Kendra started to point toward the hallway, but her mother cut her off.
“And don’t think that some FBI bodyguard can stop a high-powered rifle with a laser scope,” Diane said. “If this sicko has shown us anything, it’s that he’s capable of killing in any number of ways. The second you step out of this building, you’re vulnerable.” She sat down next to her and took her hand. “Too vulnerable.” She gently ran her fingers over Kendra’s cut and bruised arm. “To see you like this, baby. It just makes it more real. I could lose you.”
“You’re not going to lose me. Trust me, the FBI is extremely motivated to keep me alive.”
“It may not be enough.”
“Then it’s enough that I’m motivated to keep myself alive. This killer’s chosen to make this case intensely personal. He’s reaching and trying to hurt me in any way he can. And he’s going to keep murdering people until he’s caught. Don’t you see? I have the best chance of stopping him.”
Her mother was silent. “I’m having trouble seeing that you have a better chance than all the manpower and resources of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It doesn’t compute, Kendra.”
“Yes, it does. In this particular case, it makes excellent sense. And I don’t have a problem turning my back on the FBI. But I do have a problem turning my back on whoever he may try to kill next.”
Her mother leaned back in her chair. “You know … In those months and years after you got your sight, your wild days, I was so afraid. You’d been given this amazing gift, and I thought it might be too much for you. You were so intent on absorbing every new experience, both good and bad, that I was afraid you might … self-destruct. I don’t think you realize how close you came.”
“I do realize.” Her hand covered Diane’s. “But it took me a while longer to realize how hard it must have been for you, Mom. I’m sorry for everything I put you through.”
“It was hard.” She paused, then said brusquely, “But we got through that, and I guess we’ll get through this, too.”
“We definitely will.”
“Particularly since I intend to move in here with you.”
Kendra’s eyes widened. “What?”
“I don’t trust that guard in the hall, but I trust myself. I think I should—”
“No, Mom,” Kendra said firmly. “That’s not going to happen.”
Her mother sighed. “I didn’t think you’d go for it, but I thought I’d try.” She added slyly, “Well, at least call Dean back so that I can see a safe future for you on the horizon.”
“Mom, you’re incorrigible.” She couldn’t help but chuckle. “You remind me of Lynch. Pure manipulation.”
“Lynch is a very dangerous man. I’m not dangerous to you. I’m only a mother trying to pave your way to a better life. Will you do it?”
She made a face. “Yes, I’ll call Dean. But that’s all I’ll promise.”
“That’s enough … for now.” She grinned. “I couldn’t leave here without some vestige of victory.”
“And you have it.” Kendra added gravely, “But I do have some bad news.”
“What?”
Kendra sniffed the air. “You really can’t cook. You just burned the waffles.”
CHAPTER
5
AT NOON, KENDRA MET with the FBI team and three police officers who were visibly seething from the murder of their colleague. She had seen this kind of desperation in investigators before, usually reserved for killers of fellow officers and children. Unfortunately, such raw emotion occasionally led to sloppy police work and false arrests. She had assisted in more than one case in which her most valuable contribution had been clearing innocent suspects who had been targeted by overzealous detectives.
Once again, she recounted the events of the previous evening, making sure they took note of the observations of the killer she had made, even down to the type of shaver he used.
After almost two hours of debriefing, she finally stood up to excuse herself. But Special Agent Saffron Reade still had one significant insight to share.
“I believe I know what Myatt means, Dr. Michaels,” Reade said. “Remember? That was the name he signed on your mobile phone message.”
Kendra stopped. “I could hardly forget. You definitely have my full attention.”
“John Myatt is the name of a forger. A painter. Scotland Yard called him the biggest art fraud of the twentieth century. He’s said to have sold his fakes to art galleries and auction houses all over the world. He could create uncanny copies of a wide variety of artists.”
Kendra was silent, trying to put together the connection. “Our murderer must see himself in the same way. He’s copying the work of people he thinks of as artists.”
“Exactly,” Reade said. “That’s something to keep in mind. He doesn’t see himself as a butcher. He thinks he’s an artist, and he wants his work to be admired.” She paused. “Very often, that desire can lead to a criminal’s downfall.”
Kendra nodded. “I can see that. Good work, Reade. Thank you.” She turned to go.
“And thank you, Kendra,” Griffin said as he held the door open for her. “You’ve been very cooperative.” He added softly, “Surprisingly cooperative. I’ll only keep you for a little while longer. Will you come down the hall with me for just a moment?”
“I’m done,” she said bluntly. “You’re not getting anything else out of me.”
“No third degree.” Griffin was ushering her down the hall and into a small conference room. “This won’t take you more than—”
“What’s this?” Kendra stopped just inside the door as she saw a gray-haired man waiting for her in the conference room. He had a large, brown leather satchel on the floor beside him.
The man smiled. “Hello, Kendra. I’m delighted to meet you.”
She turned back toward Griffin. “Who is this?”
“He’s your doctor. Whether you want him to be or not.”
“No way. Seriously? You called a doctor here to examine me?”
“No.”
“Then how in the hell—?”
The doctor opened his satchel. “I’m Dr. Paul Thompson, Dr. Michaels. I work out of the Scripps Medical Center. I’m here at the behest of Adam Lynch. He phoned me at about four this morning. He was most insistent that I examine you. I was prepared to open my office early for you, but he said you’d never go for that.”
“So he found the one doctor in San Diego who makes house calls.”
“Actually, I don’t. Mr. Lynch is a very persuasive man.”
“No one would argue that point.” Kendra nodded toward his satchel. “That explains the strange doctor’s bag, which isn’t really a doctor’s bag at all. You usually carry that to work with a laptop and ham sandwich inside. Am I right?”
Dr. Thompson smiled as he pulled a stethoscope from his bag. “Sometimes tuna.”
Kendra turned toward Griffin in disbelief.
“We checked him out,” Griffin said. “He’s who he says he is.”
Dr. Thompson pulled a folded paper examination gown from his bag. “Now, if I can have you change into this…”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Mr. Lynch wanted me to be very thorough. I can wait outside while you—”
“Go away. That isn’t going to happen.”
“My instructions are to follow you wherever you go and stand by until you consent to a full examination.”
“You have nothing better to do?”
He didn’t answer directly. “Mr. Lynch is compensating me exceptionally well for my time.”
Kendra shook her head. Lynch was probably laughing his ass off at that very moment. Okay, she could fight and waste her time and energy, or she could submit and get through the exam in record time.
And get back at Lynch at the earliest opportunity.
She finally snatched the gown from the doctor’s hand. “Fine. Both of you get out of here while I change. Only the doctor comes back in. I want to get this over with.”<
br />
She looked at Griffin, whose broad smile was turning into a gleeful chuckle. “Griffin, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you laugh before.”
He shrugged. “It’s just nice to see that Adam Lynch can piss off other people as much as he does me. I’m looking forward to watching you get your revenge.” He turned and walked out the door. “Enjoy your exam.”
* * *
HEARD YOU’RE IN FINE SHAPE. GREAT NEWS.
Kendra’s grip tightened on her phone as she stared at the text message from Lynch. She hadn’t even reached the elevator when her phone vibrated with the alert. Dr. Thompson had obviously phoned Lynch the second she had left the room.
She texted in reply: ALL GOOD, EXCEPT FOR OCCASIONAL NAUSEA CAUSED BY ONE ADAM LYNCH. NO KNOWN CURE.
His response came seconds later: CONDITION MISDIAGNOSED. OBVIOUSLY NOT GETTING ENOUGH ADAM LYNCH. WILL WORK TO RECTIFY SITUATION SOON.
She typed her reply: NO RUSH, CONDITION RAPIDLY IMPROVING WITH EACH LYNCH-LESS DAY.
He fired back: PATIENT HAS OBVIOUSLY SUSTAINED MASSIVE BRAIN TRAUMA. ONLY EXPLANATION FOR LACK OF APPRECIATION FOR AMAZING ADAM LYNCH.
She replied: HAVE ARRANGED INVASIVE AND INCREDIBLY PAINFUL RECTAL EXAM FOR YOU. COULD COME AT ANY TIME, WITHOUT WARNING. WATCH YOUR BACK.
He answered: PROMISES, PROMISES. SEE YOU SOON.
Kendra pocketed her phone.
In spite of her annoyance with Lynch’s arbitrary action, she found her anger was beginning to fade. She had left the doctor thinking what a colossal waste of time the exam had been, but she couldn’t help feeling a bit moved. Although several people had urged her to see a doctor, only Lynch had taken the time and trouble to actually bring one to her. Who does that?
Only Adam Lynch.
She entered the elevator, and Special Agent Roland Metcalf wedged his shoulder in just as the doors were about to close. He quickly stepped into the elevator with her. “You forgot something.”
“What’s that?”
“Me. I’m your guard today.”
“Really? I thought that was below your pay grade.”
“Actually, I’m also sort of partnering with you, assisting you, providing whatever support you may need.”
“And providing your boss with updates on my progress?”
He grinned. “That was implied, yes. But if there’s anything you’d rather keep confidential…”
She shrugged. “Tell him whatever you want.”
“Good, so what’s on the agenda today?”
“Well, considering that I flew out of a second-story window last night, wouldn’t you think I might just want to relax?”
“Hell, no. Nobody thinks that. Come on, what are we doing?”
“You guys are beginning to know me a little too well. Kinda depressing.” She studied Metcalf. If she had to have a bodyguard, at least it was one who could be of some use to her. He carried himself with an ease and jauntiness that made it clear that he didn’t take himself—or anything else in the world—too seriously. A pleasant change of pace from most other FBI agents she’d met. “Okay, how much do you know about cars?”
“Cars? I know you’re supposed to change the oil every three thousand miles, but it’s really okay if you wait and do it every seven or eight.”
“Awesome.”
“Glad I passed the test. So what are we doing?”
“I’m pretty sure I heard the killer start his car and drive away last night. I can identify the make and maybe the model of the car if I hear it again.”
“Now that’s awesome.” His eyes were glittering with eagerness. “Where do we start?”
“Car dealers. Not the most accommodating bunch, especially since there’s no chance of a sales commission. I’ll need you to flash your badge around.”
“It’s what I do best, ma’am.”
“I certainly hope not.” She smiled. “And don’t call me ma’am. I’m not that much older than you.”
His smile held equal parts mischief and a hint of sensuality. “Roger that, ma’am.”
* * *
KENDRA CHOSE TO FOCUS THEIR ATTENTION on the Convoy Street “auto row” of car dealerships within walking distance of each other. True to his word, Metcalf was very good at flashing his badge and exuding an air of authority that made the dealership managers snap to attention and race around their lots with fistfuls of keys. They started each model in their lines, punched the accelerators, and even drove around the parking lots when Kendra requested them to do so.
After listening to thirty-five vehicles at four dealerships, Kendra was certain she’d heard a six-cylinder engine the previous evening, but she knew little else. She thanked the Honda sales manager in the parking lot and turned to Metcalf in frustration. “This is starting to feel like a fool’s errand.”
“I also do those very well. But we won’t be complete fools until we impose on every sales manager on this street. So what do you say we—”
“Wait!” Kendra listened. “I hear it.”
“Where?”
“Shh.” She looked toward the road and saw a car speeding by the dealership. “There! What kind of car is that?”
“Uh, a blue one.” Metcalf grabbed a nearby saleswoman and pointed to the vehicle. “Pop quiz. Name that car.”
She responded immediately. “Nissan Skyline.”
Metcalf turned back to Kendra. “Is that a possibility?”
She nodded. “There’s a Nissan dealership one block up. Let’s go.”
* * *
FROM THE MOMENT THE MANAGER turned the key in a Skyline, Kendra recognized the engine’s growl as the same as she had heard the night before. She heard it again in a 370Z, and several more times in the nearby dealership of Nissan’s luxury division, Infiniti.
In the Infiniti showroom, Kendra compared brochures for the cars. “Look.” She pointed to the engine specifications. “Each one of those vehicles has a VQ37VHR engine, the same as the Nissan Skyline and the Z.”
“Does it?” Metcalf used his mobile phone to snap photos of each of the brochures. “Amazing. I’ll have to take your word for it. After all the cars we’ve heard today, everything was sounding alike to me.”
“Did they look alike to you?”
“Not really.”
“As someone who grew up without being able to see, I used the sounds I heard as my single biggest way of perceiving the world. Those engine sounds are as different to me as the difference between seeing a red car and a blue one, or a sports car and a pickup truck.”
“That makes sense, but it’s still fascinating to witness.” He paged through the photos he had taken with his phone. “I was hoping we could cross-reference ownership records with driver’s licenses, and maybe put together a virtual lineup of license photos for you to look at. But we’re looking at eight different models of cars here.”
“I know. Even if we narrow our focus to San Diego registrations, there are probably thousands of owners.”
“Still, it’s another piece we can match against potential suspects. We’ll check it against auto registrations on that block and make sure you weren’t hearing a neighbor’s car. I’d say that’s a decent afternoon’s work.”
“And at least now I have a pretty good working knowledge of various automobile engine sounds from the six dealerships we visited.”
He gazed skeptically at her. “You’d really remember if you heard them again?”
“Most of them. A couple weren’t that distinctive, but I could do pretty well with the rest.”
“Interesting.” Metcalf collected the brochures and walked with her out the door. It was getting dark, and the dealership street signs down the block had just started to flicker on. He gestured over his left shoulder. “I think I just heard a car pulling into the lot behind us. Are you telling me just by listening, you could—?”
“It’s a Toyota FJ. Probably without the four-wheel-drive package.”
They both turned and saw the distinctive, boxy form of a Toyota FJ cruiser.
Metcalf shook his head. “Incredible.”
“No big deal. But if it had been from a car dealer we didn’t visit today, I might have been out of luck.”
“We should hit those other dealers sometime to round out your repertoire. You never know when it could come in handy.”
“This isn’t my day job, Metcalf. I’d actually be happier if it never came in handy.”
He laughed. “Nah, I don’t believe that. You have a gift. It would be like Superman deciding that journalism is his true calling, or Batman thinking that his life’s work is really dating supermodels and making money.”
She gazed at him in horror. “Oh, God. You’re a comic-book geek.”
Metcalf smiled. “So everyone who enjoys the art of graphic storytelling is a geek?”
“I knew it! I’ll bet you’re one of those fan boys who takes over the Gaslamp District every summer and goes to Comic-Con.”
“That doesn’t make me a geek.”
“So you do go.” Her face suddenly lit with amusement. “Whoa. I just got a mental image of you wearing a brightly colored Spandex costume with big boots, cape flowing behind you…”
“I don’t wear a costume.”
“Do the people at your office know?”
“Of course they know. I have to take off work.”
“You actually take off work?”
He shrugged. “Don’t want to miss anything.”
“Be honest. You tell your fellow agents that you’re away on an annual fishing trip with your college buddies, don’t you?”
“I’m not discussing this anymore.”
“Aw, come on,” she urged teasingly.
“Nope. You obviously have no respect for the artistry and economy of storytelling in the modern graphic novel.”
Her smile faded. “I’m only kidding, Metcalf. You have the right to your opinion and to enjoy life in any way you choose. I admire you. I respect the fact that you’re reaching out for what makes you happy. I hope you keep on doing it.”
“Oh, I will.” His eyes were twinkling. “It keeps me young. You ought to come with me to the next Comic-Con.” He paused, then added slyly, “Ma’am.”
Sight Unseen Page 9
