The Next Accident by Lisa Gardner Read Free Book Online Page B

hand, it made an interesting start of work each day.
    Not much of a sleeper, Quincy had risen at three A.M. to drive to Seattle and catch a direct flight to DC. He'd spent so many years flying all over the country that layovers had become unbearable to him and he'd do just about anything to hasten the trip. Cars, he liked and his new thing was to avoid planes altogether and drive. He'd thought that might change after Mandy's accident. It hadn't.
    Reaching the outdoor lot next to the firing ranges, Quincy parked his car, then walked across the street to the back entrance of the building. He waved his ID card in front of the security scanner. It graciously let him in.
    Taking the stairs down two flights to the BSU offices, he passed a fellow agent. Quincy nodded in greeting. Special Agent Deacon nodded back while judiciously avoiding his gaze. It had been like that for the last four weeks; Quincy barely noticed anymore. His daughter had died tragically, which was awkward in the best of circumstances, let alone when you worked with people who made their living trying to thwart, and thus control, untimely death. Quincy now stood as a reminder that bad things could happen close to home, that crime-scene photos weren't always of some stranger's daughter. How rude of him to show his face in the office and rock their carefully compartmentalized worlds. Quincy had even heard rumblings that he was wrong to have gone from Mandy's funeral straight to work. What kind of father could be so cold?
    He didn't bother addressing those comments. When their own children died, they could figure it out for themselves.
    Quincy opened the metal fire door and walked into the BSU offices.
    Contrary to Hollywood images, the offices at the FBI Academy were purely functional, and the BSU offices even more so than most. Located in the second sublevel below the facility's indoor firing range, the walls were comprised of cinder blocks painted an appropriate bone-white. As the offices were carved deep into the earth, there were no windows.
    The office of the Special Agent in Charge sat in the middle; the remaining offices formed a square perimeter around it. The floor plan reminded Quincy of most major prisons – central control office surrounded by maximum-security cells. Maybe the powers-that-be figured the ambience would help them enter the criminal mind.
    The BSU boasted one impressive feature. Its state-of-the-art technology room, closely resembling a TV studio, enabled the agents to do teleconferencing as well as make major presentations with as many bells and whistles as the individual agent could dream up. It always amused Quincy that his working space could be so dull, and his speaking space so sleek. The Bureau did have its priorities.
    Quincy hadn't always worked with the BSU. He was one of the rare agents who'd crossed an unspoken line by going from the Child Abduction/Serial Killer Unit (CASKU) to the BSU years ago. It made him something of a novelty in both worlds. An academic who'd entered the glamorous world of profiling, to a glamorous profiler who'd entered the academic world of behavioral science. Both sides used his work. Neither side knew what to make of him.
    He hadn't told anyone yet, not even Rainie, but he was considering rocking the boat once more. A month ago, he'd been approached about switching again. He would join what was now called the National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC) as a profiler. At nearly the age of fifty, he would resume working active cases and return to the field.
    Honestly, he'd missed it.
    When Quincy had first joined the Bureau, he'd told himself he was doing it for the greater good. He'd spent two years as a private-practice psychologist, and while the money was good (Bethie's concern) and the work was interesting (his concern), it left him feeling restless. He'd quit policing to pursue an advanced degree because he felt it was psychology that held his primary interest. Now, he discovered that he