Then, alone in the backseat… "Hey Rainie," he whispered. "I love you, too."

At three P.M., Rainie finally heard back from Carl Mitz on her home answering machine. She listened to it from the hotel room as she called in to check messages. Kimberly sat at the table in the kitchenette, hunched over Quincys laptop and rereading some report on Miguel Sanchez that was making her scowl. Rainie occupied the sofa in the adjoining living room, restless since Quincys departure, feeling not at all like herself.

Mitz informed her answering machine that he'd just gotten her message on his cell phone. He would be available for the next few hours if she wanted to call back. Rainie hung up, then glanced at Kimberly.

"What would you think if I arranged a meeting with Ronald Dawson for tomorrow?" Rainie asked quietly.

Kimberly looked up from the computer. "I think Special Agent Albert Montgomery is a putz," she said.

"Me, too."

"I think he couldn't have reached my mother with a ten-foot pole, which means while he might be an Indian, he's definitely not Chief."

"Agreed."

"And I think… I think if Ronald Dawson is the head honcho, well, if you invite him here, then he can't be there in Virginia."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Set up lunch," Kimberly said firmly. "Then call your sheriff friend and get out your gun."

Rainie grinned. "Girl," she said, "I like your style."

Three-thirty P.M., Rainie reached Carl Mitz. Three-forty P.M., Quincy arrived at the Portland International Airport. Three forty-five P.M., Sheriff Luke Hayes received a phone call. He spoke for approximately fifteen minutes, then hung up the phone, told Cunningham he was leaving him in charge, and got into his car. It wasn't perfect, but it was a plan.

Virginia

"Here's what you need to know, Quincy." Glenda snapped open a manila file, stuck a pen behind her ear, then resumed pacing the eight-foot length of the narrow conference room. He watched her restless movements without commenting. It was nearly 3 P.M. Sunday afternoon, almost twenty-four hours since Montgomery 's attack, and they were still denied access to the disgruntled agent. First Montgomery claimed he needed immediate medical attention. Given the state of his kneecap and right hand, that was hard to dispute. The trip to the emergency room had been followed by surgery to repair the damage to his leg. The doctors had then said he needed time to recover from the anesthesia. The anesthesia, however, had been followed by large amounts of morphine personally requested by Montgomery. He was in a significant amount of pain, he claimed. He needed drugs, he needed medical assistance, he needed rest.

He couldn't be properly interviewed while under the influence of medication and they all knew it. Even if they forced the issue, the first judge who heard the case would toss his comments out of court.

Albert Montgomery had an aptitude after all. He could stall like nobody's business. And as each hour passed, they grew increasingly nervous. Something big was brewing. They could feel it.

"Stop fidgeting," Glenda said.

He looked down to find himself methodically twisting the top button of his suit jacket, and instantly jerked his hand away. Glenda had met him with fresh clothes first thing this morning. As a general rule, wearing a nicely tailored suit made him feel polished, more in control. Not today. As hour grew into hour, he could've sworn the necktie was conspiring to strangle him.

He wondered how Rainie was doing. He wished it felt safe to call.

Glenda had returned her attention to the manila file. Her right hand was heavily bandaged. Late last night, she'd been treated for third-degree burns, then released. She couldn't move her fingers yet, and the doctors had warned her that the deep-searing acid might have caused permanent nerve damage. Time would tell and at this stage of the game, she didn't seem to want to talk about it.

"Albert first crossed paths with you fifteen years ago on the Sanchez case," she said briskly. "For the record, he'd already received a less-than-stellar review for his prior work, but it was his inept profile of Sanchez that officially torpedoed his career. He fought with the locals, pegged Sanchez as a lone gunman, then lost all credibility when you came aboard, identified the work as part of a killing team, and cracked the case. Albert's wife left him three weeks later, taking the two kids with her. Doesn't look like they were big fans of weekend visitation either."

"He fits the profile," he said hoarsely.

"The circumstances fit the profile," Glenda said. "Now let's look at the man. According to Albert's file, his IQ is a respectable one hundred thirty. The problem seems to be in execution. What do they call that these days? Why an idiot can build a successful business while a genius can't even find his socks?"

"EQ – emotional intelligence." His voice was still rough.

"Emotional intelligence." Glenda rolled her eyes. "That's it. Albert has none. According to four different case reviews, he lacks focus, diligence, and basic organizational skills. In his twenty-year career at the Bureau, he's been written up six times. In each case, he's written a counter opinion stating that he's not incompetent after all, Supervisor So-and-So is simply out to get him."

"Albert Montgomery, a walking advertisement for government downsizing."

Glenda finally smiled. "If you can get that made into a bumper sticker, I'll put it on his car." Her expression sobered. "Before we write off Albert completely," she said, "there is another factor to consider: While Albert may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, he has had plenty of free time on his hands. The estimated time of death for Elizabeth is ten-thirty P.M., Wednesday. Albert has no alibi for that time. Furthermore, he claims he spent Thursday and Friday in Philadelphia assisting the local detectives. Not true. I followed up with the detectives – they only saw him Friday morning. The rest of his time – basically Wednesday afternoon through Saturday morning – is an open question. Which means he could've visited Mary Olsen in Virginia or shown up at a Rhode Island nursing home, or flown to the West Coast for a Portland rendezvous. We simply don't know." "Travel records, plane tickets, hotel stays?" "Checked with his credit cards – nothing. Checked with the local airport, nothing. Of course, there are roughly half a dozen airports within a three-hour drive of here. He could've left from any one of those, paying cash and/or using an assumed name." Glenda smiled. "Welcome to the convenience of the Eastern Corridor."

"And even if he lacks focus, seventy-two hours provides plenty of time for misdeeds." He grimaced, then caught himself and said more crisply, "What about financial resources?"

"Albert is currently proud owner of nine hundred dollars in his bank account, so while he's had time to run around the country, financially I'm not sure how he could've pulled it off. On the other hand, if he has been traveling he's been paying in cash, so it's possible a second person has funded his venture with a briefcase of money. Without access to the second person's accounts, it's impossible to know."

"Smart, but lazy. Poor, but possibly funded by vengeful deviants-R-us. Wonderful."

"At the very least," Glenda said, "we know Albert has been actively involved in positioning you as a suspect. He called Everett Friday night, saying that he's convinced you killed your ex-wife. Then he made a point of visiting me first thing Saturday morning to let me know all his doubts about the Philadelphia crime scene."

"Poisoning the well."