The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [64]
Three pairs of eyes swung toward her. The two detectives scowled, obviously assuming she was a lawyer—who else would turn up at this time of night/morning? Quincy, on the other hand, registered no reaction at all. He had obviously seen his ex-wife’s remains on her feather-strewn bed. After that, any further emotion would be superfluous.
“Who the hell are you?” Cro-Magnon did the honors.
“Who do you think? Name is Conner, Lorraine Conner.”
She held out her hand authoritatively, and with the long-suffering sigh policemen reserve just for lawyers, Cro-Magnon conceded to shake her hand—with a crushing grip. “Detective Kincaid,” he muttered. Rainie turned to his partner, a slightly built man with intense blue eyes. “Albright,” he supplied and shook her hand as well while giving her a more appraising assessment. Rainie pegged him as the brains behind the operation. Cro-Magnon rattled the beehive. Smaller, less threatening guy took excellent notes.
“Where are we?” Rainie asked, plopping down on the bed as if she had every right to be here. In the doorway, Special Agent Rodman wore a small smile.
“Trying to establish an alibi—”
“Are you saying that an FBI agent is a suspect?” Rainie gave smaller, less threatening guy an imperious stare.
“He is the ex-husband.”
Rainie turned to Quincy. “How long have you been divorced?”
“Eight years.”
“Do you have any current legal proceedings against your ex-wife?”
“No.”
“Do you stand to gain any money upon her death?”
“No.”
Rainie turned back to the detectives. “Is it just me, or is there a total lack of motive here?”
“Is it true that you purchased a red Audi TT coupe two weeks ago in New York?” Detective Albright asked Quincy.
“No,” Rainie answered for him.
“Counselor, we have a record of the vehicle’s registration, bearing the agent’s name.”
“Fraudulent purchase. A man posing as Supervisory Special Agent Quincy made that purchase, as the FBI is already aware of and actively investigating. Isn’t that correct, Special Agent Rodman?”
“We are actively investigating,” Glenda provided dutifully from the doorway.
Rainie addressed the detectives once more. She took a page out of Quincy’s book, keeping her voice crisp and manner perfectly relentless. “Are you aware that someone is currently stalking Supervisory Special Agent Quincy? Are you aware that his personal telephone number has been made available to prisoners all across the country? In addition, someone has used his name to make a series of purchases”—slight lie, but it sounded better—“all of which is currently being investigated by reputable agents at the Bureau. Perhaps you should consider that before you proceed.”
“And are you aware,” Detective Albright replied in her same cadence, “that Agent Quincy has logged eight calls to his ex-wife’s house in the last twenty-four hours?”
“As he said, he was worried about her.”
“Why? They’ve been divorced eight years.”
Oh, score one for the homicide detective.
“Elizabeth had asked me to run a background check.” Quincy spoke up quietly. Rainie wished he wouldn’t. He sounded too composed, too professional, like someone who had walked through such scenes hundreds of times and made his living by reviewing them hundreds more. She understood his detachment. She even heard the subtle, more dangerous thread of anger beneath his words, while noticing that his right hand was clenched too tightly on his lap and his left hand clutched the edge of the mattress as if he was trying to keep himself from spinning away. She wished she could touch him. She was afraid of how savage his reaction might be. So she merely sat behind him, pretending to be his lawyer so she could stay at his side, and wishing he’d trust her more, because his FBI composure was only going to sink him further with the local boys.
“However,” Quincy was continuing, “I could find no record of the name Bethie gave me. Coupled with the incidents going on in my own life, I grew concerned about who this person was and what he might do.”
“Name?”
“Tristan Shandling.”
“How