The Collected (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) by Brett Battles Page B

“Still looking.”
    “Find what?” Liz said from the couch.
    “Nate’s computer,” Quinn said, then realized that was one question he hadn’t asked. “You haven’t seen it, have you?”
    She shook her head. “No.”
    Quinn opened the baseboard, and input the master code.
    Bingo .
    He pulled Nate’s computer out of the safe. “Got it.”
    Orlando looked up, surprised. “Don’t just sit there. Bring it here.”
    As he carried it over, he made a mental note to discuss with Nate how he had managed to find the other two hidey-holes and gain access to all three without rendering them useless. His protégé was getting good, maybe too good.
    Orlando set to work on Nate’s laptop. It took her nearly fifteen minutes to get through the security, which, by the frown on her face, was obviously longer than she’d thought it would have taken.
    Quinn watched from behind as she looked through a list of recent files, then opened his email.
    After several minutes, she said, “There.”
    Quinn scanned the message on the screen. A job confirmation for a cleaner named Quinn. He knew Nate had been using his name, but it still felt…odd.
    “It says the project should have finished yesterday morning.”
    “No location,” Orlando pointed out. “But it couldn’t have been too far away if Nate was going to be back in time to meet Liz today. If I know him, I’m sure he planned on returning last night so he wouldn’t chance being late picking her up.”
    Quinn nodded, knowing she was right.
    The message was signed P, and the sender’s email address was just a string of letters and numbers.
    “P,” Quinn said to himself. “Are their any other emails?”
    Orlando sorted the messages by sender. There were three more. Two were also signed P, but one, the very first message Nate had received, had a name.
    Pullman.
    “That doesn’t sound familiar,” Quinn said.
    “I think I’ve heard it before,” Orlando told him.
    “You have?”
    “Give me a second.”
    She switched back to her own computer, her fingers flying over her keyboard. After about forty-five seconds, she said, “Yeah. This has got to be him.” She typed for a few more seconds, then smiled smugly. “And I’m right. Again. That email address traces right back to his location.” Another keystroke and a picture appeared on the screen.
    Quinn leaned forward to get a better look. The image was of a man around forty with receding brown hair and pale skin.
    “Who is he?” Quinn asked.
    “Mr. Timothy Pullman is a broker who works out of Chicago.”
    “Is that so?”
    “Yeah. Mid-level jobs usually, with the occasional stretch to something a little more ambitious.”
    “You have a number?”
    She smiled. “I do.”
    __________
     
    T HEY DECIDED ORLANDO would make the call. Quinn was conferenced in on his phone, his mic on mute.
    “Mr. Pullman?” Orlando said.
    “Who’s calling?”
    “My name’s Newsome. I was given your number by a mutual acquaintance. That is, if you are Mr. Pullman.”
    “And which acquaintance would that be?”
    She let a few seconds of dead air fill the line. “Are you or are you not Mr. Pullman? I’d rather not waste my time.”
    This time Pullman paused. “Fine. I’m Pullman. So who’s this person who’s giving out my number? And what do you want?”
    “Good. So I’m talking to the right person. I was given your number by a cleaner named Quinn. He’s actually why I’m calling. I hired him for a job that he was supposed to show up for two hours ago. He’s not here, and I haven’t heard from him, so I’m calling— ”
    “I don’t know anyone named Quinn.”
    Orlando and Quinn exchanged a glance.
    “This was the number he gave me as a backup in case I needed to get ahold of him.”
    “Sorry. Don’t know why he would have done that. I can’t help you.”
    “Maybe he’s using a different name. Have you hired a cleaner recently?”
    “Lady, I don’t talk business with people I don’t know. But I’ll tell you