The Next Accident (27 page)

Say something. Do something. Learn from your mistakes.
Quincy heard himself murmur weakly, "Take care of yourself."

"I'm not the one walking into the lion's den." Rainie jerked her head toward a cab that had just appeared on the street. Quincy flagged it down, and before he was really ready, the driver was out of the car and taking his bag.

"I'll call you," he said.

"At my loft, not here. Just to be safe."

"Agreed." The cab driver had the back door open. He looked at Quincy impatiently. Quincy, however, was still gazing at Rainie. His chest felt tight. He knew now what he needed to say, then realized he couldn't utter the words. They would make the moment too final. They would reveal too much of his fear.

Rainie seemed to understand. She leaned forward and before he could react, she kissed him quick and hard on the mouth.

"Hey Quince. See you soon." She walked back into the hotel. A moment later, Quincy got into the cab.

"Airport," he told the driver.

Then, alone in the backseat… "Hey Rainie," he whispered. "I love you, too."

At three P.M., Rainie finally heard back from Carl Mitz on her home answering machine. She listened to it from the hotel room as she called in to check messages. Kimberly sat at the table in the kitchenette, hunched over Quincys laptop and rereading some report on Miguel Sanchez that was making her scowl. Rainie occupied the sofa in the adjoining living room, restless since Quincys departure, feeling not at all like herself.

Mitz informed her answering machine that he'd just gotten her message on his cell phone. He would be available for the next few hours if she wanted to call back. Rainie hung up, then glanced at Kimberly.

"What would you think if I arranged a meeting with Ronald Dawson for tomorrow?" Rainie asked quietly.

Kimberly looked up from the computer. "I think Special Agent Albert Montgomery is a putz," she said.

"Me, too."

"I think he couldn't have reached my mother with a ten-foot pole, which means while he might be an Indian, he's definitely not Chief."

"Agreed."

"And I think… I think if Ronald Dawson
is
the head honcho, well, if you invite him here, then he can't be there in Virginia."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Set up lunch," Kimberly said firmly. "Then call your sheriff friend and get out your gun."

Rainie grinned. "Girl," she said, "I like your style."

Three-thirty P.M., Rainie reached Carl Mitz. Three-forty P.M., Quincy arrived at the Portland International Airport. Three forty-five P.M., Sheriff Luke Hayes received a phone call. He spoke for approximately fifteen minutes, then hung up the phone, told Cunningham he was leaving him in charge, and got into his car. It wasn't perfect, but it was a plan.

Virginia

"Here's what you
need to know, Quincy." Glenda snapped open a manila file, stuck a pen behind her ear, then resumed pacing the eight-foot length of the narrow conference room. He watched her restless movements without commenting. It was nearly 3 P.M. Sunday afternoon, almost twenty-four hours since Montgomery 's attack, and they were still denied access to the disgruntled agent. First Montgomery claimed he needed immediate medical attention. Given the state of his kneecap and right hand, that was hard to dispute. The trip to the emergency room had been followed by surgery to repair the damage to his leg. The doctors had then said he needed time to recover from the anesthesia. The anesthesia, however, had been followed by large amounts of morphine personally requested by Montgomery. He was in a significant amount of pain, he claimed. He needed drugs, he needed medical assistance, he needed rest.

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 Ramie. 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 could 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."