“Somehow, despite your rough start, you became the incredible man you are. You should be proud of that, Quinn.” She couldn’t tell whether her words touched him.
They drove the rest of the way to the hotel in silence, then ordered room service, eating in front of Netflix and watching a BBC special on Scotland’s standing stones that Quinn had found for her. She thought it was all fascinating.
“I can’t believe that some of these Neolithic sites are older than the pyramids.”
Quinn seemed less impressed. “What the fuck is a henge anyway?”
“I guess no one’s quite sure.” She turned off the TV and crawled onto his lap, facing him, her hands resting on his shoulders. “They certainly are phallic, jutting up out of the ground, hard and thick and long.”
He grinned, lifted her sweater over her head. “Like I said, you’ve got a way of bringin’ history alive. If you’d been my teacher, I might have learned a thing or two.”
They made out on the sofa like a couple of teenagers, his hands and mouth on her breasts, her hands inside his jeans. Then he carried her to her bed and made long, slow love to her until they were both utterly spent.
What was she going to do without him once they got back to Denver?
She didn’t want to think about that now. She didn’t want to think about anything.
Quinn broke the silence. “Tomorrow when I go talk to this Leo fella, you should stay here. I’d feel better if I knew you were out of harm’s way. If Jack didnae trust him, then I dinnae trust him. It could get rough.”
She raised her head, looked up at him. “Oh, no. No, no. That’s exactly the situation where you need me. Will you be able to tell whether he’s lying?”
“If Wilson follows me, he willnae be able to arrest you for interferin’—”
“I told you I wouldn’t give up on you or Jack. I meant it. It’s my choice, Quinn, not yours. Besides, didn’t I just prove that I enjoy taking risks?”
He made a noncommittal hmph. “I’ll be callin’ the shots while we’re there, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
He kissed her hair. “That’s more like it.”
12
Quinn drove southwest on the M77 toward the port town of Troon, a light rain falling. Elizabeth had located Leo Grant’s business and pulled up Google satellite images of the place for Quinn to study. From a tactical point of view, it was a tricky landscape, offering cover to potential adversaries, with a rectangular warehouse and several small cargo ships moored along the wharf. He thought he’d seen a security fence, too—a potential obstacle if they needed to leave in a hurry.
He wished Elizabeth had listened to him and stayed at the hotel. It would have given him one less worry. Though he’d brought the Glock, he hoped to fuck he didn’t have to draw. He didn’t enjoy killing.
As he drove, Elizabeth shared what she’d found online. “According to the website, they ship coal, lumber, aggregates, construction materials, construction and farm equipment, livestock, and other goods to the smaller ports on Scotland’s west coast, the Scottish islands, and Northern Ireland.”
“It wouldnae be hard for him to smuggle drugs up and down the coast.”
“It’s the perfect set up for any kind of smuggling—drugs, people, weapons. It says here that Leo Grant, the owner, worked for the company as a young man and then bought it four years ago when its original owner retired.”
“He probably did that with money from sellin’ drugs. Run a load of lumber up the coast and drop off a dozen kilos of smack along the way. That could turn a tidy profit.”
“This is all speculation. Don’t convict the guy before he’s been arrested. For all we know, he’s never smuggled a thing.”
“Ava said Jack was suspicious of his business dealings. Maybe Jack knew somethin’ incriminatin’, and Grant wanted to make certain he didnae talk.”
“If Jack knew something incriminating about Leo, why would he meet him in a dark alley in the middle of the night? I know you want to find Jack’s killer, but you should at least try to be objective. You won’t help yourself if you walk up to Grant angry and ready to fight.”
Aye, Lilibet had a point there. But how the fuck was he supposed to be objective when a man who’d been like a brother to him was lying dead on a slab? He wanted answers, and he wanted them last week.
The rain had stopped by the time they reached Troon Port, the sun peeking out from behind the clouds.
Quinn parked next to West Scotland Shipping. His phone buzzed—a text message from Lewis saying they’d raised enough money now to pay for military honors for Jack’s funeral and asking whether Quinn wanted to be part of the honor guard and a pallbearer.
Fuck.What a thought.