The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  “Carl Mitz,” Quincy murmured.

  “Gymnastics!” she countered.

  “Later, I’m afraid.”

  “Spoilsport.” Rainie reached over and grabbed the cordless phone off her nightstand. “Hello,” she declared grumpily.

  “Lorraine Conner. How nice to speak with you.”

  Rainie frowned. She didn’t recognize the voice. Not at all. “Who is this?”

  “You know who this is. I want to speak with Pierce.”

  Rainie looked questioningly at Quincy. If the caller wanted him, that ruled out Carl Mitz or her long-lost father. But hardly anyone called Quincy Pierce. So who …

  Shit. She bolted upright, covers falling away as her heart began to thud furiously. She knew who this was. “How the hell did you get this number?”

  “Directory assistance, of course. Hand the phone to Pierce.”

  “Fuck you, asshole. I’m not doing anything you want.”

  “How marvelously childish. Hand the phone to Pierce.”

  “Hey, you call my number, you get to speak with me. So if you have something to say, I suggest you start talking or I’m hanging up.” Her words ended in a screech; Quincy had grabbed the phone out of her hands. She was ready to battle him for it, but then she saw the steely look in his eyes.

  He put the receiver to his ear. “Hello,” he said evenly. “Who is this?”

  “Pierce Quincy, of course. Would you like to see my driver’s license? Or perhaps a sample of my handwriting?”

  “Delusional disorder, subtype grandiose,” Quincy said.

  The man laughed. “As if to be Pierce Quincy is such a grand thing. Your daughter is dead, your wife is dead, and your father is no place to be found. You don’t seem so powerful to me.”

  “I don’t have a wife,” Quincy said.

  “Ex-wife then,” the man granted graciously. “Still demoting her even after she’s gone. You are a cold fish.”

  “What do you want?” Quincy shifted the phone to his other ear. He caught Rainie’s eye and made a circular motion with his hand. She nodded immediately, and slid off the bed naked in search of a tape recorder.

  “It’s not what I want, Pierce, it’s who I want. But all in good time. Would you like to speak with your father?”

  “We both know he’s dead.”

  “You don’t know that. You’re assuming he’s dead so you won’t feel guilty. I understand he raised you all by himself, served as both mother and father. And yet how quickly you let him go. ‘My father has been checked out of his nursing home? Goodness gracious, let me run away and hide!’ I expected more from you.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Rainie arrived with the tape recorder. Quincy held the phone out for better audio as she fumbled with the buttons, then began to tape.

  “He’s alive,” the man said. “Well hidden from federal minions and quite querulous, but very much alive.”

  Quincy didn’t answer.

  “Maybe we can arrange a swap. You can exchange your daughter for your father. She’s younger, but in his current state he’s more of a child.”

  Quincy didn’t say anything.

  “Or maybe we should bring the lovely Lorraine into the mix. You can swap your lover for your father. Sure she has a nice ass, but we both know you don’t keep women around for long. Does she moan for you, Pierce? Your wife moaned for me. So did your daughter.”

  “How is the weather in Texas?” Quincy asked. Rainie looked at him in confusion. Then she remembered. Mickie Millos lived in Texas. Quincy was fishing.

  “Texas? You aren’t on the right track.”

  “And what track would that be? The one where I ruined your career, destroyed your life? Interesting, that I could have such an impact on your life and not remember you at all. Guess it was all in a day’s work. I have met so many incompetent criminals over the years.” Quincy’s voice was light, goading.

  In contrast, the man’s voice gained an ugly edge. “Don’t fuck with me, Pierce. There are plenty of people in your life left to kill, and I can make it better for them, or worse.”

  Quincy feigned a yawn. “Now you’re boring me.”

  “Will I be boring when I touch your daughter? Will I be boring when I rip off her shirt and run my hands over her tomboy breasts? I’m much closer than you know.”

  “You won’t touch my daughter.”

  “Going to protect her, proud papa?”

  “I won’t have to. Get within four feet, and she’ll kick your balls into your throat.”

  The man laughed. “Funny,” he said. “That’s not what Bethie or Mandy did.”

  For the first time, Quincy’s grip tightened on the phone.

  “Pierce,” the man said, “intermission is over. If you won’t go back home for your father, I’ll just have to find somebody else to kill. You have one hour to get on a plane headed to Virginia.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then I will make her death very long and excruciatingly painful.”

  “You can’t touch my daughter—”

  “It’s not Kimberly I’m going to punish. Get to the airport, Supervisory Special Agent Quincy—you don’t have many friends left. Oh, and please tell Ms. Conner that next time she hires a private investigator, she should find one who doesn’t like chocolate.”

  The line clicked off. Quincy stared at Rainie. There was a fierceness in his expression she had seen only once before—the night Henry Hawkins had tried to kill her.

  “He’s coming after you,” he said.

  She shook her head. “No, not me. Think about his words, Quincy. He wants you home. He’s obviously gotten to de Beers. That means East Coast. He’s still somewhere around Virginia.”

  “But who …”

  They got it together. “Glenda!” Quincy swore.

  “We have one hour.”

  Quincy picked up the phone and dialed furiously.

  33

  Quincy’s House, Virginia

  “Get out of the house.”

  “Pierce? I don’t think—”

  “Glenda, listen to me. The UNSUB just called. He wants me back on the East Coast and he’s prepared to kill someone to force me to return. He’s targeting you. I’m almost sure of it. Now, please get out of the house.”

  Glenda’s grip tightened on the phone. Alone in the middle of Quincy’s office, she stared at the incriminating box of stationery—one sheet already sent to the document section of the science-crime lab—and she wished.… She wished she had never taken this goddamn case.

  “I don’t think I should be speaking with you,” she said quietly.

  “Is Montgomery there?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “You’re alone, aren’t you? Dammit, how did he even qualify to be an agent? Glenda, the UNSUB knows where I live. He understands Bureau protocol, so he knows someone is manning my residence. Hell, for all I know, he also has knowledge of the layout of my home, the best way of scaling the fence, accessing the grounds … You cannot underestimate him.”

  “Your phantom stalker,” she said.

  Quincy fell silent. Good, she thought. Be surprised. I have lived in this house for three days, listening to nothing but hate, and now I have to wonder if it hasn’t all been some horrible, twisted game. Are you the hunter or the hunted, Pierce? I don’t know anymore, and I’m tired!

  “What’s wrong, Glenda?” Quincy asked. He sounded wary now, uncertain. She took pride in that.

  “There’s no such thing as a perfect crime, Quincy. You should know that better than most. For every little detail that is considered, there is always one or two more that slips through the cracks.”

  “The police report came back from Philadelphia, didn’t it? They know the note found at the scene matches my handwriting.”

  “What?”

  He fell silent again. She could practically feel his confusion across the phone line. It was nothing, however, compared to the sudden acceleration of her heart. She’d still maint
ained some small residue of doubt about Quincy’s guilt. But now … That note, that dreadful note stuffed in Elizabeth Quincy’s abdominal cavity, soaked in blood. He had written it. Pierce Quincy, a fellow agent, the best of the best. Oh sweet mother of God …

  “You’re a monster,” she breathed. “Montgomery is right. You’re a monster!”

  “Glenda—”

  She snapped her cell phone shut. She let it fall to the floor where she eyed it as if it were a coiled snake. She had goose bumps running up and down her arms. She had gone nights without sleep and she could now feel it all crashing down on her. She was cold, she was horrified. She had believed in this man. Oh God, she was never going to feel clean.

  On the floor, her flip phone started to chime.

  She didn’t answer it. She wasn’t going to let him manipulate her like this. The musical ringing went on for ten seconds, then voice messaging took over and the noise stopped. She had just started to relax, when it started again. And went on and on and on.

  Dammit! She snatched back up the phone.

  “I don’t believe you!” she cried. “You’re making this up. And I am armed, Quincy, so you just stay the fuck away from me.”

  “I am in Oregon. I can’t hurt you,” he said.

  “I don’t know that!”

  “Listen to me. We don’t have much time, Glenda. I did not write that note. I know it looks bad, but I did not write that note.”

  “Of course you did. You just said so.”

  “I know my own handwriting! For God’s sake, I recognized it the minute the ME’s assistant brought the note into the room. But I did not write it, Glenda. This man, he got copies of my handwriting, he studied it, he did one hell of a superb impression. I don’t know exactly how he did it. But he did it, not me.”

  “Listen to yourself, Quincy. ‘It’s my writing, but I didn’t do it.’ Things are unraveling and you’re not even lying very well anymore.”

  “Glenda, why would I use my own script? I am a professional. I’ve taken classes on how to analyze handwriting. If I’m so smart, why would I be so dumb?”

  “Maybe you’re not dumb. Maybe you’re arrogant. Besides, it’s not just that note. We’ve also traced the original newsletter ad. We know it was sent on your stationery.”

  “The bottom drawer,” he murmured. “Christ, it’s been years …” And then, “Dammit, then he’s definitely been in my house. Glenda, I beg you, get out of there.”

  “I’m not listening to you.” Her voice was rising hysterically. In spite of herself, her gaze had gone to the uncovered windows. She felt suddenly vulnerable, a lone woman standing in a fishbowl. What if Quincy was already out there? Or the phantom stalker or maybe more rattlesnakes? God knows. She was tired. She was so tired. Where was Montgomery? She was not herself.

  “Think, Glenda,” Quincy was saying relentlessly. “You are a bright agent, you are a brilliant agent. And so am I. So why would I create such an elaborate stalking story, then use my own stationery for the newsletter ads? Why would I stage such a brutal murder in Philadelphia, then use my own handwriting? Why would I even commit these crimes? What would I have to gain?”

  “Showing off. Cracking up. Maybe the job has finally done you in.”

  “I haven’t been out in the field in years.”

  “Maybe you resent that.”

  “So I butchered my own family? Fifteen minutes, Glenda. Please get out of the house. I’m begging you, get out of the house.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Why not?”

  “I … I think someone may already be out there.”

  “Oh Glenda …” She heard him take a shaky breath. He was murmuring to someone at the other end of the line. She caught the distinct tones of a female reply. Lorraine Conner. So they were in this together.

  For the first time, Glenda frowned. They were in this together? What together? Murdering his family? Threatening a fellow agent? It didn’t make much sense. And who sent an ad on hundred-dollar stationery anyway? A criminal mastermind who was provocatively stupid?

  Holding the phone, Glenda moved out of the office, into the kitchen where she had a better view of the entrance and was framed by fewer windows. She unsnapped her shoulder holster. Then she reached down to her ankle and checked on her backup piece. Quincy returned to the line.

  “You’re going to be okay, Glenda,” he said firmly. “I’m going to get you through this. First, I’m going to play a tape for you. Rainie made this recording just twenty minutes ago, sitting beside me in her loft in Portland. This is the UNSUB, Glenda. If you still don’t believe me, hear for yourself what he has to say.”

  Glenda heard a click. Then a fuzzy recording filled her ear. She needed about three minutes of the conversation. Somewhere about the time the man said, Then I will make her death very long and excruciatingly painful, she had had enough. Quincy was right, the evidence against him was too perfect and they had still uncovered no good reason for a highly respected federal agent to suddenly begin butchering his entire family.

  Which meant the stalker did exist. A man who thought nothing of killing an agent’s young daughter. A man who had viciously slaughtered the agent’s ex-wife. And a man who had topped it all off by kidnapping, and probably murdering, the agent’s sick, Alzheimer’s-stricken father. Oh God …

  “All right,” she said quietly. “What do we do?”

  “Do you have a car outside?”

  “Not on the driveway. Down the street.”

  “How far away?”

  “Three to four minutes.”

  “You can do this, Glenda. Think of it as a training exercise in Hogan’s Alley. Take out your Smith & Wesson and run like hell. You’ll make it.”

  “No.”

  “Glenda—”

  “There’s no cover, Quincy. He could be out there anywhere, behind a neighbor’s bush, up a tree. Your property offers nothing. The minute I’m out of the front door, he has me. No, I’m safer in here than out there.”

  “Glenda, he knows the house. Inside you’re trapped. Outside you have options.”

  “Outside he can pick me off. Inside I can at least see him coming. Besides, we changed the security system of your home. He has to have a fingerprint and an access code now. That will hold him up, buy me some time.” Her eyes were on the kitchen window. She reached for her 10mm. Her hands were sweating badly. She fumbled the piece.

  “He’ll have a plan for the security system. He’s had a plan for everything thus far.”

  Glenda finally got her pistol secure in her grasp. She forced herself to take a deep breath and steady her nerves. “Remember his MO,” she told Quincy briskly. “The UNSUB relies on his gift for manipulating people. Well, the computerized system could care less. It has no deep dark secrets to exploit and it will not accept a severed digit.”

  “Call for backup.” Quincy remained urgent.

  “Fair enough.”

  “How long before they arrive?”

  “Five to ten minutes. No more.”

  “If he gets there first … Remember his strengths. Do not let him talk. Shoot first, question later. Promise me, Glenda.”

  Glenda nodded into the phone as she reached for the radio to summon her fellow agents. Just as she was about to click it on, however, Quincy’s home line began to ring. Another admirer, she thought. Just what her nerves needed at a time like this. But then the machine picked up, and the voice was not a stranger’s. It was Albert Montgomery and he did not sound like himself at all.

  “Jesus Christ, Glenda,” he wailed. “Pick up the goddamn phone. I’ve been trying to reach you on your cellular … I was wrong. Not a phantom stalker. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here. Oh God, he has a knife!”

  She heard Quincy screaming something in her ear. She wasn’t paying attention anymore. She dropped her flip phone on the marble countertop. She reached over with her right hand. She grabbed Quincy’s white cordless phone and …

  The pain was instantaneous and intense.
Deep, searing heat as if someone had branded her hand with a red-hot iron. She cried out. She dropped the cordless phone on the floor. And in the next moment, she heard the beep beep of someone disarming the security system, followed by a click as the front door swung open.

  She looked over at her 10mm, within easy reach. She looked down at her right hand, seared by some sort of acid, now bubbling up with blisters, her fingers impossible to move.

  “I’m sorry, Quincy,” she murmured.

  Then she watched Special Agent Albert Montgomery walk into the kitchen holding his cell phone in one hand and his 10mm in the other.

  “Surprise, baby! It’s me!”

  The last sound Quincy heard was gunfire. And then nothing but his own desperate voice, “Glenda, Glenda! Talk to me. Talk to me!”

  Quincy hung his head. His breath came in ragged gasps. The disconnected phone had fallen from his fingertips and now lay on Rainie’s bed. He must stay in control, he thought. Now more than ever … Rainie’s arms were around his shoulder. She had not spoken, but there were tears on her cheeks.

  “I should call Everett,” he murmured. “Get agents over there. Maybe …”

  Rainie didn’t say anything. Like him, she didn’t really believe that Glenda was still alive.

  Quincy took a deep breath, and reached for the phone just as it began to ring. He picked it up slowly, figuring he knew who this would be, and already steeling himself for the man’s mocking tone.

  “I shot Special Agent Montgomery,” Glenda Rodman said without preamble.

  “Glenda? Oh thank God!”

  “He put … something on the phone. Last time he was here, I suppose. He thought it would disable me. Stupid bastard. He should have read my file more closely. My father was a cop—he believed strongly in being able to shoot ambidextrously. You never know which hand will wind up free under fire.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “Albert’s shooting skills are equal to the rest of him,” she said dryly. “My right hand needs immediate medical attention. Other than that, I’ll live.”

  “And Special Agent Montgomery?”

  “I aimed to kill.”

  “Glenda—”

  “I disabled him with shots to his kneecap and his right hand instead; I know you need answers. Quincy, he says he’ll only speak with you. He says he knows where your father is. You need to get back here ASAP. At least, before I change my mind and start shooting again.”