The Next Accident
Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Plan a
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Plan B
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Excerpt from Love You More
Get an exclusive peek at the script for AMC’s addictive new series, The Killing. Premiering Sunday, April 3 at 9/8c. Only on AMC
About the Author
Other books by Lisa Gardner
Praise for the novels of Lisa Gardner
Preview for Alone
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
For most of my career as a suspense author, I’ve been repeatedly greeted by the comment, “Wow, you look so nice for someone who writes such twisted books.” For once I’d like to agree. I really am a dull, ordinary person leading a dull, ordinary life. The only real background I have is as a business consultant, and while I suppose characters could die from process reengineering efforts gone horribly awry, I’m not sure anyone other than Dilbert enthusiasts would appreciate that.
Thus I have enlisted the help of the following experts to give my plot especially devious twists and my characters especially evil deaths. Please bear in mind that these people patiently and accurately answered all my questions. That does not mean, however, that I used their information in a patient or accurate way. I am a firm believer in artistic license, plus I possess a warped mind. We all have our talents.
That said, my deepest gratitude and appreciation to:
Dr. Greg Moffatt, Ph.D., Professor of Psychology, Atlanta Christian College, for generously answering my steady stream of questions and offering such fabulous insights into the criminal mind.
Phil Agrue, Private Investigator, Agrue & Associates, Portland, OR, who in three hours convinced me that I want to be a defense investigator when I grow up.
Gary Vencill, Consultant-Legal Investigation, Johnson, Clifton, Larson & Corson, P.C., whose delight in creating an auto accident/murder scenario was equaled only by his diligence in personally showing me how to tamper with seat belts.
Dr. Stan Stojkovic, Professor of Criminal Justice, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, for his insights on prison protocol and communication.
Dr. Robert Johnson, American University, who was gracious enough to allow me to use his honest academic study as a model for conducting various forms of criminal mayhem.
Larry Jachrimo, custom pistolsmith, whose ongoing assistance with firearm details and ballistics techniques enables me to be more diabolical than I ever hoped. He provides me with wonderful information; I do make some mistakes.
Mark Bouton, former FBI firearms instructor and fellow writer, for helping bring my FBI agents into the new millennium.
Celia MacDonell and Margaret Charpentier, pharmacists extraordinaire, who also have a very promising future as poisoners. Nothing personal, but from here on out, I’m bringing my own food.
Mark Smerznak, chemical engineer, great friend, and extraordinary cook.
Heather Sharer, wonderful friend, jazz enthusiast, and general shoulder to cry on.
Rob, Julie, and Mom for the tour of the Pearl District and steady stream of café mochas.
Kate Miciak, editor extraordinaire, who definitely made this a better book.
Damaris Rowland and Steve Axelrod, agents extraordinaire, who encourage me to always write the book of my heart, and even better, allow me to pay my mortgage while doing so.
And finally to my husband, Anthony, for the supply of homemade chocolate champagne truffles and chocolate mousse cake. You know how to keep a writer motivated, and I love you.
Prologue
Virginia
His mouth grazed the side of her neck. She liked the feel of his kiss, whisper-light, teasing. Her head fell back. She heard herself giggle. He drew her earlobe between his lips, and the giggle turned to a moan.
God, she loved it when he touched her.
His fingers lifted her heavy hair. They danced across the nape of her neck, then slid down her bare shoulders.
“Beautiful, Mandy,” he whispered. “Sexy, sexy, Mandy.”
She giggled again. She laughed, then she tasted salt on her lips and knew that she cried. He turned her belly-down on the bed. She didn’t protest.
His hands traced the line of her spine before settling in at her waist.
“I like this curve right here,” he murmured, dipping one finger into the concave curve at the small of her back. “Perfect for sipping champagne. Other men can have breasts and thighs. I just want this spot here. Can I have it, Mandy? Will you give that to me?”
Maybe she said yes. Maybe she just moaned. She didn’t know anymore. One bottle of champagne empty on the bed. Another half gone. Her mouth tingled with the forbidden flavor, and she kept telling herself it would be okay. It was just champagne, and they were celebrating, weren’t they? He had a new job, the BIG job, and oops, it was far away. But there would be weekend visits, maybe some letters, long-distance phone calls. . . .
They were celebrating, they were mourning. It was a farewell fuck, and either way champagne sex shouldn’t count with the nice folks at AA.
He tilted the open bottle of bubbly over her shoulders. Cool, sparkling fluid cascaded down her neck, pooling on the white satin sheet. She lapped it up helplessly.
“That’s my girl,” he whispered. “My sweet, sexy, girl. . . . Open for me, baby. Let me in.”
Her legs parted. She arched her back, the whole of her focusing down, down, down, to the spot between her legs where the ache had built and now only he could ease the pain. Only he could save her.
Fill me up. Make me whole.
“Beautiful, Mandy. Sexy, sexy, Mandy.”
“Pl-pl-please. . . .”
He pushed inside her. Her hips went back. Her spine seemed to melt and she gave herself over to him.
Fill me up. Make me whole.
Salt on her cheeks. Champagne on her tongue. Why couldn’t she stop crying? She tilted her head down to the sheets and sipped champagne as the room spun sickeningly.
Suddenly the bed was gone. They were outside. In the driveway. Clothes on, cheeks dry. Champagne gone, but not the thirst. Six months she’d been dry. Now she craved another drink horribly. One bottle of champagne still unopened. Maybe she could get him to give it to her for the drive home. One for the road.
Don’t go. . . .
“You okay, baby?”
“I’m okay,” she mumbled.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be driving. Maybe you should stay the night. . . .”
“I’m okay,” she murmured again. She couldn’t stay, and they both knew it. Beautiful things came, beautiful things went. If she tried to hold on now, it would just make it worse.
He was hesitating, though. Looking at her with those deep, concerned eyes. They crinkled at the corners. She ha
d loved that when she first met him. The way his eyes creased as if he was studying her intently, really, truly seeing her. Then he’d smiled a split second later, as if merely finding her had made him so very happy.
She’d never had a man smile at her like that before. As if she were someone special.
Oh God, don’t go. . . .
And then: Third bottle of champagne. All full. One more for old times’ sake. One more for the road.
Her lover took her face between his hands. He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. “ Mandy . . .” he whispered tenderly. “The small of your back . . .”
She couldn’t answer anymore. She was choking on her tears.
“Wait, baby,” he said suddenly. “I have an idea.”
Driving. Thinking really hard because the narrow road curved like a snake and it was dark and it was so strange how early she could have a thought, and how late her body would be in responding. He sat beside her in the passenger’s seat. He wanted to make sure she got home safe; then he’d take a cab. Maybe she should take a cab. Maybe she was in no shape to drive. As long as he was coming with her, why was she the one at the wheel?
She couldn’t hold on to that thought long enough to make it work.
“Slow down,” he cautioned. “The road is tricky here.”
She nodded, furrowing her brow and struggling to concentrate. Wheel felt funny in her hand. Round. Huh. Pressed on the brakes. Hit the gas instead. The SUV lurched forward.
“Sorry,” she muttered. World was beginning to spin again. She didn’t feel well. Like she was going to throw up, or pass out. Maybe both. If she could just close her eyes . . .
Road moved on her again. Vehicle jerked.
Seat belt. Needed a seat belt. She groped for the strap, got the clasp. Pulled. Seat belt spun out toothlessly. That’s right. Broken. Must get that fixed. Someday. Today. May day. Stars spinning away, sky starting to lighten. Sun going to come up. Now she just needed a little girl singing, “Tomorrow, tomorrow, there’s always tomorrow—”
“Slow down,” he repeated from the passenger’s seat. “There’s a sharp turn ahead.”
She looked at him numbly. He had a strange gleam in his eyes. Excitement. She didn’t understand.
“I love you,” she heard herself say.
“I know,” he replied. He reached for her kindly. His hand settled on the wheel. “Sweet, sexy, Mandy. You’re never going to get over me.”
She nodded. The dam broke, and tears poured down her cheeks. She sobbed hopelessly as the Ford Explorer swerved across the road, and the gleam built in his eyes.
“I’m as good as it gets,” he continued relentlessly. “Without me, Mandy, you’ll be lost.”
“I know, I know.”
“Your own father left you. Now, I’m doing the same. The weekend visits will stop, then the phone calls. And then it will just be you, Mandy, all alone night after night after night.”
She sobbed harder. Salt on her cheeks, champagne on her lips. So alone. The black abyss. Alone, alone, alone.
“Face it, Mandy,” he said gently. “You’re not good enough to keep a man. You’re nothing but a drunk. Christ, I’m breaking up with you, and all you can think about is that third bottle of champagne. That’s the truth, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
She tried to shake her head. She ended up nodding.
“Mandy,” he whispered. “Speed up.”
“Why didn’t Daddy come home for my birthday? But I want Daddy!”
“Sweet, sexy Mandy.”
Fill me up. Make me whole.
So alone . . .
“You hurt, Mandy. I know you hurt. But I’ll help you, baby. Speed up.”
Salt on her cheeks. Champagne on her lips. Her foot settling on the gas . . .
“One little push of the accelerator, and you’ll never be lonely again. You’ll never have to miss me.”
Her foot . . . The approaching curve in the road. So alone. God, I’m tired.
“Come on, Mandy. Speed up.”
Her foot pressing down . . .
At the last minute, she saw him. A man on the narrow shoulder of the country road. Walking his dog, looking startled to see a vehicle at this time of the morning, then even more surprised to have it bearing down on him.
Turn! Turn! Must turn! Amanda Jane Quincy jerked frantically at the wheel. . . .
And it remained pointed straight ahead. Her lover still gripped it, and he held it tight.
Time suspended. Mandy looked up without comprehension at the face she had grown to love. She saw the rushing dark through the window behind him. She saw the seat belt strapped tight across his strong, broad chest. And she heard him say, “Bye-bye, sweet Mandy. When you get to hell, be sure to give your father my regards.”
The Explorer hit the man. Thump bump. A short-circuited cry. The vehicle plowed ahead. And just as she was thinking it would be okay, she was still in one piece, they were still in one piece, the telephone pole reared out of the darkness.
Mandy never had time to scream. The Explorer hit the thick wooden pole at thirty-five miles per hour. The front bumper drove down, the back end came up. And her unsecured body vaulted from the driver’s seat into the windshield, where the hard metal frame crushed the top of her skull.
The passenger had no such problems. The seat belt caught his chest, pushing him back into his seat even as the front end of the Explorer crumpled. His neck snapped forward. His internal organs rushed up in his chest, momentarily cutting off his air. He gasped, blinked his eyes, and seconds later, the pressure was gone. The SUV settled in. He settled in. He was fine.
He unfastened his seat belt with his bare hands. He had done his homework and he wasn’t worried about prints. Nor was he concerned about time. A rural road in the early hours of dawn. It would be ten, twenty, thirty minutes before someone happened by.
He inspected beautiful, sexy Mandy. She still had a faint pulse, but she was now missing most of the top of her head. Even if her body was putting up a last-ditch fight, her brain would never recover.
A year and a half of planning later, he was satisfied. Amanda Jane Quincy had died scared, died confused, died heartbroken.
He and Pierce Quincy were still not even, the man thought, but it was a start.
1
Fourteen months later
Portland, Oregon
Monday afternoon, private investigator Lorraine Conner sat hunched over her paper-swamped desk, punched a few more numbers into her old, cagey laptop, then scowled at the results shown on the screen. She tried the numbers again, got the same dismal results, and gave them the same dark look. The Quicken-generated budget, however, refused to be intimidated.
Damn file, she thought. Damn budget, damn heat. And damn circular fan that she’d purchased just last week and was already refusing to work unless she whacked it twice in the head. She stopped now to give it the requisite double-smack and was finally rewarded with a feeble breeze. Christ, this weather was killing her.
It was three in the afternoon on Monday. Outside the sun was shining, the heat about to crest for another record-breaking July day in downtown Portland, Oregon. Technically speaking, Portland didn’t get as ridiculously hot as the East Coast. Nor, in theory, did it get as humid as the South. These days, unfortunately, the climate didn’t seem to realize that. Rainie had long since traded in her T-shirt for a white cotton tank top. It was now plastered to her skin, while her elbows left rings of condensation on the one clear spot on her desk. If it got any hotter, she was taking her laptop into the shower.
Rainie’s loft offered central air, but as part of her “belt-tightening” program, she was cooling her vast, one-room condo the old-fashioned way—she’d opened the windows and turned on a small desk fan. Unfortunately, that little matter of heat rising was conspiring against her. The eighth-floor condo wasn’t magically getting any cooler, while the smog content had increased tenfold.
Bad day for belt-tightening programs. Especially in Portland’s trendy Pearl District, wh
ere iced coffee was served on practically every street corner, and all the little cafés prided themselves on their gourmet ice cream. God knows the majority of her upwardly mobile neighbors were probably sitting in Starbucks right now, basking in air-conditioned glory while trying to choose between an iced Chai or nonfat mocha latte.
Not Rainie. No, the new and improved Lorraine Conner was sitting in her trendy loft in this trendy little neighborhood, trying to decide which was more important—money for the Laundromat, or a new carburetor for her fifteen-year-old clunker. On the one hand, clean clothes always made a good impression when meeting a new client. On the other hand, it didn’t do her any good to land new cases if she had no means of carrying them out. Details, details.
She tried a fresh round of numbers in her Quicken file. Showing a gross lack of imagination, the file spit back the same red results. She sighed. Rainie had just passed the Oregon Board of Investigators’ test to receive her license. In the good news department, this meant she could start working for defense lawyers as a defense investigator, à la Paul Drake to their Perry Mason. In the bad news department, the two-year license cost her seven hundred bucks. Then came the hundred dollars for the standard five-thousand-dollar bond to protect her against complaints. Finally, she got to fork over eight hundred dollars for a million dollars in errors-and-omissions insurance, more CYA infrastructure. All in all, Conner Investigations was moving up—except she was now out sixteen hundred dollars and feeling the crunch.
“But I like eating,” she tried to tell her computerized business records. They didn’t seem to care.
A buzzer sounded. Rainie sat up, dragging a hand discouragingly through her hair, while she blinked twice in surprise. She wasn’t expecting any clients today. She peered into the family room, where her TV was tuned in to the building’s security cameras and now broadcasted the view from the main entrance. A well-dressed man with salt-and-pepper hair stood patiently outside the locked front doors. As she watched, he buzzed her loft again. Then he glanced up at the camera.
Rainie couldn’t help herself. Her breath caught. Maybe her heart even stopped. She looked at him, the last person she expected to see these days, and everything inside her went topsy-turvy.