"Have you heard of something called identity theft?" Quincy asked tersely.

Rainie sat down. She sipped her coffee. She nodded.

"A person steals someone's identity. Not too hard to do in this day and age. Gets the person's Social Security number and mother's maiden name, then uses that information to get a copy of the birth certificate and voila, becomes the new person. It's amazing all the things you can do once you have basic documentation. Get a valid driver's license. Open a bank account or apply for a credit card. Buy a car, a red Audi TT roadster, I take it, registered and financed in the unwitting victim's name."

"Someone used your name to buy a sports car?"

"In New York. Two weeks ago. In theory, I currently owe a Westchester dealership forty thousand dollars, payable in convenient monthly installments of eight hundred and eleven dollars over the next five years."

"Someone stole an FBI agent's identity?"

"Why not? He's already given out my personal information to half the hardened criminals in the country. After that, what's one high-performance vehicle?" Quincy paused. He added grudgingly, "At least the man has good taste."

Rainie still couldn't believe it. "Identity theft… Doesn't the Bureau have specialists in this area?"

"The Bureau has specialists in every area," Quincy told her, but didn't sound encouraged. He set down his coffee cup, and Rainie was shocked to see that his hands were shaking.

"They took over my house, Rainie," he said quietly.

"This afternoon fellow agents set up cameras on my daughter's grave. It's ironic. I'm an expert. In fact, I'm an expert in precisely these kinds of cases, and as of seven oh-five this morning, no one cares about my opinion anymore. As of seven oh-five this morning, I became a victim, and I have never hated anything more."

"They're idiots, Quince. I've told you that before. If FBI agents were so smart, they wouldn't still be running around in such god-awful suits after the rest of the world has gone business casual. What kind of man starts his day by tying a noose around his neck anyway?"

Quincy glanced down at his burgundy tie, todays choice offering tiny navy blue and dark green geometric patterns and looking suspiciously close to the tie he wore the day before that and the day before that.

"I can't stand this," he said baldly. "Someone is taking over my life. I don't even know why."

"Sure you do. You're the good guy. By definition, all the bad guys hate you."

"Agents Rodman and Montgomery are working on the phone calls. They're staking out my house, and trying to trace ads placed in various prison newsletters, as if that will amount to anything. They're also working on tracking the Audi. I don't know what that has to do with anything, unless it's simply one more way for the UNSUB to thumb his nose at me – I'm still stuck in basic investigative strategies while he's shopping for luxury automobiles. He may have a point."

Quincy sighed. He dragged a hand through his hair. "Today, I amused myself by pulling all my old case files and building a database of anyone I've ever ticked off. The bad news is that there's a lot of them. The good news is that an amazing number of them are either in jail or dead."

"That's what I like about you, Quincy. Your ability to network."

He nodded absently. "I'm eighty percent sure I'm a target, Rainie. I have no idea whose. I can't even be sure why. Revenge is the obvious answer. Why not? But for whatever reason, someone has started weaving a very complex web, and no matter what I do, I think I'm already stuck right smack in the middle of it."

"You have friends, Quincy," she said quietly. "We'll help you. I'll help you."

"Will you?" He looked her in the eye. "Rainie," he said softly, "tell me what you learned about Mandy. Tell me what we both already know in our gut."

Rainie looked away. She finished her coffee. She set the empty paper cup on the picnic table, then spun it between her hands. She didn't want to answer his request, and they both knew it. She also understood, however, that she couldn't soft-pedal the news. One more thing she and Quincy had in common – they preferred their bad news direct. Get it out. Get it over. Get it done.

"You're right," she said shortly, "somethings rotten in Denmark."

"It was murder?"

"I don't know that," she countered immediately, her voice firm. "What's the number one rule of investigating – no jumping to conclusions. At the moment, we have no physical evidence that suggests murder."

"On the other hand…" he said for her.

"On the other hand, something's up with Mary Olsen."

"Really?" Quincy seemed genuinely surprised. He frowned, rubbed his temples, and she could tell he'd gone straight to self-doubt about his impression of sweet little Mrs. Doctor Olsen because he already appeared dazed.

"I spoke with her this morning, Quince, and Mary recanted everything. Mandy looked like she was drinking Diet Coke all night, but maybe she was spiking it with rum. You might have gotten the impression from Mary that Mandy had a boyfriend, but Mary now says that wasn't the case at all. Furthermore, Mandy had been known to drink and drive before, so it probably was as simple as that."

"Mandy spiked her own Coke at a friend's house, then made it all the way to the middle of nowhere before suddenly being so drunk that she crashed?"

"I didn't say Mary had a good story, I just said she had a new story."

"Why? She was my daughter's best friend. "Why?"

Rainie could hear the deeper question behind those words. Why was this happening, to Mandy, to him? Why would someone hurt his daughter? Why wouldn't the world stay controlled and rational, the way all behavioral scientists wanted it to be?

"I think Mary's a lonely little princess," Rainie answered softly. "I think for the right kind of attention, she could be manipulated very easily."

"The UNSUB got to her? Made her change her story?"

"Or the UNSUB got to her and had her make up the story in the first place. We don't really know that someone hurt Mandy. We do know that Mary said things at the funeral, however, that made you think someone hurt Mandy."

"I'm being played," Quincy filled in slowly. "Harassing phone calls, illegal automobile purchases, rumors about my daughter…" He sat up a little straighten "Shit, I'm being played like a fucking violin!"

Rainie blinked. "Since when did you take up swearing:?"

"Yesterday. I'm finding it highly addictive. Like nicotine.

"You're smoking, too?"

"No, but I haven't lost my deep and abiding love for metaphors."

"I'm serious, Quince, you're letting yourself fall apart."

"And apparently, you haven't lost your deep and abiding love for understatement."

"Quincy – "

"What's wrong, Rainie?" he quizzed with that new edge in his voice. "Can't stand for me to be so human?"

She was up from the picnic table before she knew what she was doing, her hands fisted at her side and her heart hammering in her chest. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means… it means I'm tired," Quincy said more quietly, his voice already conciliatory. "It means I'm under pressure. It means probably, that I'm looking for a fight. But you're not the person for me to fight with. So let's not do this now. Let's forget I said anything, and simply not do this now."

"Too late."

"You looking for a fight, too, Rainie?"

She knew she shouldn't say it. She knew he was right and they were both stressed and now was not the time. Six long months without even one damn phone call. She brought up her chin and said, "Maybe."

Quincy got up from the picnic table. He dusted off his hands. He stared at her, and his gaze appeared a lot more composed than she felt. He'd always been so good at remaining in control.