Becoming Quinn by Brett Battles

seat.
    He had two choices: go to the cop’s address and check it out, or go to where he was pretty sure Oliver was headed. The house he could visit anytime. Where Oliver was probably headed seemed more pressing.
    Thirty minutes later, he parked a block away from the Lawrence Hotel, then walked up to the entrance.
    The doorman smiled, and immediately opened the door. “Welcome back, sir.”
    Durrie had stayed there the last two nights and was still technically a guest, but he had no intention of spending another night in the place, not now that a member of the Phoenix PD had tied it to the situation on Goodman Ranch Road. But he’d deal with that later. Right now the cop was his focus.
    He slowed his pace upon entering the lobby and casually looked around, taking everything in. There were two women behind the reception counter, another woman at the concierge desk, and two older men at the bellhop station. One of the women at reception was helping a male guest, while the other was looking intently at a computer screen. Other guests were scattered throughout the rest of the lobby—some talking together, some sitting on the chairs, reading or waiting. But no Jake Oliver.
    Maybe Durrie had been wrong.
    He checked his watch. He’d give it twenty minutes, then he’d retrieve his bag from his room and find another place to stay. He picked up one of the complimentary newspapers off a nearby table, then took a seat in a wingback chair that afforded him a view of both the hotel entrance and reception. He was just finishing up the front section when the cop made his appearance.
    Durrie was surprised to see that Oliver was now dressed in a police uniform. It certainly explained the delay in his arrival, but why wear it now when he wasn’t wearing it at the scene? Then the answer, so obvious, hit him.
    Authority. People responded to it, and the uniform reeked of it.
    For a split second, Durrie wondered if the cop was actually here officially with the full knowledge of his superiors, but quickly dismissed the thought. If that had been the case, Oliver would have turned over the matchbook to the investigators at the scene. Instead, he’d slipped it into his pocket and driven off.
    No, this visit wasn’t official. Durrie was sure of that. This was a wannabe detective trying to make a mark, and give his fledgling career an early boost. Durrie imagined that Oliver was hoping to gain some respect and maybe even a commendation. Maybe he even had ideas of becoming the youngest detective in Phoenix PD history. But the cop was young still, and didn’t quite know how the world worked. Initiative wasn’t always rewarded, especially if you looked like you were trying to show up someone else.
    The argument, though, was purely academic. If Oliver’s little side investigation took him any further, he’d have bigger problems to worry about than the bruised egos of those above him on the force.
    As soon as the cop passed by his position, Durrie got up and moved to an open seat on the other side of the lobby, closer to reception. It was angled away from the desk so he didn’t have much of a view, but he could hear well enough as Oliver told the woman at the desk he wished to speak to the head of security.
    “If you’d like to wait over there, he’ll be with you in a moment,” she replied.
    Durrie could then hear the unmistakable sound of the cop walking toward him, the uniform’s leather belt and attachments squeaking with each step. When Oliver finally stopped, he was just two chairs over from Durrie’s position.
    Close enough to kill.
    Durrie frowned at the thought. It was his dark voice, one that he seldom heard. But when he did, it was always throwing out ridiculous things like that. Easy to ignore, but disturbing nonetheless.
    The truth was he might have to kill Oliver, but there would be none of the satisfaction the voice seemed to imply. In fact, there would be nothing at all. It would be part of the job. Unfortunate, maybe, but