The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [49]
He would want a full report of her investigation, and she had news at this point, or maybe not really news, more of a feeling that she didn’t want to deliver by phone. He would want to analyze everything. That was his way. And she did not want to picture him sitting in the dark again, contemplating horrible things all alone like his daughter’s murder.
Then there were all the questions. Maybe Mary Olsen was simply a little batty, a high-strung gold-digger desperate for attention. Perhaps the torrent of phone calls to Quincy’s house were purely coincidence, a bunch of bored felons looking for sick entertainment. And maybe Mandy’s accident was still an accident, and everyone else was merely seizing the opportunity to mess with a reputable FBI agent’s mind.
Or maybe there was a mystery man. Maybe he’d helped Mandy get drunk that night, guessing from her past behavior where that would lead. And maybe he understood what Mandy’s subsequent death would do to Quincy. Leave him feeling off balance, distracted, alone. Leave him vulnerable as the real plan began to unfold, the real threat to emerge . . .
There had been a time when Rainie would have dismissed such a theory as outlandish. Too cold, too callous to be possible. But that was before what had happened in Bakersville last year. Now she had the same fundamental training Quincy did. She understood the worst men could do, and she no longer considered anything to be too cruel to happen. Most people thought murderers killed out of some sort of necessity. Those were the easy cases. Far worse were psychopaths who considered murder to be not only a hobby, but a recreational sport.
Quincy had been there for her once. She planned on returning the favor.
Rainie consulted her map again, blew by her turnoff, and after thirty-six hours of practice, executed a perfectly brilliant and highly illegal U-turn. She went down the desired street.
The road was wide here, boasting a gracefully curving sidewalk and tons of freshly planted magnolia trees. New neighborhood, she decided. New money. She turned into a cul-de-sac and tried to keep her eyes from popping out of her head. Huge brick colonials sat up on vast expanses of emerald lawn. Big houses. Big yards. Fenced-in properties and gated drives.
She had figured Quincy’s security-conscious nature would place him in some type of gated community, but she hadn’t planned on this. She followed the house numbers down to the end, where a smaller, more discreet brick house was tucked back from the road. Rainie knew it was Quincy’s without having to check the address; it was the only home where every single bush had been removed, eliminating places for the discriminating intruder to hide.
She looked at his denuded lot and sighed. “Quincy, Quincy, Quincy,” she murmured. “You have got to take a vacation.”
She pulled up to the black, wrought-iron gate and pushed the intercom button. It was only four P.M. and she really didn’t expect Quincy to be home, so she was surprised when someone answered her buzz. She was even more surprised that it was a woman’s voice.
“Name and business,” the woman asked evenly.
“Uhhhh, Lorraine Conner. I work with Quincy.” Not quite a lie.
“Please look into the camera and show your ID.”
Run now, Rainie thought, or forever hold your peace. Gamely, she stared into the mounted camera and flashed her PI’s license.
Moments later, the gate began to rumble, then slide slowly back. Rainie drove up the sweeping drive to find the front door open and a woman standing there. Rainie got out of her car, feeling not nearly so good about things.
The woman in question was middle-aged. Probably forty, but maybe thirty—the severe hairstyle and stern gray suit didn’t do her any favors. She stood stiffly, her arms folded over her chest and her feet clad in sensible black shoes.
Didn’t look like a housekeeper, Rainie decided. Not Quincy’s type so she couldn’t be his