Honor

by Janet Dailey

  “Come in.” The voice was distant but authoritative. That was Dana.

  Linc put a hand on the doorknob and turned it. “Here I am.”

  She peered over the top of her monitor. “Guess what I’m looking at.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her finger stayed on a key. He could see the scrolling screen reflected in her eyeglasses. “The ballistics report for those vests. It’s twenty pages long.”

  “Is that why you wanted me to come in?”

  “That’s one reason,” she conceded. “Also because you are paid to be here. Your permission to work online, outside, is now, um, up for review.”

  “You told me to take as much time as I needed.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  He was pretty sure she had said something along those lines, but he didn’t want to argue the point. Linc took a seat. “So what did the report say?”

  “That some of the SKC vests are faulty. Some are apparently fine. The fiber is different in the faulty ones.”

  “Did they figure out why?”

  “The chemical analysis isn’t complete. A lot of things can degrade bullet-resistant material. Bleach. Humidity. Ultraviolet light. Age—none of the stuff lasts forever.”

  “So I understand.”

  “The preliminary conclusion is that some of the fiber was defective to begin with. The problem began with the manufacturer. SKC buys the raw materials in lots. One lot apparently was garbage.”

  “Sounds conclusive to me.”

  “It isn’t. Not yet. The problem is picking it all apart. There was some debris in the box, by the way.” She looked at him questioningly. “Not vests. Chunky stuff.”

  He remembered what he’d thrown in. “That was part of a target dummy. I think there was a bullet in it.”

  Dana made a note of that. “I’ll let the lab know. I don’t want anything to compromise the report.”

  “Sorry. I just tossed it into the box. My methods are not exactly scientific.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “But your suspicions have been confirmed. I’m not sure how you stumbled onto this, but it’s important.”

  “That’s why I bothered.” He was leaving Kenzie out of it.

  Dana continued. “There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with the vest design per se. The side clasps release as they should. The camo material and webbing straps meet army standards. The problem is figuring out which vests have the defective fiber inside.”

  “What about the armor plates?”

  “The lab reached similar conclusions, although that’s totally different material. Some—not all—of the ceramic-type armor plates showed microscopic inclusions that could cause them to shatter, even from small arms fire.”

  “They’re supposed to protect against rifle shots.”

  “Some do.”

  She looked at him.

  “And some don’t,” he said. “What’s the percentage?”

  Dana returned her gaze to the screen. “Remarkably consistent and statistically significant. Fiber or ceramic, the fail rate is about ten percent.”

  One in ten. The medic had guessed as much, and so had he.

  “So where does that leave us? What can we do?”

  “It’s enough to issue an official request for more information. I contacted the right agency.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  Dana regarded him calmly. “Do you have a personal stake in this?”

  “Maybe.”

  She frowned. “Keep it to yourself, please.”

  “Will do.”

  “You should know that an official letter went out—on our recommendation but not from us. It ought to stop the next shipment.”

  Should. Ought. He didn’t like the qualifiers, but this wasn’t his call. “Good. Thanks. Is that all?”

  “Hold it, cowboy. You’re not going back to whatever it was you were doing at the—” She consulted a memo next to her. “At the D-Light Inn. Is that really the name of the place?”

  “In neon. The e is missing.”

  “Not a chain, is it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I see that it offers hourly rates.” She glared at him. “Linc, this has to stop.”

  “Ah, I’m paying by the week.”

  Dana pushed aside the laptop. “I’m giving you one more week. After that you are expected to be back in Fort Meade, keeping normal hours.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’re getting somewhere.”

  Kenzie had driven up to Fort Meade to meet him. “Sounds good,” she said absently.

  They were in a restaurant. Kenzie had headed straight for the back booth despite the hostess politely trying to guide them to an open table. Linc pretended he was only along for the ride and let Kenzie do what she wanted.

  Her instincts were right.

  At some point he stopped recounting the story of his meeting with Dana Scott, distracted by the way Kenzie drank through a straw. The cold soda made her lips wet. He fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers.

  “Does she know about me?” Kenzie asked, slurping up the last drops.

  “Not by name.”

  “Good.”

  “You wouldn’t have to worry either way, Kenzie. She’s a cool lady.”

  “Well, I’m glad to know she’s concerned about the X-Ultra vests.”

  “More than concerned. She took the investigation to a level that we can’t.”

  “Does that mean we should stop what we’re doing?”

  Their burgers arrived. Kenzie extracted a slice of pickle and nibbled on it thoughtfully. Then she helped herself to a french fry.

  “Ah, Dana didn’t say that,” Linc hedged.

  “Okay. I can keep on risking my life.” She pointed the french fry at him. “That is a joke.”

  “Yeah, well—it’s not that funny.”

  Kenzie shrugged. “I signed up for this. I’m committed to it.”

  “So am I, but—”

  She picked up the burger and held it between them like a shield.

  “Linc, I know you’d like to take over, but I won’t let you. And you can’t follow me everywhere.”

  Kenzie took a big bite. He upended the ketchup bottle and whacked the bottom.

  She finished chewing. “You might want to take the cap off.”

  “Oh—right.” He did and gave his burger a liberal dollop of ketchup. “The thing is, this guy isn’t giving up.”

  “I noticed that.” She finished her meal and he got a good start on his. Several minutes went by before either of them spoke.

  “What I meant was—” he began.

  She interrupted. “I don’t know what stalked women do. You can’t just kill the guy, right?”

  “If your life has been threatened, you can get a permit for a concealed carry.”

  “Takes ninety days in Maryland.”

  So she’d looked into it. And her comment underlined the fact that she wasn’t going back to her apartment in Virginia. Linc started in on his french fries. He sometimes wondered why he bothered to give her advice.

  “Mike will vouch for the threat to you, pull some strings—he’s got your back on this. He can push it through if you decide that’s what you want.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  A waiter came over and offered dessert menus.

  “I’ll have the double chocolate cake,” Kenzie said.

  “Coffee for me,” Linc told the man. He watched until the man was out of earshot. “You’re hungry today.”

  “Yup,” Kenzie said. “Life is short. I want cake.”

  He had to laugh. He waved to a busboy who came over to clear the booth’s table, making short work of the task before heading away.

  “Anything else on your mind?” Linc asked.

  “Christine had a nightmare.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was about the accident. She had one before. The details aren’t that clear.”

  “Tell me.”

  Kenz
ie looked in her purse and took out a folded piece of paper. “I wrote down what she said. You can share it with Mike if you want.”

  She unfolded it and read aloud. “Christine was driving my car. Her hand was covered with blood. The other car came closer. The man behind the wheel had no shirt on. His upper body was covered in tattoos. Twisted black thorns, red drops of blood.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Sunglasses. Evil smile. She couldn’t see his eyes.”

  “Kenzie—”

  Linc didn’t get a chance to finish what he wanted to say.

  “I’m not going to promise to stay in my room. I never was too great at being a good little girl.”

  “I’ll talk to Mike about the permit.”

  A slab of chocolate cake arrived, piled high with whipped cream. She dug in.

  Linc picked up a six of longnecks on the way back to the motel. She had cake. He had beer.

  Mike called before he popped the cap on the first one.

  “What’s up?”

  “Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  Linc blew out a breath. “I’m all right. The word from on high is that I have to go back to work in a week.”

  “We’re going to miss you.”

  “Not that much. Listen, I wanted to ask you about a gun permit for Kenzie.”

  Mike listened. “Not a problem, but for what state? I have connections on either side of the river, but she has to apply herself, go through a background check. Tell her to come in.”

  “Will do. And I have something else for you. Christine is beginning to remember a few things about the accident.”

  “That’s good. Like what?”

  Linc took out the piece of paper Kenzie had given him. “She had a nightmare. Don’t laugh. There could be something to this.”

  “Dreams aren’t evidence.”

  “But it could be a thread to follow. Just listen, will you?”

  “Okay, okay. The folder on this guy is getting fat. We have a lot of data. But still no one to hang it on.”

  Linc read aloud. Mike didn’t interrupt for once.

  “Thorns. Blood. I wrote it all down,” he said. “Did you know there is a new nationwide database just for tattoos?”

  “No.”

  Mike had bragging rights, Linc knew he’d use them.

  “Still getting the bugs out, but it’s coming along. We can pull up an image by design and type, sometimes by the artist who did it. Black ink, blue ink, full color. Arms, chest, back—one guy even had his crime scene done, starring himself. Charged with murder in the first degree, in part because of that. The DA got a conviction.”

  “Nice.”

  If Kenzie’s stalker landed behind bars for a few years they’d be lucky.

  “And that guy originally was picked up for something else, not the murder. Cops take photos of tattoos now. Some detective remembered a few of the details.”

  “Score one for the police.”

  “Damn straight. Okay, I’ll ask for a database search on what you said,” Mike said. “Like everything else, not instantaneous.”

  “Right.”

  “If our creep committed a crime or got hauled in somewhere for reasonable cause, and got a souvenir photo of tats or gang marks, he could be in there.” Mike paused to take a breath. “No words, huh?”

  “Kenzie didn’t mention anything but the thorns and the blood drops.”

  “Too bad. Every little bit helps. Thanks, Linc.”

  It was worth putting up with the lieutenant’s casual abuse to find out everything they could. And Mike Warren really was a good guy.

  “Hey,” he was saying, “guess what the most common word is in criminal tattoos.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Love. Hands down. They love their mothers, they love some girl, they love Jesus. And they keep right on doing wrong.”

  Kenzie was stretched out on her bed with Beebee in attendance. “You shouldn’t be up here,” she told him.

  The dog gave her a blank look.

  “Don’t act like you have no idea what I’m talking about.”

  Beebee yawned. She rumpled his ears.

  “You’re worthless, you know that? I can’t believe I trained you.”

  A ringtone drew her attention elsewhere as the dog settled down again. Kenzie arched her back to reach for her cell phone, glancing at the number.

  “Christine? What’s up?”

  “Nothing much,” her friend said. “But I was wondering—Mom, no. I don’t want you to go.”

  Kenzie listened to the brief argument on the other end of the call. She gathered that the black laptop’s cord had somehow been caught in a piece of furniture and that a new one was needed.

  Christine was too tactful to play the younger-generation card with her mother. Besides, Mrs. Corelli knew plenty about computers and laptops.

  “The electronics shop at the mall should have one. If I go online, it would have to be shipped here.”

  Kenzie got the idea. “Not a problem,” she said. “I’ll stop by tomorrow morning on my way over, okay?”

  She smiled at Christine’s sigh of relief. “Mom, it’s right on her way. But thanks.”

  They made small talk until Christine said her mother was leaving.

  “Give her my love,” Kenzie said. “And your dad too.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Tell him when he is.”

  She hung up after saying good-bye, smiling to herself.

  “She’s been a true friend, Christine.” Mrs. Corelli was getting ready to leave. She’d already said hello to the night nurse.

  “I know.”

  “Alf and I believe there isn’t anything she wouldn’t do for you.”

  “Don’t make me feel guilty.”

  “I’m not trying to,” her mother protested. “But she was at the ICU every minute she could get away.”

  “I barely remember. Which is probably a good thing.”

  “I don’t think we’ll ever forget it. All we ever thought about was whether you were going to live.”

  “News flash. I did. So you don’t have to talk about me as if I were still unconscious.”

  “You really are on the road to recovery.” Mrs. Corelli smiled. “Rude as ever.”

  Christine went to the window.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Kenzie told me they’d be there.”

  The rear entrance to the rehab center was visible, illuminated by discreetly placed outdoor lights.

  “Who?”

  “The police. See that car? It’s unmarked.”

  Her mother peered out. “Oh—yes. I do see it. Well, that’s something.” Her face became serious. “So long as you feel safe here.”

  “Sometimes I do.”

  “You’re not ready to come home, honey.” Her mother turned her way again. “Although there’s nothing I want more. I talked to Dr. Liebling about you this morning.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “That you’re coming along.”

  Christine leveled a look at her mother.

  “Which means I’m stuck.”

  “For a while longer, yes,” Mrs. Corelli admitted. “All right. I’m on my way. Alf made fettuccine.”

  “Bring me some tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” Her mother brushed a kiss against her cheek. “You can warm it up in the microwave in the nurses’ lounge.” She smiled. “I guess I’ve been here too long if I know where that is.”

  They said their good nights and Mrs. Corelli left.

  Christine went to draw the drapes closed over the window. The headlights on the patrol car weren’t on, just the parking ambers.

  She did feel safer now with them there. She just wished Kenzie had the same protection.

  Linc took his time to finish off two of the longnecks, assessing the situation thus far. He could sum it up in a couple of sentences.

  One. They were in a holding pattern if they didn’t find the sta
lker. Two. That gave the psychotic bastard the advantage.

  He hadn’t failed, but he hadn’t succeeded either.

  The hour moved past midnight while he went over everything that had happened, moving the new facts around his mental grid.

  Nothing connected.

  The burger hadn’t been enough. He ordered a pizza over the phone. The greasy wheel of cheese and pepperoni cost him a twenty with the tip and required two more beers to wash it down.

  He regretted every bite after he’d finished it.

  Linc fell out on the bed, too tired to finish going through the CAC database, although there was no one left but the top execs.

  Long shots, all of them. He had a feeling he’d walked right past the guy, literally and metaphorically.

  Dreaming of vengeance, he went to sleep.

  It was five past nine in the morning when he awoke, feeling lousy.

  So much for his plan to work into the wee hours. He took a shower that was penitentially cold and brewed some coffee. Last night’s binge took care of morning hunger. He swore to himself that he wouldn’t stop to eat again until midafternoon.

  Linc scalded his tongue on the first sip of the too-strong brew in his coffeemaker. He made a face and set the cup aside. It took him the rest of an hour to rip through the remaining candidates, right down to their iris scans.

  The next-to-last one stopped him cold.

  Vic Kehoe.

  Wasn’t he the second-in-command at SKC?

  Linc remembered the guy only slightly, but he was sure he had very dark eyes.

  Seemed that he didn’t. He must wear colored contacts. Black or close to black. Opaque.

  The real color on Kehoe’s scan was mixed. Brown and green with odd sparks of gold. But it wasn’t the color that got his attention.

  He dug deeper, pulling up a video of the scan, wanting to know what the man’s eyes looked like in motion. A really good scan showed that. Eye tracking was as individual as the complex pattern embedded in each iris.

  Vic Kehoe’s eyes moved rapidly, as if bothered by the camera, wet and weirdly alive. When they looked straight into the lens, the lids narrowed with suspicion.

  It wasn’t just the algorithm that proved identity. The look in the eyes conveyed the truth.

  Linc sat back. The magnetic intensity of Kehoe’s gaze felt like he was being pushed back.