"So one theory is that a stranger broke in and ambushed her. The second would be that the attacker was someone she knew and trusted." Rainie could no longer contain herself. "You're looking at Quincy, aren't you? Goddammit, you suspect him!"

"No, I don't!" Special Agent Rodman spoke up in a low hush. Her gaze darted toward the ME, then she quickly bent closer. "Listen to me, Ms. Conner. It is not in my nature to share information about a case. And it is certainly not in my nature to needlessly provide details to some out-of-state pseudo-cop. But it would appear that you and Special Agent Quincy are friends, and he's going to need friends. We – meaning the Bureau – are behind him right now. Personally, I have spent all day listening to various sexual sadists leave not-very-subtle messages on his answering machine. We understand that there is more to this situation than meets the eye. We cannot, however, say the same for the locals."

"You're the feds, pull rank!"

"Can't."

"Bullshit!"

"Honey, there's this thing called law. Look it up sometime."

Rainie scowled. "Where is he? Can I talk to him?"

"Detectives willing, you can try."

"I want to see him."

"Then follow me."

Glenda headed back toward the hallway. Passing through the doorway, Rainie made the mistake this time of looking at the bed. She could not quite contain the gasp that rose up in her throat.

Glenda glanced at her grimly. She said once more, " Quincy needs friends."

Two plainclothes detectives had Quincy sequestered off in the one room that appeared spared in the attack. At any other time, Rainie might have laughed at the incongruous sight. This room had obviously been one of the girls', the walls papered in a soft yellow with tiny pink and lilac flowers, the twin bed covered in a matching comforter, and the canopy top draped with yards of dreamy white gauze. A white wicker makeup table sat against one wall, topped by an oval mirror and still bearing small photos marking a young girl's major passages in life – leaping in cheerleading practice, arms wrapped around a best friend, attending the prom. A dried corsage hung from a ribbon on the mirror, and a collection of brightly colored stuffed animals sat on the dresser top.

The room offered only a dainty, lilac-covered wicker bench, now occupied by one burly detective whose chin was nearly resting upon his knees. The other detective stood, while Quincy sat on the gauze-draped bed with a ruffled yellow pillow tucked against his thigh. The Gestapo does Laura Ashley, Rainie thought, and wished the sight of Quincy 's pale, tightly shuttered face didn't twist her heart painfully in her chest.

"What time did you say you arrived again?" the seated detective was asking. He had a single fierce, bushybrow that overshadowed his eyes – Cro-Magnon man in a cheap gray suit.

"A littleafter midnight. I did not glance at my watch."

"Theneighbor, Mrs. Betty Wilson, claims she saw the victimreturn home with a man fitting your description shortly after ten P.M."

"I was not here at ten P.M. AS I've stated already, I did not arrive here until after midnight."

"Where were you at ten?"

"By definition, Detective, I was in my car at ten P.M., driving here, so I could arrive after twelve."

"Got any witnesses to that?"

"I drove here alone."

"What about toll receipts?"

"I never asked for any receipts. At the time, I didn't realize that I would need an alibi."

The two detectives exchanged glances. Victim's ex-husband appears evasive and unnecessarily hostile. Let's get the thumbscrews and brass knuckles.

Rainie figured now was a good time to interrupt. "Detectives," she said quietly.

Three pairs of eyes swung toward her. The two detectives scowled, obviously assuming she was a lawyer – who else would turn up at this time of night/morning? Quincy, on the other hand, registered no reaction at all. He had obviously seen his ex-wife's remains on her feather-strewn bed. After that, any further emotion would be superfluous.

"Who the hell are you?" Cro-Magnon did the honors.

"Who do you think? Name is Conner, Lorraine Conner."

She held out her hand authoritatively, and with the long-suffering sigh policemen reserve just for lawyers, Cro-Magnon conceded to shake her hand – with a crushing grip. "Detective Kincaid," he muttered. Rainie turned to his partner, a slightly built man with intense blue eyes. "Albright," he supplied and shook her hand as well while giving her a more appraising assessment. Rainie pegged him as the brains behind the operation. Cro-Magnon rattled the beehive. Smaller, less threatening guy took excellent notes.

"Where are we?" Rainie asked, plopping down on the bed as if she had every right to be here. In the doorway, Special Agent Rodman wore a small smile.

"Trying to establish an alibi – "

"Are you saying that an FBI agent is a suspect?" Rainie gave smaller, less threatening guy an imperious stare.

"He is the ex-husband."

Rainie turned to Quincy. "How long have you been divorced?"

"Eight years."

"Do you have any current legal proceedings against your ex-wife?"

"No."

"Do you stand to gain any money upon her death?"

"No."

Rainie turned back to the detectives. "Is it just me, or is there a total lack of motive here?"

"Is it true that you purchased a red Audi TT coupe two weeks ago in New York?" Detective Albright asked Quincy.

"No," Rainie answered for him.

"Counselor, we have a record of the vehicle's registration, bearing the agent's name."

"Fraudulent purchase. A man posing as Supervisory Special Agent Quincy made that purchase, as the FBI is already aware of and actively investigating. Isn't that correct, Special Agent Rodman?"

"We are actively investigating," Glenda provided dutifully from the doorway.

Rainie addressed the detectives once more. She took a page out of Quincy 's book, keeping her voice crisp and manner perfectly relentless. "Are you aware that someone is currently stalking Supervisory Special Agent Quincy? Are you aware that his personal telephone number has been made available to prisoners all across the country? In addition, someone has used his name to make a series of purchases" – slight lie, but it sounded better – "all of which is currently being investigated by reputable agents at the Bureau. Perhaps you should consider that before you proceed."

"And are you aware," Detective Albright replied in her same cadence, "that Agent Quincy has logged eight calls to his ex-wife's house in the last twenty-four hours?"

"As he said, he was worried about her."

"Why? They've been divorced eight years."

Oh, score one for the homicide detective.

" Elizabeth had asked me to run a background check." Quincy spoke up quietly. Rainie wished he wouldn't. He sounded too composed, too professional, like someone who had walked through such scenes hundreds of times and made his living by reviewing them hundreds more. She understood his detachment. She even heard the subtle, more dangerous thread of anger beneath his words, while noticing that his right hand was clenched too tightly on his lap and his left hand clutched the edge of the mattress as if he was trying to keep himself from spinning away. She wished she could touch him. She was afraid of how savage his reaction might be. So she merely sat behind him, pretending to be his lawyer so she could stay at his side, and wishing he'd trust her more, because his FBI composure was only going to sink him further with the local boys.

"However," Quincy was continuing, "I could find no record of the name Bethie gave me. Coupled with the incidents going on in my own life, I grew concerned about who this person was and what he might do."

"Name?"