The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [108]
“Rainie—”
“I’ll do it, Quincy.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want you to do it. I was wrong.”
“You were right,” she snapped crisply. “Don’t grow soft on me now.”
He fell silent. So did she. His eyes locked on hers. The moment drew out, grew long.
“This is very hard,” Kimberly said at last.
Quincy nodded, his gaze not leaving Rainie’s. “This is very hard.”
“I mean, we don’t even know who this man is, and look what he’s doing to you. Mom is gone, and Mandy’s gone, and now you have to fear for Rainie and me.”
“I’ve always feared for the people I care about.”
“But not like this. Not this active, immediate, horrible kind of worry.”
“I always worry,” Quincy said quietly. “It’s the nature of my job. I know what can happen, and I do think about it late at night.”
“We’re going to be okay,” Kimberly said fiercely. “We know what’s going on now and information is power! We’re going to be okay.”
“We’ll delve deeper into Mitchell Millos,” Quincy said softly. “I’ll try to come up with a list of five or ten other names. Then I’ll check in with Everett, see if he has any new developments. Perhaps, my father . . .” His voice grew too wistful. He caught himself and said more firmly, “And we’ll move on Ronald Dawson. One way or another, we’re going to get a fix on him.”
“We have one last ace in the hole,” Rainie spoke up. “Phil de Beers in Virginia. He’s still tailing Mary Olsen. Think about it. She’s alone. She’s betrayed her best friend, and she has no self-esteem or she never would’ve gotten into this mess in the first place. She’s probably already reaching out to the guy. And as each day passes, she’s only going to get more demanding about meeting him in person. When she does . . .”
“I want photos,” Quincy said immediately. “Best quality Mr. de Beers can get. It’s time we develop a better physical description.”
“But he uses so many disguises,” Kimberly protested. “The two descriptions we have don’t match. How will a third help us?”
“He only seems to be good at disguise, because we’re relying on accounts from laymen,” Rainie pointed out. “Everyday people get bogged down with eye color, hairstyle, facial hair, clothing—all easily altered elements. What people should look at are standard features such as the amount of space between the eyes, the location of the ears on the head, the shape of the jawline. Those features can’t be changed, they’re unique. If we can get a photo, then we could have it analyzed by a forensics artist for those elements and then we’d finally have something to work with.”
“You’ll contact de Beers?” Quincy asked.
“I’ll call him this minute,” Rainie promised. She smiled thinly. “And then I’ll call Mitz about setting up lunch with Daddy. We gotta get moving—thirty-six hours since Señor Psycho’s last strike; I doubt we have much time left.”
29
The Olsen Residence, Virginia
Curled up in the deepest corner of her walk-in closet, Mary Olsen cradled the cordless phone to her ear. Her dark hair was snarled. Mascara streaked her face. On her left shoulder was a fresh bruise she didn’t want to talk about. Her icy blue silk robe hid the remains of many more. Her husband had come home this morning from an emergency surgery that had not gone well. Ten minutes after he tore back out of the driveway in his Jag convertible, she had grabbed the phone.
“I know I’m not supposed to call,” she said in a rush, “but I can’t take this anymore. You don’t understand how bad things have been. I need to see you. Please, baby, please . . .”
“Shhh, take a deep breath. Everything will be all right.”
“No it won’t. No it won’t!” Her voice rose to a frenzied pitch, then dissolved in a flood of tears. Her ribs hurt.