The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  Quincy was looking back at her curiously. She forced her attention to unfastening her seat belt.

  Sanders had already located the officer in charge. She and Quincy walked up in time to hear: “Suspect appears to be approximately forty years old, graying brown hair, five-ten, five-eleven, approximately one hundred and eighty pounds. He’s wearing a long trench coat, so he could be carrying weapons. The motel owner gives his name as Dave Duncan, supposedly some kind of traveling salesman. Said the man’s quiet and a nonsmoker, if that’s any help.” The officer rolled his eyes.

  “Time he returned to his room?” Sanders asked.

  “Forty-five minutes ago. We have a pair of officers interviewing the bartender, Ed Flanders, right now. I guess the guy’s been in twice. The first time he seemed to be picking a fight with a few locals over whether Danny O’Grady had done the shooting or not. We’d gotten the bulletin yesterday to be on the lookout for strangers who seemed to be following the shooting, so we’d already reached out to the bartenders. Then tonight this guy shows up around seven and starts back in. Except tonight he seemed to be focused on Officer Conner.” The officer’s gaze slid over at Rainie. “Ahh, begging your pardon, ma’am, but Mr. Duncan was saying that he knew for a fact you’d killed your mo—um, you’d killed Mrs. Conner”—the officer seemed to decide that was a more polite way of saying it—“some years ago. He said he had proof, but when Ed tried to ask more questions, the guy blew him off.

  “We haven’t been able to get a good look at him yet—we were following him in the dark—but Ed swears he knows him from somewhere, just can’t think of where.”

  “Older man?” Quincy probed. “Heavyset?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Quincy looked at Rainie. She shrugged. “Older man” could be several possibilities. Principal VanderZanden, Melissa Avalon’s father. Or, what the hell, maybe even Mrs. VanderZanden or Mrs. Avalon in drag. The UNSUB was clever enough to disguise a bullet. God knows what he or she could do with physical appearance.

  “Why don’t we just get this over with,” she said stiffly, and everyone nodded. A few of the young men had their batons out. They had a lot of experience breaking up bar fights during the hot summer months, and now they were good to go.

  Officer Carr ran them through the drill. The manager of the hotel would call the room and say there was trouble with the bill, would Mr. Duncan please come to the lobby. The minute Duncan stepped clear of his room, the officers would descend. They were all wearing flak vests and were prepared to use necessary force. The goal was to be so fast and quick, Duncan would never have time to react. Once they had him in handcuffs, they could begin questioning.

  Rainie nodded her consent and pretended Sanders wasn’t doing the same. She could tell Officer Carr was proud of his role in hunting down a key suspect. Years later this would be one of those stories repeated over and over again in all the good cop bars.

  They settled down behind the trees and prepared to watch the show.

  The hotel manager nervously picked up the phone and dialed the room. Rainie could see everything through the uncovered lobby windows and was happy Mr. Duncan couldn’t say the same, because the hotel manager was sweating bullets. Poor man looked like he was going to have a heart attack, while beside him a somber young officer had dropped into a crouch and had his gun pointed at the front door. Rainie understood it was just a precaution. She was less sure the hotel manager appreciated that.

  The manager set down the phone. He was frowning. He said something to the officer and then Carr’s radio crackled to life.

  “No one’s picking up,” Carr muttered. “The manager can’t get Duncan to answer.” He appeared worried. He glanced at Bakersville’s quartet for advice.

  “Think he’s figured it out?” Sanders murmured.

  Rainie took in the half-dozen cars and sixteen milling men. “Jeez, I don’t know how.”

  “What about having the manager approach the room in person, knock on the door?” Sanders asked. “The moment the door cracks open, we’ll push him aside and force our way into the room.”

  Quincy looked at the hotel manager, who had sweated through his white shirt and was now swaying on his feet. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll do it,” Rainie said.

  They all stared at her. She shrugged. “I swear to God I have no real desire to be shot. But do you see any other maids around?” She gestured to the all-male crowd. “I thought not.”

  Five minutes later Rainie was trying to pull a too-small threadbare gray blouse over her bulletproof vest. The skirt came to mid-calf and honestly didn’t do a thing for her legs. Then she thought of her mother, dying in three-inch heels.

  Jesus, her head was a mess tonight. Would somebody please get her a beer?

  She finally got the blouse buttoned, sucked in her gut, and walked out to the men.

  “You all right?” Quincy asked promptly. Those federal agents didn’t miss a thing.

  “Fine and dandy.” She performed a pirouette, looking for a place to stick her 9-millimeter.

  “Back waistband,” Sanders said.

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “ ’Cause the skirt’s too fucking tight!”

  “Okay.” Sanders raised his hands and walked away.

  Quincy formed a pile of six clean white towels and tucked her gun in the middle, with the handle sticking out of the back for easy access. He handed it to her, his dark eyes calm.

  “He makes a move at all …” Quincy said.

  “I can’t shoot him.”

  “If he goes for a gun, you do what you have to do.”

  “I can’t shoot him,” she repeated more forcefully. “Quincy, if I wound up killing him …”

  She didn’t have to say the rest. It simply hung there between them. The doubts, the suspicions, the rumors that fourteen years later still hadn’t gone away.

  “Chances are that he knows we’re out here,” Quincy said softly.

  “Then let’s just get it over with. I’m tired of his games.”

  She nodded at Sanders, who looked mighty curious about what would happen next, then at eager Officer Carr. Everyone assumed their positions.

  Rainie didn’t allow herself to think anymore. She lifted the towels high enough to obscure her face and got on with it.

  March one, two, three. At the door now. Pause. Deep breath. Hey, mister, want some towels? Or maybe shoot first and ask questions later …

  She knocked on the door.

  No answer.

  Did you know what you were saying in that bar? Or were you making this stuff up just for me?

  She knocked on the door again.

  No answer.

  The rest happened very slowly. She set down the towels. She picked up her 9-millimeter. She twisted the door handle, not surprised to find it unlocked, and led with her shoulder into the room.

  Behind her, men yelled, Down, down, down. Others cried, Go, go, go.

  Rainie tumbled into the room, bringing up her gun, though she didn’t know what she expected to find—or maybe she did. Maybe some part of her knew what body she would find there on that bed. Except …

  Empty. Empty. Empty.

  Officers jostled her aside. Seaside’s finest pumped into the room. “Police! Police! Police!”

  Still nothing.

  More scattered voices. “What do you mean, nothing? Where the hell could he have gone? I thought you said you were watching this room.”

  “I don’t know, sir. I swear to God, I don’t know.”

  Rainie didn’t look at any of them. She was staring into the bathroom at the mirror over the double-basin counter and the large words scrawled there: Too Little, Too Late.

  A lock of hair was taped beneath the red words. It was long, black, with just a hint of curl. Rainie didn’t need a lab report to guess its owner.

  Beautiful Melissa Avalon, lying dead in a pool of hair.

  “Too little, too late,” Rainie read aloud, her voice co
ming out shaky. She finally looked at the men in the room. “Would somebody, anybody, like to explain this to me?”

  No one replied.

  After another moment Sanders picked up his cell phone. He called the CSU.

  “Hey,” he said shortly. “We got another crime scene.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Friday, May 18, 10:38 P.M.

  Two hours later Rainie and Quincy drove back to Bakersville. They had finally figured out how Dave Duncan vacated the room. He had cut a hole in the back of the closet, creating a small escape hatch that opened up behind a rhododendron bush at the side of the hotel. The police closed in. He squeezed out, taking his minimal baggage with him.

  Quincy was right: The UNSUB liked to have contingency plans.

  While the technicians dusted for prints, bagged the hair, and documented the words written in lipstick, Quincy gave them a more detailed profile of the person they were looking for. In his experience, an UNSUB of this type would most likely be male, middle-aged, and unmarried. The crime was highly organized, indicating above-average IQ and professional skills. The UNSUB also utilized manipulation, meaning he felt comfortable being around others and might even have a serious relationship, though chances were his partner often felt she didn’t understand her man very well.

  According to profile statistics, the UNSUB had probably tried to join the police force or the military at one time but had either been turned away or dishonorably discharged. He was obviously mobile and would still be following the case quite closely.

  Common wisdom held that the UNSUB’s name wasn’t Dave Duncan—he’d paid for the room with cash and showed a barely legible driver’s license. Perhaps he was finding a new motel even now, someplace a little more populated, where a “traveling salesman” would be hard to locate. He knew the net was closing in, and yet—they all shared the hunch—the man wasn’t done. The man wouldn’t flee.

  Seaside would work to write up all the information they could find on David Duncan’s visit to their town—description, places he’d been, things he’d said. Sanders would once more coordinate processing the evidence with the CSU.

  Luke still planned on watching Shep’s house for the rest of the night. Then he was heading to Portland to finish interviewing Mr. and Mrs. Avalon. This time he’d take a composite sketch with him. Maybe sit across from Mr. Avalon. Maybe push the drawing under the man’s nose and see what kind of reaction bubbled to the surface.

  Rainie would inherit the fun-filled task of generating lists of hotels up and down the coast. Someplace not too far from Bakersville. Someplace not too far from Seaside. Maybe even a rental room in a house run by a little old lady. Or a rarely used hunting shack.

  She’d never realized how many places there were to hide around her small town. She did not envy anyone her task.

  It had been a long day. They were all exhausted beyond words. Sanders and Luke hit the road. Rainie and Quincy rode back in silence.

  Inside the city limits, Rainie stopped at a small convenience store for a six-pack of beer. Then, by unspoken consent, she and Quincy went to his hotel.

  There was an awkward moment. Rainie stood in the doorway with the Bud Light. Quincy stood in his room, surveying the space as if realizing for the first time how small and intimate it was.

  He pulled out two chairs from the rickety table. Rainie pointedly bypassed them and headed straight for the bed. He didn’t say anything. After another moment he shed his jacket, drew off his tie, unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and sat on the mattress, not far from her.

  It was hard to read his face from her angle. Half was lit by the lamp next to the bed, half was hidden in darkness. She didn’t know what he thought after days like this. Was he still excited, thrilled by the hunt? Or was the adrenaline fading now, leaving behind the sobering realization that another monster roamed the world? One more predator on top of last month’s predator and the one the month before that.

  Did he get tired? She was tired. She was restless and back to the kind of mood where she didn’t trust herself. George Walker’s words echoed in her head. So did Officer Carr’s nervous look when he tried to figure out how to mention the accusation that she’d killed her own mother. She should have a thicker skin. Tonight she didn’t. She felt vulnerable and weary, sick of pretending she knew what she was doing, when she hadn’t known for days and the case was only getting worse.

  She was soft tonight, a little bit aching. She looked at the hard plane of Quincy’s chest, the exposed smattering of dark chest hair, and she wanted to lay her head on his shoulder. A strong, capable man. She wondered how his heartbeat would sound against her ear. She wondered if he would curl his arms around her and hold her the way leading men always held leading ladies in the movies.

  She had never been held. Slapped on the shoulder in good-natured ribbing. Even patted on the butt in pickup games of hoops. Lack of comforting touches wasn’t something she dwelled on. But tonight it bothered her.

  Rainie got out a beer. She tossed a bottle to Quincy, placed her own against the top edge of the bedside table, and whacked it once with the base of her palm to pop the top off. A cool mist rose immediately from the neck. She took a deep breath, pulling the scent of hops inside her mouth and rolling it over her tongue. Damn. What she would give for just one drink. One long, soothing, numbing drink.

  She slouched back against the old wooden headboard instead and cradled the bottle against her belly.

  Quincy’s own bottle was unopened in his hand. He was watching her with a tight, dark look in his eyes.

  “Talk to me,” she murmured.

  “Rainie, that display had nothing to do with conversation.”

  “Shut up and talk to me.”

  He arched a brow pointedly at that clear statement.

  “What’s your ex-wife like?”

  “Christ, you’re trying to kill me.”

  Rainie sat up. She gazed at him more frankly. “I mean it. What’s your ex-wife like?”

  Quincy sighed. Apparently he decided she was serious, for now he took the cap off his beer bottle and drank deeply. Then he settled back on his elbows in the middle of the queen-size bed. Her curled feet loosened enough to nestle against the side of his hip. She admired the line of his throat against the open collar of his white dress shirt.

  “Bethie’s a good mother,” he said finally. “She takes wonderful care of our daughters—daughter. Daughters.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “College, when I was pursuing my doctorate in psychology.”

  “Is she a psychologist?”

  “No. Bethie’s from a wealthy family. College was a means of meeting an appropriate husband. A shame—she has a wonderful mind.”

  “Is she pretty?” Rainie asked.

  Quincy took more care with his answer. “She has aged well,” he said at last, his voice neutral.

  “Pretty, smart, and a good mother. Do you miss her?”

  “No,” he said firmly.

  “Why not?”

  “My marriage is old news, Rainie. When we met, Bethie admired my background as a Chicago cop, while fully expecting me to settle into a more socially elevated lifestyle as a private-practice psychologist. Hell, I expected the same thing. But then the Bureau started recruiting me. I didn’t say no. And poor Bethie ended up with an armed FBI agent for a husband. If I wanted to be fair to her, I should’ve stayed a psychologist. But I was true to myself. I got into this stuff, and then my marriage faded away.”

  “Why don’t you say anything bad about her?”

  “Because she’s the mother of my children and I respect that.”

  “You’re a gentleman, aren’t you?” Her voice suddenly gained an edge. She didn’t plan on sounding bitter or looking for a fight, but she took a step down that road anyway. Fighting was what she did best, conflict more second nature to her than kindness. She thought of George Walker again and her eyes began to sting. She wished they would stop.

  “I believe in the importance of
civility,” Quincy said quietly. “I see enough inhumanity in my job without needing to add to it.”

  “I’m not civil.”

  “No.” He smiled wryly. “But somehow it works for you.”

  Rainie stuck her beer on the nightstand. Her movements were restless. He had given her a gracious out. She couldn’t take it. The mood ruled her now, and she only knew how to go toward dark and dangerous places.

  “You come from money, too, don’t you, Quincy? The nice suits, the expensive cologne. This stuff isn’t new to you.”

  “I don’t come from money. My father is a Yankee swamp rat, born and bred. Owns hundreds of acres of God’s own land in Rhode Island, works it with his own sweat and will take it with him to the grave. He taught me the importance of manners. He taught me to love fall, when the leaves change and the apples grow crisp. And he taught me never to tell the people close to you that you care.” The corner of his mouth twitched wryly. “The suits I picked up on my own.”

  Rainie got on her hands and knees on the bed. Her gaze was locked on his. She moved closer. “I’m white trash.”

  He didn’t take his eyes from her. “Don’t degrade yourself.”

  “I’m not. I’m telling you who I am now, so you can’t hold it against me later.” She kept advancing. He didn’t retreat. “I’m not civil. I hate to apologize. I have a bad temper, bad dreams, and a bad mood, and I shouldn’t be doing this, but dammit, I’m going to do it anyway.”

  He said quietly, “Liar.” Then he reached up with his broad hand, cupped the back of her head, and dragged her down to his mouth.

  She’d invited the kiss, but the first contact still shocked her. She felt cool, strong lips against her own hot, angry mouth. She tasted hops, smooth golden hops, and she opened her lips greedily, as if she would gladly get drunk off him. Then his tongue pushed into her mouth, strong and commanding, and in spite of her best intentions, the old panic reared hard.

  She drove her fingernails into her palms. She did her best to control her mind. Yellow-flowered fields. Smooth-flowing streams. So many techniques she’d learned over the years. Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Never lose control. No one was ever the wiser.