The Next Accident (25 page)

Portland
,
Oregon

Kimberly reread
the Miguel Sanchez file for the fourth time in two hours. Strands of fine blond hair kept working themselves loose from her hastily constructed pony tail and falling over her eyes. She impatiently brushed the strands back with her left hand. She should shower and change now that she had the hotel room to herself. She kept reading the file. Something was in here. She understood her fathers point that his personal conversation with Sanchez was purely random. She understood that Special Agent Albert Montgomery's assignment to the case was most likely coincidental. But something was in here. She had her own instincts, and they were screaming at her to revisit Miguel Sanchez.

An odd sound came from the hallway outside her room. Slow, squeaking wheels laboriously rolling down the hall. Most likely some rusted-out metal cart. Kimberly frowned. She continued to read the file.

As a death row inmate in San Quentin, Sanchez now lived alone in a six-by-ten-foot cell. That ruled out the possibility of him having a roommate who might have been released and taken up efforts on his behalf. On the other hand, some condemned prisoners spent up to four hours a day in the rec yard with sixty other inmates, lifting weights, shooting hoops, and doing God knows what.

Kimberly delved deeper into Sanchez's file. According to San Quentin corrections officers, prisoners were classified as two types: Grade A or Grade B. Grade A covered prisoners who had assimilated well to prison life. They followed the rules, didn't give the guards any hassles, and were seen as successfully "programming." These inmates were eligible for privileges such as daily rec time with their fellow deviants.

Grade B inmates, on the other hand, were men who hadn't taken to their cells like hens to a chicken coop. They threatened corrections officers, they threatened each other, they actually inflicted physical harm. These men spent lots of quality time in ad seg – administrative segregation, according to the staff, or the hole according to the inmates. Miguel Sanchez was familiar with the hole. According to his file, he'd started out as a Grade B inmate, managed to calm down to Grade A status for about six months in 1997, then went back to his Grade B ways. In other words, Miguel should not have had the opportunity to make many friends in San Quentin. Then again, Richard Millos wound up dead while Sanchez was ad seg, which seemed to indicate that even the most severe type of incarceration had not rendered Sanchez powerless.

That damn squeaking was driving her nuts. Room service should oil the wheels of its carts. Something. Sheesh.

In the good news department, she had found tons of press on the convicted serial killer. Partnerships for psychopaths were unusual, and Sanchez had carved out quite a niche as a professional guinea pig for criminolo-gists writing case studies on famous homicidal duos.

The interviews probably helped Sanchez ease the boredom of his now tedious existence. They also allowed him to gloat, reliving the glory of the kill under the guise of an academic exercise.

As Kimberly learned, there had been a couple of male-female sexual-sadist killing teams, but in those cases, the female was completely subservient, more of a live-in victim than a live-in partner. Most psychopaths were loners with no genuine ability to relate to others and thus little need for any kind of relationship. In Miguel and Richie's case, experts theorized that the partnership was based on Miguel's interest in having an audience for his actions and Richie's complete willingness to do as he was told. Plus, Richie Millos genuinely feared his cousin. Most likely, Miguel fed off that, perhaps even found that element even more appealing than an extra pair of hands.

One criminologist had written that Richie represented Miguel's latent homosexual desires. When that criminologist had tried to interview Miguel again, the convicted murderer waited until he was locked in the visitor's room with his shackles removed, then dove at the researcher over the table and tried to strangle the man with his bare hands. Miguel had to be forcibly dragged out of the room by four prison guards. Apparently, Miguel didn't care to be labeled a latent homosexual.

One thing was clean Miguel Sanchez was not a nice man. Kimberly had found a photo of him on-line. He had dark, wild hair only Charles Manson would love. His eyes were deeply sunk into his forehead, his cheekbones craggy. Tattoos riddled his shoulders, and according to one report, he continued to add to his body art while incarcerated with the aid of a needle and a ballpoint pen. He claimed to be a walking monument to his victims. Kimberly had stared at his photo three times before she realized what the elaborately scrolled design on his shoulder said. Then she had gone cold.

Amanda.

He had the name Amanda permanently etched into his body. Kimberly had to work on easing her heart rate again. She knew Miguel Sanchez's Amanda. A long time ago, she and Mandy had listened to the tape. One more link, however. One more link between a stone-cold psychopath and Kimberly's rapidly disintegrating family.

The squeaking was growing closer. Fuck, she couldn't think.

She got out of her chair, scowling at the door and the noise that was now right behind it. She didn't need this kind of distraction. She had a job to do. And as long as she kept focused, kept determined, she felt like her old self again. Capable, strong, self-possessed.

Funny how Mandy's death had sent her drifting, filled with too many conflicting emotions of rage and grief and fear. And ironic how her mother's murder had anchored her again, taking all of those same emotions and giving them a purpose. She was going to find this bastard. And she didn't care what Rainie said. She was going to kill him. Frankly, if he was anything like Miguel Sanchez, she wasn't going to feel bad about it either.

Darwinism,
she thought.
Survival of the fittest. You take on me and my family, you 'd better be prepared for the consequences. Because I've been training for this day since I was twelve, you son of a bitch. I won't go down easy.

A knock sounded on the door. Standing just three feet away in the kitchenette, Kimberly froze. And that quickly, her confidence left her. The color leeched from her face, her heart ratcheted up to one hundred and fifty beats per minute, and sweat burst from her pores.

"Room service," a high squeaky male voice called out.

Room service. Oldest trick in the book. Kimberly ran into the bedroom. She fumbled through her bag, pulled out her Glock, and sprinted back to the living area where she leveled her semiautomatic at the cheap wooden door.

"You got the wrong room, buddy," she yelled. "Back away from ray door!"

There was a pause. Her hands were trembling so badly, she couldn't sight her gun. She was thinking:
Wednesday, my mom. Thursday, my grandpa. Friday, we're all on the run, and today? Not me! I won't go down easy!

"Uh, I got an order here for your room – "

"Get the fuck away from my door!"

"Okey dokey. I'll be going now. You want your, uh, champagne and strawberries, you can come downstairs yourself, ma'am. Sheesh."

Kimberly heard squeaking again. Then a moment later, the same high-pitched voice muttering, "Gotta be a fucking full moon tonight or something. Sheesh."

She slowly lowered her gun. Her body was still shaking. Sweat had plastered her T-shirt to her skin. Her heart hammered fast, as if she'd been running a marathon.

She took a deep breath. Then another. Then another.

And then, still not feeling good about things, she got down on her hands and knees and peered beneath the door. No dark shadow of feet standing outside her door. She collapsed into a sitting position on the carpet, her Glock cradled in her lap.

"Oh yeah," she murmured darkly in the empty room, "I'm doing just fine."

"I'm thinking, no sickening-sweet pet names. Phrases that have been used on nighttime soaps do not belong in the home. Plus, if it's been used on a Hallmark card, I don't really think it applies to me. I'm not a Hallmark sort of gal. Though, for the record, I could probably learn to like flowers now and then. Pink roses. Or that champagne color. Yeah, I'm pretty sure I would like that. Of course, that raises the whole issue of chocolates and other special-delivery sweets. I'm going to say yes to the chocolates, no on the heart-shaped box. Things that involve red velvet also do not belong in the home. What do you think?"

Rainie was sprawled next to Quincy in the deep-pile comfort of her bed. They hadn't bothered getting dressed yet. It was a little after twelve, the sun was high in the sky and at any minute, her phone was bound to ring. Screw it.

Her head was on his shoulder and she was doodling little designs on his chest with her index finger. She liked the feel of his chest hairs, crisp but silky. She liked the way he smelled, aftershave mixed with sex. She liked the way he looked, his broad, well-toned chest like a vast plane beneath her hand. She was thinking she'd soon be ready for more talk of Olympic-medal events.

"Green-light flowers and square boxes of chocolate," Quincy dutifully repeated. "Red-light sickening-sweet pet names." His hand was stroking her hair; he was obviously in no rush to get up either. He tilted his head down to see her better. "For the sake of argument, what qualifies as a sickening-sweet pet name? I'd hate to think I was being cute and adorable, only to wind up dead."

"Sweetheart, cupcake, sugar pie, honey bunch," Rainie rattled off. "Sweetie pie, cutie pie… You know, the kind of names that when other people use them, you want to give them a whopping dose of insulin… or a smack on the head."

"No terms of endearment that owe their origin to the glucose family?"

"That's my stance. You don't call me sweet cheeks and I won't call you stud muffin."

"I don't know," Quincy said mildly. "I kind of like stud muffin…"

She hit him on the chest. He pretended to be mortally wounded. She was just leaning over to kiss him back to life when the phone rang. She groaned.

"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." Quincys 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."