by Lisa Gardner
Because even when it hurt, it felt better to hurt with him, and when she was angry it was better to be angry with him, and when she was sad it was far, far better to be sad with him. And damn, she didn’t want to get back on that plane. So silly. They were two adults, they had independent lives and demanding jobs, and it’s not like there wasn’t the telephone, and damn she didn’t want to get back on that plane.
She stayed through the funeral. She held Quincy’s hand. She patted Kimberly’s shoulder as the young girl wept. She met extended family and played nice with everyone. Then she went back to Quincy’s house where they came together as if they’d never touched before and would never touch again.
Monday morning he drove her to the airport. She had that tight feeling back in her chest. When she tried to speak, nothing came out.
Quincy said, “I’ll call you.” She nodded. Quincy said, “Soon.” She nodded. Quincy said, “I’m sorry, Rainie.” And she nodded, though she wasn’t really sure what he was sorry for.
She got back to Portland. Five days, six hours, and thirty-two minutes ago. Her phone did ring. But when she picked it up, Quincy was never there.
“I can’t be this well adjusted forever,” she told her computer screen. “You know this isn’t my style. Are women supposed to change everything for men? I mean, I was hostile, insecure, and stubborn before and he wanted to get to know me better. Now I’m honestly trying to be a mature, productive member of society, and I haven’t heard from him since. On the one hand, the man is under enormous amounts of stress. On the other hand, that’s just plain rude.”
Her computer screen didn’t reply. She scowled. “Do you think it was the sickening-sweet pet names? Maybe if I had called him stud muffin …”
Her buzzer sounded. Her head bobbed up, her gaze going to her TV/security monitor. A man was standing in front of the outside doors. He wore normal clothes, but she would’ve known that salt-and-pepper hair anywhere.
“Shit!” Rainie yelled. “Why doesn’t he ever give me a chance to shower!”
Screw the shower. She buzzed him up, ran to the kitchen sink, and hastily splashed water on her face. Two sniffs. Hey, at least this time she’d done deodorant. He rang the doorbell of her loft just as she dragged on a clean white shirt. One last hand through the hair, and she was at the door.
“Hello, Rainie,” he said.
She just stood there. He looked good in his Quincy-like way. A little uptight, a little too smart, a little too much weight of the world resting upon his shoulders. But he was wearing slim khaki pants with a navy blue open-collar shirt, the first time in weeks she’d seen him out of a suit.
“Hey,” she said. She opened the door a little wider.
“Can I come in?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
She let him in. SupSpAg had something on his mind. He walked all the way to her family room where he promptly paced back and forth while she gnawed her lower lip. Six days ago they’d been so close. Why did they suddenly feel like strangers?
“I’ve been meaning to call,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“I didn’t, though. I’m sorry.” He hesitated. “I didn’t know what to say.”
“ ‘Hello’ is always a good start. Some people like to follow that with, ‘And how are you?’ I find that works better than, ‘Drop dead.’ ” She smiled.
He winced. “You’re mad.”
“Getting there.”
“You’ve been very understanding.”
“Oh God, are you breaking up with me?”
He finally stopped pacing, looking genuinely startled. “I didn’t think so.”
“You didn’t think so? What does that mean? I asked if you were breaking up with me. If you’re not, for God’s sake say no, with authority!”
“No, with authority!” he said.
“Five days, six hours, and thirty-seven minutes!”
“What’s that?”
“How long since you promised to call. Not that I’m counting or anything.” Her hands flew up into the air. “Oh God, I’ve become one of those women who waits by the phone. I swore I would never be one of those poor saps waiting by the phone. Look at what you’ve done to me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
“Rainie, I swear I haven’t been trying to torture you. I swear, last week when you arrived, I’ve never been so happy to see anyone. I’ve never … needed anyone the way I needed you. When I drove you to the airport, all I could think was that I didn’t want you to go. Then I had this image of us—driving to and from airports, the high of getting together, the low of splitting apart, trying to be a couple, but still leading separate lives and … And in all honesty, then I thought that I was much too old for this shit. There are so few things that make me happy, Rainie. There is so little I have left. So why was I driving you to the airport?”
“I had a ticket?”
He sighed. She could see the tightness around his eyes. He stood too far away, half of the loft looming between them, but she couldn’t bring herself to close the gap. He had more to say. That was the problem. He’d said the good stuff, so if he still had more …
“I’m no longer an FBI agent,” he told her quietly. “I tendered my resignation to the Bureau two days ago.”
“No way.” She rocked back on her heels; she couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d suddenly announced that he could fly.
“I’ve decided to reinvent my life. Kimberly has returned to school and is saying she’s perfectly fine, so we know she’s going to need help. Even if she’s too stubborn to let me hold her hand, I think it would mean a lot to her to know that I’m really there for her this time. Not out in the field where I could get hurt. Not running back to the job as I’ve always done. But close. Say in New York, somewhere by NYU, where she could drop in for dinner if she liked or simply show up to chat. I’m thinking I’ll get a loft, put up a shingle and work as an independent consultant for law enforcement agencies.”
“Profiler for Hire?”
He smiled. “You’d be surprised how many profilers retire to become consultants. You get to pick your cases, choose your hours, and best of all, ignore all the politics because they’re no longer your problem. It’s a good setup. Of course, there is one problem.”
Rainie eyed him warily. “I’ll bite. What problem?”
“I’d like to have a partner.”
“You came all the way here to tell me that you’re offering Glenda a job?”
He rolled his eyes. “No Rainie, I came all the way here to offer you a job. With full benefits I might add.”
“What?” Far from being calmed, she became incensed. “Five days, six hours, and thirty-seven minutes later, this is what you’re offering me? A dental plan?”
He finally appeared uneasy. “Well, maybe not dental. The company is a start-up.”
Rainie stalked toward him. Her eyes had narrowed into slits. Her finger jabbed the air. “What are you doing, Quincy?”
“Apparently once again dodging your finger.”
“You fly across the country, you come to my home, and you offer me employment? Do I look like a woman who needs a boss?”
“Not boss,” he said immediately. “Oh no, I am not that dumb. I said partner, and I meant partner.”
“It’s a professional arrangement! Five days, six hours, and thirty-seven minutes later, I do not want a professional arrangement. I have not flown across the country three times in six weeks looking for a professional arrangement. I did not jump your bones just last week, looking for a professional arrangement. So help me God, Quincy—”
“I love you.”
“What?” She drew up short. Her finger froze in midair.
“Rainie, I love you. You don’t know how many times I’ve already said that because it was always after you’d fallen asleep or left the room. I didn’t know if you were ready, or maybe I didn’t know if I was ready. But I love you, Rainie. And while I need to stay on the East Coast for my daughter, I don’t wa
nt to drive you to airports anymore.”
“Oh.”
“Now would be a good time for you to say something more than, oh.”
“I get that.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
“I have a mean streak. And you made me wait five days.”
“All the casework you can handle,” he offered quietly. “Never easy, nothing boring. You know how it is in my world. I’ve waited so long to be happy, Rainie. I’ve made so many mistakes. I want to do better this time. And I want to learn to do better with you.”
She sighed. She had that tight feeling back in her chest. So that was what this was about. So this is what everything was about.
She leaned forward. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Hey Quince,” she murmured. “I love you, too.”
Acknowledgments
For most of my career as a suspense author, I’ve been repeatedly greeted by the comment, “Wow, you look so nice for someone who writes such twisted books.” For once I’d like to agree. I really am a dull, ordinary person leading a dull, ordinary life. The only real background I have is as a business consultant, and while I suppose characters could die from process reengineering efforts gone horribly awry, I’m not sure anyone other than Dilbert enthusiasts would appreciate that.
Thus I have enlisted the help of the following experts to give my plot especially devious twists and my characters especially evil deaths. Please bear in mind that these people patiently and accurately answered all my questions. That does not mean, however, that I used their information in a patient or accurate way. I am a firm believer in artistic license, plus I possess a warped mind. We all have our talents.
That said, my deepest gratitude and appreciation to:
Dr. Greg Moffatt, Ph.D., Professor of Psychology, Atlanta Christian College, for generously answering my steady stream of questions and offering such fabulous insights into the criminal mind.
Phil Agrue, Private Investigator, Agrue & Associates, Portland, OR, who in three hours convinced me that I want to be a defense investigator when I grow up.
Gary Vencill, Consultant-Legal Investigation, Johnson, Clifton, Larson & Corson, P.C., whose delight in creating an auto accident/murder scenario was equaled only by his diligence in personally showing me how to tamper with seat belts.
Dr. Stan Stojkovic, Professor of Criminal Justice, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, for his insights on prison protocol and communication.
Dr. Robert Johnson, American University, who was gracious enough to allow me to use his honest academic study as a model for conducting various forms of criminal mayhem.
Larry Jachrimo, custom pistolsmith, whose ongoing assistance with firearm details and ballistics techniques enables me to be more diabolical than I ever hoped. He provides me with wonderful information; I do make some mistakes.
Mark Bouton, former FBI firearms instructor and fellow writer, for helping bring my FBI agents into the new millennium.
Celia MacDonell and Margaret Charpentier, pharmacists extraordinaire, who also have a very promising future as poisoners. Nothing personal, but from here on out, I’m bringing my own food.
Mark Smerznak, chemical engineer, great friend, and extraordinary cook.
Heather Sharer, wonderful friend, jazz enthusiast, and general shoulder to cry on.
Rob, Julie, and Mom for the tour of the Pearl District and steady stream of café mochas.
Kate Miciak, editor extraordinaire, who definitely made this a better book.
Damaris Rowland and Steve Axelrod, agents extraordinaire, who encourage me to always write the book of my heart, and even better, allow me to pay my mortgage while doing so.
And finally to my husband, Anthony, for the supply of homemade chocolate champagne truffles and chocolate mousse cake. You know how to keep a writer motivated, and I love you.
LISA GARDNER
BANTAM BOOKS
THE KILLING HOUR
A Bantam Book / July 2003
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2003 by Lisa Gardner, Inc.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Visit our website at www.bantamdell.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gardner, Lisa.
The killing hour / Lisa Gardner.
p. cm.
1. Government investigators—Fiction. 2. Women detectives—Fiction. 3. Serial murders—Fiction. 4. Kidnapping—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.A7132K55 2003
813'.54—dc21
2003049646
Published simultaneously in Canada
eISBN: 978-0-553-89766-1
v3.0_r2
Contents
Master Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
The man first started noticing it in 1998. Two girls went out to a bar, never came home again. Deanna Wilson and Marlene Mason were the first set. Roommates at Georgia State U, nice girls by all accounts, their disappearance didn’t even make the front pages of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. People disappear. Especially in a big city.
Then, of course, the police found Marlene Mason’s body along Interstate 75. That got things going a bit. The fine folks of Atlanta didn’t like one of their daughters being found sprawled along an interstate. Especially a white girl from a good family. Things like that shouldn’t happen around here.
Besides, the Mason case was a head-scratcher. The girl was found fully clothed and with her purse intact. No sign of sexual assault, no sign of robbery. In fact, her corpse looked so damn peaceful, the passing motorist who found her thought she was sleeping. But Mason was DOA. Drug overdose, ruled the ME (though Mason’s parents vehemently denied their daughter would do such a thing). Now where was her roommate?
That was an ugly week in Atlanta. Everyone looking for a missing college coed while the mercury climbed to nearly a hundred degrees. Efforts started st
rong, then petered out. People got hot, got tired, got busy with other things. Besides, half the state figured Wilson had done it—offed her roommate in some dispute, probably over a boy, and that was that. People watched Law & Order. They knew these things.
A couple of hikers found Wilson’s body in the fall. It was all the way up in the Tallulah Gorge, nearly a hundred miles away. The body was still clad in Wilson’s party clothes, right down to her three-inch heels. Not so peaceful in death this time, however. For one thing, the scavengers had gotten to her first. For another, her skull was shattered into little bits. Probably from taking a header down one of the granite cliffs. Let’s just say Mother Nature had no respect for Manolo Blahnik stilettos.
Another head-scratcher. When had Wilson died? Where had she been between that time and first vanishing from a downtown Atlanta bar? And had she offed her roommate first? Wilson’s purse was recovered from the gorge. No sign of any drugs. But strangely enough, neither was there any sign of her vehicle or her car keys.
The Rabun County Sheriff’s Office inherited that corpse, and the case once again faded from the news.
The man clipped a few articles. He didn’t really know why. He just did.
In 1999, it happened again. Heat wave hit, temperatures—and tempers—went soaring, and two young girls went out to a bar one night and never made it back. Kasey Cooper and Josie Anders from Macon, Georgia. Maybe not such nice girls this time. Both were underage and never should’ve been drinking except that Anders’s boyfriend was a bouncer at the bar. He claimed they weren’t “hardly tipsy at all” when he last saw them climbing into Cooper’s white Honda Civic. Their distraught families claimed that both girls were track-and-field stars and wouldn’t have gone anywhere without a fight.
