The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  Phil held up a small glass dish. “M&M’s?” Rainie shook her head. He took a large handful. “I got some dependency issues, too,” he admitted cheerfully and munched on the candy while she finished taking inventory of his office.

  The space wasn’t large but it was adequate. One wall contained two rows of bookshelves bearing thick volumes of Virginia State Law as well as piles of magazines. The other wall contained a gallery of framed prints. A diploma from the Virginia police academy. A variety of black and white photos showing de Beers with various men in suits. Probably important men in suits, Rainie thought, but now she was merely showing off her powers of deductive reasoning.

  “Important person?” she asked, picking one photo at random.

  “Director Freeh,” he said.

  “Director Freeh?”

  De Beers flashed her that wide grin. “Head of the FBI.”

  “Oh yeah, that Director Freeh.” Rainie shut up and drank her coffee. It would’ve been better with whiskey.

  “So,” de Beers said. “I’ve been watching Mary Olsen as you requested. Damn boring woman, Mrs. Mary Olsen. Didn’t leave her house yesterday or today.”

  “That’s not very helpful.”

  “No, but I got a contact at the phone company. I’ll pull her records, give ’em a whirl. If you rattled the woman, she’s probably not passing the time merely watching TV.”

  “She’s checking in with people.”

  “There you go. I can get names, numbers, and addresses. Then what do you want me to do?”

  “Fax me the phone numbers and names of whomever she’s called the most. I know a state trooper who can check them out.”

  “I don’t mind doing it.”

  “I want you to stay on Mary, in case phone calls are no longer enough. Oh, and here’s a new name for you. Larry Tanz. He supposedly owns the restaurant where Mary Olsen used to work, and where Amanda Quincy worked up until the time of her death. I’d be curious to know if he suddenly paid his former employee a personal visit.”

  “Frightened women can be consoled long distance for only so long.…”

  “Absolutely.” Rainie hesitated. “You carry, right? All the time? Heavily?”

  De Beers gave her a look. “Uh oh. Now is when I get that not-so-fresh feeling anymore.”

  “We have evidence that my client’s daughter didn’t die in an automobile accident as originally reported,” Rainie told him. “It was murder. Then last night in Philadelphia … Most likely the same man murdered my client’s ex-wife. Brutally.”

  De Beers arched a brow. He got up. He found a folded newspaper on the side bookshelf. He tossed it on top of the desk so Rainie could see the headline. “High Society House of Horrors.” Some enterprising photographer had managed to snag a crime-scene photo of the hallway and its endless rows of bloody handprints.

  “I’d call this brutal,” de Beers said.

  “That would be the one.”

  “Says here she was the former wife of an FBI agent. Which would make your client—”

  “I can see how you’ve succeeded as a private investigator.”

  De Beers sat down again and studied her face. “Let me recap, darlin’. You want me to tail a woman who will hopefully meet a man whose current hobby is taking on the Federal Bureau of Intimidation and murdering the ones they love?”

  “Just one man’s loved ones. It’s personal.”

  “Personal?” His gaze strayed to the gruesome newspaper photo. “Hell, you’re talking a psychopath with balls of steel.”

  “Before you kick him, make sure you put on combat boots.”

  De Beers sighed. “I wished you would’ve told me yesterday that I should be carrying around kryptonite.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”

  De Beers sighed again. “Okay. Looks like I’m breaking out my TEC-DC9 and leaving my thirty-eight Special for backup. Anything else you can tell me about the biggest badass in town? Name, age, description?”

  Rainie got out her notebook. “We have record of two aliases. Tristan Shandling, used recently in Philadephia to approach Elizabeth Quincy. Then the name Ben Zikka, used approximately twenty months ago here in Virginia, to approach Amanda Quincy. I haven’t gotten to run down Ben Zikka yet, but the name Tristan Shandling wasn’t backed up. We knew it was an alias the minute we tried to run it through the system.”

  “You’d think a man taking on a Feebie would be more careful.”

  “He uses the aliases to approach women outside of law enforcement. What normal woman bothers with something like a routine security check?”

  De Beers nodded his agreement. “Makes my life easier. I’ll get a list of names from the phone records and find out which ones stand up to scrutiny. Then you sic your state trooper on the ones that don’t.”

  Rainie was struck by another thought. “Actually, to get an account with the phone company, the man will have to document the name, and we do know one ID that’s fleshed out.”

  “That name?”

  “FBI agent, Pierce Quincy.”

  De Beers gave her a look. She smiled tightly. “He stole my client’s identity. No one realized it until two days ago. The Bureau has a whole case team on it now, but given the murder in Philadelphia … The fraud investigation is probably slipping through the cracks at the moment.”

  “Balls of steel,” de Beers muttered. “Balls of steel. Well, let’s return to what we do know. Subject’s description?”

  “I have two. They don’t match.”

  “Of course.”

  “As Ben Zikka, recovering drunk twenty months ago, our guy was described as being five ten, overweight, balding, and frumpy. According to members of AA, Zikka claimed to have some sort of tie with law enforcement. This information is only two hours old, so I haven’t gotten very far with it.”

  “Other descript?”

  “In Philly, he used the name Tristan Shandling. According to a witness, he’s tall, well-built, and sharply dressed. In fact, he looks very much like an FBI agent. At least the age is the same. Mid-forties to early fifties.”

  “So I’m looking for a middle-aged white male. That’s what you have for me?”

  Rainie thought about it. “Yep,” she agreed. “That’s about it.”

  “Well, there you go. At the first sight of a middle-aged white male, I’ll shoot to kill. Darlin’, you’ve just made my day.”

  “I try. Listen, I have to leave town. You can reach me at this number on my business card, but I’m going to be three thousand miles away so don’t consider me the cavalry. You get into real trouble, call state trooper Vince Amity. He’s handling the investigation of Amanda Quincy’s MVA. He’s a good guy. And Phil—don’t put yourself on the line, okay? Just watch, take notes. If Mary meets this guy in person, feel free to keep a very low profile. I went into the house in Philadelphia. That picture is not the half of what this man did.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Rainie smiled. “My client has one daughter left. I plan on keeping it that way.”

  Two minutes later, de Beers watched from the doorway as she got into her rent-a-wreck and started the engine. She appreciated his diligence. But then she was out of the parking lot, onto the freeway, heading for her motel. The sky broke. The rain poured down in sheets as thunder rumbled off in the distance. Rainie drove alone through the torrent, listening to the rhythmic sound of her windshield wipers, and periodically tugging on her seat belt. The tension held.

  Ten-fifteen P.M. Eight hours until departure and still, at the moment, safe.

  22

  Kimberly’s Gun Club, New Jersey

  “I’m here to see Doug James.”

  “He’s with a student.”

  “He’s an instructor of mine. I just need to speak with him for a second.…”

  “Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Can’t. Needs to be in person. I swear it will only take a moment.”

  The teenage boy working the front desk gave Kimberly a l
ong-suffering sigh. He was new here, or he would have recognized her as a regular and given her less hassle. Instead he was trying to be diligent new employee of the month. Kimberly’s hands were shaking. She was on the verge of losing her nerve. She wished Diligent New Employee would diligently do what she asked. Otherwise she might be forced to reach across the desk and wring his new-employee neck.

  Maybe her thoughts showed on her face, because he started to look at her nervously.

  “PMS,” she told him curtly.

  Geek boy turned bright red and quickly scurried off. She’d have to remember this strategy for the future. Day One, she thought again, advancing her mental notes. I realize that even I can be a homicidal maniac.

  Four minutes later, Doug James walked from the shooting gallery into the gun club’s lobby. He looked right at her and Kimberly had to catch her breath all over again. Doug James was handsome. And not in that slick, preppy sort of way. She would’ve been able to see through that. Instead he was older, gray hairs blatantly sharing space with sun-bleached brown. His face was weathered. He had the squinted, deeply peering eyes of a man who’d spent his life outdoors, staring into the sun. Some days he was clean-shaven, but by evening he almost always sported a five o’clock shadow and even with the gray stubble mixed in with the dark, he looked good.

  He wasn’t too tall, but he possessed a solid, broad-shouldered build. And he was well muscled. She’d felt the rippling band of his arms around hers as he’d adjusted her aim. She’d felt the hard plane of his chest as he’d shifted her stance. She’d felt the heat of his body, standing mere inches from hers.

  He also wore a gold wedding band on his left ring finger. She’d thought of that often when he’d first started as her instructor. She’d thought of him as older, married, and way out of her league. And it had made her even more aware of each and every touch.

  “He won’t be a stranger to you.”

  Kimberly thought of Dr. Andrews’s warning and her stomach churned. She looked at Doug James, ruggedly handsome Doug James, and she felt desire sweep over her again, even as her body was swamped with fear. Was this how her mother had felt about the man who had butchered her? And poor Mandy?

  “Kimberly, how can I help you?”

  She gazed at Doug blankly. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

  He smiled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I have to cancel all my lessons,” she said.

  He stilled, then frowned. She searched his gaze for anything sinister. He simply appeared concerned, and somehow that frightened her more. He makes himself into what the victim wants, Dr. Andrews had theorized. Kindness. That’s what all women wanted. Someone who was kind.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Kimberly. Is everything all right?”

  “Where were you yesterday?”

  “I was sick. I’m sorry. I tried to reach you at your apartment, but apparently you had already left.”

  “And last night?”

  “I was at home with my wife. Why are you asking?”

  “I thought I saw you. Somewhere. At a restaurant.”

  “I don’t think so. I did come here briefly to pick up some paperwork, but then I went straight home.”

  “To your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is her name again?”

  “Laurie. Kimberly—”

  “You don’t have any kids, do you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “I don’t like this conversation, Kimberly. I’m not sure what is going on, but I don’t think this is appropriate.”

  “I thought we were friends. Friends can ask questions, can’t they? Friends can talk.”

  “We are friends. But I don’t feel that you’re asking these questions in a friendly way.”

  “Does that make you nervous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I asking too many questions?”

  “I think so.”

  “Why? What are you trying to hide?”

  Doug James didn’t say anything right away. He stared at her, his peering eyes impossible to read. She returned his look inch for inch, though her pulse was fluttery and her hands had fisted at her side.

  He said slowly, “I’m going to return to my student now.”

  “I’m not coming back.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “I’m leaving this state. You won’t be able to find me.”

  “Okay, Kimberly.”

  “I’m not as easy as my mother.”

  “This other student really needs my attention.”

  “She was a lovely woman, did you know that? Maybe she was raised out of step with the women’s revolution. Maybe she should have tried harder in her marriage. But she loved us, and she did her best and she never stopped trying to be happy. Even when it was hard, she never stopped trying to be happy—”

  Her voice broke off. She was crying. She stood in the middle of the threadbare lobby with its trophy case, stuffed animal heads, and sagging couch, weeping while other gun club members began to stare. Doug James slowly backed away, his hand fumbling behind him for the door connecting to the shooting gallery.

  “I miss my mother,” Kimberly said, and this time her voice held as her tears stopped. She stood there dry-eyed, which she knew must be worse. The other members looked away. Doug James fairly bolted out of the lobby.

  After a moment, she turned back to the front desk where the new, diligent employee of the month was regarding her with unabashed terror.

  “What time did Doug stop by last night?” Kimberly asked.

  “Eight P.M.,” the boy squawked. “Stopped in the office, grabbed paperwork and left. His wife was waiting outside for him.”

  “You saw her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Not nearly as pretty as you,” the boy said hastily, still not understanding the situation.

  Kimberly slowly nodded. Her mind was still trying to make the pieces fit. What had the witness said about her mother last night? Her mother and the strange man had pulled up together at ten P.M. in a fancy red car. According to the neighbor, her mother had been out all day.

  “Was the woman a blonde? Mid-forties, slender, nicely dressed?” she asked.

  The boy frowned. “No. Doug’s wife is a brunette and she’s kind of big right now. I think they’re expecting a baby.”

  “Oh.” It definitely wasn’t her mother who’d come here at eight. Which meant it might indeed be Doug James’s wife. And hey, he might be telling the truth and he might be an actual gun instructor, happily married and now expecting his first child.

  Day One, I don’t know what to believe anymore. Day One, I’ve grown so afraid. Day One … Mandy, I’m so sorry I never realized before how life must feel to you.

  Kimberly walked out the door. The air was black as pitch outside and just about as heavy. Nine-thirty P.M. She thought there was going to be a storm.

  Quantico, Virginia

  Quincy left Quantico shortly after ten P.M., as the first fat drops of rain hit his windshield. He peered up at clouds so thick they obliterated the moon. The wind was whipping. It was going to be a good, old-fashioned thunderstorm. He turned toward I-95 as the first bolt of lightning lit up the sky.

  Not much longer, he kept telling himself. Not much longer.

  Everett didn’t like Quincy’s decision to leave town. He demanded full accountability—where Quincy would be staying and who he would be with at all times. It did not give Quincy the level of security that he would’ve liked, but he couldn’t very well tell the Special Agent in Charge that he didn’t trust him, not when the man was going out of his way to help Quincy salvage his family and career. Both of them gave up what they had to. Neither of them was happy. It was the usual sort of compromise.

  Quincy had packed up his laptop. He’d put a box of old case files in his trunk. He still had his FBI-issued 10mm, which he planned on keeping
until the bitter end. He did not feel ready, but he was as prepared as he was ever going to get.

  Not much longer.

  Wind howling fiercer now. Trees starting to bend. He had to slow the car, but he did not get off the road. Ten-thirty P.M. His daughter needed him.

  Not much longer.

  He stared in his rearview mirror at the approaching headlights and he felt an incredible sense of doom.

  Motel 6, Virginia

  Ten forty-five P.M. Rainie dashed from her car to the entrance of her motel. The rain was coming down in sheets and the four-second sprint left her soaked. The night manager looked up as she bolted through the door, spraying raindrops and bits of tree leaves that had gotten stuck in her hair.

  “Ugly night,” he commented.

  “F-ugly night,” she amended. She stalked down the hall, shivering as the blast from the motel’s air conditioner cut her to the bone. She needed to grab her things and check out. A hot shower could wait. Dinner could wait. All attention was focused on making it to New York. T minus seven.

  In her room, the message waiting light was blinking. She glanced at it apprehensively. Then she sighed, sat down, and prepared to take notes.

  Six calls. Not bad considering hardly anyone knew this number. Four were hang ups. The fifth was Carl Mitz. “I’m still trying to reach Lorraine Conner. We need to talk.” She gave anxious Carl the credit for the hang ups as well, though she could be wrong. The sixth call surprised her the most. It was from her former fellow Bakersville officer, Luke Hayes.

  “Rainie, some lawyer is calling all over town with all sorts of questions about you and your mom. Name is Carl Mitz. I thought you should know.”

  Rainie glanced at her watch. She didn’t have time for this now. Mr. Mitz, on the other hand, didn’t seem inclined to back off. Asking questions about her and her mother. All these years later, and the memory still gave her a chill.

  She called Luke at his home, but got his machine. “It’s Rainie,” she informed the digital recorder. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’m out of town, but I’ll be back in the morning. Do me a favor, Luke. Set up a meeting with Mitz. Just you and him. Then let me know when and where so I can crash the party. The man has spent the last three days hunting me down like vermin. It’s time he and I had a chat.”