The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [63]
“One theory?”
“This house is equipped with a state-of-the-art alarm system. It never went off.”
“Was it armed?”
“We are working with the security company now to determine that information. They should be able to provide us with a record of the system’s most recent activity.”
“So one theory is that a stranger broke in and ambushed her. The second would be that the attacker was someone she knew and trusted.” Rainie could no longer contain herself. “You’re looking at Quincy, aren’t you? Goddammit, you suspect him!”
“No, I don’t!” Special Agent Rodman spoke up in a low hush. Her gaze darted toward the ME, then she quickly bent closer. “Listen to me, Ms. Conner. It is not in my nature to share information about a case. And it is certainly not in my nature to needlessly provide details to some out-of-state pseudo-cop. But it would appear that you and Special Agent Quincy are friends, and he’s going to need friends. We—meaning the Bureau—are behind him right now. Personally, I have spent all day listening to various sexual sadists leave not-very-subtle messages on his answering machine. We understand that there is more to this situation than meets the eye. We cannot, however, say the same for the locals.”
“You’re the feds, pull rank!”
“Can’t.”
“Bullshit!”
“Honey, there’s this thing called law. Look it up sometime.”
Rainie scowled. “Where is he? Can I talk to him?”
“Detectives willing, you can try.”
“I want to see him.”
“Then follow me.”
Glenda headed back toward the hallway. Passing through the doorway, Rainie made the mistake this time of looking at the bed. She could not quite contain the gasp that rose up in her throat.
Glenda glanced at her grimly. She said once more, “Quincy needs friends.”
Two plainclothes detectives had Quincy sequestered off in the one room that appeared spared in the attack. At any other time, Rainie might have laughed at the incongruous sight. This room had obviously been one of the girls’, the walls papered in a soft yellow with tiny pink and lilac flowers, the twin bed covered in a matching comforter, and the canopy top draped with yards of dreamy white gauze. A white wicker makeup table sat against one wall, topped by an oval mirror and still bearing small photos marking a young girl’s major passages in life—leaping in cheerleading practice, arms wrapped around a best friend, attending the prom. A dried corsage hung from a ribbon on the mirror, and a collection of brightly colored stuffed animals sat on the dresser top.
The room offered only a dainty, lilac-covered wicker bench, now occupied by one burly detective whose chin was nearly resting upon his knees. The other detective stood, while Quincy sat on the gauze-draped bed with a ruffled yellow pillow tucked against his thigh. The Gestapo does Laura Ashley, Rainie thought, and wished the sight of Quincy’s pale, tightly shuttered face didn’t twist her heart painfully in her chest.
“What time did you say you arrived again?” the seated detective was asking. He had a single fierce, bushy brow that overshadowed his eyes—Cro-Magnon man in a cheap gray suit.
“A little after midnight. I did not glance at my watch.”
“The neighbor, Mrs. Betty Wilson, claims she saw the victim return home with a man fitting your description shortly after ten P.M.”
“I was not here at ten P.M. As I’ve stated already, I did not arrive here until after midnight.”
“Where were you at ten?”
“By definition, Detective, I was in my car at ten P.M., driving here, so I could arrive after twelve.”
“Got any witnesses to that?”
“I drove here alone.”
“What about toll receipts?”
“I never asked for any receipts. At the time, I didn’t realize that I would need an alibi.”
The two detectives exchanged glances. Victim’s ex-husband appears evasive and unnecessarily hostile. Let’s get the thumbscrews and brass knuckles.
Rainie figured now was