Here was an old sound system that offered mediocre comfort in the shape of classical jazz tapes. A state-of-the-art fax dominated the corner of a beautiful, antique cherry desk. Gold-framed diplomas and academic certificates leaned against one wall, still not hung, but at least unearthed, while cardboard boxes were piled in each corner. The desk chair, black leather, was supple and distinctly expensive. Quincy obviously spent time in this room. Sometimes she caught a whiff of his cologne.

She sat in his chair, feeling like an intruder, as the phone once more began to ring. Following protocol, she let the answering machine pick it up.

"Hey baby," a voice crooned. "Heard you were trying a new policy of accessibility. I dig that. God knows there isn't anyone interesting to talk to in here. Bad break about your luscious daughter. Not so sorry about the frigid ex, though. Word on the street is that somebody's got your number. The hunter has become the hunted. Don't worry. Quince baby, I got my money on you in the prison pool. Hundred to one odds is just my style. You go, girl. Life hasn't been this entertaining in ages."

The caller hung up. It was a good call, Glenda thought, probably long enough to trace. Not that wiretapping had helped them much; it only proved that lots of prisoners read their local newsletters. For that matter, half the callers were only too happy to leave their names and prison facility.

She left the office and spotted Quincy standing in his kitchen, holding a small black travel bag, and staring at the answering machine.

"We're taping them all," she said by way of explanation.

"One hundred to one odds." He gave her a sideways glance. "Considering how many of them I put in prison, I think I deserve better than that."

"I have a copy of the ad if you would like to see it," Glenda said, feeling the need to sound professional. She went to fetch it from the office. When she returned, Quincy had set down the traveling bag. He was standing in front of the empty refrigerator with the look of a man who'd opened it many times before and still kept expecting something different. She understood. Her own fridge held only water and low-fat yogurt and yet she continuously checked it for a fried-chicken dinner.

She handed Quincy the fax.

The ad was already typeset, a simple four-by-four square. It read, Reporter from BSU Productions seeks inside information on life at death's door. Interested inmates should contact head agent, Pierce Quincy, at daytime number printed below. Or, contact his assistant, Amanda Quincy, at the following address.

"Not very subtle," Quincy commented with that same unnerving calm. "BSU Productions. Head agent. Life at death's door."

"Codes can be more elaborate. From what I understand, the inmates generally disguise their communications as ads for pen pals. Then they play around with the letters. You know, instead of SWM/L for Single White Male/Lifer, they do things like BPO/M, which stands for Black Power Organization/Message. Members of the gang then know to piece through the ad for relevant information."

"Ah, the power of grassroots journalism. And people with too much time on their hands."

"From what we can tell, this ad ran in four major publications: Prison Legal News, National Prison Project Newsletter, Prison Fellowship, and Freedom Now. Combined circulation reaches over five thousand subscribers. That number isn't high given total prison population, but the four newsletters basically account for at least one ad reaching every major corrections department. We think word of mouth took over from there."

"Quilting bees have nothing on the average prison for sheer amount of gossip," Quincy murmured. "I take it what we theorized before still stands. My phone number, and thus access to my address, has been spread so far and wide we'll never be able to pare it down. Who knows where I live? Who doesn't?"

"The National Prison Project Newsletter hasthe original hard copy of the ad," Glenda said. "We're having it couriered to the crime lab now. The Document Section should have more information for us in a matter of days. Also, Randy Jackson is still working on how the UNSUB got your unlisted number. I'm sure he'll have something shortly."

"The UNSUB got my phone number from Mandy. He used my daughter." Quincy set down the fax. For the first time, he turned and fully met her gaze. She was immediately shocked by the hardness in his eyes, the cool expression on his face. Dissociation, the professional part of her deduced. Events of the past eighteen hours had left him in a state of shock, and his mind was coping by keeping him detached. The rest of her felt an unexpected tingle at the back of her neck. She had seen that remote gaze before. Old photos of Ted Bundy. Some people believed there was only a thin line between profilers and their prey. At this moment, in Quincy, that line didn't exist. The tingle on the back of her neck grew into a shiver.

"My daughter's death wasn't an accident," he said. "Rainie Conner has evidence that the UNSUB tampered with her seat belt."

"Oh no," Glenda said immediately, and meant it.

"We believe he befriended her, gained her trust. There is no telling what all he knows. Hobbies, likes, dislikes, personal habits, personal quirks. Friends of mine, where they live. He most certainly has the address and phone number of this house. You shouldn't be here alone."

"I'm not," she said automatically, for the Bureau would never send an agent alone in the field. "There's Special Agent Montgomery…"

Quincy merely looked at her. Then he let his gaze roam the empty rooms.

" Montgomery 's been busy," she said defensively.

"Why is he on this case? He doesn't exactly seem the cavalry type."

"He requested it. You're one of us. It's important to get to the bottom of this, so we can all be safe."

Quincy looked at her again. She was beginning to understand his reputation now. That direct, probing stare. Those hard, compelling eyes. She broke, her gaze skittering away.

" Montgomery… Montgomery was on the Sanchez case. First." She didn't have to say anything more. It was common knowledge that the first agent had botched the Sanchez case fifteen years ago. He'd insisted that they were looking for a single, charismatic sociopath, a la Ted Bundy, when the police already had evidence that more than one killer was involved. Further, the presence of cement dust had the LAPD wanting to check out blue-collar workers, not the local law schools. The police had finally thrown a fit. Montgomery had been removed. Quincy had come in. The rest was now law enforcement history.

"That would explain his language and dress in front of Everett," Quincy commented.

She smiled thinly. "No point in auditioning for the Bureau fast track when your career has already been derailed."

"His mistake. Apparently he's made a few. Don't let the next one involve you."

"I'm fine here. You have a wonderful security system, plus we've taken the liberty of upgrading. Let me show you." She led Quincy to the front door, where a new security box had been installed next to his doorbell. His old system had been a simple four-by-four keypad inside the entry. Now the system entailed a significantly sized plastic case boasting a keypad, scanner, and multicolor digital display located outside the front door.

"It combines a pin code with fingerprint technology," Glenda explained. "Instead of unlocking the front door, then rushing in to enter the security code, this box controls the front door. You enter in your personal pin number twice, then hold your index finger over the scanner to be read. If you match the print on file, the system automatically disarms and allows you into the house. The minute you close the door, it automatically resets for the next guest. In other words, the house is always protected and it now takes more than a simple sequence of numbers to gain access."