Her stomach felt hollow, but she was too queasy to eat. She shook her head. Holt said, “Coffee, then?”
“Yeah,” Alan said, “coffee would be great. Thanks.”
As he busied himself in the kitchen, assembling coffee and accoutrements with the efficiency that suggested a long period of bachelorhood in his past, Holt spoke to them across the counter, picking up Alan’s previous comment.
“Yeah,” he said, “this canyon does have its history.”
“More like legends,” Alan said. “Wasn’t this a hippie mecca during the sixties and seventies? I’ve heard it was a big-time music scene-rock ’n roll, not to mention sex and drugs.”
Holt chuckled. “Oh, yeah. Even before that, though, the Canyon seems to have attracted characters-a lot of them famous. Or infamous. Still does, although it’s more gentrified nowadays. But-” he dusted his hands, having completed his task, and aimed a piercing look across the room to where Lindsey still stood with her back to the fire “-you didn’t come for a Laurel Canyon history seminar.”
He came around the counter, carrying a tray laden with four cups of steaming coffee, spoons and crockery containers of cream, sugar and sweetener. He placed the tray on the coffee table in front of Alan, then picked up the folder that was lying there.
“This it?”
Alan nodded. “That’s it.”
Holt opened the folder. Standing, he went through its contents one page at a time, studying each one before carefully turning it facedown on the left side of the folder. When he’d finished, he sank heavily into a chair across from Alan, the folder still open across his knees. He shook his head. “How could I have missed this? How did Baltimore PD miss this?”
Alan helped himself to a cup of coffee and took a sip of it-black-before he answered. “There wasn’t any reason for it to show up on Baltimore’s radar-or yours, either. She didn’t stay a Jane Doe long enough. Her husband showed up, ID’d her. Nobody questioned it.”
Holt sat for a long moment in silence, staring down at the folder. Then he looked up at Lindsey, and his eyes were gentle. Compassionate. “This must be a tough time for you.”
She managed to smile, even laugh, a little. “Oh, yeah.”
He held up the photo of the young Karen McKinney. “This is my mother. I understand you…think it might be your mother, too.”
She nodded, fighting back tears. Holt said, without smiling, “Well, then, obviously, that would make you my sister.” She nodded again, hugging herself tightly; it was all she could do, it seemed, without breaking down. Holt shook his head and simply said, “Wow.” Lindsey thought, He’s as shaken by this as I am.
And as before, the awareness brought her a measure of calm. She said softly, “This must be hard for you, too. Finding out your mother is alive, after all these years.”
“Might be alive,” Alan broke in, his voice harsh. “We’re still lacking absolute proof.”
“Which, thank God, we can get easily enough,” Holt said briskly. “I’ll make sure you get a DNA sample before you leave.” He closed the folder but held on to it. “But seems to me we have a pretty strong connection here…”
“Connect the dots…” Lindsey murmured, but nobody paid any attention to her.
So, she stood silently and watched them, the two men who had come into her life so unexpectedly and with such catastrophic effect. It struck her how alike they were, without actually looking alike. Same approximate age, similar coloring-dark hair and blue eyes-although Holt had more silver in his hair and deeper creases around his eyes and mouth, and his eyes weren’t quite as hard and steely as Alan’s. They were of similar build and body type, too-tall but not extraordinarily so, slim but muscular-although Alan was more powerfully built. A memory-the glimpse she’d had of him naked to the waist, mopping water drops from his neck and chest-flashed into her mind, and something inside her chest did a peculiar dropping-squeezing maneuver that made her catch her breath, inaudibly, guiltily…
“I agree,” Alan said, setting his coffee down and leaning toward the other man, elbows on his knees. He counted, raising and touching one finger at a time, and Lindsey found herself riveted by the graceful economy of his movements. “One, the McKinneys are abducted from a movie theater parking lot in Baltimore. Two, two days later a Jane Doe matching Karen McKinney’s description is pulled out of the Chesapeake, sporting a head wound that appears to have been caused by a bullet crease. Three, three days after that she’s identified by a man claiming to be her husband, as Sally Phillips, his wife, who is also discovered to be in the early weeks of pregnancy.”
He paused then, as a young woman came into the room, moving quietly to stand behind her husband’s chair. She was small and slender, with short blond hair cut in shaggy layers. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, she seemed very young, barely more than a girl-until she leaned forward into the light, and Lindsey saw that her face wore the kind of serenity that only comes from having lived through the worst life has to offer, and emerged whole and happy on the other side.
Holt looked up, smiled, and took the hand she’d placed on his shoulder. “Hey, there you are. Alan, Lindsey-like to have you meet my wife, Brenna.”
Alan, who had risen with old-fashioned courtesy, nodded and said, “Nice meeting you, Brenna.”
Lindsey nodded, too, and murmured, “Hi.”
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Brenna said. Her voice had a raspy, husky quality, and her eyes were a shade of golden hazel that seemed only a shade or two darker than her hair.
Alan smiled at her and continued. “And…four, Richard and Susan Merrill appear in San Diego, California, Susan gives birth to Lindsey roughly eight months later. Oh-and Susan Merrill also happens to have a scar on her head that closely corresponds to Sally Phillips’s head wound. And, has no record or memory of a past prior to San Diego.”
“Seems like a no-brainer to me,” Brenna said with a shrug.
Holt nodded, but then let out a breath in a frustrated gust. “Okay, I’m pretty much convinced. It all makes sense, except for one thing-why?”
Chapter 10
But when the man threw himself in front of her and my bullet went wild and missed its mark, I knew I had made a terrible-perhaps fatal-mistake.
He fought like a demon, even though his hands were bound. It was several minutes before I could regain control of the situation, and by that time, the woman had vanished in the darkness and fog. I searched, but could find no trace of her. At that point I could only hope the ocean had taken her after all.
Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.
FBI Files, Restricted Access,
Declassified 2010
No one spoke. Holt looked at Alan, then Lindsey. After a long moment, he repeated it, in a voice rigidly controlled. “Why were they taken? There was no reason for them to be targeted-none whatsoever. That’s what’s always confounded me. It’s what confounded Baltimore PD. It’s damn hard to solve a case,” he growled, “when there’s absolutely no motive. No suspects. Nothing that makes any kind of sense.”
Alan cleared his throat. “Well, there is one thing.”
So Alan told him what Bob Faulkner, the retired Baltimore homicide cop, had said.
When he’d finished, Holt was staring at him, stony-faced. Brenna sat down on the arm of his chair and put her arm across her husband’s shoulders.
Lindsey whispered, “A mistake?” Her face was pale with shock. Alan wanted to go to her, tell her to sit down, for God’s sake. Hold her. But of course he didn’t.
They all sat in silence, listening to the noise the rain and wind made as if fascinated by it-such unfamiliar sounds in that part of the world. Alan thought there probably weren’t any words that could have expressed what they must be feeling, these two people whose lives had been turned upside down-forty years apart in time-by someone’s mistake.
If that’s what it had been.
Brenna rose abruptly. “Anybody want more coffee?”
“Yeah, Billie-thanks,” Holt said a
bsently, and Alan said, “Billie?” He was tuned to pet names, it seemed.
Brenna turned to smile at her husband, but only said, “Long story.”
While they waited for the coffee, Holt made a visible effort to pull himself together and asked Lindsey to tell him about her mother.
His mother, too, Alan reminded himself. Most likely. There was real poignancy in that, he thought, but he had fortified himself against it; wallowing in the tragedy of these people’s lives, he told himself, wasn’t going to help solve the mystery of what had happened to Karen and James McKinney, and why.
He listened to Lindsey talk with only half of his attention, while he watched her avidly-watched the two of them, of course, but mostly Lindsey. It struck him how alike they were-not surprising, considering they were almost certainly brother and sister. He didn’t need DNA to know that, it was right there in front of him. They had the same general body type-tall and slim, athletic build. And the same thick dark hair-although Holt’s was a little more wavy and beginning to gray at the temples-and those same thick-lashed blue eyes.
Although Holt’s didn’t have quite the same effect on him Lindsey’s had.
What was it, he wondered, that made one particular person’s face so arresting to another? That made one face stick in his mind? Made him want to go on looking at it, never tire of watching it? He had no answers.
At one point he happened to glance over at Brenna, and found her watching him-watching him watch Lindsey-and there was something in her eyes…in her smile…that said, Yes, I know. I understand how you feel.
The cold squeezing sensation he felt in his belly was fear.
I can’t do this, he thought. Fall in love with her? Can’t happen. Can’t let it happen. No way.
“Look at the time,” he said abruptly, sitting up and glancing pointedly at his watch. “Lindsey-long drive ahead of us. We’ve kept you people long enough-didn’t realize it was getting so late.” He was on his feet, and instantly so were Holt, Brenna and Lindsey. Lindsey looked red-eyed and exhausted.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Holt reminded him. “We can sleep in-well, one of us can,” he added ruefully when his wife gave a huff of laughter and poked him with her elbow. “I guess with a toddler in the house, there’s no such thing as a lazy morning. But, hey, you two should think about getting a hotel room, staying in town overnight. Drive back tomorrow. You know the freeways are going to be a nightmare with the rain. Wish we had a place to put you, but-”
He and Lindsey both assured him they would be fine, as he’d said, tomorrow was Sunday, they had plenty of time. Eventually, they were able to take their leave, amid clasped hands and hugs and exchanges of addresses and phone numbers, including cell phones, and promises to keep each other up-to-date and in close touch. Alan had Holt’s DNA on a swab in a sealed evidence bag safely tucked away in his pocket.
In spite of the rain and the lateness of the hour-nearly midnight-being Saturday night, Hollywood was still clogged with traffic. Alan turned west on Sunset, figuring to make his way to the 405 freeway and thus avoid the nightmare through downtown L.A. However, the San Diego Freeway was also moving at a crawl, which was no big surprise to Alan. He’d become familiar over the years with Southern California drivers’ customary response to wet roads, which was to proceed at normal speed in complete disregard of the fact that a little moisture on top of several months’ buildup of oily scum would turn roadways into skating rinks.
After crawling along for half an hour or so, he looked at Lindsey and said, “What do you think?”
She looked back at him and said, “It’s up to you, you’re the driver.”
So, he took the next exit and headed toward Santa Monica. Not being familiar with that town, he headed straight for the beach, figuring that would be the most likely place to find hotels with vacancies on a rainy November night. He chose the first big franchise hotel he saw-a Holiday Inn, right on the beach-and left Lindsey in the car while he went in to ask about vacancies. He was lucky; two adjoining rooms were available on the fifth floor on the side of the hotel that overlooked the ocean. He put the rooms on his personal credit card, then went back outside to the car. The rain was still coming down hard, a rush of sound that muffled but didn’t drown the occasional boom of a wave thumping down on the shore at high tide. He slipped behind the wheel and slammed the door, cutting off the noise of storm and sea.
“Got us a couple of rooms,” he said, and Lindsey nodded.
The silence seemed to wait for something more, and Alan knew there were things that probably needed to be said but didn’t know what they were or how to say them. So, after a moment he started up the car and drove into the parking garage. As they waited for the elevator, he asked her if she was hungry. She shook her head. The elevator arrived and they rode up to the fifth floor in silence.
“Guess it’s this way,” he said, and took her elbow to steer her to the right as they got off the elevator. They walked side by side down the silent hallway, not looking at each other, looking at the numbers on the doors they passed.
“Here we are,” he said, stopping at the first of the two rooms. He fished the plastic room keys out of his pocket, selected one. “You take this one-I’ll be in the next one down.” He unlocked the door, pushed it open, stepped inside. A light had been left burning over the desk. He looked around, out of habit, mostly. Satisfied the place was secure, he handed Lindsey her key. “Looks okay. Well…have a good night-see you in the morning.”
He paused, and she nodded. He turned and headed for the door, knowing he should ask her if she needed anything. If she was going to be okay. He didn’t, probably because he was afraid of what her answer would be. And because he didn’t trust his own response. Coward. The voice inside his head was so strident, for a moment he actually hesitated, wondering if it could have been spoken out loud, not just in his own mind. He glanced back at her, but she was standing exactly as he’d left her, pupils so dilated in the dim light that her eyes looked like black holes in a white mask. He went out and shut the door firmly behind him.
In his own room, he repeated the automatic check, then crossed to the closed curtains and opened them onto the vast darkness outside. He took off his jacket and draped it on the back of the chair in front of the desk, reached for his holster before he remembered he wasn’t wearing it. He emptied his pockets onto the desktop-wallet, car keys, evidence bag with Kincaid’s DNA sample, some small change and the hotel key. He pulled his shirt off and was heading for the bathroom when the knock came.
His heart jolted, but not as hard as it should have, and he realized he’d been waiting for the knock. Expecting it. Hoping for it?
Tossing his shirt onto the bed, he strode to the door, glanced briefly through the peephole, then opened it. “Lindsey?” he said.
She didn’t look the way he’d expected her to-although what that was, he couldn’t have said. She looked…angry, he thought.
“I hurt,” she said. Her steady gaze seemed accusing.
“I know,” he said gently.
“No-you don’t. I don’t think you do. I mean, it really hurts-here, and here, and here. Physically.” She touched her face, her throat, her chest. “It hurts so bad, I wish I could take aspirin or something for it, but I know it wouldn’t help.” She took a breath, a shallow one, as if even that hurt. He stood back and made way for her to come in, but she stayed where she was, glaring at him. “I can’t stop thinking about them.”
“Who?” he asked, although he knew.
“Them-all of them. My mother, my father, those two people in the wedding picture, Holt, Jimmy, my dad. I keep seeing their faces…they’re in my head. And every time I see them, I hurt.”
“Empathy sucks,” he said, nodding.
“I can’t seem to stop it. I just…want…to make it…stop.”
“That’s a dangerous frame of mind to be in.”
She nodded, and a frown made lines between her brows. “I know. I guess that’s why people drink. Or take drugs. Or kil
l themselves.”
“That’s why my mother did.” He hadn’t known he was going to say that.
Her gaze didn’t waver, and he wasn’t sure she’d heard him. He decided he hoped she hadn’t. “I wouldn’t. But I thought of something else, and it seems to help.”
“What’s that?”
She snatched another breath, as if they were suddenly in critically short supply. “I thought of you. And the pain got a lot better. So, I thought I’d find out if seeing you in person would help even more.”
“And does it?” he asked somberly, a quiver of tender laughter deep within his chest.
“Yes.” Finally, she walked past him and into the room. He closed the door, then turned to find her gazing at him, arms wrapped across her body, eyes fierce and bright. “I keep thinking about how it felt when you held me the other day. I’ve thought about it quite a lot, actually. I thought it felt very, very good.”
“Yes,” Alan said. “I thought so, too.”
“So,” she said on another breath, “maybe you wouldn’t mind too much, holding me right now.” She gave him only a split second, then rushed on. “I know you think it’s a bad idea-I get that. I just want you to know I won’t expect anything-”
“Hush,” he said, and folded her into his arms.
But, after a small, faint gasp, she went on talking. “Except tonight. I just need you to get me through this night. Please help me…”
“Like the song says?” he asked with a husky laugh.
She pulled back to stare at him. “What song?”
“‘Help Me Make It Through The Night…’”
Nestled once more against his chest, her laugh was a tiny whimper of sound. “Oh. I was thinking of, ‘Make The World Go Away.’”
“I guess this probably beats the hell out of a bottle of Scotch,” he said after a moment, when neither of them had moved.
“I’ve never been much of a drinker,” she whispered, turning her face toward his. “Me, neither.”
What the hell, he thought as he took her mouth. It wasn’t the first time he’d known something was a bad idea and gone ahead and done it anyway.
Memory of Murder Page 14