back to meet Ted.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Quinlan drove his Mercedes sports coupe to the private airport where the hangar he leased housed his Lear jet. When people swooned at the extravagance of such a purchase, especially for a man whose business rarely took him out of the city, he pointed out that the Lear was nearly ten years old, and that he needed to escape from his work every now and then. He had been known to favor the Caribbean.
His pilot, a chunky thirty-seven-year-old redhead named McReady, was climbing out of the cargo hold when Quinlan arrived.
"You think there'll be room for everything?" Quinlan asked.
"Should be," McReady said. "I've never seen you take this much on a vacation before."
"Well, I'll probably be staying longer than usual."
Much longer , Quinlan thought. After McReady took him to London, Quinlan would disappear into a clinic where plastic surgery would turn him into a new man. "Quinlan" would never be seen or heard from again. As soon as his last task was finished in Chicago, which should be tomorrow, "Quinlan" would be gone forever.
"What're the weather people saying?"
McReady, wiping his hands on his gray overalls, said, "Some storms over the mid-Atlantic. But they don't look like much. Should be an easy go."
"Great." Then, "I've got something I want to load up myself."
McReady smiled. "Be my guest. My daughter's got a dental appointment. I'm supposed to pick her up at school and take her. I'll be back here in a couple of hours."
"No hurry. Everything looks like it's moving along fine."
McReady nodded and walked out of the hangar, his whistle echoing off the curved steel ceiling.
Quinlan moved quickly. He had a small gym-style leather bag that he wanted to put in the very back of the cargo hold. He climbed in and began rearranging trunks and bags. When he had cleared out a place against the rear wall of the hold, he slipped the bag in there, then covered it up with the trunks and other bags.
Eight million dollars in cash. It had taken him four years to accumulate it in various ways. About a third of it had come from his inheritance. His father had been a Los Angeles attorney who'd attached himself to some very powerful studio people. After he'd helped extricate one of them from a difficult-and potentially criminal-tax situation, they'd all pushed some very high-visibility WORK his way. He'd made a lot of money and had left half of it to Quinlan-the only thing he'd left Quinlan. He'd been a terrible, absent father. Quinlan hadn't thought much more of his mother, a very beautiful but strictly decorous woman who'd died of a brain tumor. He'd overhead one of the maids laugh one day, "I didn't know she had a brain." And cruel as the remark was, he had to agree with it. His mother had been a dope.
Eight million dollars in cash.
That was the best way to start a new life. And to inaugurate a new face. The very best way.
***
Most of the private investigators Coffey knew were jerks. They would literally do anything for a buck. Especially since the hi-tech revolution made spying a rather simple process. But the card Margolis had given him at the cab company led him to a surprising neighborhood.
He had low expectations of International Investigations, Inc. In spite of the imposing name, the place would be a dusty walk-up in an ancient four-story office building. There would be a pebbled-glass door with chipped black paint giving the name of the place. Inside, he'd find a waiting room with a few spindly chairs and some very old Time magazines on a scarred and wobbly table. Cummings himself-that was the name on the card-would be dumpy, vaguely unclean, and smell of beer or whiskey. Or both.
This was Coffey's composite sketch of private detectives.
So he was surprised when he found that International
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Quinlan drove his Mercedes sports coupe to the private airport where the hangar he leased housed his Lear jet. When people swooned at the extravagance of such a purchase, especially for a man whose business rarely took him out of the city, he pointed out that the Lear was nearly ten years old, and that he needed to escape from his work every now and then. He had been known to favor the Caribbean.
His pilot, a chunky thirty-seven-year-old redhead named McReady, was climbing out of the cargo hold when Quinlan arrived.
"You think there'll be room for everything?" Quinlan asked.
"Should be," McReady said. "I've never seen you take this much on a vacation before."
"Well, I'll probably be staying longer than usual."
Much longer , Quinlan thought. After McReady took him to London, Quinlan would disappear into a clinic where plastic surgery would turn him into a new man. "Quinlan" would never be seen or heard from again. As soon as his last task was finished in Chicago, which should be tomorrow, "Quinlan" would be gone forever.
"What're the weather people saying?"
McReady, wiping his hands on his gray overalls, said, "Some storms over the mid-Atlantic. But they don't look like much. Should be an easy go."
"Great." Then, "I've got something I want to load up myself."
McReady smiled. "Be my guest. My daughter's got a dental appointment. I'm supposed to pick her up at school and take her. I'll be back here in a couple of hours."
"No hurry. Everything looks like it's moving along fine."
McReady nodded and walked out of the hangar, his whistle echoing off the curved steel ceiling.
Quinlan moved quickly. He had a small gym-style leather bag that he wanted to put in the very back of the cargo hold. He climbed in and began rearranging trunks and bags. When he had cleared out a place against the rear wall of the hold, he slipped the bag in there, then covered it up with the trunks and other bags.
Eight million dollars in cash. It had taken him four years to accumulate it in various ways. About a third of it had come from his inheritance. His father had been a Los Angeles attorney who'd attached himself to some very powerful studio people. After he'd helped extricate one of them from a difficult-and potentially criminal-tax situation, they'd all pushed some very high-visibility WORK his way. He'd made a lot of money and had left half of it to Quinlan-the only thing he'd left Quinlan. He'd been a terrible, absent father. Quinlan hadn't thought much more of his mother, a very beautiful but strictly decorous woman who'd died of a brain tumor. He'd overhead one of the maids laugh one day, "I didn't know she had a brain." And cruel as the remark was, he had to agree with it. His mother had been a dope.
Eight million dollars in cash.
That was the best way to start a new life. And to inaugurate a new face. The very best way.
***
Most of the private investigators Coffey knew were jerks. They would literally do anything for a buck. Especially since the hi-tech revolution made spying a rather simple process. But the card Margolis had given him at the cab company led him to a surprising neighborhood.
He had low expectations of International Investigations, Inc. In spite of the imposing name, the place would be a dusty walk-up in an ancient four-story office building. There would be a pebbled-glass door with chipped black paint giving the name of the place. Inside, he'd find a waiting room with a few spindly chairs and some very old Time magazines on a scarred and wobbly table. Cummings himself-that was the name on the card-would be dumpy, vaguely unclean, and smell of beer or whiskey. Or both.
This was Coffey's composite sketch of private detectives.
So he was surprised when he found that International
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