, though the look she gave him was less than certain.

CHAPTER 21.

QUINN ROSE AT five a.m.

Careful not to wake Orlando, he put on a clean T-s.h.i.+rt and pair of gym shorts, checked his phone and was surprised to see there was still no return call from Peter. It was already eight back in DC, and Peter-who not only stayed up late, but woke early-would have certainly listened to Quinn's message by now.

He headed upstairs, and tried calling his old employer again, but was once more sent to voice mail.

"Peter, this is an emergency. I need to talk to you right away."

He hung up and thought for a moment. Peter had given him a number once for use only in an emergency and Peter could not otherwise be reached, but that had been before the Office had disbanded. Quinn wasn't even sure the number worked anymore.

He found it on Peter's phone in the notes section of contact page. He punched in the number and listened, fully expecting to receive a "this number has been disconnected" message.

One ring. "h.e.l.lo?" A woman's voice.

"I think I might have the wrong number," Quinn said, almost sure of it. "I'm looking for Peter."

"Who is this?" There was a surprised tone to the voice, a voice Quinn realized he recognized.

"Misty?"

"Tell me who this is or I'm hanging up."

"It's Quinn."

Dead air for a second. "Quinn? How did you...how did you get my number?"

"I didn't know it was your number. Peter gave it to me a few years ago in case of an emergency."

"Typical. That man..." He could almost hear her shaking her head.

"I've been trying to get ahold of him, but he hasn't responded. I thought I'd give this number a try, but I don't suppose you've seen him lately."

"Not for a month or so." Misty had been Peter's a.s.sistant back in the Office days, and one of the few people Peter fully trusted. Since the end of their organization, she had been shuffled off to a far less interesting government job, while Peter had been labeled a consultant and stuck behind a desk. "When did you call him?"

"Last night, probably around midnight your time, and again just before I called you."

"And you left messages?"

"Yeah."

"That's not like him. He should have called you back by now. Are you sure you have the right number?"

Quinn read off the number he had for Peter.

"That's it," she said, sounding concerned. "Let me check and get back to you."

"You don't have to do that."

"No. I do."

Quinn knew it didn't matter who was officially paying her salary, Peter would always be her boss.

"I appreciate it."

"I'll call you right back."

Quinn put on the coffee, and made a bowl of instant oatmeal. He'd only taken two bites when his phone rang.

"I can't get through to him, either," Misty told him. "I'm about to head into work, so I'll swing by his place first and see if he's even home."

"If you don't mind, that would be great."

It was forty minutes before she called again.

"Quinn, something's wrong."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Her words came out in a rush. "He didn't answer his door. I know the code to his place, so I let myself in."

"Slow down."

He could hear her take a few deep breaths.

"He's not here. But his bed's not made, and his gla.s.ses are still on his nightstand. He needs those these days."

"Maybe he has a second pair."

"His alarm clock is hanging by the cord over the edge of the stand, and the picture of his wife is on the floor, the gla.s.s broken."

Wife? Quinn didn't even know Peter was married. "What about her? She's not there, either?"

"Who?"

"His wife?"

"She's been dead for ten years."

"Oh. I didn't know."

A pause. "There's more."

"What?"

Another moment pa.s.sed before she spoke again. "Some of the things on his dresser are knocked over." She hesitated. "It looks like there was a struggle. Quinn, what could have happened?"

Quinn made her go through the entire apartment, looking for anything unusual. Other than the disorder in the bedroom, though, nothing else stood out.

"Can you take the day off?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Good. I want you to stay there. I'm going to send someone to you who will give the apartment a thorough going over. Don't touch anything else, just sit down and wait."

"No problem."

"Give me the address."

Once he finished with Misty, he called Steven Howard.

"It's Quinn."

"Hey, what's up?"

"Where are you now?"

"Home." Home for Howard was Virginia, not far from DC.

"What's your day look like?"

"I'm open for the next seventy-two hours."

"Good. I need you to get to DC right away." He gave Howard Peter's address and filled him in on what he needed him to do. "Call me the second you're done."

"You got it."

"Thanks."

As he hung up, Orlando entered the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Was that Peter?" she asked.

He shook his head. "This might be an even bigger situation than we thought."

__________.

HOWARD CALLED JUST over an hour later. Using the camera on his phone, he gave Quinn, Orlando, and Daeng-who had joined them fifteen minutes earlier-a tour of Peter's apartment.

As Misty described earlier, the bedroom definitely showed signs of a struggle. In addition to the items she'd pointed out, Howard discovered spots of blood on the bed frame and in the hallway leading out to the living room.

"It's not a lot," he said. "So whatever it's from, the wound can't be that big."

"How long has it been there?"

"Hard to tell. It's all dry." The picture moved down toward the carpet, and Howard's rubber-gloved hand entered the frame. He touched a dark spot about four inches from the wall. The normally loose carpet fibers were stiff. "See? That's got to be a few days at least. Could be a lot longer, though. A lab might be able to figure it out."

The picture rose again as Howard stood.

"Something I want to show you in here," he told them.

He moved down the hall and into the living room. Almost every inch of wall s.p.a.ce was covered with overflowing bookshelves. There were even more books stacked on the floor here and there. The furniture consisted of two easy chairs, a love seat, and coffee table. There was no TV.

For a moment, the camera caught Misty standing by the door, looking concerned, then it swung to the right and pointed once more toward the floor.

"See the books?" Howard asked.