The Next Accident (16 page)

"This person" – Quincys voice sounded almost far away – "he's very, very good."

"He may be good, but we've gone up against good before. We'll find him."

"Really? Because I've been going through my old cases and I haven't seen a hint of him yet. Glenda, for the last time, don't stay here alone."

"I'll be fine."

"I don't think you understand. I'm removing my daughter from the playing field. With her out of reach, it's anybody's guess where he'll strike next."

New York University
,
New York
City

"I can't believe
she's dead."

Kimberly sat in Professor Andrews's office as the last rays of daylight gave way to a slinky gray dusk. Day One, Kimberly called this Thursday. Day One without her mother. She gripped the edge of the old maple seat harder, as if that would keep this day from ending. Day One would only be followed by Days Two, Three, and Four, then Months One, Two, and Three, then Years… Tears slid down her cheeks.

She had come here with the intention of being professional. She had to leave town. She would provide a rough sketch of the last few days for her professor. She would end by calmly stating that circumstances now warranted the resignation of her coveted internship position. Dignified. Firm. In control. Those were her goals. She was nearly a master's student, for heaven's sake. She had buried her sister and had now lost her mother. If she had been a young woman once, she wasn't anymore.

She had stepped into the warm, crowded office with its hodgepodge mix of precariously stacked papers and dying plants and her composure had instantly dropped like a rock. Her eyes welled up. She stood in front of a man she respected almost as much as her father, and bits and pieces of the last few days burst out of her mouth before her throat finally closed up on her.

Dr. Andrews had led her to the chair. He had brought her a glass of water. Then he had sat patiently on the other side of his cluttered desk, his hands folded and his expression steady while he waited for her to recover. He didn't offer any platitudes or comforting noises. It wasn't his style.

In his ten years at NYU, Dr. Marcus Andrews had garnered a reputation for reducing even the most brilliant Ph.D. candidates to tears with his unwavering blue stare. Speculation placed his age anywhere between sixty and older than dirt. He had thinning gray hair, a perpetual scowl, and a penchant for tweed. While in reality he was an average-sized man, trim from a lifelong devotion to yoga, he had an uncanny ability to seem four times his natural size as he stood at a podium and railed at his students to try harder, think broader, and for heaven's sake, be
smarter.

According to the grapevine, he'd started his career as a psychiatrist assigned to the fabled San Quentin prison. The work had intrigued him so much, he'd gotten a Ph.D. in criminology and made a name for himself doing groundbreaking work on the institutionalization of criminals, and how the very nature of prisons guaranteed further acts of brutality when hardened inmates were released back into society.

He was hard, gruff, and demanding. He was also brilliant, and Kimberly respected him immensely.

"Maybe you should start at the beginning," he told her.

"No. I don't want to go through it again. It's painful, and I can't afford to be in pain right now. It's funny, I never understood how my father could come home from his job and look so composed. All the cops on TV, they came back from crime scenes and they drank, or smoked, or cursed, or raged. My sister and I, we understood that. It made sense to us. Then my father would come home again, and it was… He was like a pool of still water. No matter how long you studied his face, you never saw a thing beneath the surface. I get that now. The job is war. And you can't afford any emotion. It's your enemy."

"What do you think your father would feel right now if he could hear you?" Dr. Andrews asked.

"He would be hurt."

"And this person who is targeting your father, what is his goal?"

"To hurt him," she replied, then bowed her head as she saw his point.

Dr. Andrews gave her his lecturer's stare. "If this is war, Miss Quincy, which side is currently winning?"

"My mother hated his job."

"Law enforcement has a disproportionately high rate of divorce."

"No, she
hated
his job. The violence. The grit. The way he seemed to belong more to it than to us. She created a beautiful home. She produced two beautiful daughters. And still he'd rather live in the shadows."

"It's a calling. You understand that."

"But that's my whole point. My mother is dead and I'm sad and I'm furious but I'm also… motivated. For the first time in months, I feel awake. One moment I was existing in some sort of fugue state, and now… I want to
find
the bastard. I want to read the crime-scene reports. I want to trace this monster's steps, I want to tear apart every little facet of his personality and unmask him. And I am thinking about him more than I'm grieving for my mother. Dr. Andrews, what is
wrong
with us?"

Dr. Andrews finally smiled, an unheard-of softening of his hard-lined face. "Ah, Miss Quincy. Haven't you ever noticed that criminologists never do a study on criminologists?"

"We're sick, aren't we?"

"We're intellectualists. Our desire to understand why things happen outweighs our rage at the events."

"Rage is purer," she said bitterly.

"Rage lacks constructiveness. Think of it this way: Cops are doers. They get angry at what they encounter. They make arrests. In that way, they help control crime, but their intervention is always after the fact. Criminologists, sociologists, criminal behaviorists, are thinkers. We get curious. We do studies. We come up with things like profiling, which enables law enforcement to prevent future atrocities."

"When I was growing up," Kimberly said, "I used to think of my father as a general, off fighting in some foreign land. It made me proud. Even when my feelings were hurt, even when I was mad because he missed my soccer game or my birthday, I was proud."

Dr. Andrews leaned forward. He said gently, "You say you're proud of your father, Miss Quincy, and I believe that you are. But lately, you've also been distancing yourself from him. Why is that?"

She stiffened. "I don't know what you mean."

"The anxiety attacks. You've mentioned them to me, but I get the impression you haven't mentioned them to him."

Kimberly bowed her head again. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap. "I didn't… I don't know. I tell myself I don't want to worry him. But I don't think that's it. I think… I don't want to seem high-strung. You know – like Mandy."

Dr. Andrews winced. He sat back, and for the first time, Kimberly noticed how troubled he appeared. The lines were deeper in his face, his eyes didn't have that stern stare she'd grown accustomed to. For a moment, he almost appeared human. "I have a confession to make, Miss Quincy. I think I might have led you astray."

"What do you mean?" She sat up straighten Her heart began to pound again.

No,
she thought.
No mistakes from you.
No mere mortality from NYU's most-feared professor. Her world was falling apart and even if it was immature of her, she needed the gods in her life to remain gods.

"I'm the one who originally attributed your anxiety attacks to stress," Dr. Andrews said.

"My sister had died, it made sense."

"But now we have additional data points. Think of what your father said. Someone has targeted your family. That someone has been at this for at least two years."

"Yes." She looked at him quizzically, then it suddenly clicked. The blood drained out of her face. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. "My feeling of being watched. You think… you think it's him."

"We can't rule it out," Dr. Andrews said quietly. He added with the most kindness she'd ever heard from him, "I am truly sorry, Miss Quincy. I rushed to the most obvious conclusion. Perhaps it's time to listen to my own lectures."

"He's stalking me." She couldn't get over that idea. The concept was a curious one. It made her feel at once violated, yet relieved. Violated because some unknown predator had invaded her life and hunted her down like cattle. Relieved because the violation was real, not just in her head. All those times. The goose bumps, the cold chills creeping up her spine. She hadn't gone mental. Strong, logical Kimberly was still strong, logical Kimberly. Oh thank God…

"It fits his MO," Dr. Andrews was saying.

"Goddammit, he's been stalking me!" She was mad now. The rage brought desperately needed color to her cheeks, and stiffened her spine for the first time in weeks. Hunted? She would not be hunted.

Dr. Andrews was studying her. He must have liked what he saw, because he nodded encouragingly. "Remember what we were saying. Get curious. Put yourself in the predator's shoes. What makes him tick?"

She took a deep breath. "Games," she said after a moment. "He likes playing games."

"That is consistent with what we know. What else?"

"He doesn't want a quick kill. It's not about the murder, it's about the
process.
Personal. He wants it to be personal. Intimate."

"He won't be a stranger to you."

"But I might not have met him yet," Kimberly said slowly. "That feeling of being watched… If I had already met him, he wouldn't have to monitor me from a distance; he'd already be part of my life."

"Reconnaissance," Dr. Andrews theorized. "When did the sensation begin?"

"A few months ago. So he's been doing his homework. Looking for an opening."

"New boyfriend," Dr. Andrews offered.

"Too obvious. He's done that ploy, first with Mandy, and then with my mother. Though he upped the ante with my mother – we think he also posed as someone who received one of Mandys organs."

Dr. Andrews blinked. "Brilliant."

"I'm supposedly the smart one," Kimberly murmured softly, still thinking out loud. "That's what Mandy and my mom would have told him. I'm the serious one, the one who's always wanted to join law enforcement. The one who started taking martial arts at the age of eight, who likes tackle football and guns…" Her voice trailed off, her mind already forming a connection with one new person in her life. A charming gun pro who just happened to join her rifle association six months earlier. Doug James.

"You have an idea?"

"I don't want to jump to conclusions."

"Better to be safe than sorry, Miss Quincy."

She smiled. "That's the first platitude I've ever heard from you. I didn't know that you knew any. Then again, duly noted."

Dr. Andrews smiled. "You're leaving, yes? I assume that is what you're here to tell me. Strategic retreat is a perfectly valid option."

"I don't know how long I'll be gone."

"Understandable."

"I can't tell you where I'm going."

"Did you hear me asking?"

"You… you should probably find another intern. I mean, I would understand…"

"At this late date? Bah. I can read my own notes for a change. Might do me a world of good. Jumping to obvious conclusions. Next thing you know I'll be dreaming of the Washington Monument and blaming everything on my toilet training."

"Dr. Andrews… Thank you."

"Miss Quincy, it has been a pleasure."

There was nothing left to say. Kimberly rose. Held out her hand. Across the desk. Dr. Andrews also stood and extended his hand. Kimberly was touched by how grave he appeared.

"One last piece of advice?" he asked solemnly.

"Of course."

"Law enforcement, Miss Quincy. This man, he seems to specialize in identifying his victim's vulnerability, the thing she thinks she needs or admires most. For you, it's law enforcement. You have an inherent trust and respect for anyone wearing a badge."

"Point taken." Kimberly hesitated. It was silly to say what she was going to say next. But then, she felt that she must.
Day One,
she thought.
My sister is gone, my mother is dead, and I am learning to question everything.
Her gaze went to the window, now robbed of the light of day. Outside, a car backfired, sounding like a gunshot on the crowded streets.

"Dr. Andrews," she said quietly. "If anything should happen, can you tell my father something for me? Tell him the last person I saw this evening was a newly hired instructor at my gun club. Tell him I met a man named Doug James."

William Zane's Office,
Virginia

"I want a name."

"Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of AA; we don't give out that kind of information."

"Fine. Screw the name; it's probably just an alias anyway. I want a description."

"And one more time, anonymity is the spiritual foundation of AA. We don't give out that kind of information."

"Mr. Zane, this is a homicide investigation. You give me information now, quietly, or to the police later as part of an official investigation that will be reported to the press. Now, do you want to provide one man's description as a private exchange between you and me, or do you want word to get out that some psychopathic killer is using AA meetings to select his victims?"

William Zane, president of Mandy's AA chapter, finally hesitated. He was a big guy. Six one, two hundred and forty pounds. He wore a suit that screamed investment banker and carried himself in a way that suggested he was accustomed to people doing exactly what he said. Rainie figured he had at least three ex-wives and one helluva cocaine habit somewhere in his past. In theory, he was clean now and did an impeccable job of running the AA meetings. Someday, she'd be sure to send him a Hallmark card congratulating him on being such a nicely reformed human being. At the moment, however, she simply wanted the name and description of Amanda's "friend" at the AA meetings.

It was six P.M. Thursday, nearly twelve hours until departure to the relative safety of Portland, and for no good reason, Rainie was increasingly worried about Kimberly. In other words, she didn't feel like dicking around.

William Zane sighed. He'd agreed to see Rainie upon hearing that Amanda Quincys car accident had been reopened as a murder investigation. Now, he clearly regretted that decision. He got up from his chair in his posh office, moved his impressively clad bulk to the door and shut it firmly.

"You have to understand what you're asking," he said. "The key to AA's effectiveness is its simple operating principle – we provide confidential support to anyone willing to stop drinking. We aren't beholden to the courts, or to the police, or to anyone. We're an equal-opportunity support organization. And for a lot of people, we're the only lifeline they've got."

"Amanda doesn't need a lifeline anymore."

"You're not asking about Amanda. You're asking about current members."

It was Rainie's turn to sigh. "Here's the kicker, Mr. Zane. I'm a member of AA. I confess that I wouldn't have walked into my first meeting if it hadn't been anonymous and I wouldn't have continued to attend meetings after I became a police officer if it hadn't been anonymous. So as a matter of fact, I see your point. But this man
murdered
Amanda Quincy. He set up a scenario that sent her face crashing into a windshield at thirty-five miles per hour. And then there's what he did to her mother. Would you like to see the crime-scene photos?"

"No, no, no, no." Mr. Zane shook his lily-white hands emphatically and managed to go another shade of pale. To the image of the three ex-wives, Rainie added the picture of him pacing
outside
the delivery room with a box of Cuban cigars. She wondered if he ever did manage to change a diaper.

"I'm looking for a killer, Mr. Zane," she pressed. "You want to be a lifeline, be a lifeline for the other women who are doomed to die unless you help me stop this guy. Be a lifeline for the future victims. Because at this moment, you're the only chance of finding this guy that I've got."

"Perhaps," Mr. Zane said finally. "Off the record.
Way
off the record – "

"Deal. Sit, Mr. Zane; let's talk."

Mr. Zane sat behind his big desk. She got out her notebook.

"Do you remember Amanda Quincy?" Rainie asked.

"Yes, she joined our meetings nearly a year and a half ago."

"Did she have a sponsor?"

"She had a sponsor. I don't see the need to give out his name unless absolutely necessary."

"Yeah, and here's a photo of what happens to the human skull when it hits the rim of a windshield – "

"Larry Tanz," Mr. Zane said. "Nice guy."

"How did Amanda know Larry Tanz?"

"He owned the restaurant where she worked. Larry's been an AA member for ten years and has sponsored a fair amount of his staff in that time." Mr. Zane slid her a look. "It's amazing how many bartenders are drunks. And then there're the cooks…"

Rainie rolled her eyes, then jotted down a quick note. Larry Tanz, manager where Mandy used to work, which meant by definition, manager where Mary Olsen used to work. Interesting.

"Did Mandy and Mr. Tanz seem to have any other kind of relationship? You know, beyond the sponsor-sponsee kind of thing?"

"Our chapter suggests that people wait at least a year before dating," Mr. Zane said promptly. "As I'm sure you know, quitting cold turkey is very hard. You don't want to risk the additional stress of having a serious relationship end – it might send even the strongest person back to the bottle. We don't recommend dating until the initiate celebrates his or her one-year anniversary."

"Sounds romantic. So was Mandy fucking Larry or what?"

Mr. Zane said stiffly, "I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"One, Larry is a good guy. And two, while he felt sad and disappointed by Amanda's accident – perhaps even guilty – I wouldn't call him crushed. Her death was tragic, but certainly not deeply personal for him."

"How nice for Larry. What about someone else? Someone she might have befriended at the meetings?"

"She befriended lots of people – "

"New members who may have joined around the time she did who seemed like particularly close friends."

Mr. Zane hesitated. Rainie stared at him. He picked up a laser-etched paperweight, a souvenir from some exotic vacation. She stared harder.

"Well, there was one guy…"

"Name."

"Ben. Ben Zikka."

"Description."

"I don't know. Older. Late forties or early fifties, I would say. Not tall, five ten, maybe. Thinning brown hair. Soft around the middle. Not good taste in suits – definitely off the rack." Mr. Zane ran a hand down his own tailored jacket with authority. "I think he said he was a police officer or something like that. I could believe he'd eaten a lot of doughnuts."

Rainie scowled, then began chewing on her lower lip. This wasn't what she'd expected. "Older, kind of frumpy-looking guy? You're sure he was with Mandy?"

"Fairly sure. They started leaving the meetings together. At one point, I noticed they now came in the same car."

"And we're talking about the same Amanda Quincy, right? Twenty-three, slender, blond hair, big blue eyes? If the star quarterback hadn't dated her in high school, it wasn't from lack of trying."

"She was pretty," Mr. Zane said with more enthusiasm.

Rainie was getting a headache. "You're sure Zikka and Amanda were an item?"

"I don't know. You asked about new members she'd befriended. He was the new member she'd befriended. To tell you the truth, however, he only came the first few months. Then he stopped coming. She showed up a few more times, but each time was farther apart. Larry Tanz was going to call her about it, when she had the accident."

"So she comes to AA, meets this guy, and slowly trails off."

"Yes." Mr. Zane shrugged. He said, "It's often like that in the beginning. Admitting you're an alcoholic is tough. Staying sober is even tougher. Most of our members end up starting and stopping a few times before it sticks."

"Was there anyone else at this meeting who seemed to know Mandy? Say, someone six feet tall, well dressed, trim build, late forties, early fifties?" Rainie was working off Bethie's neighbor's statement to the police that she'd seen someone resembling Quincy enter the town house. But Mr. Zane shook his head.

"Are you sure?" she persisted.

"You haven't been to an AA meeting lately, have you, Ms. Conner? You spend half your life overindulging in alcohol and drugs and you're rarely the well-dressed, trim-build type. Maybe a Hollywood star can pull it off, but the rest of us, we've abused ourselves and we look it. Even Amanda Quincy was becoming harsh around the edges."

Rainie scowled again. One name and description later, she was more confused than when she'd started. She studied good old William Zane. His gaze was clear. He met her eye. Dammit, just when you were hoping someone was feeding you a lie, he went and told the truth.

She glanced at her watch. T-minus ten and still two stops to go. She rose, shook Zane's hand, and tried not to take his obvious relief at her departure too personally.

At the door, however, she was struck by one last question. "At your meetings," she said, "you talk about some very personal things, right?"

"Yes."

"What did Mandy talk about?"

He hesitated.

"Crime-scene photos, Mr. Zane. Crime. Scene. Photos."

"Mandy had self-esteem issues. Mandy… had
a lot
of self-esteem issues. She talked about how famous her father was. She talked about how beautiful her mother was. She talked about how smart her sister was. And she talked about – Let's put it this way, she often categorized herself as a disposable blonde."

"A 'disposable blonde'?"

"Mandy had this obsession with violence, Ms. Conner. She liked to see slasher movies, to read true-crime novels. She told the group that when she was younger, she used to sneak into her fathers office and look through his homicide textbooks, even read his case files. They terrified her, but she still came back for more. It wasn't a healthy thing. It wasn't a face-your-fear kind of thing. She did it to punish herself. You see, most of us identify with the crime solver when we watch slasher movies or read mystery novels. Not Mandy. She identified with the pretty, blue-eyed, blond victims. Disposable blondes, Ms. Conner. Beautiful women who exist simply for the deranged killer to savage first."

Rainie was still shaken by the time she pulled into the tiny commercial real estate building that housed Phil de Beers's office. Clouds had rolled in. The air crackled with electricity. A nearly full moon had to be up there somewhere, but the night had taken on a dense, suffocated feeling. Even the crickets had gone quiet.

She got out of her car hunch-shouldered and skittish, ready to shoot first, question later. Nine P.M. Kimberly should be back in the relative safety of her apartment. Quincy had probably wrapped things up with his boss at Quantico and was now returning to New York City. Rainie just needed to finish up two last chores, then it would be her turn.

Instead, she stopped in the middle of the empty parking lot and searched the inky black depths for something she couldn't name. Beyond her line of sight, she could hear cars humming by on the distant freeway. Four streetlamps bounced puddles of light off shiny black asphalt. The scent of honeysuckles and blackberries came to her, cloying and thick.

"Howdy, ma'am."

She startled, then whirled, her right hand already reaching for her Glock.

Phil de Beers stood in the doorway of the building, the spitting image of his Internet photo as he gazed at her curiously. "Want to come in?" he asked politely.

She shivered violently and nodded.

"Brewed some coffee," he said a moment later as he gestured her inside the building. "Don't know what it is about thunderstorms, God knows they generate enough humidity to drown a rat, but they always make me feel in need of a good hot drink. Or whiskey. But on account of this being a professional visit, I thought I'd stick with coffee."

"Bummer," Rainie said, and earned a wide, flashing smile from the small, neatly dressed black man.

"You caught me. I do have some good ol' sour mash…"

"Yeah," she said gloomily, "but I'm an alcoholic. I only get the coffee."

"Bummer," he echoed solemnly, and she decided that she liked him very much.

They went first to the tiny kitchenette shared by all the clients in the building. Phil splashed a delicate mist of whiskey into his brew. Rainie poured in cream and sugar until the private investigator began to laugh.

"I see some dependency issues," he commented.

"Sugar and fat are socially acceptable drugs."

"And you carry them well," he assured her, conducting an unabashed sweep of her figure before leading her into his office. He took a seat behind his desk in a positively sinful red leather chair. That left a hard, spindly old kitchen chair that she figured was designed to discourage lengthy visits.

Phil held up a small glass dish. "M amp;M's?" Rainie shook her head. He took a large handful. "I got some dependency issues, too," he admitted cheerfully and munched on the candy while she finished taking inventory of his office.

The space wasn't large but it was adequate. One wall contained two rows of bookshelves bearing thick volumes of
Virginia State Law
as well as piles of magazines. The other wall contained a gallery of framed prints. A diploma from the Virginia police academy. A variety of black and white photos showing de Beers with various men in suits. Probably important men in suits, Rainie thought, but now she was merely showing off her powers of deductive reasoning.

"Important person?" she asked, picking one photo at random.

"Director Freeh," he said.

"Director Freeh?"

De Beers flashed her that wide grin. "Head of the FBI."

"Oh yeah,
that
Director Freeh." Rainie shut up and drank her coffee. It would've been better with whiskey.

"So," de Beers said. "I've been watching Mary Olsen as you requested. Damn boring woman, Mrs. Mary Olsen. Didn't leave her house yesterday or today."

"That's not very helpful."

"No, but I got a contact at the phone company. I'll pull her records, give 'em a whirl. If you rattled the woman, she's probably not passing the time merely watching TV."

"She's checking in with people."

"There you go. 1 can get names, numbers, and addresses. Then what do you want me to do?"

"Fax me the phone numbers and names of whomever she's called the most. I know a state trooper who can check them out."