by Lisa Gardner
“I want some coffee,” he said as he climbed out of his car.
“Hello to you, too,” she replied.
“You crash government facilities often?”
“I didn’t realize it would be so hard.”
“Rainie, it’s the FBI Academy. We have procedures and protocol. If just anyone could walk in, it would ruin the point.”
“Fine. Next time I’ll wear my best cocktail dress.”
“Christ,” he said. “You really can be childish.”
He headed for the restaurant. She stood rooted in the parking lot, stunned by the coldness in his voice. Then the shock wore off, and she went after him.
“What the hell is with you?” Rainie demanded, catching up with Quincy as he approached the cashier and grabbing his arm.
“Two coffees,” he ordered. “One black, one with way too much cream and sugar.”
“I don’t need coffee. I want an explanation.”
“Coffee’s easier,” he told her, and wouldn’t say another word until the amused cashier delivered both cups. Then he made Rainie follow him back outside, to a picnic table in a grove of trees she hadn’t noticed before. The walk was long and didn’t do a thing to calm her temper.
“Okay,” she announced the instant he sat at the table. “What the hell is going on, Quincy? And you’d better start talking or you’ll be wearing this coffee with ‘way too much cream and sugar.’ ”
Quincy blew on his black, steaming brew. She could see now that the shadows had deepened under his eyes and his cheeks had gained the hollowed look of a man not sleeping at night. It was funny, she thought. Last year, she had been the one looking like walking death, and Quincy had been the one lecturing her to eat and sleep anyway. Stress is an even better reason to take care of yourself, he’d told her. Taking care of the body helps take care of the mind. If she repeated his own lecture back to him now, she wondered, how childish would that be?
“Have you heard of something called identity theft?” Quincy asked tersely.
Rainie sat down. She sipped her coffee. She nodded.
“A person steals someone’s identity. Not too hard to do in this day and age. Gets the person’s Social Security number and mother’s maiden name, then uses that information to get a copy of the birth certificate and voilà, becomes the new person. It’s amazing all the things you can do once you have basic documentation. Get a valid driver’s license. Open a bank account or apply for a credit card. Buy a car, a red Audi TT roadster, I take it, registered and financed in the unwitting victim’s name.”
“Someone used your name to buy a sports car?”
“In New York. Two weeks ago. In theory, I currently owe a Westchester dealership forty thousand dollars, payable in convenient monthly installments of eight hundred and eleven dollars over the next five years.”
“Someone stole an FBI agent’s identity?”
“Why not? He’s already given out my personal information to half the hardened criminals in the country. After that, what’s one high-performance vehicle?” Quincy paused. He added grudgingly, “At least the man has good taste.”
Rainie still couldn’t believe it. “Identity theft … Doesn’t the Bureau have specialists in this area?”
“The Bureau has specialists in every area,” Quincy told her, but didn’t sound encouraged. He set down his coffee cup, and Rainie was shocked to see that his hands were shaking.
“They took over my house, Rainie,” he said quietly. “This afternoon fellow agents set up cameras on my daughter’s grave. It’s ironic. I’m an expert. In fact, I’m an expert in precisely these kinds of cases, and as of seven oh-five this morning, no one cares about my opinion anymore. As of seven oh-five this morning, I became a victim, and I have never hated anything more.”
“They’re idiots, Quince. I’ve told you that before. If FBI agents were so smart, they wouldn’t still be running around in such god-awful suits after the rest of the world has gone business casual. What kind of man starts his day by tying a noose around his neck anyway?”
Quincy glanced down at his burgundy tie, today’s choice offering tiny navy blue and dark green geometric patterns and looking suspiciously close to the tie he wore the day before that and the day before that.
“I can’t stand this,” he said baldly. “Someone is taking over my life. I don’t even know why.”
“Sure you do. You’re the good guy. By definition, all the bad guys hate you.”
“Agents Rodman and Montgomery are working on the phone calls. They’re staking out my house, and trying to trace ads placed in various prison newsletters, as if that will amount to anything. They’re also working on tracking the Audi. I don’t know what that has to do with anything, unless it’s simply one more way for the UNSUB to thumb his nose at me—I’m still stuck in basic investigative strategies while he’s shopping for luxury automobiles. He may have a point.”
Quincy sighed. He dragged a hand through his hair. “Today, I amused myself by pulling all my old case files and building a database of anyone I’ve ever ticked off. The bad news is that there’s a lot of them. The good news is that an amazing number of them are either in jail or dead.”
“That’s what I like about you, Quincy. Your ability to network.”
He nodded absently. “I’m eighty percent sure I’m a target, Rainie. I have no idea whose. I can’t even be sure why. Revenge is the obvious answer. Why not? But for whatever reason, someone has started weaving a very complex web, and no matter what I do, I think I’m already stuck right smack in the middle of it.”
“You have friends, Quincy,” she said quietly. “We’ll help you. I’ll help you.”
“Will you?” He looked her in the eye. “Rainie,” he said softly, “tell me what you learned about Mandy. Tell me what we both already know in our gut.”
Rainie looked away. She finished her coffee. She set the empty paper cup on the picnic table, then spun it between her hands. She didn’t want to answer his request, and they both knew it. She also understood, however, that she couldn’t soft-pedal the news. One more thing she and Quincy had in common—they preferred their bad news direct. Get it out. Get it over. Get it done.
“You’re right,” she said shortly, “something’s rotten in Denmark.”
“It was murder?”
“I don’t know that,” she countered immediately, her voice firm. “What’s the number one rule of investigating—no jumping to conclusions. At the moment, we have no physical evidence that suggests murder.”
“On the other hand …” he said for her.
“On the other hand, something’s up with Mary Olsen.”
“Really?” Quincy seemed genuinely surprised. He frowned, rubbed his temples, and she could tell he’d gone straight to self-doubt about his impression of sweet little Mrs. Doctor Olsen because he already appeared dazed.
“I spoke with her this morning, Quince, and Mary recanted everything. Mandy looked like she was drinking Diet Coke all night, but maybe she was spiking it with rum. You might have gotten the impression from Mary that Mandy had a boyfriend, but Mary now says that wasn’t the case at all. Furthermore, Mandy had been known to drink and drive before, so it probably was as simple as that.”
“Mandy spiked her own Coke at a friend’s house, then made it all the way to the middle of nowhere before suddenly being so drunk that she crashed?”
“I didn’t say Mary had a good story, I just said she had a new story.”
“Why? She was my daughter’s best friend. Why?”
Rainie could hear the deeper question behind those words. Why was this happening, to Mandy, to him? Why would someone hurt his daughter? Why wouldn’t the world stay controlled and rational, the way all behavioral scientists wanted it to be?
“I think Mary’s a lonely little princess,” Rainie answered softly. “I think for the right kind of attention, she could be manipulated very easily.”
“The UNSUB got to her? Made her change her story?”
“Or
the UNSUB got to her and had her make up the story in the first place. We don’t really know that someone hurt Mandy. We do know that Mary said things at the funeral, however, that made you think someone hurt Mandy.”
“I’m being played,” Quincy filled in slowly. “Harassing phone calls, illegal automobile purchases, rumors about my daughter …” He sat up a little straighter. “Shit, I’m being played like a fucking violin!”
Rainie blinked. “Since when did you take up swearing?”
“Yesterday. I’m finding it highly addictive. Like nicotine.”
“You’re smoking, too?”
“No, but I haven’t lost my deep and abiding love for metaphors.”
“I’m serious, Quince, you’re letting yourself fall apart.”
“And apparently, you haven’t lost your deep and abiding love for understatement.”
“Quincy—”
“What’s wrong, Rainie?” he quizzed with that new edge in his voice. “Can’t stand for me to be so human?”
She was up from the picnic table before she knew what she was doing, her hands fisted at her side and her heart hammering in her chest. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means … it means I’m tired,” Quincy said more quietly, his voice already conciliatory. “It means I’m under pressure. It means probably, that I’m looking for a fight. But you’re not the person for me to fight with. So let’s not do this now. Let’s forget I said anything, and simply not do this now.”
“Too late.”
“You looking for a fight, too, Rainie?”
She knew she shouldn’t say it. She knew he was right and they were both stressed and now was not the time. Six long months without even one damn phone call. She brought up her chin and said, “Maybe.”
Quincy got up from the picnic table. He dusted off his hands. He stared at her, and his gaze appeared a lot more composed than she felt. He’d always been so good at remaining in control.
“You want to know where we went wrong?” he said crisply. “You want to know why it started out seeming so right, and then the world ended, not with a bang, but a whimper? I can tell you why, Rainie. It ended because you have no faith. Because one year later, the new, improved Lorraine Conner still doesn’t believe. Not in me. And most certainly not in yourself.”
“I don’t have faith?” she countered. “I don’t have faith? This from the man whose only way of coming to terms with his daughter’s death is to turn it into murder.”
Quincy recoiled sharply. “Strike one to the woman in blue jeans,” he murmured, his expression growing hidden, growing hard.
Rainie wouldn’t back down, though, couldn’t back down. She’d only learned one way to deal with life, and that was to fight. “No hiding behind your wry observations, Quincy. You want me to see you as human? Then act human. For God’s sake, we’re not even having a real argument yet, because you’re still too busy lecturing me!”
“I’m simply saying you have no faith—”
“Stop psychoanalyzing me! Be less therapist, more man—”
“Man? Last time I tried being a man, you looked at me as if I was going to hit you. You don’t need a man, Rainie. You need either a blow-up doll or a damn saint!”
“Son of a bitch!” Rainie opened her mouth to yell further, then suddenly froze. She knew what he was talking about. That night, their last night together nearly eight months ago in Portland. Going to Pioneer Square. Sitting outside at Starbucks and listening to some a capella group perform. Talking, relaxing, having a nice time. And afterwards, going to his hotel because she still had the dingy apartment. She’d been thinking that she’d been so lonely. She’d been thinking that it was so good to see him again.
She’d moved closer. Inhaled the scent of his cologne. How much she loved that fragrance. And she’d felt him grow still, his body nearly breathless as if he understood that even exhaling might frighten her away. He’d gone still, so she’d kept approaching. She’d smelled the skin at his throat. Explored the curve of his ear. And then, something had taken hold of her. Desire maybe—she had so little experience with the real thing. She’d just wanted to touch him, more and more, if he’d stay, just like that, not moving, not breathing. She’d unbuttoned his shirt. She’d smoothed it from his shoulders. He had a hard chest, sculpted by a lifetime of running. The whorls of chest hair felt spongy against her palm. She placed her hand over his heart and felt it race against her touch.
On his collarbone and upper arm. Three small scars. Souvenirs of a shotgun blast, not all of which had been absorbed by his vest. Tracing those scars with her fingertips. Quincy, the super agent. Quincy, the superhero. Marveling …
His hand had suddenly snapped around her wrist. Her gaze jerked up. For the first time she saw his expression, dark and glittery with lust.
And the moment flew away from her. Her body froze, her mind rocketed back and she was thinking of yellow-flowered fields and smooth-flowing streams. She remained touching his body, but it was harsh now, a sick imitation of the real thing. The way she’d been taught in the very beginning.
Quincy had pushed her away. He’d told her to give him a minute. But she hadn’t. She’d been humiliated, embarrassed, ashamed. And being Rainie, she’d told him it was all his fault, then left without saying another word. In the following months, it had been easier for her to simply let the phone ring. If he did catch her at home, she was always too busy to talk.
He was right; she was the one who’d stopped returning his calls. But he was supposed to know better. He was supposed to understand and still come after her. Except he hadn’t.
“I’m supposed to be patient,” Quincy said, as if reading her mind. “I’m supposed to be persistent. I’m supposed to be tolerant of your mood swings, your temper, your troubled past. I’m supposed to be everything, Rainie, but frustrated and angry—”
“Hey, I’m dealing with a lot of things—”
“And so am I! We’re all dealing with things. Unfortunately, you seem to think you’re the only person who’s allowed to be petty. Well, I have news for you. I buried my daughter last month. My coworkers are now conducting surveillance on her grave. And no matter what I do, I can’t reach my ex-wife, whose family connections might have enough power to call it off. I’m not just mad, Rainie. I’m pretty damn pissed off.”
“Well, there’s your problem, Quincy—you’re mimicking me when we both know I should be mimicking you.”
“I can’t be perfect for you right now, Rainie.”
“Dammit, I am not that needy!” Rainie scowled at him. Quincy merely shook his head.
“You have to have faith,” he said quietly. “I know it’s hard, but at some point, you have to believe. Some people are evil, some people will hurt you, but not everyone will. And trying to stay safe by going at it alone doesn’t work in the end. Isolation is not protection. I know. I thought it would be easier if I never opened up to my family, if I never got too close. Then I lost my daughter, and it hasn’t been any easier at all. I am falling apart.”
“Quincy—”
“But I am going to put myself back together,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “I am going to find the son of a bitch who did this. And if I have to be angry to do that, I’ll be angry. And if I have to stop sleeping and start swearing and behave like an utter jerk, I’ll do that, too. I’m coping, Rainie, and nobody ever said coping had to be pretty. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to try to reach Bethie again.”
Quincy turned away. He started walking back to his car. Rainie knew she should say something, but what came out didn’t make much sense.
“Just because you survive, doesn’t mean you’ll end up happily-ever-after,” she yelled at him. “Just because you cope, doesn’t mean you’ll win. Bad things can still happen. There’s the jackals, you know. And, and … jackals everywhere …”
“Good night, Rainie.”
He wasn’t going to stop. It was her turn to make the effort; fair was fair. Funny, she’d never though
t about it until now, but in her family, no one was ever encouraged to stay.
“It’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks,” she muttered in her own defense. But Quincy was already gone and there wasn’t anyone else left to hear.
The hour was growing late, dusk beginning to fall. In his car, Quincy used his cell phone to call his ex-wife. But once more he got the machine.
Rainie didn’t have a cell phone. She went into the restaurant and used the pay phone in the lobby.
“Hey, Big Boy,” she said a moment later. “Let me buy you a drink.”
14
Virginia
By nine P.M., Rainie was edgy and tense. She’d returned to her motel for a quick shower before meeting Officer Amity—who was now suggesting that she call him Vince. In her room, she discovered a phone message from the same lawyer who’d called that morning. Some attorney named Carl Mitz was all hot and bothered to get in touch with her. He’d left numbers for his pager and his cell phone. Rainie studied the numbers without calling any of them.
Prospective clients were never this eager. Prospective clients made it their business to make you find them.
Rainie put the message aside. She showered. She washed her hair. She stood for a long, long time with the hot water beating down on her neck and shoulders. Then she put on the same old clothes and headed for the bar.
Officer Vince Amity was already there. He’d also showered and now wore a black western dress shirt tucked into a faded pair of jeans and finished with a pair of scuffed-up boots. The shirt stretched across broad shoulders. When he stood, the jeans barely contained the bulge of his thighs. A fine specimen of a man. The proverbial hunk of burning love.
Rainie ordered her bottle of Bud Light and told herself she did not miss Quincy.
“Ribs here are really good,” Vince said.
“Okay.”
“And the sweet potato fries. Ever had sweet potato fries? Worth every minute of the ensuing open-heart surgery.”
“Okay.” The waitress came by. They placed their twin orders for ribs and sweet potato fries and the minute the waitress was gone, Vince gamely tried again.
