by Lisa Gardner
“It’s too far-fetched!” Glenda protested. “Three more reasons: One, you saw Pierce in Philadelphia and there wasn’t a mark on him.”
“Quick kill. Plus, police have found blood in the drainpipes. Killer cleaned up at the scene.”
“Two, you still have no motive. Quincy and his wife have been divorced for years. You’re talking about a long, complicated scheme leading up to a particularly brutal murder. Why? The marriage is old business.”
“I don’t know that part,” Montgomery conceded. “But it’s still early. Maybe she never took him off her life insurance. Maybe he blames her for the daughter’s death. Give me time. I’ll work on it.”
“Ah-hah,” Glenda announced triumphantly. “Three, the daughter’s death—Quincy has evidence that it wasn’t an accident. She was murdered. Probably the stalker’s first victim.”
“What?” That brought Montgomery up short. “I thought the daughter was an MVA. Drunk driving. How does a DUI become murder?”
“Someone tampered with the driver’s seat belt, rendering it useless. And there’s evidence that someone else was sitting in the passenger’s seat. The Virginia state police are investigating it now.”
“Maybe the daughter tampered with the seat belt. Maybe it was suicide.”
“Why tamper with the seat belt?” Glenda asked dryly. “Why not simply not wear it?”
“Oh.” Montgomery was flummoxed. He shifted around his bulk, then grimaced. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Have to think about it.”
“It’s a complicated case,” Glenda said softly. “Three family members of a fellow agent are now dead or missing. We shouldn’t be rushing to conclusions about Quincy, or anyone else.”
“That’s not what Everett said.”
“You already presented this to Everett?” Glenda’s voice raised a notch.
“Sure, I called him last night. If Quincy really is our killer, the Bureau is going to have a little bit of egg on its face.”
“You shouldn’t have done that. Dammit!”
“I can’t speak to Everett? Christ, you really do hate my guts.” Montgomery wandered over to the refrigerator.
Glenda remained poised in the middle of the kitchen. Her hands were clenched into fists at her side. Her heart was beating too fast. She was angrier than she’d ever been, angrier than she probably should’ve been. Except … Except Everett would now call Quincy back. The SAC would have no choice. He’d bring Quincy back and if there really was someone out to get him …
You asshole, Montgomery. Why couldn’t you wait? What’s one more afternoon, one more day of due diligence? Stupid son of a bitch.
The phone rang; the answering machine clicked on. Glenda raised a hand, and began to slowly and methodically rub her temples. It didn’t ease the ache. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. Montgomery raised interesting points, and if Quincy had committed the murder then it was her job to track him down.
And yet, if he hadn’t. If he’d told the truth …
Then they were doing exactly what the UNSUB wanted. Three highly skilled federal agents were dancing to a killer’s tune. And Quincy, what could he do if Everett ordered him to come in? The minute he walked through Bureau doors, he would be forced to surrender his creds and his gun. He wouldn’t be much help to his daughter then. But what was his other option? Become an outlaw to protect Kimberly? It would never work. The Bureau had long arms, particularly when faced with embarrassing situations such as policing its own.
Two scenarios and neither showing much promise. Jesus, she thought. Quincy was either the most brilliant criminal the Bureau had ever faced, or one truly unlucky son of a bitch.
The fax line rang in the office. A moment later, a faint whir sounded as the machine picked up. Glenda went to retrieve the message, leaving Montgomery alone in the kitchen.
The preliminary report on the hard copy of the ad that had run in the National Prison Project Newsletter was coming over the wire. The report was four pages long. Glenda scanned each page as it came through.
Latent found five fingerprints on the typeset ad, all of which matched with various staff members of the National Prison Project Newsletter. Serology found no hairs and fibers, but some dust residue that, again, was traced to the National Prison Project Newsletter. To complete the evidence-less trifecta, the DNA unit had also been unable to recover any samples from the paper or envelope.
At least the Document Examination Unit had had some fun. Their findings comprised the last three pages of the report, and were a welcome change from N/A, N/A, inconclusive. The ink on the paper was traced to a standard black laser-print cartridge commonly used in HP printers. That narrowed it down to millions of possible printers. Never fear, they were able to trace the font and graphics of the typeset ad. The UNSUB had used PowerPoint. Oh, the magic of desktop publishing.
Glenda sighed. Investigating crimes had been so much easier when people had no other choice but to write notes by hand. How the hell were you supposed to analyze a computer font? Where were the hesitation marks or angrily slanted T’s in a typewritten ransom demand? And how the hell did you narrow the field when even serial killers were using Microsoft Office?
On the last page, she finally found some news. The paper was distinct. Not cheap grade white, but heavy-duty cream stationery, handmade with a watermark. According to the Document Examination Unit, the paper came from Britain where it was sold exclusively by a small store on Old Bond Street. Approximately two thousand boxes were sold worldwide each year. And it retailed for nearly one hundred dollars per twenty-five sheets.
Glenda set down the report. So, they had an UNSUB with computer access, PowerPoint savvy, and extremely expensive taste in stationery. Who in the world sent an ad to a prison newsletter on hundred-dollar stationery? It probably came in some kind of fancy gift box with pressed flowers and silk ribbons tied around the top. Maybe a gift. What a wife might give to a husband, or a boss to a colleague, or a daughter to a dad.
Glenda looked at Quincy’s desk. His beautiful, richly finished desk with the state-of-the-art fax machine, the fine leather chair. Everything perfectly matched, such as what a well-bred wife might select for her workaholic husband back when they were still married.…
She grabbed the first desk drawer. Ripped it open. Pens, pencil, a Louis Vuitton check holder. She tried the drawer beneath that, then the one beneath that. Finally, in the bottom drawer, the location of a man who didn’t write much, three boxes of stationery, all hardly touched.
She’d been wrong about the dried flowers and silk ribbons. The stationery came in a beautiful sandalwood box, tied with a leather thong. Geppetto’s Stationery, imported from Italy, beautiful to behold, and now down to nineteen sheets.
“Oh Quincy,” Glenda whispered, box in hand. “Oh Quincy, how could you?”
28
Portland, Oregon
When Rainie woke up, Quincy was gone. She glanced at the red-glowing alarm clock next to the bed. Seven A.M., making it ten eastern standard time. Quincy and Kimberly had probably been up for hours. She dragged a hand through her hair, caught her reflection in the mirror above the bureau and winced. She looked like she’d stuck her hand in a light socket. Then again, her mouth tasted like old socks.
Ah, another beautiful Saturday morning.
She rolled out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom. Toothpaste helped. So did a quick shower. She donned her three-day-old jeans and white T-shirt, wrinkled her nose with distaste, and bravely left the bedroom.
Quincy and his daughter sat at the brown circular table in the tiny kitchenette that comprised the front half of the living room. Quincy was hunched over his laptop computer, while Kimberly leaned against his shoulder to get a better look at the screen. Both held cups of Starbucks coffee, and both were arguing vigorously. Rainie identified a third cup of coffee, probably hers. She scooped it up, while trying to come up to speed on their squabble.
They seemed to be working on the database. Kimberly wanted to focus m
ore on Miguel Sanchez, Quincy thought it was a dead end—the man couldn’t exactly do much from the confines of San Quentin. Well what about family, Kimberly argued. What family? Quincy countered. Sanchez’s only living relative was a seventy-year-old oxygen-dependent mother, hardly a likely candidate for psycho of the week.
“Touché,” Rainie murmured.
They finally paused, Quincy glancing up from the computer. Something passed over his face, an expression she couldn’t read. Then he said evenly, “Good morning, Rainie. There are croissants in the bag if you’d like.”
She shook her head. “Been up long?”
“A few hours.” Quincy was avoiding her gaze. That was okay; she couldn’t seem to meet his eye either. Had he been surprised to wake up and find her pressed against him on the bed? Pleased? Or had he considered it purely practical—Kimberly already had the sofa. Rainie studiously memorized the Starbucks logo on her cup of coffee.
“Where are you with things?” she asked.
“Working the database.”
Kimberly chimed in, “I think we need to reexamine the Sanchez case. Miguel’s the one who reached Dad by phone, plus, his treatment of his cousin, Richie Millos, proves that he’s big on revenge. Then there’s the Montgomery factor—that Albert Montgomery also worked that case and happens to hate Dad because of it.”
“That I personally took Sanchez’s call was a random event,” Quincy countered. “There were fifty-six other convicts on the answering machine, whose calls I could just as easily have caught in person. And while the ‘Montgomery factor’ is interesting, coincidence does not equal conspiracy. Bottom line: Miguel is securely behind bars in California. He has no opportunity, and frankly, I don’t think he’s that smart.”
“What about the cousin?” Rainie asked.
“Millos? What about him?”
Rainie took a seat. Safe on the comforting topic of homicidal maniacs, she could face Quincy again. “Think of it this way: Your assessment of Richie and Miguel’s partnership led the police to focus on Richie. And by focusing on Richie, the police guaranteed his death at the hands of Miguel. Ergo, someone could argue that you were responsible for Richie’s death.”
“Ergo, I killed Richie,” Quincy murmured. “Not bad.”
“Does Richie have surviving family?” Kimberly asked.
“I don’t know. Grab the case file.”
Kimberly began digging in the box next to Quincy’s feet. Apparently, they’d been through this drill a few times already, because she came up with the manila file in four seconds flat. “Millos, Richie. Let’s see what kind of nuts are hanging from the family tree.” She flipped it open, turned three pages, and began to briskly scan the background report. “Okay, we got a mother—fifty-nine years old and listed as a housewife. We have a father—sixty-three years old, former janitor, now on disability. Oh, condition is listed as rheumatoid arthritis. That probably rules him out.”
“Any siblings?” Quincy asked.
“Two younger brothers and one younger sister. Jose is thirty-five and comes with his own rap sheet. A B&E guy, but not currently incarcerated. That’s food for thought. Mitchell ‘Mickie’ Millos is thirty-three, and hey, no rap sheet. In fact, he’s an engineer with a degree from the University of Texas in Austin. So apparently one of the men in the family made good. Finally we have Rosa Millos, the baby daughter, who is twenty-eight. We have no info on her, why is that?”
“Chauvinism,” Rainie replied. “The feds have a history of underestimating women.”
“I’m not going to comment on that,” Quincy murmured, “given that I’m outnumbered, and outgunned, in this room. Now, for no good reason at all, tell me more about Mickie.”
Kimberly flipped back through the background report. “I don’t have anything more on Mickie. Once the investigating agent determined he had no criminal history, he seemed to have lost interest.”
“Figures.” Quincy frowned, mulling something over in his mind. Then his gaze rose to meet Rainie’s. She’d been staring at the column of his throat, admiring his dark blue polo shirt and wondering why she hadn’t gotten him out of a suit more often. The soft cotton fabric draped nicely over his chest, accentuating the hard planes of his runner’s body, the deep color of his piercing eyes.
Why hadn’t he woken her this morning? He could’ve taken at least one moment to brush her cheek and say … anything.
Belatedly she realized he was looking at her. A fresh flood of color rose in her cheeks. She looked away hastily, feeling not at all like herself.
“Rainie?” he asked softly.
“Ummm, the youngest brother. Yes, let’s look harder at him.”
Kimberly frowned. “Why Mickie? He’s not even the right age. Our guy’s much older.”
“Age can be faked,” Quincy said, his gaze still on Rainie. “Plus, people are notoriously bad at estimating age. You put a man in T-shirt and jeans and people will say he’s early twenties. You put the same man in a dark suit, and people will say he’s early thirties. While eyewitness testimonies remain the number one way of catching suspects, they are very easy to manipulate, especially by someone who’s done any reading on the subject.”
“But Mickie’s an engineer,” Kimberly protested. “Educated, no history of crime.”
“Exactly,” Rainie spoke up. “The UNSUB we’re looking for is sophisticated. He has a complex plan, a gift for manipulation, confidence in approaching both a beautiful young woman—your sister—and a sophisticated older woman—your mother. Most likely he is educated, fairly worldly, and with a knack for problem solving.”
“And he has money,” Quincy added. “At the current pace of development, our UNSUB’s most likely engaged in this pursuit full-time. So he must have a nest egg to live off of. He’s also been traveling, demanding additional resources. Then there’s this new development with you, Rainie. Kimberly told me about your meeting with Carl Mitz. If, as you suspect, your ‘father’ really is Tristan Shandling, then our UNSUB has paid off a DA and hired a lawyer as part of his plan, both actions requiring significant financial resources.
“Now, does a thirty-three-year-old engineer such as Mickie have that kind of money? Generally, I’d say no. But in this day and age of software millionaires and dot-com billionaires, who knows? Mickie could be a very wealthy young man.”
Kimberly nodded slowly. “I hadn’t thought of that. Okay, so we run a complete background check of youngest brother Millos, including his financial assets. One name down.” She looked at the box of files. She sighed. “Fifty more names to go.”
“With all due respect,” Rainie spoke up, “I don’t think this database project is going to get us anywhere.” Quincy immediately frowned. He and his daughter swiveled to look at her. Rainie shrugged. “Think about it, Quincy. Is this guy’s name somewhere in that box or in this database or in FBI files? Probably. Is it going to help us? No. Why not? Because he knows his name is in there, too.”
She leaned forward, speaking intently. “What is the UNSUB’s major vulnerability? Process of elimination. It’s a personal case, not stranger to stranger, so given enough time and resources, he knows you’ll be able to identify him. What’s his strategy then? In the beginning, it’s secrecy. He selects Mandy, the family member in the least amount of contact with the rest of the family. He disguises his appearance, he uses an alias, and he conceals her murder as an accident. And in the beginning, that works. He understands, however, that he can’t hide his actions forever. The minute he attacks Bethie, you’ll start connecting the dots. You’ll start looking for him. And he prepares for that as well.
“Fourteen months after Mandy’s accident, he starts a fresh wave of maneuvers. First tactic: Diversion. He spreads around your address and telephone number to every psycho in the continental U.S. Next tactic: Confusion. He steals your identity, assumes your appearance, and begins to plant evidence that will get your fellow agents off his trail and on to you. Final tactic: Speed.”
“Everything is now happening at onc
e,” Quincy said.
“Wednesday, Mom is murdered,” Kimberly whispered. “Thursday, Grandpa is kidnapped. Friday, we’re all on the run and Rainie is approached by some lawyer about her father. He’s not going to give us time to think, anymore. He’s not going to give any of us time to stop and consider and analyze. Because the minute we do, he knows he’s in trouble.”
Rainie was looking at Quincy. “This guy … he’s a black hole, Quincy. We don’t know who, why, how, when. He’s not giving you any information. He’s not making the mistake of underestimating you. Why?”
“Because I definitely know him.”
She smiled. “Because he definitely knows you. You thrive on information, puzzles, games. It’s your whole life. So step one was to keep his actions hidden for as long as possible. And step two is to keep you moving, instead of thinking. As long as you’re reacting to him, you can’t get ahead. Keeping you reacting is keeping you vulnerable. We have to break that cycle, Quince. We need an active game plan, a way of going on the offensive. And hiding out in Portland playing with databases isn’t it. He’ll find us here—probably a lot sooner than you think.”
Quincy grew silent. Then his gaze rose slowly to meet hers. “What do you think of Carl Mitz’s allegation that you have a father?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Just because it’s coincidence, doesn’t mean …”
“I got that!” Rainie took a deep breath, then let it out. “I just … I have to be careful. Mitz seems legit. There are aspects of Ronald Dawson’s background that also appear genuine. He was in prison for most of my life, we may very well find public record of the real estate deal that made his father a millionaire. On the other hand … Tristan Shandling’s MO is to disguise himself as the person his victim wants most. And yeah, I am interested in Ronald Dawson. I’m desperately interested in Ronald Dawson, and frankly, that scares me to death.”
