by Lisa Gardner
He couldn’t be properly interviewed while under the influence of medication and they all knew it. Even if they forced the issue, the first judge who heard the case would toss his comments out of court.
Albert Montgomery had an aptitude after all. He could stall like nobody’s business. And as each hour passed, they grew increasingly nervous. Something big was brewing. They could feel it.
“Stop fidgeting,” Glenda said.
He looked down to find himself methodically twisting the top button of his suit jacket, and instantly jerked his hand away. Glenda had met him with fresh clothes first thing this morning. As a general rule, wearing a nicely tailored suit made him feel polished, more in control. Not today. As hour grew into hour, he could’ve sworn the necktie was conspiring to strangle him.
He wondered how Rainie was doing. He wished it felt safe to call.
Glenda had returned her attention to the manila file. Her right hand was heavily bandaged. Late last night, she’d been treated for third-degree burns, then released. She couldn’t move her fingers yet, and the doctors had warned her that the deep-searing acid might have caused permanent nerve damage. Time would tell and at this stage of the game, she didn’t seem to want to talk about it.
“Albert first crossed paths with you fifteen years ago on the Sanchez case,” she said briskly. “For the record, he’d already received a less-than-stellar review for his prior work, but it was his inept profile of Sanchez that officially torpedoed his career. He fought with the locals, pegged Sanchez as a lone gunman, then lost all credibility when you came aboard, identified the work as part of a killing team, and cracked the case. Albert’s wife left him three weeks later, taking the two kids with her. Doesn’t look like they were big fans of weekend visitation either.”
“He fits the profile,” he said hoarsely.
“The circumstances fit the profile,” Glenda said. “Now let’s look at the man. According to Albert’s file, his IQ is a respectable one hundred thirty. The problem seems to be in execution. What do they call that these days? Why an idiot can build a successful business while a genius can’t even find his socks?”
“EQ—emotional intelligence.” His voice was still rough.
“Emotional intelligence.” Glenda rolled her eyes. “That’s it. Albert has none. According to four different case reviews, he lacks focus, diligence, and basic organizational skills. In his twenty-year career at the Bureau, he’s been written up six times. In each case, he’s written a counter opinion stating that he’s not incompetent after all, Supervisor So-and-So is simply out to get him.”
“Albert Montgomery, a walking advertisement for government downsizing.”
Glenda finally smiled. “If you can get that made into a bumper sticker, I’ll put it on his car.” Her expression sobered. “Before we write off Albert completely,” she said, “there is another factor to consider: While Albert may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, he has had plenty of free time on his hands. The estimated time of death for Elizabeth is ten-thirty P.M., Wednesday. Albert has no alibi for that time. Furthermore, he claims he spent Thursday and Friday in Philadelphia assisting the local detectives. Not true. I followed up with the detectives—they only saw him Friday morning. The rest of his time—basically Wednesday afternoon through Saturday morning—is an open question. Which means he could’ve visited Mary Olsen in Virginia or shown up at a Rhode Island nursing home, or flown to the West Coast for a Portland rendezvous. We simply don’t know.”
“Travel records, plane tickets, hotel stays?”
“Checked with his credit cards—nothing. Checked with the local airport, nothing. Of course, there are roughly half a dozen airports within a three-hour drive of here. He could’ve left from any one of those, paying cash and/or using an assumed name.” Glenda smiled. “Welcome to the convenience of the Eastern Corridor.”
“And even if he lacks focus, seventy-two hours provides plenty of time for misdeeds.” He grimaced, then caught himself and said more crisply, “What about financial resources?”
“Albert is currently proud owner of nine hundred dollars in his bank account, so while he’s had time to run around the country, financially I’m not sure how he could’ve pulled it off. On the other hand, if he has been traveling he’s been paying in cash, so it’s possible a second person has funded his venture with a briefcase of money. Without access to the second person’s accounts, it’s impossible to know.”
“Smart, but lazy. Poor, but possibly funded by vengeful deviants-R-us. Wonderful.”
“At the very least,” Glenda said, “we know Albert has been actively involved in positioning you as a suspect. He called Everett Friday night, saying that he’s convinced you killed your ex-wife. Then he made a point of visiting me first thing Saturday morning to let me know all his doubts about the Philadelphia crime scene.”
“Poisoning the well.”
“He was extremely persuasive,” Glenda said quietly. “Everett was strongly considering calling you in. In fact, the only reason he didn’t is that Albert’s credibility is an issue. That wouldn’t have mattered much longer, however. Albert got me wondering, which is what he intended. I found the stationery in your desk, messengered a sheet over to the lab … That report should come back any time now, confirming the original ad was sent on your stationery. Once that report arrived, Everett would have no choice but to ask you to turn yourself in. Plus, Albert’s accusation and the subsequent finding of your stationery made me seriously doubt you, which set everything up for act two.”
“You turning up dead.”
“In your home, protected by a state-of-the-art security system to which you have access. And, if that wasn’t damning enough, the casings from the two shots Albert fired both bear your fingerprints. It would appear Albert helped himself to your ammo during one of his visits to the house.”
“What?” He was so startled, he momentarily forgot himself and exclaimed, “Son of a bitch!”
Glenda frowned. “You can’t say that,” she said sternly.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately.
“Stop fidgeting.”
The button was getting to him again. He forced his hand away, then caught his reflection in the room’s long mirror and felt even more discouraged. He looked tense and uncomfortable, not at all like a ruthlessly competent federal agent. When word came down that he could finally interview Montgomery, he needed to walk into that room appearing 100 percent calm and in control. You messed with us, Montgomery, now let me mess with you.
He did not look calm and in control. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept. He looked like someone who was deeply worried. He looked like someone who was, for the first time in his life, out of his league.
Albert Montgomery is nothing, he reminded himself firmly. Not even the real deal. Just a hired hand.
“He wants to talk,” Glenda said softly, as if reading his mind. “Don’t forget, Albert is driven by his need to prove himself smarter than you. All you have to do is sound skeptical, and he’ll hand you the keys to the city simply to prove he can. You hate him. You want to lean over the table and kill him. But other than that, Quincy, this interview shouldn’t be too hard.”
He nodded, then glanced once more at his watch. Three thirty-two P.M. Twenty-four and a half hours since the attack on Glenda … Enough time for someone to cross the country. Enough time for someone to assume any manner of disguises. He wished once more he could talk to Rainie. Goddammit he had to leave this button alone!
The door opened. A young agent poked his head into the room. “They’re escorting Special Agent Montgomery to the interview room,” he reported.
Glenda nodded. The agent closed the door.
He took a deep breath. Then, he squared his shoulders and ran a hand down his jacket. “Well,” he said, “how do I look?”
Portland, Oregon
Twelve-eighteen P.M., Pacific standard time, Rainie and Kimberly were sitting side by side on the tiny sofa. From this vantage point, they cou
ld see into the adjoining bedroom on their right, or through the kitchenette area to the front door of the small suite on their left. They weren’t doing anything. They weren’t saying anything. They both simply stared at the phone.
“Why doesn’t he call?” Kimberly asked.
“He must not have anything to say.”
“I thought something would’ve happened by now!”
Rainie glanced at the hotel-room door. “So did I,” she murmured. “So did I.”
Virginia
Sitting in the dimly lit interrogation room, Special Agent Albert Montgomery looked pretty good for a man who’d been shot. He wore light-blue surgical scrubs in lieu of his customary rumpled suit. His mussed hair was combed, his face freshly scrubbed and slightly less jaundiced. His right hand, heavily bandaged, rested on the table. His left leg, with its recently repaired kneecap, was encased in a cast and propped up on a chair. All in all, he appeared quite comfortable and at ease.
They eyed each other steadily for the first thirty seconds, neither one of them wanting to blink first.
“You look like crap,” Montgomery said.
“Thank you, I worked on it all night.” He walked up to the table, but didn’t sit. From this vantage point, he could look down on Albert Montgomery. He could cross his arms over his chest and stare at this man as if he were the lowest form of life on earth. Albert simply smiled up at him. He’d also attended interrogation classes and knew the tricks.
“You sound like shit, too,” Albert said. “Catch a cold on the airplane, Quince? Those things are nothing but petri dishes with wings. And you’ve had plenty of time to incubate. East Coast, West Coast, East Coast. Tell me, Quincy, how does it feel to be a puppet on a string?”
His hands clenched. He almost rose to the bait, then remembered what Glenda had said. He couldn’t afford to kill Albert. Too much depended on what the man had to say.
He pulled out a chair and took a seat. “You wanted me here: I’m here. Now speak.”
“Still arrogant, huh Quincy? I wonder how arrogant you’re gonna be when the Philly detectives get through with you. Have you checked out their prison system yet? Maybe you can get a tour of your future home.”
“I’m not worried about the PPD.”
Albert stared at him. He stared back. Albert broke first. “Son of a bitch,” he rasped.
“What’s his name, Albert?”
Albert didn’t answer right away. His gaze flickered to the clock on the wall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You acted alone?”
“Sure I did. You don’t think that I hated you enough? You fucked my career, Quincy. You took my family, you ruined my life. Well hey, guess who has the last laugh. Where’s your beautiful daughter, Quince? Where’s the mother of your children? Where’s your own dear old dad who desperately depended upon you? And I don’t care what you say, when that report from Philly comes in, where’s your precious fucking career? The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
“You didn’t do this.”
“Like hell.”
“You don’t have the brains.”
Albert’s face turned red. “You think you’re so smart, Quincy, consider this: Revenge. Fifteen long years of desperately wanting revenge. I could try to get the same case as you, set you up to fail, but that would be risky. I could try to get on the same case as you and shoot you in the back, but that would be no fun. So one night it comes to me—”
“Comes to him.”
“Comes to me. Why go for the direct attack? On the job is where you’re in your element, where you do good. But you don’t do everything right, Quincy. Hell no, you’re not perfect. In fact, when it comes to being a husband, being a father, being a son, you pretty much suck. Once I realized this, I knew I had you.”
“You approached Mandy at her AA meeting.”
“I started looking up your father, your ex-wife and daughters. Didn’t take me too long to figure out Mandy was the weak link. Shit, you must’ve done quite a head job on that kid, Quincy. She’s a drunk, she’s promiscuous. She’s the perfect, insecure wreck. What do you have your Ph.D. in again?”
He thinned his lips. Montgomery smiled, happy to feel he had the upper hand and as Glenda predicted, now expansively verbose.
“Yeah, I approached Mandy, pretended to be the son of an old acquaintance of your dad’s, Ben Zikka, Jr. That’s the nice thing about AA meetings. They build a sense of camaraderie, allow even perfect strangers to bond. Three meetings later, I had her.”
“You introduced her to him.”
“I had her.”
“Mandy had standards. You never so much as held her hand.”
Albert scowled, so he’d struck a nerve. But the disgruntled agent quickly scrambled to make up lost ground. “Your daughter was a real friendly girl, Quince. Lunches, dinners, breakfasts. Didn’t take any time at all to learn all about the rest of the family. And so many fascinating details about you, Pierce. Your habits, your home security system, your pathetic letters trying to keep in touch with your oldest daughter and build some kind of relationship.”
“Handwriting samples,” he deduced. “Material to copy as the UNSUB prepared the note for Philadelphia. For that matter, stationery.”
Albert merely smiled. His gaze flicked once again to the wall clock.
“I was at Mandy’s one night when you called,” Albert said. “Got to hear one helluva stilted conversation, that was for sure. Really, Quince, you never did understand your own daughter. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“He milked her for information,” he said softly. “And then he killed her.”
“I came up with the idea. Get her drunk and behind the wheel of the car. It was a little risky. Maybe she didn’t die right away. Maybe she regained consciousness. In the end, who cared? She was so damn drunk, she’d never remember what really happened, and we could always arrange a little accident in the hospital.”
“We?”
“I,” Albert said hastily. “I could arrange a little accident. I considered her murder a little test, Quince. Would you catch on? How good was Quantico’s best of the best? But, true to form, when it comes to your family your instincts are a complete zero. Hell, you didn’t even stay at her bedside. Just showed up and agreed to pull the plug. You helped kill your daughter, Quince. Not that I mind, but how do you feel about that?”
He ignored the question. “You used her to approach Bethie.”
“Sure. Mandy told us … me! all about her mom. Favorite restaurants, favorite music, favorite food. It’s not rocket science after that. And I do have my charm.”
“Bethie hates charm. He approached her as an organ recipient. He disguised himself as part of Mandy.”
Albert’s eyes widened. He clearly hadn’t known they knew that much. His gaze dashed to the clock. The time seemed to soothe him. He took a deep breath and eyed his interrogator more warily.
“When I’m brilliant, Quincy, I’m brilliant,” Albert tried.
Quincy merely shook his head. “He had to wait over a year for Mandy to die. Did that make him anxious? That couldn’t have been part of his plan.”
“Patience is a virtue,” Albert said.
“No, he got nervous. He needed my attention for the game to be interesting. So he used Mary Olsen to raise my suspicion.”
“I didn’t want destroying you to be too easy,” Albert said. “After fifteen years of planning, a guy’s gotta have a little fun.”
“Mary Olsen is dead.”
That shocked him. Albert’s gaze widened again and this time, he distinctly paled. “Ummm, yeah.”
“How’d you kill her, Albert?”
“I … uh …”
“Gun, knife?”
“I shot her!”
“You poisoned her, asshole!” He felt a spark of anger, then checked himself, and said more sternly, “She received a care package in the mail, chocolates from her lover, laced with cyanide. Horrible way to die.”
�
��Stupid bitch,” Albert muttered. He was definitely uncomfortable now. His fingers drummed on the table.
“How do you think he’ll kill you?”
“Shut up!” His eyes shot to the clock.
“Poison? Or something more personal? You’re a liability, Albert. A big, fat liability who, thanks to Glenda, is in no shape to run and hide.”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
“Or did you forget that from the Sanchez case? Psychopaths can have partners, but partners are never equal. Miguel Sanchez lived. His partner, Richie, died on a prison floor with his balls crammed down his throat.”
Albert shot up from his chair. The movement jarred the supporting chair from beneath his injured leg and his cast fell heavily to the floor, making him yelp. Albert gripped the edge of the table to keep himself from falling, then glared at him with a face mottled with rage.
“You just fucking blew it!” he roared. “I was gonna tell you where your father is. I was gonna take pity on the pathetic old man. But not now. Now he can rot where he is, tied up, starving, shitting in his own pants and getting bedsores from his piss. How do you like them apples, you arrogant prick!”
“My father is dead,” he said quietly, though he really didn’t know that and his heart had begun to beat hard in his chest. This was the big risk. The life-or-death gamble. If he was wrong … I’m sorry. Lord have mercy, because I cannot. “My father is dead,” he repeated more forcefully. “We already found his body.”
“Impossible!”
“Would you like to go to the morgue to see him?”
“But he shouldn’t have washed up for days, not after all the weights we put on him.” Albert suddenly heard his own words. He drew up short, then burst out, “You tricked me. Goddammit, you ice-cold son of a bitch, you gave up on your own dad!”
