She glanced around the Bayfront walking path that bordered the convention center and offered a view of the two large cargo ships and the Coronado Bridge. She had gone there to do her usual run as she listened to Jeff, but she had just changed her mind. She needed to focus and absorb every nuance of what was being said, something that would be impossible if she were breathlessly pounding the pavement.
She sat on a bench and scrolled to the last date. Two entries: a four-minute recording at 6:07 A.M., another at 2:20 P.M. She pressed the first one and listened.
“Somemore thoughts on my interview with Shawna Davis, fiancée of Steve Conroy, AKA victim number three … She gave me the names of two friends that we didn’t have. She didn’t seem to have a lot of affection for these people but didn’t dislike them, either. It didn’t sound as if she and Conroy socialized together with the friends…”
Kendra had braced herself for the experience of once again hearing Jeff’s voice in her ears, but she was caught off guard by the tension and edginess of his tone. This wasn’t his normal professional voice; she had heard him keep his cool in some of the most stressful situations imaginable, yet here, in this fairly innocuous interview recap, his inflections were clipped, and his breathing was shallow.
He continued in the same troubling manner, even as his observations bordered on the mundane. She took interest, however, as he finished: “… the victim’s fiancée said she didn’t know a lot about his earlier life. She answered a good many of my questions with ‘it didn’t come up’ or ‘he never talked about that stuff.’” It was a little unusual for a fiancée to know so little, but not unheard of. But it did make me think of the husband of victim number one, Tricia Garza, who also seemed to know very little of his wife’s life before him. It may be nothing, but with so few commonalities between our victims, it’s something to keep in mind.”
Kendra looked up at the bay as the audio file ended. Vintage Jeff. Working his case twenty-four/seven, chewing over every interview and each scrap of evidence when his coworkers were still trying to decide what to eat with their breakfast cereal.
But there was something here that troubled him more than usual. Could anyone else hear it? Probably not. She felt justified for wanting more than the transcript, but even she had never suspected that his tone would be so telling.
What in the hell was going on, Jeff?
* * *
KENDRA SPENT NINETY MINUTES listening to more recordings, but Jeff’s remarks were nowhere near as revealing as the stress in his voice.
She thoughtfully put away her phone and walked home through the Gaslamp Quarter, where the restaurant workers were starting to arrive with their seafood and fresh vegetables from the wholesale markets. There was much more to hear, but she was surprised by how much the process drained her emotionally. Memories had ambushed her at every turn and it was becoming difficult to overcome them and analyze the tapes with her usual coolness. There was too much history there. Although the FBI work eventually drove her to split with Jeff, in the beginning, it gave her a tremendous charge to see him in his element, doing what he clearly did best. It was a side she hadn’t seen before; tough, capable, and sexy as hell. He had told her that he got a similar charge from watching her on that first case, helping bring down a sports-team owner involved in murder and an international money-laundering operation. She had actually enjoyed showing off for Jeff, and he had made her believe she had a gift that should be cherished.
A gift, she thought bitterly. A “gift” that four cases later was only good enough to put her first on the scene to find two dead children who had been buried alive.
The nightmare memories were suddenly bombarding, ambushing her. Distance yourself, she told herself. It’s over. She would continue listening to Jeff’s recording later in the afternoon. Surely, there was no great hurry.
Bullshit. The tension in Jeff’s voice had given her a sense of nagging urgency that wouldn’t leave her.
As she rounded the corner onto E Street, she caught sight of Adam Lynch’s Ferrari. A moment after that, she saw the man himself, leaning against the wrought-iron fence that bordered her building. He held a manila envelope.
She felt her muscles tighten with that familiar tension that seemed to be her constant response to Lynch.
He inclined his head. “Good morning.”
“You could have called me, you know.”
“It’s early. That would have been … rude.”
She pulled out her keys and opened the building’s main door. “But showing up completely unannounced … I suppose that’s okay?”
“There was another murder last night.”
She turned toward him. “Where?”
“About forty-five minutes outside of town, on State Route 16. This one was on the side of a road.”
“Same pattern as the others?”
He nodded. “It was a stabbing. Same-size blade, same toxic substance in the victim’s system. This one was a Caucasian male, age thirty-three.”
Kendra felt a jolt of shock. Dammit. As much as she tried to tell herself that this case was different, it was still a race. The longer it took her to reach the finish line, the more people were going to die. That realization had once almost driven her insane in other cases. “You got a toxicology report that quickly?”
“Sienna Deever has developed a blood test that gives her almost immediate results. Every time there has been a fatal stabbing in the last couple of weeks, she’s gone out to the location with her kit. She knew we had another match even before she left the crime scene at four thirty this morning.”
Kendra had already been impressed by Sienna during their brief meeting the day before, but she was now even more so. “Time of death?”
“Around midnight.”
She pointed to the envelope in his hand. “And are those the crime-scene photos?”
He nodded. “You can look at them on the way to Route 16.”
She had seen it coming, but she was still annoyed at his presumptiveness. She stepped into her building and held the door open for Lynch. “I was waiting for that shoe to drop.”
“We don’t have much time. The body has been removed, but the Highway Patrol is detouring traffic around the crime scene. They’ve promised to hold it down for us until ten thirty.”
She checked her watch—9:20. “So you’re telling me we have to leave right now. That I can’t shower or change? You want me to go to a murder scene in stretchy workout clothes.”
He smiled. “It could work to our advantage. Very few women could pull off a formfitting outfit the way you do. I’m sure the cops down there will be extremely accommodating.”
Her face flushed, and in the next instant, she was furious at herself for the reaction. The Puppetmaster was still at work, prodding, probing, assessing. Trying to see what buttons to push with her.
Give him nothing.
She turned and motioned back toward the front door. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go.”
* * *
KENDRA AND LYNCH ARRIVED at the scene less than an hour later, after being waved through a roadblock by a young uniformed officer who was far more interested in Lynch’s Ferrari than with his official ID. They parked and walked toward the Volvo S60 on the side of the road, which was surrounded by an assortment of police and FBI forensics investigators. Agents Michael Griffin and Bill Santini stood on the sidelines and turned as they approached.
Griffin tapped his watch. “Just in time to watch us tow it away. Thanks anyway.”
Kendra nodded. “I don’t need much time. I’m sure you’ve already found what there is to be seen here.”
“Really? I know you don’t believe that,” Santini said.
Kendra pointed to the ground around the car. “Any footprints?”
“Looks like the killer swept them clean with the side of his shoe. We might be able to get a shoe size, but that’s it,” Griffin said. “Have you seen the crime-scene photos?”
Kendra nodded. “One puncture wound, and the victim was facedo
wn in front of his car. And his car hood was up when he was found?”
“Yes, and his headlights were still on,” Santini said. “A passerby found him and phoned it in at about 2 A.M.”
Kendra stepped closer to the car. “At first glance, it would appear to be random … As if he broke down and had the bad luck to be on the same road with a passing psycho.”
“That’s what we all thought,” Griffin said. “Until Sienna ran her test. She’s still with the body at the medical examiner’s office.”
“Then it appears that the breakdown was no accident. It’s likely that the victim’s car had been tampered with earlier.”
“Want to take a look at the engine?” Lynch said.
“It would mean nothing to me,” Kendra said. “I can identify almost every sound an engine can make, but I’ve never taken the time to match those sounds with what the actual components look like.”
“I’m surprised,” Lynch said. “You seem to have found the time to become an expert at practically everything else in the world.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“Perish the thought.”
“I will.” She shrugged. “I am curious about the connection, but there just aren’t enough hours in the day. I’ll get around to it sometime.”
“I have no doubt.”
They walked toward the car and slowly circled it. Kendra stopped and crouched when she reached the front passenger’s side. She turned and looked at the field behind her.
“What is it?” Lynch asked.
Kendra did not reply. She stood and made her way to the front of the car, where she quickly examined every inch of the engine compartment with a speed and precision that Jeff had once told her reminded him of a laser scanner.
“I thought you said it wouldn’t be any use for you to look there,” Lynch said.
Kendra looked up. “I was wrong.”
“That’s a first,” Griffin said, as he and Santini approached. “I should have recorded it. Kendra Michaels just admitted that she was wrong.”
Kendra ignored him. She pointed to the pool of dried blood on the pavement. “The victim died here. One puncture wound to the chest. No other wounds, correct?”
“That’s correct,” Santini said.
She nodded. “Then I would say that there’s a good possibility that your killer has a gash on his head. It might be on his forehead, but it’s most likely above his hairline.”
The officers within earshot stopped what they were doing and stared at her. Griffin asked, “And just how … do you figure that?”
“I wish it was something more impressive, but it’s about as basic as you can get.” Kendra pointed to the underside edge of the hood. “Blood. It appears that the killer tried to clean it up, but he missed a tiny stain on the underside of the hood. And I think there are a few drops of blood over there on the grass, too. It’s hard to tell since he obviously tried to get rid of it as he did the footprints. But if the blood under the hood checks out, you might have the killer’s DNA.”
The forensics experts scrambled toward the victim’s car as Griffin peered at the tiny rust-colored smudge near the edge of the hood’s underside. He scowled. “How in the hell were you the only one to see that when we’ve had a small army combing this scene for seven hours?”
“I’m sure someone would have spotted it once you had the car in your garage,” Kendra said. “But out here, everyone had a preconceived notion what to look for. Since the victim didn’t have blood on his head or hands, no one thought to look up here for it.” She shrugged. “I’m not like you. Visually, it’s impossible for me to take anything for granted.”
Griffin glanced at the forensics tech now carefully swabbing the stain. “I wish I could say the same for some other people around here.”
“I told you, it’s not their fault.” Kendra glanced back at the area of earth and patchy grass next to the driver’s side door. “The killer obviously spent some time over there trying to sweep his footprints clean. But, if I’m right about the blood droplets on the grass over there, he may have left behind something much more valuable to us.”
The forensics team was already plucking blades of grass with their tweezers and placing them into evidence vials.
“Well, I guess our work here is done,” Lynch said. “Or should I say your work?”
“Maybe. What do we know about the victim?” Kendra asked. “Do we know his occupation?”
Santini consulted a pocket notebook. “Construction. He’s been working for a restaurant chain lately. Retrofitting existing buildings to their specs as they expand.”
“I assume he had no knowledge or relationship to any of the other victims?” Lynch asked.
“There’s still a lot we don’t know about him, but we haven’t seen any connection yet,” Griffin said.
“Does he have family?” Kendra asked.
“An ex-wife in L.A.,” Santini said, still consulting his notebook. “No kids. A sister in northern California was listed as his emergency contact. She’s been notified and will be coming to town later today.”
A uniformed officer stepped forward. “Sorry, but I must ask you all to clear the roadway. We need to get this road open.”
Lynch turned toward Kendra. “Did you get everything you needed?”
She took one last look at the scene. “Yes. I’m through here.”
Griffin waved at an enclosed-bed tow truck parked twenty yards up the road, and the vehicle immediately roared to life. He turned back to Kendra and Lynch. “We’re taking the car to the FBI garage in the city. The forensics guys will go over it, and we’ll let you know if they find anything interesting.”
Lynch and Kendra watched as the Volvo was loaded onto the enclosed truck. The entire process took less than three minutes, and it was obvious to Kendra that the driver was accustomed to working quickly and in a way that also preserved the evidentiary value of his cargo.
She turned toward Lynch. “I want to talk to Shawna Davis.”
He paused, then made the connection. “The fiancée of victim number three?”
“Yes. She was the last person to see Jeff. He interviewed her just before he disappeared.”
“Santini already did a follow-up interview with her. His notes are in the supplemental section of the case file they gave you.”
“I read it. I want to talk to her myself.”
He motioned for her to follow him back to his car. “I thought you might say that.” He checked his watch. “She should be at work now. We can visit her there.”
“Where’s that?”
“The Hotel Palomar. She plays piano in the lobby.”
CHAPTER
6
KENDRA AND LYNCH DROVE BACK through downtown to the Hotel Palomar, a luxurious five-star establishment that featured a popular rooftop pool and lounge at which Kendra occasionally enjoyed drinks with friends.
They parked and made their way to the main lobby, a spacious, modernistic area with dark floors and walls. Kendra immediately heard the strains of “My Heart Will Go On” wafting through the space.
Lynch pointed past the registration desk, where a woman was playing a baby grand piano. “That’s Shawna Davis. The one who has on more makeup than Lady Gaga.”
The small, thin woman at the piano was pasty pale, and her foundation makeup was thick, her eye makeup a little smeared. “Knock it off. She’s in mourning and probably trying to hide the fact that she looks like death warmed over. A spray-on tan isn’t the easiest thing to apply in the best of circumstances.”
“Sorry, I didn’t think. I guess you’ve noticed I’m not the most sensitive soul.” Lynch walked closer to the woman and flashed his ID in her direction.
She nodded and continued playing the song, concluding with a flourish.
“Very nice,” Kendra said quietly as she approached. “You play very well.”
Shawna stared down at the keyboard. “I’ve already talked to the police and the FBI. I really don’t have anything more to sa
y.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Kendra said. “I know it doesn’t make things easier to have people like us grilling you.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“We’ll try not to be repetitious. We’re more interested in Agent Stedler,” Lynch said. “You were the last person to see him before he disappeared.”
“Yeah, that FBI agent told me.”
“Special Agent Santini?” Kendra asked.
The woman finally looked up, and Kendra could see that Shawna’s eyes were puffed and red from weeping. “Yeah,” Shawna said. “Santini was his name. I wasn’t much help to him, though.”
“When Agent Stedler last came to talk to you, it was for the second time, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, he talked to me twice. The first time was just a couple of days after Steve was killed, and he wanted to know about his schedule, who his friends were, that kind of thing. The second time, he mostly asked a lot of questions about Steve’s background, his college days, and people he grew up with.”
Lynch nodded. “And you gave Agent Santini all that info, too?”
She lifted her thin shoulders in a half shrug. “What I had, which wasn’t much.”
“I noticed that from the notes I read,” Kendra said. “But you had known your fiancé for over three years, right?”
She nodded, her eyes moistening. “He was an IT guy at a company where I was temping. It’s not like he was hiding anything from me. He said he didn’t like to live in the past. I met his family, but he really didn’t keep in touch with old friends.”
“You told this to Agent Stedler on the last day you saw him?” Lynch asked.
“Yes.”
“How did he react?”
She shrugged. “He asked if I had any of Steve’s old yearbooks, journals, scrapbooks, or anything like that.”
“And what did you give him?”
“There was nothing to give. Steve never held on to that kind of stuff.”
Kendra moved closer to her and spoke softly. “Shawna, this may seem like nothing, but I’d like you to try to remember something for me. Can you tell me how Agent Stedler’s mood was on that last day? Was there anything about him that seemed odd or different compared with your first meeting with him?”
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