The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [51]
“Look, I’m an associate of SupSpAg—er, Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy,” she tried.
The grim guard was not impressed.
“I don’t need full access or anything,” she attempted next. “Don’t you guys offer a visitor’s pass?”
She learned she could indeed be a visitor. If her name had been given to him ahead of time. With appropriate clearance.
“So what the hell do I do now? Wait, wait,” she held up a hand upon seeing the firm expression on his chiseled face. “I remember: I am not permitted to enter.”
After a little more wrangling, she finally agreed to wait in her car under the officer’s tight scrutiny. In turn, he agreed to contact the BSU office and inquire if Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy would like to come out and see a guest.
Fifteen minutes later, Quincy’s car appeared. He looked tired, stressed, and not at all happy to see her. So much for the reunion scene where they ran to each other with open arms. Instead, she meekly followed his car off the Marine base into the nearby little town where he pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant.
“I want some coffee,” he said as he climbed out of his car.
“Hello to you, too,” she replied.
“You crash government facilities often?”
“I didn’t realize it would be so hard.”
“Rainie, it’s the FBI Academy. We have procedures and protocol. If just anyone could walk in, it would ruin the point.”
“Fine. Next time I’ll wear my best cocktail dress.”
“Christ,” he said. “You really can be childish.”
He headed for the restaurant. She stood rooted in the parking lot, stunned by the coldness in his voice. Then the shock wore off, and she went after him.
“What the hell is with you?” Rainie demanded, catching up with Quincy as he approached the cashier and grabbing his arm.
“Two coffees,” he ordered. “One black, one with way too much cream and sugar.”
“I don’t need coffee. I want an explanation.”
“Coffee’s easier,” he told her, and wouldn’t say another word until the amused cashier delivered both cups. Then he made Rainie follow him back outside, to a picnic table in a grove of trees she hadn’t noticed before. The walk was long and didn’t do a thing to calm her temper.
“Okay,” she announced the instant he sat at the table. “What the hell is going on, Quincy? And you’d better start talking or you’ll be wearing this coffee with ‘way too much cream and sugar.’”
Quincy blew on his black, steaming brew. She could see now that the shadows had deepened under his eyes and his cheeks had gained the hollowed look of a man not sleeping at night. It was funny, she thought. Last year, she had been the one looking like walking death, and Quincy had been the one lecturing her to eat and sleep anyway. Stress is an even better reason to take care of yourself, he’d told her. Taking care of the body helps take care of the mind. If she repeated his own lecture back to him now, she wondered, how childish would that be?
“Have you heard of something called identity theft?” Quincy asked tersely.
Rainie sat down. She sipped her coffee. She nodded.
“A person steals someone’s identity. Not too hard to do in this day and age. Gets the person’s Social Security number and mother’s maiden name, then uses that information to get a copy of the birth certificate and voilà, becomes the new person. It’s amazing all the things you can do once you have basic documentation. Get a valid driver’s license. Open a bank account or apply for a credit card. Buy a car, a red Audi TT roadster, I take it, registered and financed in the unwitting victim’s name.”
“Someone used your name to buy a sports car?”
“In New York. Two weeks ago. In theory, I currently owe a Westchester dealership forty thousand dollars, payable in convenient monthly installments of eight hundred and eleven dollars over the next five years.”
“Someone stole an FBI agent’s identity?”
“Why not? He’s already given out my personal information to half the hardened criminals in the country. After that, what’s one high-performance vehicle?