by Lisa Gardner
“What if Mitz could arrange for you to meet Mr. Dawson in person?”
“No way.” She shook her head adamantly.
That intent look was back in Quincy’s eyes, and not his slow sexy look, but his all-knowing professional stare. “Active game plan,” he murmured.
Rainie closed her eyes. She knew what he wanted. It hurt her, it killed her, but it didn’t change the fact that once more, he was right. “Fine! I’ll meet with Ronnie. I’ll put my achy, breaky heart at risk. Never say I didn’t do anything for you.”
“But you can’t meet with him,” Kimberly blurted out. “If he’s the UNSUB, he could attack you, or kidnap you, or worse.”
“I don’t think your father intends for me to meet with Ronnie alone,” Rainie said dryly. “Not that he’s opposed to offering me as some juicy little bait.”
“I never—”
“Oh shut up, Quince. For God’s sake, I’m the one who just said we needed to be proactive. If Dawson is our favorite stalker, then let’s turn the tables on him. I’ll contact Mitz and set up a lunch date, with Luke and the boys singing backup. I can drill Ronnie for additional information about his paternity claim. At the very least, I can get yet another description to add to our files. Tristan Shandling, the man of many faces.”
“What if he tries something?” Kimberly protested.
“He won’t,” Rainie said.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because it’s his MO,” Rainie said flatly. “If Ronald Dawson is Tristan Shandling, he’s not going to come out of the gate swinging. Oh no. Quite the opposite. He’s going to sit across from me telling me how much he’s always wanted a daughter. He’s going to dazzle me with stories of what I could do with a ten-million-dollar inheritance. He’s going to tell me that finding me is the single best thing that’s ever happened to him.” Her voice cracked. She caught it. “And I’m going to get to doubt every word he says. I’m going to sit there thinking this man is either the world’s most perfect long-lost father, or someone who wants me dead. Hey, all in a day’s work.”
“Rainie—”
“I’ll do it, Quincy.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want you to do it. I was wrong.”
“You were right,” she snapped crisply. “Don’t grow soft on me now.”
He fell silent. So did she. His eyes locked on hers. The moment drew out, grew long.
“This is very hard,” Kimberly said at last.
Quincy nodded, his gaze not leaving Rainie’s. “This is very hard.”
“I mean, we don’t even know who this man is, and look what he’s doing to you. Mom is gone, and Mandy’s gone, and now you have to fear for Rainie and me.”
“I’ve always feared for the people I care about.”
“But not like this. Not this active, immediate, horrible kind of worry.”
“I always worry,” Quincy said quietly. “It’s the nature of my job. I know what can happen, and I do think about it late at night.”
“We’re going to be okay,” Kimberly said fiercely. “We know what’s going on now and information is power! We’re going to be okay.”
“We’ll delve deeper into Mitchell Millos,” Quincy said softly. “I’ll try to come up with a list of five or ten other names. Then I’ll check in with Everett, see if he has any new developments. Perhaps, my father …” His voice grew too wistful. He caught himself and said more firmly, “And we’ll move on Ronald Dawson. One way or another, we’re going to get a fix on him.”
“We have one last ace in the hole,” Rainie spoke up. “Phil de Beers in Virginia. He’s still tailing Mary Olsen. Think about it. She’s alone. She’s betrayed her best friend, and she has no self-esteem or she never would’ve gotten into this mess in the first place. She’s probably already reaching out to the guy. And as each day passes, she’s only going to get more demanding about meeting him in person. When she does …”
“I want photos,” Quincy said immediately. “Best quality Mr. de Beers can get. It’s time we develop a better physical description.”
“But he uses so many disguises,” Kimberly protested. “The two descriptions we have don’t match. How will a third help us?”
“He only seems to be good at disguise, because we’re relying on accounts from laymen,” Rainie pointed out. “Everyday people get bogged down with eye color, hairstyle, facial hair, clothing—all easily altered elements. What people should look at are standard features such as the amount of space between the eyes, the location of the ears on the head, the shape of the jawline. Those features can’t be changed, they’re unique. If we can get a photo, then we could have it analyzed by a forensics artist for those elements and then we’d finally have something to work with.”
“You’ll contact de Beers?” Quincy asked.
“I’ll call him this minute,” Rainie promised. She smiled thinly. “And then I’ll call Mitz about setting up lunch with Daddy. We gotta get moving—thirty-six hours since Señor Psycho’s last strike; I doubt we have much time left.”
29
The Olsen Residence, Virginia
Curled up in the deepest corner of her walk-in closet, Mary Olsen cradled the cordless phone to her ear. Her dark hair was snarled. Mascara streaked her face. On her left shoulder was a fresh bruise she didn’t want to talk about. Her icy blue silk robe hid the remains of many more. Her husband had come home this morning from an emergency surgery that had not gone well. Ten minutes after he tore back out of the driveway in his Jag convertible, she had grabbed the phone.
“I know I’m not supposed to call,” she said in a rush, “but I can’t take this anymore. You don’t understand how bad things have been. I need to see you. Please, baby, please …”
“Shhh, take a deep breath. Everything will be all right.”
“No it won’t. No it won’t!” Her voice rose to a frenzied pitch, then dissolved in a flood of tears. Her ribs hurt. She was going to have bruises between her thighs. Who ever would have thought that a man who looked so soft could hit so hard? “I’m lonely,” she sobbed. “It’s been weeks of nonstop torment, and now I don’t even have you to look forward to. I can’t keep living like this!”
“I know, baby. I know it’s been hard.” In contrast to her high-pitched pain, he sounded calm, gentle, kind. She let the words wash over her bruised thoughts and strained emotions. She held the phone closer to her mascara-stained cheek.
She had always loved the sound of his voice. Mandy once had commented on his eyes, that it was the power of his gaze that drew her in. For Mary, however, not allowed to see him much, it had always been the sound of his voice. How he could seem to know her anguish from hundreds of miles away. How he could whisper in her ear across the telephone lines and lend her his strength in the middle of the night when her husband had finally fallen asleep but she knew it was only a matter of hours before he awoke and it would start all over again.
“He tells me what to say, what to do, what to wear,” she whispered brokenly. “I didn’t know it would be like this. Why did he want to marry me, if he hates me so much?”
“You’re a beautiful woman, Mary. Not all men can handle that.”
“But I never gave him anything to worry about!” she cried. “I mean … well, you know, not before. God, I’m tired! I miss you. I need you. I’d give anything just … just to hold your hand, see your smile. Make me feel beautiful again.”
“I wish I could, honey,” he said apologetically. “I really do.”
“Why not? It’s been days since the Conner woman showed up. Surely it’s safe by now. We can meet anyplace you want. I’ll take the precautions you showed me. Please, it’ll be all right.”
“But love, it’s not all right. Don’t you know? You’re being watched.”
“What?” She gasped, genuinely surprised.
“I tried to get a note to you two days ago,” he explained. “But then I saw a small silver hatchback tucked inside the bushes with a clear view of anyone entering or exiting
your property. I watched the car for hours, and it never moved. I’m sorry, baby, but I think your husband is having you followed.”
“No! The goddamn jealous prick. I’ve never given him any reason … I mean not before. Oh, fuck him! What are we going to do?”
“What can we do? If he gets even one picture of us together … I know you don’t want that to happen. Not after everything you’ve been through.”
“I won’t give him the satisfaction!” Mary vowed. “By God, when I leave the son of a bitch he’s going to pay me every dime he’s worth. I should leave him today, this instant. I’ll just … I’ll just do it!”
“The shorter the marriage, the less likely you are to receive half his assets,” he said gently.
She started to cry again. “What am I going to do? I miss you. I am going insane!”
He didn’t say anything right away. There probably wasn’t anything to say, and she knew that even if she didn’t want to admit it. She was a married woman. She did need her husband’s money. Oh God, her shoulder hurt. So did her ribs. Some mornings she wasn’t sure how she made it out of bed. The more her husband beat her, the angrier he seemed to be. Was it himself he hated for hitting her, or herself for never saying no?
How did my life come to this? I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.…
“I have an idea,” her lover said.
“Yes. Anything. Please.”
“This afternoon, a box of chocolates will arrive. Godiva, I think. The brand doesn’t matter. Are you listening?”
“Yes.” Her voice was breathless.
“I want you to take the box and walk down the road until you see the silver car. A black man will be sitting behind the wheel.”
“Oh my God!”
“He’s not going to hurt you, baby. He’s a private investigator, no doubt the best your husband’s money can buy. Tap on the window. Smile charmingly. Then, tell him you know what he’s doing. He’ll be chagrined, embarrassed about being caught. You become even more charming. Invite yourself to join him, tell him you just want to talk. Then pour out your heart about your evil husband, and while you’re at it, offer him a chocolate. If he refuses, take one yourself. Eat it in front of him. Then offer him more. Make sure he eats two or three. That will do it.”
“Are they poisoned?” she asked. A shiver ran down her spine.
“You think I would ask you to eat poisoned chocolates? What has your husband done to you?”
“I’m sorry, it’s just—”
“The candies are doctored, love. A chocolate-flavored laxative, that’s all, melted down and injected with a syringe. One truffle will have a minor impact on your system. Two or three, however, should, well, give the private investigator more pressing things to do with his time than watch you. When he drives off in search of proper facilities, you can get away.”
“To meet you!”
“I’ve missed you, too, love.”
“Tell me I’m beautiful.”
His voice was generous. “You are beautiful beyond compare, particularly in black lace.”
“I’ll wear the garters,” she said breathlessly.
“Perfect. I’ll wear nothing at all.”
“Oh God, I can’t wait to see you!”
“One box of chocolates later, I’ll be at your side.”
She smiled for the first time all morning. But then she remembered how she looked, and she hesitated. “I’m a little … sore,” she said softly.
He understood instantly. “Then when I see you, baby, I will kiss all your pains away.”
She started to cry again, quietly this time, genuinely. He would make her feel better. He always did. The first time she’d arrived with black-and-blue ribs, she’d told him that she’d fallen down the stairs. But he’d known. And instead of turning away, instead of looking at her with disgust, he had taken her in his arms and held her tenderly.
“You poor thing,” he had said. “You are much too precious for this.”
She had cried that night for hours. The whole time, he simply held her and stroked her hair. In her entire life, she had never had anyone touch her as gently as he did. In her entire life, no one had ever made her feel so special.
Briefly, for one instant, she thought of Amanda. Amanda who had never hurt her. Amanda who had been a good friend. Amanda who had been so excited to introduce her new man …
But you kept drinking, Mandy, she thought. You had the world’s most perfect beau, and still you hit the bottle. After that, you deserved what happened. Besides, you always had plenty of men. And I … I needed him.
She replaced the phone, using the sleeve of her robe to wipe away the streaks of mascara and tears. One box of chocolates later on she would be with him again, she thought. One box of chocolates later. She hoped they came quick.
30
Pearl District, Portland
A little after eleven A.M., Quincy followed Rainie into her downtown loft. She flicked on the lights out of habit, though daylight streamed through the front bank of windows and the space was bright. The air carried the musty scent of a home that had been empty too long. Quincy knew that fragrance—it was how his own residence always greeted him.
“I should check on a few things,” Rainie said nervously. He nodded, walking into the living area while she flitted about the open space. She had been like this all morning. Rarely meeting his eye, skittering away if he moved too close. Soft and still one moment. Nearly frantic the next. He thought he knew what was going on. Then again, his instincts weren’t the best these days.
Shortly after their discussion that morning, Rainie had left a message on Carl Mitz’s cell phone. She couldn’t leave the number for Quincy’s cell phone without revealing that he was with her, and she couldn’t give the phone number of the hotel room without compromising that location, so she provided the number Mitz already knew—her loft in the Pearl District. Kimberly had opted to stay in the hotel room, where she was using Rainie’s PI license number to access various law enforcement databases for background reports. Quincy and Rainie would wait for Mitz’s response at her place. The division of labor made practical sense. If there were other motives, no one was mentioning them.
Quincy walked around the sofa, pausing in various sunbeams. He liked the feel of light and heat washing over his face. He closed his eyes and felt knotted muscles unclench. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that this, too, shall pass. He held on to that thought fiercely these days.
He had called Everett about his father. No news yet, and Quincy knew better than most what that meant. Each hour that passed without finding Abraham decreased the probability of ever seeing him alive. It had been thirty-six hours now. One moment, Abraham had been sleeping peacefully in his antiseptic-smelling bed. The next he was gone, checked out by a stranger posing as his son, not that Abraham would know the difference. A janitor reported seeing Quincy’s father being led to a little red sports car, probably the same Audi TT the UNSUB had used to pick up Bethie.
No sign of the car since. No sign of Abraham. No big break in the case to ease the pain steadily building in Quincy’s chest. His father’s kidnapping was the ultimate failure, worse somehow than Amanda’s and Elizabeth’s murders, because they had been independent adults. His father, on the other hand, had been vulnerable and utterly helpless. Once a proud man who had single-handedly raised his son, now a dependent. Quincy should’ve done more to keep him safe.
The realization left him in a strange place. At once bottomed out, yet fiercely enraged. Empty of all emotion, yet desperate to feel alive. Defeated. Determined. Unbelievably angry. Unbearably sad. The academic searching for a reason. The man, knowing there was no such thing.
Why is my father gone? Because he is. Isolation is not protection. No amount of distance numbs the pain.
And then Quincy had a strange memory, a moment he hadn’t thought about in years. Little Kimmy coming home from her fourth ballet lesson, walking into the living room where the family was gathered, and wit
h her feet planted and her hands balled on her hips, announcing in her loudest voice, “Fuck ballet!”
Quincy remembered Bethie’s stunned gasp, Mandy’s awed expression, and his own desperate attempt to fight a smile. Fuck ballet. Such attitude. Such confidence. Such fearlessness. He had felt so proud.
Had he ever told his father that story? Abraham would’ve liked that. He wouldn’t have said anything, but he would’ve smiled. And he also would’ve been proud. Each generation takes the next step forward. From a stoic swamp Yankee to a reserved federal agent to a brash aspiring criminologist, who obviously knew her own mind.
Isolation was not protection. He had lost his father, but maybe, just maybe, he was getting an opportunity to rediscover Kimberly.
“I’m going to grab some clothes,” Rainie called from the walk-in closet. “If the phone rings, let me answer it.”
“I am not here,” Quincy promised her.
“Do you think Kimberly needs anything?”
He smiled faintly. “I think you would know that better than me.”
“That’s not true. You’re not a total idiot savant.”
“Coming from you, I take that as a compliment.”
Rainie exited the closet. He could tell she was happy to be home because there was an extra bounce in her step, a spark of energy that had previously been missing. She’d changed from her T-shirt into a blue chambray button-down. As she walked toward the kitchen, he found himself studying how the soft, well-worn cotton flowed over the curve of her hips.
She is beautiful, he thought, and this time around, the realization stunned him. She was not just good-looking or attractive or sexy. She was beautiful. Beautiful in jeans and a cotton shirt. Beautiful in the way she burst past two homicide detectives at a Philadelphia crime scene simply because she knew that he needed her. Beautiful in the way she stood up to his fellow FBI agents even though she felt uncomfortable and outclassed. Beautiful in the way she was still beside him, when God knows that his life was disintegrating quickly and it would be so much easier to walk away.
