The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [73]
She left the office and spotted Quincy standing in his kitchen, holding a small black travel bag, and staring at the answering machine.
“We’re taping them all,” she said by way of explanation.
“One hundred to one odds.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Considering how many of them I put in prison, I think I deserve better than that.”
“I have a copy of the ad if you would like to see it,” Glenda said, feeling the need to sound professional. She went to fetch it from the office. When she returned, Quincy had set down the traveling bag. He was standing in front of the empty refrigerator with the look of a man who’d opened it many times before and still kept expecting something different. She understood. Her own fridge held only water and low-fat yogurt and yet she continuously checked it for a fried-chicken dinner.
She handed Quincy the fax.
The ad was already typeset, a simple four-by-four square. It read, Reporter from BSU Productions seeks inside information on life at death’s door. Interested inmates should contact head agent, Pierce Quincy, at daytime number printed below. Or, contact his assistant, Amanda Quincy, at the following address.
“Not very subtle,” Quincy commented with that same unnerving calm. “BSU Productions. Head agent. Life at death’s door.”
“Codes can be more elaborate. From what I understand, the inmates generally disguise their communications as ads for pen pals. Then they play around with the letters. You know, instead of SWM/L for Single White Male/Lifer, they do things like BPO/M, which stands for Black Power Organization/Message. Members of the gang then know to piece through the ad for relevant information.”
“Ah, the power of grassroots journalism. And people with too much time on their hands.”
“From what we can tell, this ad ran in four major publications: Prison Legal News, National Prison Project Newsletter, Prison Fellowship, and Freedom Now. Combined circulation reaches over five thousand subscribers. That number isn’t high given total prison population, but the four newsletters basically account for at least one ad reaching every major corrections department. We think word of mouth took over from there.”
“Quilting bees have nothing on the average prison for sheer amount of gossip,” Quincy murmured. “I take it what we theorized before still stands. My phone number, and thus access to my address, has been spread so far and wide we’ll never be able to pare it down. Who knows where I live? Who doesn’t?”
“The National Prison Project Newsletter has the original hard copy of the ad,” Glenda said. “We’re having it couriered to the crime lab now. The Document Section should have more information for us in a matter of days. Also, Randy Jackson is still working on how the UNSUB got your unlisted number. I’m sure he’ll have something shortly.”
“The UNSUB got my phone number from Mandy. He used my daughter.” Quincy set down the fax. For the first time, he turned and fully met her gaze. She was immediately shocked by the hardness in his eyes, the cool expression on his face. Dissociation, the professional part of her deduced. Events of the past eighteen hours had left him in a state of shock, and his mind was coping by keeping him detached. The rest of her felt an unexpected tingle at the back of her neck. She had seen that remote gaze before. Old photos of Ted Bundy. Some people believed there was only a thin line between profilers and their prey. At this moment, in Quincy, that line didn’t exist. The tingle on the back of her neck grew into a shiver.
“My daughter’s death wasn’t an accident,” he said. “Rainie Conner has evidence that the UNSUB tampered with her seat belt.”
“Oh no,” Glenda said immediately, and meant it.
“We believe he befriended her, gained her trust. There is no telling what all he knows. Hobbies, likes, dislikes, personal habits, personal quirks. Friends of mine, where they live. He most certainly has the address and phone number of this house. You shouldn