Mindhunters 4 - Deadly Intent (37 page)

Lon peered closer at it before shaking his head. “Nope. Why, does he have a mask like these?”

“Actually he did, but he’s not available for us to ask about it.” Kell turned from the display he was perusing to saunter up to them. “We’re not even sure if it was done locally but thought we’d check and see who in the area could manage a job like his.”

Lon scratched his balding pate, then crossed over to take the mask from Travis, who was trying unsuccessfully to replace it on the mannequin head. “There are dozens of places selling products like this, but there are only a few of us actually making them in the area. Barry Fingle, but he works out of Colorado Springs, about an hour south of here.” Repositioning the mask, he continued, “He does nice work. Sam Masterson, here in town, but he works mostly with latex and I know he doesn’t do any sculpting. Wendy Parker does. Norm Ellison, he’s in Boulder. And then there’s my mentor.” He grinned again, as if at a private joke.

“Your mentor?” Macy eyed his cup as he tipped it to his mouth again and wondered if he’d object too much if she swiped it from him. After the nerve-grinding session with Adam, she could have used a jolt of caffeine, but breakfast had consisted of the apple she’d grabbed before following Travis and Kell into the conference room for an update of yesterday’s events.

“I call him that. He’s the reason I got interested in masks when I was a kid. He began working with sculpture before moving to latex. Potsy we all called him, because, you know, back in the day”—he mimed smoking a reefer—“he’s who you saw when you needed some. I also heard he was the man to see if you’d lifted something you needed to get rid of.”

“A fence?”

“I don’t know if that’s true, though,” he said in answer to Travis. “But he was a man of many talents. He’s the best in the business. His stuff is so lifelike they could talk on their own.” His voice had gotten a little dreamy. “He’s shown me a couple times how to attach the hair so it holds better. Never met anyone else in the business who could match his skills. But he does it for kicks, I think. He doesn’t have a website. Isn’t even in the phone book. Just has a cell number.”

“But you know where to find him?” Agent Travis was already taking out a pad and pen.

“Sure. He’s over on Colfax. I don’t know the exact address, but it’s on the eighteen hundred block. One-story brick building, no sign, except for the one in the window. Quinn’s.” Pearce shrugged and straightened some of the mannequins on the shelf. “Always sort of wondered how he stayed in business.”

“Colfax.” Kell slammed the door of the vehicle and turned down his collar, which Macy assumed had been upturned in an attempt to keep his ears warm. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Probably because it’s one of the longest commercial strips in the country.” Travis started the SUV and checked the heater. “It runs through a half-dozen towns in the vicinity.”

“Did you make that phone call you mentioned earlier?” Macy asked Kell. They hadn’t had a moment alone together since he’d left her room that morning. And while a part of her was relieved at that fact, he also hadn’t had an opportunity to update her about the intended call to Denise Temple.

“I did.” His expression took on a serious cast that she rarely observed there. “She was . . . understandably upset. But appreciative of the update.”

“Burke, you’ve got more women problems than anyone I’ve ever met.” The sun was out, finally, and traffic had turned some of the packed snow on the streets to dirty slush. Travis caught her eye in the rearview mirror. “At the incident response, he actually left the house during interviews to take a call from a girlfriend. Can you believe that?” He shook his head. “Whitman was fit to be tied.”

Something inside her stilled at the words. Because they weren’t as surprising as they should have been. Kell had been talking to one of his women the other morning on the way downstairs to breakfast. And she’d long suspected he had a line of them. Ramsey had mentioned as much when Macy had confessed a few months ago to having a hard time responding to the man’s quips. Not even to her friend had she admitted her difficulty had been made worse by the one night they’d slept together.

Swallowing hard, she looked blindly out the window at the passing storefronts. She was too fastidious to enjoy being one of a throng, and the sooner she came up with a way to tell him as much, the better off she’d be.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t shown herself to be particularly articulate around him when the situation called for it.

He turned around in the front seat as much as the seat belt allowed to murmur meaningfully, “I was talking to her that day, too. Our friend.”

Her gaze flew up to meet his, something in her chest easing. So the call he’d taken that day was from Temple. Ridiculous to feel this flicker of relief. The knowledge changed nothing between them. And there was no
them
in any but a professional sense for the duration of this case.

After that, given what she’d heard of the man’s attention span, it would be a moot point. She tried to convince herself that she wasn’t disappointed by the certainty.

“Anyone else getting a bad feeling about this?” Kell muttered as they got out of the car and stared at the scene across the street.

A sense of foreboding settled low in her belly. “Bugger it,” she muttered. The portion of the street they were on wasn’t in the best of neighborhoods. Young toughs, who all looked like they’d fail a cursory pat down, stood on street corners, warming themselves in fires contained in beat-up trash containers. There was a transaction openly taking place between a driver in a Lexus and a young woman of questionable fashion sense before she opened the front door of the vehicle and got in.

Most of the police tape around the burned-out shell of a building across the street had been torn away and was lying on the ground. But the boarded-up windows and doorway told their own story.

The three of them stared glumly at the scene. Travis muttered, “Ten to one, we’ve found Quinn.”

Denver Detective Ryan Summers was short and squat, with slicked-back hair and a nose red from continual blowing. “Damned cold,” he muttered as he tossed a used Kleenex in the metal trash can next to his desk. “Impossible to shake in this weather.”

“So the fire broke out a week ago?”

“Sometime after nine P.M.” Summers drew another tissue and blew his nose loudly. Macy eased away from his desk imperceptibly. If ever she’d seen a man who needed to be home in bed, it was this one. “Arson, the fire investigator said. Given the owner, I immediately figured him for it, but revised my opinion when the coroner identified Quinn’s body inside.”

“He has a sheet?” Kell asked.

“Quinn’s been around long enough for his record to have started on stone tablets.” He looked up expectantly, so Macy smiled at the joke. “Moved through the system a few times, but he’s been clean for a couple decades, which means only we couldn’t hang a damn thing on him.” Although his desktop was a cluttered mess that had her fingers itching to organize it, he settled on a file folder unerringly and pulled it free from the clutter to open it. “Did a five to ten in the eighties for receiving stolen goods, and had some minor drug busts prior to that.”

“But you thought he was involved in something more recently?” Travis was unbuttoning his coat. Kell’s was already unzipped. In a stark contrast to most police stations she’d ever visited, heat was blasting through the area.

“Oh, yeah, we knew he was still receiving. Just couldn’t catch him at it.” He opened his middle desk drawer, freed a throat lozenge from a pack, and popped it in his mouth. “But once I started poking around after the fire, I heard a few rumors that he was the guy to see for new IDs.”

“Forged identifications?”

He sneezed loudly before nodding at Kell’s question. “Supposed to be a master at it, too, which was news to us.

Hell, maybe he was doing it all along even before his stint in prison.”

“Did anyone mention what was inside his shop before it burned?”

“Freaky-ass stuff. Weird sculptures and paintings. I guess he fancied himself an artist, too. Masks and costumes.” He shook his head. “The kind of thing he couldn’t have made a living at, you know? Not in that neighborhood. Had to be a front for something else.”

“What was he doing at the store at that time of night?” When the detective’s rheumy gaze met hers, she went on. “Was the shop still open?”

“Hell if I know. His sort of place didn’t have hours posted, but he lived in the back. He would have been there twenty-four, seven.”

“What’d your canvass turn up?”

Summers snorted at the CBI agent’s question. “In that neighborhood? The usual. A lot of nothing. No one saw anyone going in or out of the building that night. No one saw Quinn at all that day. I have it figured for a robbery gone bad. Some meth head breaks in looking for something to hock, and Quinn confronts him. Gets shot in the head for his efforts.”

Macy’s interest was reflected by the immediate straightening of Dan and Kell. “So he died of a bullet wound and not from the fire?”

“That’s what the coroner said. Execution style, right between the eyes.” He plucked another Kleenex from the box on his desk. “Every punk has a gun these days, and they all think they’re Dirty Harry.”

Twice he heard the far-off echo of a shot, and each time he did, his finger itched. He didn’t know what the crazy orange-clad motherfuckers were hunting, but they were clearly desperate to find their game. Enough to risk frostbite and just plain freezing their asses off on this godforsaken mountainside.

He was here, too, wasn’t he? And his desire to find his prey was probably more desperate than theirs.

And then there they were, in the snow, like a gift bestowed for his patience. The animal tracks didn’t interest him, but the snowshoe tracks did. They led away to the left, a bunch of them around a rocky slope and then up it, over the steep incline and across the small ravine. With renewed energy, he followed them, for at least a couple miles.

The distance didn’t matter. His focus had narrowed to certain deadly intent. He could do her out here, among the dense trees, and bury the body in snow. She wouldn’t be found until the spring thaw, much like Hubbard, and whatever the animals left of them would impede identification for much longer.