Night Watch--A Novel

by Iris Johansen

  “You won’t feel better,” Lynch said. “But at least you won’t drive yourself crazy all night trying to figure it out. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

  “As I said, I have trouble trusting anyone but myself.” Jessie stepped closer to Kendra. “How about where I’m from, and the places I’ve lived?”

  “Linguistics.”

  “You’re a linguist, too?”

  “Amateur. When you’re denied the opportunity to form an impression of people by looking at them, how they speak becomes very important. After your kind rescue the other day, I told Lynch I could hear a Central Valley twang in your voice. Add in some subtle continental Europe vowel suppressions, and you have someone who spent a lot of time overseas in their younger years.”

  “I didn’t have to be a military brat, though. What if one of my parents worked for an international company that moved them around a lot?”

  “True, and that was certainly possible. But your fighting style made me think you had a military background, which significantly raised the chances that one of your parents had served.”

  “But how did you know about Afghanistan?”

  Kendra grabbed Jessie’s wrist and pushed up her sleeve. “You have a tan line here. You often wear a bracelet that’s fairly representative of Afghan tribal jewelry with beads and little bells. I’m thinking you bought that there.”

  Jessie nodded. “Chicken Street in Kabul. I did two tours in Afghanistan.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “Is it? I guess some people would call it that. What about my marathons?”

  “I saw your motorcycle, remember? You have a Bay to Breakers water bottle tethered to your drink holder and a Honolulu Marathon license-plate frame. I also saw a Gold’s Gym bar-code tag on your key ring. It was easy to spot because I have one on mine. I guessed the Venice location because it’s close to the mailing address on your private investigator’s license. I’ve meant to go there every time I’ve attended symposiums at UCLA.” She made a face. “Somehow, I’ve always found an excuse not to go.”

  “Probably the same excuses I often seem to find.” Jessie thought for a moment. “My key ring also told you about Fiji, didn’t it?”

  “Hard to miss with that red-and-yellow tiki-mask pendant. It shows a lot of wear, so it’s something you’ve probably been carrying for years.”

  “Wait one minute. How the hell did you recognize that mask as Fijian? You’ve only had your sight for what, ten years?”

  “Nine.”

  “Most people go their whole lives without being able to recognize things like that.”

  “Most people have probably seen that mask dozens of times in different places. They just don’t remember. Sight is such a gift to me that I try to take nothing for granted.”

  “I got that. But there’s nothing to see on me or my motorcycle that could tell you that I or someone I know has been to Bermuda.”

  “You’re right, but there is something to smell. You’re wearing a perfume called Easter Lily. It’s very distinctive, but the only time I’ve smelled it on anyone is when they or a loved one brought it back from Bermuda themselves. I haven’t investigated this, but my guess is that you only buy it there.”

  “Which is what my ex-boyfriend did. He bought it for me at the perfumery.”

  “The fact that you’re still wearing it tells me that it wasn’t an unpleasant breakup. Otherwise, that bottle would probably be buried in a landfill by now.”

  “Right again.”

  “Feeling less violated now?”

  “Oh, no.” She deadpanned, “More violated than ever.”

  “Like I said, a normal reaction,” Lynch said.

  “And that remark makes me feel even more violated. People don’t usually accuse me of being normal.”

  “This really isn’t your day, is it?”

  Kendra frowned. “All my parlor tricks aren’t worth a damn if they don’t help to get Waldridge back.”

  “We’ll find him,” Lynch said softly. “We got closer today.”

  “Not close enough.” She turned to face him. “All roads lead to Night Watch. It’s the one thing these three medical researchers had in common.”

  Jessie nodded. “Agreed. I haven’t been able to find out much about the Night Watch Project. There was a fair amount written about it when you got your sight, both in scientific literature and the mainstream media. But here’s been almost nothing in the last few years.”

  “We found that out,” Lynch said. “We have someone in England working on it.”

  “Someone good?”

  “The best.” Lynch checked his phone. “I’ll text him about what you’ve told us concerning Hayden Biers. If you can give me his cell-phone number and any other info Waldridge provided you about him, it may help.”

  “It’s not much, but I’ll give you what I have.”

  “Thank you. My contact information is now in your phone’s address book. Adam Lynch.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked warily.

  “Check your phone.”

  Jessie fished her phone out of her pocket and scrolled through her contacts. “Cute. Now that’s a violation. This is what you’ve been doing with your phone since we’ve been here … Hacking into mine?”

  “Hacking is a word with such unpleasant connotations. I was merely exchanging contact info. I have yours, and you have mine.”

  “Uh-huh. My life is on this thing. What else did you grab?”

  “Nothing else. I promise.”

  She held down her phone’s power button. “I’m turning my phone off now. Our partnership is getting off to a rocky start.”

  “A partnership?” Kendra repeated. “Is that what this is?”

  Jessie shrugged. “Makes sense. We’re both working toward the same end. Waldridge is still my client. He paid me up front.”

  “What happens when his retainer runs out?”

  Jessie headed for the door. “We’ll see when that time comes. Until then, I’m on this case whether we work together or not.” She stopped and turned at the door. “It’s been … interesting.” She gazed at Kendra. “I think I can trust you, but you make me damn uneasy.” Her eyes shifted to Lynch. “And you’re definitely an unknown factor, but if we’re going to work together, I think I should be honest with you. I wasn’t telling the truth about being able to put you down this time. You were good. Very good. But now I’ve fought you, and I’ve learned you. Next time I’ll be able to take you down.”

  She turned and left the studio.

  After a long moment of silence, Kendra turned to Lynch. “What do you think?”

  “Other than that she’s smart as a whip and fires on all cylinders? And the fact that I think there’s so much beneath that surface that it would take years to uncover it all?” He shrugged. “I’ll run a background check, but I’m inclined, in this case, to believe her.”

  “So am I.” She smiled. “And there’s nothing wrong with hidden depths. Sometimes it shows character.”

  “And sometime it hides land mines.” He smiled back at her. “You’re prejudiced because she saved your neck. That’s okay, I’m prejudiced, too. That neck has great value to me. I’ll just keep an eye out to make sure she doesn’t circle around and attack from the rear.”

  Warmth. That damn charisma. It had come out of nowhere, and she was having trouble looking away from him.

  But his smile was fading, and he was shaking his head. “Uh-uh, we’re doing too well.” He reached for his phone and started to punch in a number.

  Relief. Disappointment. Frustration. Curiosity. “What are you doing?” Kendra asked.

  “I’m sure it has a name and purpose other than the one that I’m cursing at the moment. Ah, yes, that’s it. I got a text from Rye while Jessie was here. He might have some news for us.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  London, England

  Docklands

  RYE STOOD IN THE EMPTY LOT, staring at the acres of paved crumbling concre
te. The air was damp from the predawn mist, and the sky was beginning to lighten in the east.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. He tapped his Bluetooth earpiece to answer.

  “Lynch?”

  “Yes. Sorry I couldn’t pick up before, Rye. I was talking to someone. You’re up awful late … or is it early?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. Something was bothering me. The more I looked into Waldridge’s work history, the less it added up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s given the same work address on at least three official documents in the past couple of years. Hyperion Laboratories, Limited.”

  “Hyperion?”

  “Yes. The late Mr. Shaw also listed it as his place of employment at an academic conference last year. It’s somehow related to the Night Watch Project.”

  “Okay … So why doesn’t it add up?”

  “I’m at the address right now … and it’s a vacant lot.”

  “What?”

  Rye stepped over a clump of weeds that had burst through a crack in the concrete. “There was a building here once, but it’s probably been twenty years or more. No one’s worked here for decades.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Don’t know yet. I looked it up on Google Earth, and I thought it must be some kind of mistake. So I came down to see for myself. Not much to see.”

  “I hate to repeat myself, but I don’t understand what the hell that means.”

  “Me neither. I just thought it was curious, and you might want to be informed. I’ll talk to some more people and try to get it sorted out.”

  “Good. While you’re at it, I have another name for you to check out. Hayden Biers. Yet another colleague of Waldridge’s. He also came here to California, and it seems as if all three men may have come here to hide out.”

  “Hide from what?”

  “As soon as you find out, let me know.”

  “Pressure, again.” He sighed. “I’ll do my best. I’m not going to find it in this vacant lot, that’s for sure.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  Rye checked his watch. “A fine breakfast and a cup of tea. After that, Shaw’s widow lives in Covent Garden. If she hasn’t been notified already, she should get the news of her husband’s death in the next couple of hours. I’ll go over and talk to her around the time she should be getting up.”

  “Seriously? Sure you don’t want to wait on that?”

  “Positive. She’ll be numb. In shock. Not quite sure which way is up. In my experience, people can be very forthcoming when they’ve been knocked off-balance.”

  “And people call me, the Puppetmaster. Go easy on her, Rye.”

  “Worry not, my friend. I can be quite a comforting presence when the occasion demands it. I’ll let you know what I find out.” Rye cut the connection.

  Lynch could be something of an enigma, he thought. Considering his background, he hadn’t expected him to caution him about hurting that woman. He usually displayed no emotion and just got the job done. It just went to show that it was a vast world filled with multifaceted people. Which, except for his books, made it the only thing bearable.

  Together with the unique puzzles that occasionally were brought for him to solve. He must not forget that spur, and Lynch was adept at furnishing him with that particular stimulation.

  He would have to be very clever and innovative and give Lynch something for his trouble …

  * * *

  “MAY I HELP YOU?”

  The sixtyish woman stood in the front doorway of a charming flat on Monmouth Street. She was attractive, well dressed, and didn’t seem to have a care in the world aside from the stranger on her front stoop.

  Rye studied her face. Her eyes weren’t red, and the mascara wasn’t running. This wasn’t right.

  “Madeleine Shaw?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wife of Dr. Porter Shaw?”

  “Yes.”

  She appeared almost … chipper.

  Had she not been notified yet? Awkward.

  He hesitated. “Has someone … spoken to you this morning?”

  “About what?”

  Oh, Lord. He was going to be stuck with giving her the news.

  “My husband?” she offered.

  “Yes. You received some notification this morning?”

  For the first time, a bit of stress lined her face. But only a bit. “Yes. He passed away.”

  “Were you told of the circumstances?”

  “I was.” Her expression still wasn’t troubled. Curious, but not troubled. “And may I ask what business it is of yours?”

  “My name is Ryan Malone. I’m working with the American authorities on the case. Two of your husband’s colleagues were also in California. They’ve gone missing. I know it’s a devastating time for you, but I wondered if I might—”

  “Of course. Come in.” The chipper voice and attitude were back. She opened the door wide for him to enter. “I was just having tea. Would you like some?”

  “Thank you.”

  So much for not knowing which way was up.

  He followed her through the narrow but tastefully decorated home back to a sunroom. She gestured for him to sit in one of the two white, wooden chairs. She had already started pouring his tea by the time he was seated.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said. “You and your husband made a beautiful home for yourselves.”

  “He had nothing to do with it. I think he liked our home well enough, when he cared to notice. But it’s certainly nothing he ever cared to weigh in on.”

  “I see.” This was going down a far-too-static path. Time to stir it up a little. “Pardon me for saying so, but you seem to be taking your husband’s demise incredibly well.”

  She picked up her teacup and gazed at the garden outside. “I can see it does seem that way.” She shrugged. “He left me a long time ago in spirit. It’s the old cliché, I suppose. The man whose passion was his work.”

  “Really? And how long has it been that way?”

  “Always, if I’m honest with myself. Even when we met, it’s what attracted me to him. I thought it would be enough if just a little bit of that fire and intensity was thrown in my direction. It never was, not really.” She looked up. “I’m sorry. You’re not really interested in all this. It’s been a confusing morning. I guess I’m still in shock. I haven’t even told anyone yet. He has a sister in Leeds who really needs to know, but I’m still … processing.”

  “I understand.”

  “So how can I help you?”

  Rye leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me why your husband was in the United States.”

  “Work. He was always traveling someplace. And even when he was here, he wasn’t here, if you know what I mean.”

  “Was there anything unusual about this particular trip?”

  She nodded. “Actually, yes. For one thing, he’d told me he was going to Chicago. He never mentioned California.”

  “Odd. Are you certain?”

  “Positive. I didn’t know he was there until this morning, when I was told that he was dead. But there was something even stranger … He left his phone here.”

  “He forgot it?”

  “I thought so at first. But he never went anywhere without it, not even the corner store.” She shook her head. “Who does in this day and age? We all live with our phones. He called twice in the three weeks he was gone, each time from a different disposable phone he’d purchased. I offered to send him his own phone, but he didn’t want it. He was very specific. He didn’t want me to power it on or even charge it.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I handle all the finances, and I can tell you he didn’t use a credit card or cash-machine card since he’s been gone. He withdrew several thousand pounds before he left, and I suppose he’d been getting by on that.” She grimaced. “Which also kept me from knowing where he was.”

  “And kept anyone else from knowing,” Rye said. “Tell me, what
exactly was your husband working on?”

  “To be honest, I have no idea. He wasn’t very forthcoming. He’d been very excited, but his mood had soured in the past couple of months.” She shook her head. “And heaven forbid he explain himself to me. I was only his wife.”

  “In what way had his mood soured?”

  “In almost every way you can imagine. Sometimes depressed, sometimes angry, sometimes frustrated. Not an unusual range of emotions for a researcher struggling to solve a problem, but this has been worse. Much worse.”

  “Hmm. Can you tell me anything about his colleagues? People he might have been working with in the last months of his life?”

  “Well, there was Charles Waldridge. Porter worshipped him. He thought the man was a genius. I should probably try to contact him.”

  Rye hesitated, wondering if he should tell her about Waldridge’s disappearance. He decided against it. “Anyone else?”

  Her lips twisted. “No one he ever discussed with me.”

  “Did you ever visit his lab?”

  “Heavens, no. It was in the Docklands near the fish market, I think.”

  “Near Canary Wharf?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was just there. It’s a vacant lot.”

  “What?”

  “No lab. Just an empty lot. It’s been that way for quite some time. Could there have been someplace else?”

  Her face was frozen in utter bewilderment. She shook her head.

  “Did he drive to work?”

  She nodded.

  “I wonder if you might let me look in his car. Is it here?”

  She motioned out the sunroom windows toward a freestanding garage on the other side of the small backyard. “It’s in there. It hasn’t been driven since he left.”

  “Would you mind? It could be very helpful.”

  She didn’t speak for a moment. “Isn’t it silly? I think I’m dreading looking at it. I’m used to thinking of him in this house. It will be different with the car, perhaps a bit jarring…” She finally put down her teacup. “Certainly. I’ll get the keys.”

  After a few moments rustling through an overstuffed kitchen drawer, Madeleine found her husband’s spare keys and led Rye out to the detached garage, where a silver Mercedes SL shared space with an MG Mini.