Two scenarios and neither showing much promise. Jesus, she thought. Quincy was either the most brilliant criminal the Bureau had ever faced, or one truly unlucky son of a bitch.

The fax line rang in the office. A moment later, a faint whir sounded as the machine picked up. Glenda went to retrieve the message, leaving Montgomery alone in the kitchen.

The preliminary report on the hard copy of the ad that had run in the National Prison Project Newsletter was coming over the wire. The report was four pages long. Glenda scanned each page as it came through.

Latent found five fingerprints on the typeset ad, all of which matched with various staff members of the National Prison Project Newsletter. Serology found no hairs and fibers, but some dust residue that, again, was traced to the National Prison Project Newsletter. To complete the evidence-less trifecta, the DNA unit had also been unable to recover any samples from the paper or envelope.

At least the Document Examination Unit had had some fun. Their findings comprised the last three pages of the report, and were a welcome change from N/A, N/A, inconclusive. The ink on the paper was traced to a standard black laser-print cartridge commonly used in HP printers. That narrowed it down to millions of possible printers. Never fear, they were able to trace the font and graphics of the typeset ad. The UNSUB had used PowerPoint. Oh, the magic of desktop publishing.

Glenda sighed. Investigating crimes had been so much easier when people had no other choice but to write notes by hand. How the hell were you supposed to analyze a computer font? Where were the hesitation marks or angrily slanted T's in a typewritten ransom demand? And how the hell did you narrow the field when even serial killers were using Microsoft Office?

On the last page, she finally found some news. The paper was distinct. Not cheap grade white, but heavy-duty cream stationery, handmade with a watermark. According to the Document Examination Unit, the paper came from Britain where it was sold exclusively by a small store on Old Bond Street. Approximately two thousand boxes were sold worldwide each year. And it retailed for nearly one hundred dollars per twenty-five sheets.

Glenda set down the report. So, they had an UNSUB with computer access, PowerPoint savvy, and extremely expensive taste in stationery. Who in the world sent an ad to a prison newsletter on hundred-dollar stationery? It probably came in some kind of fancy gift box with pressed flowers and silk ribbons tied around the top. Maybe a gift. What a wife might give to a husband, or a boss to a colleague, or a daughter to a dad.

Glenda looked at Quincys desk. His beautiful, richly finished desk with the state-of-the-art fax machine, the fine leather chair. Everything perfectly matched, such as what a well-bred wife might select for her workaholic husband back when they were still married…

She grabbed the first desk drawer. Ripped it open. Pens, pencil, a Louis Vuitton check holder. She tried the drawer beneath that, then the one beneath that. Finally, in the bottom drawer, the location of a man who didn't write much, three boxes of stationery, all hardly touched.

She'd been wrong about the dried flowers and silk ribbons. The stationery came in a beautiful sandalwood box, tied with a leather thong. Geppetto's Stationery, imported from Italy, beautiful to behold, and now down to nineteen sheets.

"Oh Quincy," Glenda whispered, box in hand. "Oh Quincy, how could you?"

Portland,Oregon

When Rainie woke up, Quincy was gone. She glanced at the red-glowing alarm clock next to the bed. Seven A.M., making it ten eastern standard time. Quincy and Kimberly had probably been up for hours. She dragged a hand through her hair, caught her reflection in the mirror above the bureau and winced. She looked like she'd stuck her hand in a light socket. Then again, her mouth tasted like old socks.

Ah, another beautiful Saturday morning.

She rolled out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom. Toothpaste helped. So did a quick shower. She donned her three-day-old jeans and white T-shirt, wrinkled her nose with distaste, and bravely left the bedroom.

Quincy and his daughter sat at the brown circular tablein the tiny kitchenette that comprised the front; halfof the living room. Quincy was hunched over his laptopcomputer, while Kimberly leaned against his shoulder to get a better look at the screen. Both held cups of Starbucks coffee, and both were arguing vigorously. Rainie identified a third cup of coffee, probably hers. She scooped it up, while trying to come up to speed on their squabble.

They seemed to be working on the database. Kimberly wanted to focus more on Miguel Sanchez, Quincy thought it was a dead end – the man couldn't exactly do much from the confines of San Quentin. Well what about family, Kimberly argued. What family? Quincy countered. Sanchez's only living relative was a seventy-year-old oxygen-dependent mother, hardly a likely candidate for psycho of the week. "Touche," Rainie murmured.

They finally paused, Quincy glancing up from the computer. Something passed over his face, an expression she couldn't read. Then he said evenly, "Good morning, Rainie. There are croissants in the bag if you'd like."

She shook her head. "Been up long?" "A few hours." Quincy was avoiding her gaze. That was okay; she couldn't seem to meet his eye either. Had he been surprised to wake up and find her pressed against him on the bed? Pleased? Or had he considered it purely practical – Kimberly already had the sofa. Rainie studiously memorized the Starbucks logo on her cup of coffee.

"Where are you with things?" she asked. "Working the database."

Kimberly chimed in, "I think we need to reexamine the Sanchez case. Miguel's the one who reached Dad by phone, plus, his treatment of his cousin, Richie Millos, proves that he's big on revenge. Then there's the Montgomery factor – that Albert Montgomery also worked that case and happens to hate Dad because of it."

"That I personally took Sanchez's call was a random event," Quincy countered. "There were fifty-six other convicts on the answering machine, whose calls I could just as easily have caught in person. And while the 'Montgomery factor' is interesting, coincidence does not equal conspiracy. Bottom line: Miguel is securely behind bars in California. He has no opportunity, and frankly, I don't think he's that smart."

"What about the cousin?" Rainie asked.

"Millos? What about him?"

Rainie took a seat. Safe on the comforting topic of homicidal maniacs, she could face Quincy again. "Think of it this way: Your assessment of Richie and Miguel's partnership led the police to focus on Richie. And by focusing on Richie, the police guaranteed his death at the hands of Miguel. Ergo, someone could argue that you were responsible for Richie's death."

"Ergo, I killed Richie," Quincy murmured. "Not bad."

"Does Richie have surviving family?" Kimberly asked.

"I don't know. Grab the case file."

Kimberly began digging in the box next to Quincy 's feet. Apparently, they'd been through this drill a few times already, because she came up with the manila file in four seconds flat. "Millos, Richie. Let's see what kind of nuts are hanging from the family tree." She flipped it open, turned three pages, and began to briskly scan the background report. "Okay, we got a mother – fifty-nine years old and listed as a housewife. We have a father – sixty-three years old, former janitor, now on disability. Oh, condition is listed as rheumatoid arthritis. That probably rules him out."

"Any siblings?" Quincy asked.

"Two younger brothers and one younger sister. Jose is thirty-five and comes with his own rap sheet. A B amp;E guy, but not currently incarcerated. That's food for thought. Mitchell 'Mickie' Millos is thirty-three, and hey, no rap sheet. In fact, he's an engineer with a degree from the University of Texas in Austin. So apparently one of the men in the family made good. Finally we have Rosa Millos, the baby daughter, who is twenty-eight. We have no info on her, why is that?"