The Wrong Quarry by Max Allan Collins

Author:Max Allan Collins [Collins, Max Allan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-78116-267-5
Publisher: Titan
Published: 2013-10-30T22:57:00+00:00

EIGHT

About two o’clock, Jenny dropped me off in the Holiday Inn parking lot. She wondered if I wanted to go out somewhere tonight, and I said love to, but I had some business things that needed attending—we’d get together tomorrow, if she was free.

I couldn’t break it to her that I already had a date with a teenage girl.

Lingering in the lot, I watched her drive off in that Batmobile of a Firebird, thinking what an incredible woman she was, when I noticed a familiar vehicle pull in across the way, at the Rest Haven Court.

Funny, I thought, you wouldn’t think there were that many shit-brown Bonnevilles around....

And there weren’t, because as I watched, that Bonneville slowed near Cabin 12, hesitated at the sight of the vacant space outside it, then pulled into it.

Climbing out of the Pontiac was an unmistakable chunky redheaded guy in a gray quilted ski jacket and jeans—not that many of those around, either.

Looking around with confusion and caution, he walked to the cabin door. He knocked. He pounded. Then stood there with hands on hips, looking exasperated, glancing side to side and then behind him, finally climbing back into the Bonneville and pulling out of the Rest Haven lot.

If he had turned left and headed for Highway 218, I’d have jumped in the Pinto and taken off after him. Right then and there.

But he didn’t.

He was heading into town, presumably to find his partner. After all, other than maybe a restaurant or two—and we were well past the lunch hour—Farrell could only be one place, really.

Staking out Roger Vale’s dance studio.

Why had Mateski returned?

Obviously he had tried to check in with his active half by phone, maybe even at a designated time, and Farrell (being dead) didn’t answer. Maybe Mateski had then checked in with their middleman and been told to go back to Stockwell and see what the fuck was up. More likely Mateski hadn’t taken that step yet, not wanting to send up a red flag to a middleman who might accuse the team of screwing up.

And now the antiques dealer had found no sign of his partner at the motel, which could mean only one of two things: Farrell was carrying out the hit, right this minute...or something had gone very wrong.

The former might seem improbable to Mateski, since this was daylight, and a nighttime scaling of the dance instructor’s fortress made more sense. Of course, this was a torture kill, and who knew how long Farrell might take with that task. Or where he might carry out his gruesome mission....

Which meant Mateski might have a secondary location to check out, some safe house (so to speak) where Farrell was even now snipping off dance-instructor toes or testicles or whathave-you. Maybe Farrell hadn’t checked in by phone with Mateski because he was having so much darn fun, he lost track of time.

Bottom line was: Farrell had not fucking checked in with Mateski, or been available for a designated call, which put the kill unexpectedly behind schedule.

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