The Collected (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) by Brett Battles

burner,” Orlando said. “Probably already dumped in a landfill.”
    Quinn nodded. “What about this Burke guy? Is he missing, too? Because if he isn’t, I would very much like to talk to him.”
    They stopped at the next coffee shop they spotted, and took up residence at a table near the front door as early morning commuters lined up for their shot of espresso.
    Orlando first made a pass through the documents on Pullman’s computer. It didn’t take her long to turn up the list of people who’d been hired for the Lopez project—each name accompanied by contact information. She turned the screen so Quinn could see. He recognized only one of the names from the ops team, but it wasn’t someone he’d worked directly with before. Below the team were two more names: QUINN and BURKE.
    “I say we give Mr. Burke a call,” he said.
    Orlando punched the number into Pullman’s phone. “Ringing.”
    He watched her, hopeful, but it soon became clear no one was going to answer.
    After disconnecting, she handed the phone to Quinn and moved Pullman’s computer to the side, aiming the screen at him. “Maybe one of the others will answer,” she said. She pulled her own laptop out of her bag.
    Quinn went straight to the last name on the ops team list. Kelvin Moore was the team leader, so, theoretically, he’d be the one with the most information.
    The line rang three times, then, “What the hell is it now, Pullman?”
    “Mr. Moore?”
    A long pause. “Who is this?”
    “My name’s Jonathan Quinn.”
    “Quinn? The cleaner? Bullshit. You don’t sound like him at all.”
    “The man you worked with in Mexico is a colleague of mine who also goes by the name of Quinn.”
    “What kind of crap is this?”
    “My friend hasn’t checked in yet, and I’m trying to figure out—”
    “Brother, you have called the wrong number.”
    Moore hung up.
    Quinn called back. The line was answered and immediately disconnected. A third try received a message telling him the subscriber was out of calling range.
    He tried the other names on the list. Two of the numbers played back the same out-of-range message, but the last was answered.
    “Pullman?” A woman’s voice.
    “I’m looking for Bob Rooney,” Quinn said.
    “This is Bobbie.”
    Bobbie? Wait. “Bobbie Harbin ?” he said.
    Silence.
    “Don’t hang up. It’s Jonathan Quinn.”
    “That name’s been thrown around a bit lately.”
    “I know, I know. The guy who was in Mexico with you. He’s my partner. Uses the same name.”
    “That’s…weird.”
    “Long story.”
    “How do I know you’re you?”
    “Baton Rouge. Crawfish dinner. Cajun karaoke.”
    Orlando looked over for a second, one eyebrow raised.
    Bobbie grunted a half laugh. “Okay, okay. Just don’t go into any details. I barely remember that night, which I think is probably for the best.”
    “What’s with the Rooney?”
    “A little trouble under the old name. Thought it best to change it up. What the hell are you calling me for? And why are you on Pullman’s phone?”
    Ignoring the second question, he said, “I’m hoping you might have some information.”
    He could sense her hesitation. “What kind of information?”
    “I’m sure you heard things didn’t end up going so well on the job you just finished.”
    “I might have run across something about that.”
    “Then you know the body was found.”
    “Yeah. I guess your partner isn’t quite as good at his job as you are.”
    “My partner is excellent at his job,” Quinn said quickly.
    “Currently, there seems to be some evidence to the contrary.”
    Bobbie had always been one to see the world in terms of black and white, while Quinn operated in the grays. He said, “He’s missing, Bobbie. He hasn’t been heard from since he last talked to you all. I want to know if there was anything unusual you might have noticed.”
    The line was silent for a few seconds. “Nothing that comes to mind. I’m sorry your friend is missing,