"He was extremely persuasive," Glenda said quietly. " Everett was strongly considering calling you in. In fact, the only reason he didn't is that Albert's credibility is an issue. That wouldn't have mattered much longer, however. Albert got me wondering, which is what he intended. I found the stationery in your desk, messengered a sheet over to the lab… That report should come back any time now, confirming the original ad was sent on your stationery. Once that report arrived, Everett would have no choice but to ask you to turn yourself in. Plus, Albert's accusation and the subsequent finding of your stationery made me seriously doubt you, which set everything up for act two."

"You turning up dead."

"In your home, protected by a state-of-the-art security system to which you have access. And, if that wasn't damning enough, the casings from the two shots Albert fired both bear your fingerprints. It would appear Albert helped himself to your ammo during one of his visits to the house."

"What?" He was so startled, he momentarily forgot himself and exclaimed, "Son of a bitch!"

Glenda frowned. "You can't say that," she said sternly.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately.

"Stop fidgeting."

The button was getting to him again. He forced his hand away, then caught his reflection in the room's long mirror and felt even more discouraged. He looked tense and uncomfortable, not at all like a ruthlessly competent federal agent. When word came down that he could finally interview Montgomery, he needed to walk into that room appearing 100 percent calm and in control. You messed with us, Montgomery, now let me mess with you.

He did not look calm and in control. He looked like someone who hadn't slept. He looked like someone who was deeply worried. He looked like someone who was, for the first time in his life, out of his league.

Albert Montgomery is nothing, he reminded himself firmly. Not even the real deal. Just a hired hand.

"He wants to talk," Glenda said softly, as if reading his mind. "Don't forget, Albert is driven by his need to prove himself smarter than you. All you have to do is sound skeptical, and he'll hand you the keys to the city simply to prove he can. You hate him. You want to lean over the table and kill him. But other than that, Quincy, this interview shouldn't be too hard."

He nodded, then glanced once more at his watch. Three thirty-two P.M. Twenty-four and a half hours since the attack on Glenda… Enough time for someone to cross the country. Enough time for someone to assume any manner of disguises. He wished once more he could talk to Ramie. Goddammit he had to leave this button alone!

The door opened. A young agent poked his head into the room. "They're escorting Special Agent Montgomery to the interview room," he reported.

Glenda nodded. The agent closed the door.

He took a deep breath. Then, he squared his shoulders and ran a hand down his jacket. "Well," he said, "how do I look?"

Portland, Oregon

Twelve-eighteen P.M., Pacific standard time, Rainie and Kimberly were sitting side by side on the tiny sofa. From this vantage point, they could see into the adjoining bedroom on their right, or through the kitchenette area to the front door of the small suite on their left. They weren't doing anything. They weren't saying anything. They both simply stared at the phone.

"Why doesn't he call?" Kimberly asked.

"He must not have anything to say."

"I thought something would've happened by now!"

Rainie glanced at the hotel-room door. "So did I," she murmured. "So did I."

Virginia

Sitting in the dimly lit interrogation room, Special Agent Albert Montgomery looked pretty good for a man who'd been shot. He wore light-blue surgical scrubs in lieu of his customary rumpled suit. His mussed hair was combed, his face freshly scrubbed and slightly less jaundiced. His right hand, heavily bandaged, rested on the table. His left leg, with its recently repaired kneecap, was encased in a cast and propped up on a chair. All in all, he appeared quite comfortable and at ease.

They eyed each other steadily for the first thirty seconds, neither one of them wanting to blink first.

"You look like crap," Montgomery said.

"Thank you, I worked on it all night." He walked up to the table, but didn't sit. From this vantage point, he could look down on Albert Montgomery. He could cross his arms over his chest and stare at this man as if he were the lowest form of life on earth. Albert simply smiled up at him. He'd also attended interrogation classes and knew the tricks.

"You sound like shit, too," Albert said. "Catch a cold on the airplane, Quince? Those things are nothing but petri dishes with wings. And you've had plenty of time to incubate. East Coast, West Coast, East Coast. Tell me, Quincy, how does it feel to be a puppet on a string?"

His hands clenched. He almost rose to the bait, then remembered what Glenda had said. He couldn't afford to kill Albert. Too much depended on what the man had to say.

He pulled out a chair and took a seat. "You wanted me here: I'm here. Now speak."

"Still arrogant, huh Quincy? I wonder how arrogant you're gonna be when the Philly detectives get through with you. Have you checked out their prison system yet? Maybe you can get a tour of your future home."

"I'm not worried about the PPD."

Albert stared at him. He stared back. Albert broke first. "Son of a bitch," he rasped.

"What's his name, Albert?"

Albert didn't answer right away. His gaze flickered to the clock on the wall. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You acted alone?"

"Sure I did. You don't think that I hated you enough? You fucked my career, Quincy. You took my family, you ruined my life. Well hey, guess who has the last laugh. Where's your beautiful daughter, Quince? Where's the mother of your children? Where's your own dear old dad who desperately depended upon you? And I don't care what you say, when that report from Philly comes in, where's your precious fucking career? The bigger they are, the harder they fall."

"You didn't do this."

"Like hell."

"You don't have the brains."

Albert's face turned red. "You think you're so smart, Quincy, consider this: Revenge. Fifteen long years of desperately wanting revenge. I could try to get the same case as you, set you up to fail, but that would be risky. I could try to get on the same case as you and shoot you in the back, but that would be no fun. So one night it comes to me – "

"Comes to him."

"Comes to me. Why go for the direct attack? On the job is where you're in your element, where you do good. But you don't do everything right, Quincy. Hell no, you're not perfect. In fact, when it comes to being a husband, being a father, being a son, you pretty much suck. Once I realized this, I knew I had you."

"You approached Mandy at her AA meeting."

"I started looking up your father, your ex-wife and daughters. Didn't take me too long to figure out Mandy was the weak link. Shit, you must've done quite a head job on that kid, Quincy. She's a drunk, she's promiscuous. She's the perfect, insecure wreck. What do you have your Ph.D. in again?"

He thinned his lips. Montgomery smiled, happy to feel he had the upper hand and as Glenda predicted, now expansively verbose.

"Yeah, I approached Mandy, pretended to be the son of an old acquaintance of your dad's, Ben Zikka, Jr. That's the nice thing about AA meetings. They build a sense of camaraderie, allow even perfect strangers to bond. Three meetings later, I had her."

"You introduced her to him."