Cooper nodded, said, “Privacy,” then pushed into the back room.
It was a smaller twin of the main room. A bar along one side, the taps unscrewed, pitchers racked, washcloth dangling. Without anyone there, it had an air of sad expectation. Cooper flipped on the lights, then sat down at the abandoned bar. He laid his datapad down, then spread his arms, put them palm first on the polished surface, and waited.
Ten minutes later, he heard the door open. Very slowly, moving only his head, he turned to look.
Bobby Quinn had on the same suit as earlier. His posture radiated fight-or-fight, and screw the other option. One hand rested on his weapon, the holster unsnapped.
“I’m not moving, Bobby. Legs crossed, hands on the bar.”
Quinn glanced around the room. Didn’t relax, but did step inside. He let the door click behind him, then drew the gun. Didn’t point it, which was something.
“Half an hour,” Cooper said. “Like I said on the phone. Then you’ll understand.”
His partner moved to the end of the bar. With his off hand, he reached around his back and came out with a pair of handcuffs. Slid them to Cooper. “Keep your right hand on the bar. Use your left to lock it to the rail.”
“Come on, Bobby—”
The gun came up. “Do it.”
Cooper sighed. He picked up the cuffs, careful to move slowly. Snapped them around his right wrist.
You do this, you’re helpless. If you’re wrong about Quinn, then it’s all over.
He fastened the other end to the brass rail. Gave an experimental tug. A clang and a bite. “Better?”
Quinn holstered his weapon. Walked closer. His face was unreadable, too many things happening at once. “I’ll give you your half hour, because I said I would. But when time is up, I’m going to call a team to bring you in.”
“Like I said on the phone, if you do, I won’t resist.” He tried for a grin. “Much.”
“You resist at all, and I’ll kill you.” It was a simple statement of fact, and all the more jarring for coming from Bobby Quinn, to whom sarcasm and irony were akin to oxygen. “Start talking.”
Cooper took a breath. “I’ve been in deep cover for six months. Since March 12th, when you and I almost stopped the bombing of the Exchange. I was inside. No idea how I survived, but I woke up in a triage tent. When I could walk again, I hitched a ride with a bunch of Marines and went to see Drew Peters. I pitched him a crazy plan: I’d go rogue. Everyone would blame me for the explosion. I’d become a bad guy. Be hunted.”
He talked fast, didn’t waste time on embellishments, just laid out the facts. His time on the run. Building a reputation as a thief. His coming-out party on the El platform. The trip to Wyoming. Meeting Epstein.
“Why? Why do all this?”
“I told you, so that I could get to John Smith and kill him.”
Quinn shook his head. “That’s the goal. I asked why.”
“Oh. My daughter.”
“Kate?”
“She was about to be tested. She would have been sent to an academy. Peters promised to keep her out.” His stomach soured. I’ll take care of your family. “Everything I’ve done, I did for her.”
“Did you find Smith?”
“Yes.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“Ah-so.”
Cooper started to lean back, stopped when the cuff bit his wrist. He said, “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“No. And in twenty minutes, I’m going to bring you in.”
“Jesus, Bobby. I’ve been a DAR agent for the last six months. I mean, teams came after me four times. Four. And in that time, I never killed one agent. Never even hurt one, more than his pride. Why do you think that is?”
“You just killed one.” Quinn’s eyes hard. “In the cemetery.”
“Yeah,” Cooper said. “Well, I’m not an agent anymore. And once you take a look at that,” he jerked his head toward the datapad, “I don’t think you will be either.”
“What is it?”
“Drew Peters’s dirtiest secret. It’s what I was picking up in the cemetery.”
“I thought you were after Smith.”