The Next Accident (22 page)

Latent found five fingerprints on the typeset ad, all of which matched with various staff members of the
National Prison Project Newsletter.
Serology found no hairs and fibers, but some dust residue that, again, was traced to the
National Prison Project Newsletter.
To complete the evidence-less trifecta, the DNA unit had also been unable to recover any samples from the paper or envelope.

At least the Document Examination Unit had had some fun. Their findings comprised the last three pages of the report, and were a welcome change from N/A, N/A, inconclusive. The ink on the paper was traced to a standard black laser-print cartridge commonly used in HP printers. That narrowed it down to millions of possible printers. Never fear, they were able to trace the font and graphics of the typeset ad. The UNSUB had used PowerPoint. Oh, the magic of desktop publishing.

Glenda sighed. Investigating crimes had been so much easier when people had no other choice but to write notes by hand. How the hell were you supposed to analyze a computer font? Where were the hesitation marks or angrily slanted T's in a typewritten ransom demand? And how the hell did you narrow the field when even serial killers were using Microsoft Office?

On the last page, she finally found some news. The paper was distinct. Not cheap grade white, but heavy-duty cream stationery, handmade with a watermark. According to the Document Examination Unit, the paper came from Britain where it was sold exclusively by a small store on Old Bond Street. Approximately two thousand boxes were sold worldwide each year. And it retailed for nearly one hundred dollars per twenty-five sheets.

Glenda set down the report. So, they had an UNSUB with computer access, PowerPoint savvy, and extremely expensive taste in stationery. Who in the world sent an ad to a prison newsletter on hundred-dollar stationery? It probably came in some kind of fancy gift box with pressed flowers and silk ribbons tied around the top. Maybe a gift. What a wife might give to a husband, or a boss to a colleague, or a daughter to a dad.

Glenda looked at Quincys desk. His beautiful, richly finished desk with the state-of-the-art fax machine, the fine leather chair. Everything perfectly matched, such as what a well-bred wife might select for her workaholic husband back when they were still married…

She grabbed the first desk drawer. Ripped it open. Pens, pencil, a Louis Vuitton check holder. She tried the drawer beneath that, then the one beneath that. Finally, in the bottom drawer, the location of a man who didn't write much, three boxes of stationery, all hardly touched.

She'd been wrong about the dried flowers and silk ribbons. The stationery came in a beautiful sandalwood box, tied with a leather thong. Geppetto's Stationery, imported from Italy, beautiful to behold, and now down to nineteen sheets.

"Oh Quincy," Glenda whispered, box in hand. "Oh Quincy, how could you?"

Portland
,
Oregon

When Rainie woke up,
Quincy was gone. She glanced at the red-glowing alarm clock next to the bed. Seven A.M., making it ten eastern standard time. Quincy and Kimberly had probably been up for hours. She dragged a hand through her hair, caught her reflection in the mirror above the bureau and winced. She looked like she'd stuck her hand in a light socket. Then again, her mouth tasted like old socks.

Ah, another beautiful Saturday morning.

She rolled out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom. Toothpaste helped. So did a quick shower. She donned her three-day-old jeans and white T-shirt, wrinkled her nose with distaste, and bravely left the bedroom.

Quincy and his daughter sat at the brown circular table
in the tiny kitchenette that comprised the front; half
of the living room. Quincy was hunched over his laptop
computer, while Kimberly leaned against his shoulder to get a better look at the screen. Both held cups of Starbucks coffee, and both were arguing vigorously. Rainie identified a third cup of coffee, probably hers. She scooped it up, while trying to come up to speed on their squabble.

They seemed to be working on the database. Kimberly wanted to focus more on Miguel Sanchez, Quincy thought it was a dead end – the man couldn't exactly do much from the confines of San Quentin. Well what about family, Kimberly argued. What family? Quincy countered. Sanchez's only living relative was a seventy-year-old oxygen-dependent mother, hardly a likely candidate for psycho of the week. "Touche," Rainie murmured.

They finally paused, Quincy glancing up from the computer. Something passed over his face, an expression she couldn't read. Then he said evenly, "Good morning, Rainie. There are croissants in the bag if you'd like."

She shook her head. "Been up long?" "A few hours." Quincy was avoiding her gaze. That was okay; she couldn't seem to meet his eye either. Had he been surprised to wake up and find her pressed against him on the bed? Pleased? Or had he considered it purely practical – Kimberly already had the sofa. Rainie studiously memorized the Starbucks logo on her cup of coffee.

"Where are you with things?" she asked. "Working the database."

Kimberly chimed in, "I think we need to reexamine the Sanchez case. Miguel's the one who reached Dad by phone, plus, his treatment of his cousin, Richie Millos, proves that he's big on revenge. Then there's the Montgomery factor – that Albert Montgomery also worked that case and happens to hate Dad because of it."

"That I personally took Sanchez's call was a random event," Quincy countered. "There were fifty-six other convicts on the answering machine, whose calls I could just as easily have caught in person. And while the 'Montgomery factor' is interesting, coincidence does not equal conspiracy. Bottom line: Miguel is securely behind bars in California. He has no opportunity, and frankly, I don't think he's that smart."

"What about the cousin?" Rainie asked.

"Millos? What about him?"

Rainie took a seat. Safe on the comforting topic of homicidal maniacs, she could face Quincy again. "Think of it this way: Your assessment of Richie and Miguel's partnership led the police to focus on Richie. And by focusing on Richie, the police guaranteed his death at the hands of Miguel. Ergo, someone could argue that you were responsible for Richie's death."

"Ergo, I killed Richie," Quincy murmured. "Not bad."

"Does Richie have surviving family?" Kimberly asked.

"I don't know. Grab the case file."

Kimberly began digging in the box next to Quincy 's feet. Apparently, they'd been through this drill a few times already, because she came up with the manila file in four seconds flat. "Millos, Richie. Let's see what kind of nuts are hanging from the family tree." She flipped it open, turned three pages, and began to briskly scan the background report. "Okay, we got a mother – fifty-nine years old and listed as a housewife. We have a father – sixty-three years old, former janitor, now on disability. Oh, condition is listed as rheumatoid arthritis. That probably rules him out."

"Any siblings?" Quincy asked.

"Two younger brothers and one younger sister. Jose is thirty-five and comes with his own rap sheet. A B amp;E guy, but not currently incarcerated. That's food for thought. Mitchell 'Mickie' Millos is thirty-three, and hey, no rap sheet. In fact, he's an engineer with a degree from the University of Texas in Austin. So apparently one of the men in the family made good. Finally we have Rosa Millos, the baby daughter, who is twenty-eight. We have no info on her, why is that?"

"Chauvinism," Rainie replied. "The feds have a history of underestimating women."

"I'm not going to comment on that," Quincy murmured, "given that I'm outnumbered, and outgunned, in this room. Now, for no good reason at all, tell me more about Mickie."

Kimberly flipped back through the background report. "I don't have anything more on Mickie. Once the investigating agent determined he had no criminal history, he seemed to have lost interest."

"Figures." Quincy frowned, mulling something over in his mind. Then his gaze rose to meet Rainie's. She'd been staring at the column of his throat, admiring his dark blue polo shirt and wondering why she hadn't gotten him out of a suit more often. The soft cotton fabric draped nicely over his chest, accentuating the hard planes of his runner's body, the deep color of his piercing eyes.

Why hadn't he woken her this morning? He could've taken at least one moment to brush her cheek and say… anything.

Belatedly she realized he was looking at her. A fresh flood of color rose in her cheeks. She looked away hastily, feeling not at all like herself. "Rainie?" he asked softly.

"Ummm, the youngest brother. Yes, let's look harder I at him."

Kimberly frowned. "Why Mickie? He's not even the right age. Our guy's much older."

"Age can be faked," Quincy said, his gaze still onI Rainie. "Plus, people are notoriously bad at estimati age. You put a man in T-shirt and jeans and people will! say he's early twenties. You put the same man in a d

suit, and people will say he's early thirties. While eyewitness testimonies remain the number one way of catching suspects, they are very easy to manipulate, especially by someone who's done any reading on the subject."

"But Mickie's an engineer," Kimberly protested. "Educated, no history of crime."

"Exactly," Rainie spoke up. "The UNSUB we're looking for is sophisticated. He has a complex plan, a gift for manipulation, confidence in approaching both a beauti-ful young woman – your sister – and a sophisticated older woman – your mother. Most likely he is educated, fairly worldly, and with a knack for problem solving."

"And he has money," Quincy added. "At the current pace of development, our UNSUB's most likely engaged in this pursuit full-time. So he must have a nest egg to live off of. He's also been traveling, demanding additional resources. Then there's this new development with you, Rainie. Kimberly told me about your meeting with Carl Mitz. If, as you suspect, your 'father' really is Tristan Shandling, then our UNSUB has paid off a DA and hired a lawyer as part of his plan, both actions requiring significant financial resources.

"Now, does a thirty-three-year-old engineer such as Mickie have that kind of money? Generally, I'd say no. But in this day and age of software millionaires and dot-com billionaires, who knows? Mickie could be a very wealthy young man."

Kimberly nodded slowly. "I hadn't thought of that. Okay, so we run a complete background check of youngest brother Millos, including his financial assets. One name down." She looked at the box of files. She sighed. "Fifty more names to go."

"With all due respect," Rainie spoke up, "I don't think this database project is going to get us anywhere." Quincy immediately frowned. He and his daughter swiveled to look at her. Rainie shrugged. "Think about it, Quincy. Is this guy's name somewhere in that box or in this database or in FBI files? Probably. Is it going to help us? No. Why not? Because he knows his name is in there, too."

She leaned forward, speaking intently. "What is the UNSUB's major vulnerability? Process of elimination. It's a personal case, not stranger to stranger, so given enough time and resources, he knows you'll be able to identify him. What's his strategy then? In the beginning, it's secrecy. He selects Mandy, the family member in the least amount of contact with the rest of the family. He disguises his appearance, he uses an alias, and he conceals her murder as an accident. And in the beginning, that works. He understands, however, that he can't hide his actions forever. The minute he attacks Bethie, you'll start connecting the dots. You'll start looking for him. And he prepares for that as well.

"Fourteen months after Mandys accident, he starts a fresh wave of maneuvers. First tactic: Diversion. He spreads around your address and telephone number to every psycho in the continental U.S. Next tactic: Confusion. He steals your identity, assumes your appearance, and begins to plant evidence that will get your fellow agents off his trail and on to you. Final tactic:
Speed."

"Everything is now happening at once," Quincy said.

"Wednesday, Mom is murdered," Kimberly whispered. "Thursday, Grandpa is kidnapped. Friday, we're all on the run and Rainie is approached by some lawyer about her father. He's not going to give us time to think, anymore. He's not going to give any of us time to stop and consider and analyze. Because the minute we do, he
knows he's in trouble."

Rainie was looking at Quincy. "This guy… he's a black hole, Quincy. We don't know who, why, how, when. He's not giving you any information. He's not making the mistake of underestimating you. Why?"

"Because I definitely know him."

She smiled. "Because he definitely knows you. You thrive on information, puzzles, games. It's your whole life. So step one was to keep his actions hidden for as long as possible. And step two is to keep you moving, instead of thinking. As long as you're reacting to him, you can't get ahead. Keeping you reacting is keeping you vulnerable. We have to break that cycle, Quince. We need an active game plan, a way of going on the offensive. And hiding out in Portland playing with databases isn't it. He'll find us here – probably a lot sooner than you think."

Quincy grew silent. Then his gaze rose slowly to meet hers. "What do you think of Carl Mitz's allegation that you have a father?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"Just because it's coincidence, doesn't mean…"

"I got that!" Rainie took a deep breath, then let it out. "I just… I have to be careful. Mitz seems legit. There are aspects of Ronald Dawson's background that also appear genuine. He was in prison for most of my life, we may very well find public record of the real estate deal that made his father a millionaire. On the other hand… Tristan Shandling's MO is to disguise himself as the person his victim wants most. And yeah, I am interested in Ronald Dawson. I'm desperately interested in Ronald Dawson, and frankly, that scares me to death."

"What if Mitz could arrange for you to meet Mr. Dawson in person?"

"No way." She shook her head adamantly.

That intent look was back in Quincy's eyes, and not his slow sexy look, but his all-knowing professional stare. "Active game plan," he murmured.

Rainie closed her eyes. She knew what he wanted. It hurt her, it killed her, but it didn't change the fact that once more, he was right. "Fine! I'll meet with Ronnie. I'll put my achy, breaky heart at risk. Never say I didn't do anything for you."

"But you can't meet with him," Kimberly blurted out. "If he's the UNSUB, he could attack you, or kidnap you, or worse."

"I don't think your father intends for me to meet with Ronnie alone," Rainie said dryly. "Not that he's opposed to offering me as some juicy little bait."

"I never – "

"Oh shut up, Quince. For God's sake, I'm the one who just said we needed to be proactive. If Dawson is our favorite stalker, then let's turn the tables on him. I'll contact Mitz and set up a lunch date, with Luke and the boys singing backup. I can drill Ronnie for additional information about his paternity claim. At the very least, I can get yet another description to add to our files. Tristan Shandling, the man of many faces."

"What if he tries something?" Kimberly protested.

"He won't," Rainie said.

"How can you be sure?"

"Because it's his MO," Rainie said flatly. "If Ronald Dawson is Tristan Shandling, he's not going to come out of the gate swinging. Oh no. Quite the opposite. He's going to sit across from me telling me how much he's always wanted a daughter. He's going to dazzle me with stories of what I could do with a ten-million-dollar inheritance. He's going to tell me that finding me is the single best thing that's ever happened to him." Her voice cracked. She caught it. "And I'm going to get to doubt every word he says. I'm going to sit there thinking this man is either the world's most perfect long-lost father, or someone who wants me dead. Hey, all in a day's work."

"Rainie – "

"I'll do it, Quincy."

"I've changed my mind. I don't want you to do it. I was wrong."

"You were right," she snapped crisply. "Don't grow soft on me now."

He fell silent. So did she. His eyes locked on hers. The moment drew out, grew long.

"This is very hard," Kimberly said at last.

Quincy nodded, his gaze not leaving Rainie's. "This is very hard."

"I mean, we don't even know who this man is, and look what he's doing to you. Mom is gone, and Mandy's gone, and now you have to fear for Rainie and me."

"I've always feared for the people I care about."

"But not like this. Not this active, immediate, horrible kind of worry."

"I always worry," Quincy said quietly. "It's the nature of my job. I know what can happen, and I do think about it late at night."

"We're going to be okay," Kimberly said fiercely. "We know what's going on now and information is power! We're going to be okay."

"We'll delve deeper into Mitchell Millos," Quincy said softly. "I'll try to come up with a list of five or ten other names. Then I'll check in with Everett, see if he has any new developments. Perhaps, my father…" His voice grew too wistful. He caught himself and said more firmly, "And we'll move on Ronald Dawson. One way or another, we're going to get a fix on him."