The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [89]
“Ted Bundy was notorious for changing his look,” Quincy reported. “His weight often fluctuated more than fifty pounds, changing impressions of his face, and also of his height—heavier people are often perceived to be shorter. Then we have Jim Beckett, who pursued his victims and eluded police for over a year by significantly altering his appearance. He would wear padding, stuff his cheeks, things of that nature, to change the contours of his build.”
“So one implication is that this guy is a master of disguise,” Rainie said. “The second is that he’s patient. Twenty months apart . . . that’s not someone who is committing a rash or random act.”
“He’s planned this for quite some time,” Quincy agreed.
“When we get to Portland, I’m putting you two into a hotel room under aliases. And then we go on the offensive. I have Officer Amity reopening the investigation of Mandy’s crash. Investigator Phil de Beers is tailing Mary Olsen and should have word for us shortly. Even if we don’t trust Montgomery, Everett seems to be on your side, Quincy, and Special Agent Rodman appears to know what she’s doing. She may be able to help connect the dots from the inside.”
“We sit,” Kimberly murmured. “We wait. We wonder where he’ll strike next.”
“We’re ahead now,” Rainie rebutted firmly. “He had the advantage with Mandy because she was his first victim. He continued his advantage with Bethie, because we didn’t know any better. We know now. And in exactly”—she glanced at her watch—”three hours, we’ll be out of strike zone. We’ll finally be ahead of his game.”
Kimberly and Quincy nodded tensely. Rainie returned to her notes. “Now then, I have another person for us to pursue. According to the AA president, Mandy’s sponsor at the meetings was her boss. Larry Tanz owned the restaurant where she and Mary both worked. Now, I don’t know a thing about Mr. Tanz, but given Mary’s strange behavior and the fact that Mr. Tanz knows both Mary and Mandy . . .”
“He’s worth considering,” Quincy said.
“I told my new best friend Phil de Beers to work on it. You know,” she added seriously, “he makes his coffee with sour mash. I think my cream-and-sugar habit is now looking quite respectable.”
As a unit, Quincy and Kimberly rolled their eyes. They looked just like father and daughter when they did that. Huh.
Rainie flipped the page of her notebook. “Finally, I have the two aliases that the UNSUB has used thus far. He used Tristan Shandling in Philadelphia—we should run that through a database of names from your past cases, Quince, to see if it rings any bells. Then, twenty months ago in Virginia, he used the name Ben Zikka to approach Mandy at her AA meeting.”
“What?” Quincy spoke up sharply.
“Ben Zikka,” Rainie repeated. “The name Ben Zik—”
“No! Son of a bitch. No, no, no!”
Quincy bolted from the table. He grabbed the cordless phone, fumbled it for a moment, then got a hard grip. His knuckles were white. Rainie didn’t even recognize his face. Something bad had happened. She didn’t understand what. She glanced at Kimberly and saw the girl’s face turn the color of bone.
“Grandpa,” Kimberly whispered.
“Oh no.” Rainie closed her eyes. None of them had even thought about Quincy’s father. He was a sick old man, stricken with Alzheimer’s, tucked away in a retirement home. “Oh no . . .”
“Shady Acres Elder Care,” Quincy barked into the phone. “Put me through!” And a moment after that, “Abraham Quincy, please. What do you mean he’s not there? Of course he’s there; he requires full-time medical attention. His son picked him up? His son, Pierce Quincy, picked him up earlier this afternoon. Of course you made him show ID. Of course he had a driver’s license. His son, Pierce Quincy . . .”
A horrible stillness had come over Quincy’s face. Rainie couldn’t move. Go to him, she thought. Touch him. But she knew she couldn’t. She knew Kimberly couldn’t. Because they were watching a man in the throes of something terrible and it had only just begun.
He punched off the phone. He lowered it, cradling it against his neck as if the