The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [65]
“I don’t know.”
“When did she meet him?”
“I don’t know.”
Detective Albright arched a brow. “So, let me get this straight. You’re conscientious enough to run a background check, but you didn’t ask your ex-wife any questions?”
“As you said, Detective, we’d been divorced eight years. Her personal life is not my business anymore.”
“Personal life? So you suspected he was a new love interest—”
“I didn’t say that,” Quincy interjected sharply. But it was too late. Detective Albright was already making fresh notes. And now, Rainie thought with a sigh, they had motive—the ever-classic, ever-popular, jealous ex.
“Detectives,” she said crisply. “While I’m sure we all have nothing better to do at five in the morning than continue this conversation, aren’t you missing the obvious?”
Detective Albright cocked his head and regarded her curiously. Cro-Magnon went with the more obvious, “Huh?”
“Look at this house. Look at this scene. There is blood everywhere; there are indications of a savage fight. Now behold Supervisory Special Agent Quincy: His suit is immaculate, his shoes are polished, and his hands and face don’t bear a single mark. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”
“He took lessons from O. J. Simpson,” Cro-Magnon declared.
Rainie sighed. She appealed to Albright, who seemed to have more common sense. She was honestly surprised to realize that even smaller, less threatening guy was not convinced. What the . . . ?
Her gaze flew to Quincy. He would not return her stare, his gaze locked somewhere on the far wall where flowers bloomed pink and lilac amid a sea of yellow. She turned to Glenda Rodman, and that agent, too, glanced away.
The feds knew something. At least Quincy and Glenda did, but they were not yet volunteering it to the locals, which could only mean one thing. How bad could one night get? And what would Quincy do, when she told him that the same person who had murdered Bethie tonight, had most likely started by killing his daughter fourteen months ago?
A tall, thin man appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a white doctor’s coat. The medical examiner’s assistant. “I . . . uh. We thought you should see this.”
With gloved hands, the man held up a plastic bag. Glenda didn’t take it. Instead, Detective Albright accepted the marked evidence bag, held it up to the light, and promptly said, “Jesus Christ!” He dropped the bag on the lilac-colored rug, where it resembled a fresh pool of blood.
“It was . . .” The medical assistant wasn’t doing so well. His face still carried a tinge of green and he was staring at the plastic bag with the horrified fascination of someone who knew he really should look away. “We found it . . . abdominal cavity . . .”
Cro-Magnon wasn’t moving. On the bed, Quincy’s hand was gripping the floral comforter so tight, tendons stood out like ridges. Very slowly, Rainie reached down. Very slowly, she picked up the bag. She held it by the corner gingerly, as if it were a snake with the power to strike.
It looked like a piece of Christmas wrapping paper. Bright red with swirls of white. Shiny veneer. Except . . .
It was paper, she realized dizzily. At least it had been. Cheap, white paper, probably like the kind used in any copy machine. Except now it was soaked bloody red. And those were not pretty swirls. They were letters, forming words, written in some kind of white wax, in order to come to light as it sat, according to the assistant, in Elizabeth Quincy’s insides.
“It’s a note,” she said.
“Read it,” Quincy whispered.
“No.”
“Read it!”
Rainie closed her eyes. She had already made out the words. “It says . . . it says, ‘You’d better hurry up, Pierce. There’s only one left.’ “
“Kimberly,” Glenda Rodman said from the doorway.
A strange sound came from the bed. Quincy was finally moving. His body rocked back and forth. His shoulders started to shake. And then a low, dreadful sound came from his lips. Laughter. A dry, bone-chilling chuckle spewing from his lips.
“A message in a bottle,” he singsonged. “A message in a fucking bottle!”
His shoulders broke. He bowed