Sight Unseen (3 page)

“Trust me, those expressions can turn sour in a hurry. Especially if they think I’m making them look bad. Poole only wanted me to stick around because he knew his superiors wouldn’t have believed that he’d come up with those answers.”

He nodded. “I can imagine there would be problems. But why aren’t you interested in following up? Seems like a pretty interesting case.”

“I already have a job. It’s a lot more positive and fulfilling to me than what those people are doing on that bridge tonight.”

“Music therapy.”

“Yes. I help people. And I conduct research and publish papers that help
others
help people.” She unlocked the door. “Anyway, thanks for the ride. I’m sure this wasn’t the evening you had in mind.”

“It was better.” He grinned. “Sure beats first-date small talk.”

“Not sure what I can do to top it. You want to quit while we’re ahead?”

“No way.” He stepped closer to her.

She couldn’t deny how likeable she found him. She was happy at that response. She smiled. “Well, you have my number.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m not saying good night until you explain a few things to me. Let’s start with my bike. How did you know about that?”

“You have helmet head.”

He ran his hands through his hair. “Impossible. I’ve washed my hair a couple times since the last time I wore a helmet.”

“Not your hair. Your skin. You have a clean tan line around your neck, and an inverted “U” that frames your face. And there’s a slight singe on the inside right leg of those jeans you’re wearing, right about knee level. The Harley Sportster’s rear exhaust pipe would hit you about there every time you have your foot off the pedal at a long stoplight.”

“Just the Sportster?”

“There are others, but that’s probably the most popular one. And the Harley Davidson sunglasses tucked into your shirt clinches it a bit more.”

He laughed and patted the sunglasses dangling from his neckline. “Do you ride?”

“I used to run with a pretty wild crowd, and I sometimes rode with them.” She raised her right pant leg and showed a small burn scar on her inside right calf. “It’s never a good idea to ride a motorcycle in shorts.”

“And here I was thinking you were so brilliant.”

“Well, it only happened once. I’m a fast learner.”

“I have no doubt.”

“And I caught a whiff of Castrol Simple Green on you. That’s how I knew you were doing some degreasing today.”

“Actually, it was yesterday. And I’ve showered since then.”

“Were you wearing those shoes when you were working on it?”

He looked down at his brown walking shoes. “Maybe.”

“And you’d be surprised how long our skin can hold on to odors, shower or no shower. It’s like a big sponge.”

“Okay. And how did you know where I’m from?”

She shrugged. “Your speech. You have a Central Florida dialect, peppered with an adult New England influence.”

He stared at her for a moment. “An adult New England influence?”

“If you’d moved there when you were younger, it would have a different sound. It would have had a different effect on the speech patterns you’ve been practicing since birth. I figured you moved there around college age.”

He nodded. “You’re right. But not quite Ivy League. Boston U. So you’re a linguistics expert, too.”

“Not really. Like you, I’ve met thousands of people in my life. From an early age, I got into the habit of listening and matching what I heard with what I found out about them. When you can’t see, you use what you have.”

He nodded, then paused. “Okay, now tell me what I really want to know.”

“Prison.”

“I’ve taken steps to make sure that period of my life won’t get in the way of my future. I didn’t think anyone in the city was aware of it, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

She tilted her head. “I’ll make you a deal. Tell me what you were in for, and I’ll tell you how I knew.”

“You got it.”

She took his left hand and angled it into the entranceway light. “I’m sure almost no one would notice this, but there’s a very faint tattoo remnant here, between your thumb and forefinger. You obviously tried to have it removed.”

“You’re right. Almost no one notices. And if they do, they see that it’s a box filled with an X. Like a strike on a bowling score sheet. Not like any prison tattoo I’ve ever seen.”

“And that was your intention when you tattooed over the five dots that were originally there. Five dots. One in the middle representing the prisoner, four more on each corner representing the prison. A pattern that’s almost always tattooed on the hand between the thumb and forefinger. It’s the placement that gives it away more than anything else.”

“How do you know so much about prison tats?”

“Like I said, I used to run with a rough crowd.” She looked him in the eye. “Your turn.”

He jammed his hands in his pockets and glanced away from her. “Well, you’re right. I had a drug problem in grad school, and I got in so deep that I supported my habit by selling some to my fellow students. Really stupid. I went away for thirty months. I got clean, got my Ph.D., and never looked back.”

“Except when you look at your hand. There are probably ways to get rid of that tattoo more completely these days.”

“It’s okay.” He held up his hand and looked at it. “Sometimes it’s good to remember what an idiot I can be. You know?”

She nodded. “I know.”

“So may I still call you?”

Kendra studied him. She liked Dean’s forthright manner. No excuses, no tap dancing around the mistakes he had made and clearly regretted. She also appreciated that dry sense of humor and his lack of intimidation when she’d virtually ruined the possibility of a normal evening. Mom was right, he was a good guy. She smiled. “Sure. Call me.”

“Great.” He kissed her on the cheek, turned, and headed back down the sidewalk toward his car.

*   *   *

MYATT READJUSTED HIS BINOCULARS
as he shifted in the tall grass. He had found a spot that offered him an excellent view of the Cabrillo State Bridge. Close enough to see what was going on, far enough away that he could watch undetected.

He panned across the bridge, taking in the scene.

The wrecked cars.

The smoldering van.

The elegantly dressed corpses.

It was beautiful.

Kendra Michaels’s visit had thrown the cops into a tizzy, and the scope of the scene had abruptly changed. They already knew it was more than just an accident. He had expected them to make that discovery later that night or possibly in the morning.

No matter.

If anything, Kendra’s appearance was a welcome development. Disappointing that she had left with such an apparent lack of interest, but he’d draw her back in.

The game is on, Kendra.

Even if you don’t realize it yet …

CHAPTER

2

Seaport Village

San Diego

THE SEVEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL WAS
squeezing Kendra’s hand so tightly that she threatened to cut off her circulation.

Zoey Beale was a new client whom Kendra had only seen twice before. The child showed signs of agoraphobia; she was terrified of crowds and clearly uncomfortable in any environment other than her home. Zoey did, however, enjoy music, which prompted her referral from a psychologist affiliated with Rady’s Children’s Hospital. Kendra preferred to meet clients in her studio, but she had made an exception in Zoey’s case, bringing a guitar to the girl’s home to calm her and build trust over the course of the two initial sessions.

Building trust to take her out of her comfort zone.

The little girl nodded even as her hand squeezed tighter. They walked down the embarcadero and approached Seaport Village, an open-air shopping center by the bay. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and the place was already jammed with shoppers and lunchtime restaurant patrons.

And scores of street performers. Perfect.

Three African men stood on the sidewalk playing a soothing melody on their wood pipes. Dressed in orange-and-yellow tunics, they swayed in perfect unison to the music.

Kendra stopped fifteen feet away and glanced down at Zoey. The music had captured her attention. She was transfixed, and after a minute, her iron grip loosened. A minute after that, the crowds and unfamiliar surroundings seemed to melt away.

Kendra pointed ahead. “There are more musicians up there. Want to go see?”

Zoey nodded. As they walked together, Kendra sensed less hesitancy from the little girl.

Good. Come on, Zoey. It can be a wonderful world out here. Let me show it to you.

Two young men were using an assortment of inverted plastic industrial food containers as drums, beating them with kitchen utensils. Zoey obviously liked the rhythms and unusual sounds, and she began bopping her head to the beat. Again, her surroundings seem to fade, but faster this time.

This could work.

This could be the key that Zoey needed to—

The little girl shrieked.

A pair of mimes had jumped in front of her and were doing their usual shtick. They were pretending to be marionettes, jerking in time to the performers’ drumbeats.

Kendra pulled Zoey close and shielded her from the creepy spectacle. “It’s okay, honey. It’s all right.”

The mimes approached them, putting on cheerful faces that were probably meant to comfort the girl, but only appeared more weird and frightening.

Kendra leaned close to the mimes and pointed up the embarcadero. “Take that shit somewhere else,” she hissed. “Now!”

Zoey was crying. Her mother, Danica, who had been watching behind a vendor cart, ran toward them. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” Danica held her daughter close. “Nothing to be afraid about. Everything’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Kendra mouthed.

Danica nodded as she guided her daughter toward the parking lot.

Kendra watched them, her fists clenching helplessly.

Dammit.

One step forward, two steps back.

She stood there until Zoey and Danica disappeared from view.

“Can you blame her?”

That voice. That all-too-familiar voice. “Adam Lynch.” She turned around to face him.

It was Lynch, all right. Powerful, sexy, dynamic. And he was wearing that movie-star smile that probably melted most women’s hearts but just pissed her off. “Hello, Kendra. Good to see you.”

Lynch was dressed in slacks, loafers, button-down collar shirt, and a tan jacket. He stood out from the shorts-and-T-shirt crowd who currently inhabited the place. But then he always stood out wherever he was, she thought. It wasn’t only the appearance but the aura of magnetism and toughness that he emitted. “Hello, Lynch. My, my, what a surprise.”

“Surprise?”

“You know, this doesn’t seem like the kind of place you’d go for an afternoon out.”

“Really? And where would you see me?”

“Hmm. Maybe playing golf with your fellow government agents, drinking disgusting whiskey drinks, trading war stories, comparing notes on your favorite ammo clips.”

He smiled again. “I’d be offended if that wasn’t pretty much how I spent last Saturday. You should join us sometime.”

“I work on Saturdays.”

“Yes, I noticed. Things were going really well with that girl until the mimes showed up.” He shrugged. “I could take ’em out for you. You know, for old times’ sake.”

This made her smile. “There was a time I would have thought you were serious.”

“There was a time I
would
have been serious. But that was before you knew me. I’ve mellowed.”

“Not likely.” It had been almost a year since she had last seen Adam Lynch. He was a former FBI agent who lately had been working as a freelance operative of choice for a variety of officials in the U.S. Intelligence community. Lynch had recently recruited her for a case that, although overall successful, reminded her how grim and gut-wrenching that line of work could be. She had no desire for a return engagement.

Lynch leaned against a lamppost. “I heard about your show on the bridge last night.”

“My show? Is that what they’re calling it?”

“It’s what I’m calling it. I wish I’d been there. I love watching you in action with all pistons firing.”

Kendra nodded. He was wearing that infuriatingly charming smile again. It annoyed her that she could see the appeal even if she fought against it. “Why are you here, Lynch? Why in the hell are you spying on me?”

“‘Spying’ is such a nasty word. It implies a nefarious purpose, which couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“Oh, my money is definitely on nefarious. It’s in your DNA.”

“I wasn’t spying. I was waiting for an opportunity to speak to you. I didn’t want to interrupt your session. I know how important your work is to you.”

“It’s everything.”

“I read about your study in the
New England Journal of Medicine,
” he said. “Your music-therapy techniques are being adopted for autism patients.”

“It’s all about helping people make connections with the outside world. Whether it’s autism or Alzheimer’s, music is often the way to reach people and bridge those gulfs. I’ve been designing protocols to assess the effectiveness of various techniques. It’s a young science, but we’ve made a lot of progress.”

“But you did manage to find time to join the Eve Duncan case. I read the file. Amazing investigative work, by the way.”

“I only did that because Eve is a good friend. She needed my help.”

“You helped save her life. And probably a lot of other lives.”

She gestured impatiently. “Why are you here, Lynch?”

“You were right. That accident scene on the bridge last night was staged.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“The case has been kicked over to the FBI. It has the mark of a serial killer. But you already knew that, didn’t you? That was remarkably similar to another case of yours, an old one.”