Текст книги "Sight Unseen "

Автор книги: Iris Johansen

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“Except when you look at your hand. There are probably ways to get rid of that tattoo more completely these days.”

“It’s okay.” He held up his hand and looked at it. “Sometimes it’s good to remember what an idiot I can be. You know?”

She nodded. “I know.”

“So may I still call you?”

Kendra studied him. She liked Dean’s forthright manner. No excuses, no tap dancing around the mistakes he had made and clearly regretted. She also appreciated that dry sense of humor and his lack of intimidation when she’d virtually ruined the possibility of a normal evening. Mom was right, he was a good guy. She smiled. “Sure. Call me.”

“Great.” He kissed her on the cheek, turned, and headed back down the sidewalk toward his car.

*   *   *

MYATT READJUSTED HIS BINOCULARS as he shifted in the tall grass. He had found a spot that offered him an excellent view of the Cabrillo State Bridge. Close enough to see what was going on, far enough away that he could watch undetected.

He panned across the bridge, taking in the scene.

The wrecked cars.

The smoldering van.

The elegantly dressed corpses.

It was beautiful.

Kendra Michaels’s visit had thrown the cops into a tizzy, and the scope of the scene had abruptly changed. They already knew it was more than just an accident. He had expected them to make that discovery later that night or possibly in the morning.

No matter.

If anything, Kendra’s appearance was a welcome development. Disappointing that she had left with such an apparent lack of interest, but he’d draw her back in.

The game is on, Kendra.

Even if you don’t realize it yet …

CHAPTER

2

Seaport Village

San Diego

THE SEVEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL WAS squeezing Kendra’s hand so tightly that she threatened to cut off her circulation.

Zoey Beale was a new client whom Kendra had only seen twice before. The child showed signs of agoraphobia; she was terrified of crowds and clearly uncomfortable in any environment other than her home. Zoey did, however, enjoy music, which prompted her referral from a psychologist affiliated with Rady’s Children’s Hospital. Kendra preferred to meet clients in her studio, but she had made an exception in Zoey’s case, bringing a guitar to the girl’s home to calm her and build trust over the course of the two initial sessions.

Building trust to take her out of her comfort zone.

The little girl nodded even as her hand squeezed tighter. They walked down the embarcadero and approached Seaport Village, an open-air shopping center by the bay. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and the place was already jammed with shoppers and lunchtime restaurant patrons.

And scores of street performers. Perfect.

Three African men stood on the sidewalk playing a soothing melody on their wood pipes. Dressed in orange-and-yellow tunics, they swayed in perfect unison to the music.

Kendra stopped fifteen feet away and glanced down at Zoey. The music had captured her attention. She was transfixed, and after a minute, her iron grip loosened. A minute after that, the crowds and unfamiliar surroundings seemed to melt away.

Kendra pointed ahead. “There are more musicians up there. Want to go see?”

Zoey nodded. As they walked together, Kendra sensed less hesitancy from the little girl.

Good. Come on, Zoey. It can be a wonderful world out here. Let me show it to you.

Two young men were using an assortment of inverted plastic industrial food containers as drums, beating them with kitchen utensils. Zoey obviously liked the rhythms and unusual sounds, and she began bopping her head to the beat. Again, her surroundings seem to fade, but faster this time.

This could work.

This could be the key that Zoey needed to—

The little girl shrieked.

A pair of mimes had jumped in front of her and were doing their usual shtick. They were pretending to be marionettes, jerking in time to the performers’ drumbeats.

Kendra pulled Zoey close and shielded her from the creepy spectacle. “It’s okay, honey. It’s all right.”

The mimes approached them, putting on cheerful faces that were probably meant to comfort the girl, but only appeared more weird and frightening.

Kendra leaned close to the mimes and pointed up the embarcadero. “Take that shit somewhere else,” she hissed. “Now!”

Zoey was crying. Her mother, Danica, who had been watching behind a vendor cart, ran toward them. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” Danica held her daughter close. “Nothing to be afraid about. Everything’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Kendra mouthed.

Danica nodded as she guided her daughter toward the parking lot.

Kendra watched them, her fists clenching helplessly.

Dammit.

One step forward, two steps back.

She stood there until Zoey and Danica disappeared from view.

“Can you blame her?”

That voice. That all-too-familiar voice. “Adam Lynch.” She turned around to face him.

It was Lynch, all right. Powerful, sexy, dynamic. And he was wearing that movie-star smile that probably melted most women’s hearts but just pissed her off. “Hello, Kendra. Good to see you.”

Lynch was dressed in slacks, loafers, button-down collar shirt, and a tan jacket. He stood out from the shorts-and-T-shirt crowd who currently inhabited the place. But then he always stood out wherever he was, she thought. It wasn’t only the appearance but the aura of magnetism and toughness that he emitted. “Hello, Lynch. My, my, what a surprise.”

“Surprise?”

“You know, this doesn’t seem like the kind of place you’d go for an afternoon out.”

“Really? And where would you see me?”

“Hmm. Maybe playing golf with your fellow government agents, drinking disgusting whiskey drinks, trading war stories, comparing notes on your favorite ammo clips.”

He smiled again. “I’d be offended if that wasn’t pretty much how I spent last Saturday. You should join us sometime.”

“I work on Saturdays.”

“Yes, I noticed. Things were going really well with that girl until the mimes showed up.” He shrugged. “I could take ’em out for you. You know, for old times’ sake.”

This made her smile. “There was a time I would have thought you were serious.”

“There was a time I would have been serious. But that was before you knew me. I’ve mellowed.”

“Not likely.” It had been almost a year since she had last seen Adam Lynch. He was a former FBI agent who lately had been working as a freelance operative of choice for a variety of officials in the U.S. Intelligence community. Lynch had recently recruited her for a case that, although overall successful, reminded her how grim and gut-wrenching that line of work could be. She had no desire for a return engagement.

Lynch leaned against a lamppost. “I heard about your show on the bridge last night.”

“My show? Is that what they’re calling it?”

“It’s what I’m calling it. I wish I’d been there. I love watching you in action with all pistons firing.”

Kendra nodded. He was wearing that infuriatingly charming smile again. It annoyed her that she could see the appeal even if she fought against it. “Why are you here, Lynch? Why in the hell are you spying on me?”

“‘Spying’ is such a nasty word. It implies a nefarious purpose, which couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“Oh, my money is definitely on nefarious. It’s in your DNA.”

“I wasn’t spying. I was waiting for an opportunity to speak to you. I didn’t want to interrupt your session. I know how important your work is to you.”

“It’s everything.”

“I read about your study in the New England Journal of Medicine,” he said. “Your music-therapy techniques are being adopted for autism patients.”

“It’s all about helping people make connections with the outside world. Whether it’s autism or Alzheimer’s, music is often the way to reach people and bridge those gulfs. I’ve been designing protocols to assess the effectiveness of various techniques. It’s a young science, but we’ve made a lot of progress.”

“But you did manage to find time to join the Eve Duncan case. I read the file. Amazing investigative work, by the way.”

“I only did that because Eve is a good friend. She needed my help.”

“You helped save her life. And probably a lot of other lives.”

She gestured impatiently. “Why are you here, Lynch?”

“You were right. That accident scene on the bridge last night was staged.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“The case has been kicked over to the FBI. It has the mark of a serial killer. But you already knew that, didn’t you? That was remarkably similar to another case of yours, an old one.”

“I don’t know if I’d say remarkably similar.”

“I would. Multiple murders made to look like an accident. That was Stanley Veers’s M.O., was it not? He killed at least fourteen people over a three-year period in Houston and Austin.”

“Veers is now on death row in Huntsville Penitentiary.”

“Thanks to you. He killed people for years before anyone realized they were murders, not accidents. Serial killers usually like the attention, but not him. He created his own private thrill show. He liked the idea of committing murder right under everyone’s noses. I’m sure you thought of him when you were at that crime scene last night.”

“Of course I did, though it was more ambitious than anything Veers did. The investigators think the killer may have coned off one end for a few minutes and used a truck to block the other. They’re still trying to identify possible staging areas. It’s a staggering feat to pull off. But unlike Veers, this one wasn’t all that concerned with covering his tracks. He wanted the world to know what he had done.”

“But not immediately.”

“Probably not. He knew the media would report the accident but that it would soon be revealed as something else. He’d get to have his cake and eat it, too.”

Lynch nodded. “That’s the way the FBI profilers see it.”

“And since when did you become the Bureau’s errand boy.”

“Errand boy?”

“They sent you to talk me into working with them on this case. Am I right?”

“In a roundabout way. Senior Special Agent Griffin knew better than to contact you directly. You’ve made your attitude known in no uncertain terms regarding working with them again. He asked some higher-ups in D.C. to have me approach you.”

“Roundabout is right. Why did he think you would be any more effective than asking me himself?”

“Because I’m so damn charming and likeable?”

“Next?”

Lynch smiled. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“I was tasked to talk to you because they thought we worked well together last year.”

“Oh. Well, we did.”

“You admit it?”

“Of course. Sometimes a sledgehammer is the best tool for the job.”

He laughed. “So I’m a sledgehammer. And I guess that makes you a precision-tooled scalpel.”

“Well, if you want to push the metaphor … yes.”

“So be it. The Bureau wants a scalpel to help work this case. And not just any scalpel. They want you.”

“You said that you were tasked to talk to me. But I thought you only took jobs you wanted to take. You’re a freelancer.”

“That’s correct. I do only take jobs that interest me.”

This time there was no high-wattage smile. Just sincerity and maybe a hint of warmth.

Maybe.

Lynch’s nickname in the Bureau has been the Puppetmaster, given for his ability to manipulate people and circumstances to his own ends. He had been able to pull off incredible feats by that skill. Was he manipulating her now? Probably.

He stepped toward her. “Listen, to tell you the truth, I don’t give a damn about working on this case. I was only intrigued with the idea of working with you again. You know I always work alone, but that time with you was different, special. I wanted to do it again. If you tell me to go to hell, I won’t spend another minute on this investigation. I’m actually in the middle of something else right now.”

“Cloak-and-dagger stuff?”

“In a way. But the powers that be thought this was important enough for me to try to bring you in. Aside from your, shall we say, unique skill set, you’re one of the few people who’ve had any success dealing with a killer like this.”

“Only because killers like this are so rare.”

“You know that’s not the only reason. Modesty doesn’t become you, Kendra.” Lynch paused as a pair of Goth-looking street performers walked past, playing their violins. “By the way, who was the guy?”

“What guy?”

“The guy who was tagging along with you last night. I heard something about a blind date, but I figured the cops on the scene got that part wrong. Even you aren’t so socially inept as to bring a date to a murder scene.”

“I needed a ride.”

He clicked his tongue. “Oh, Kendra…”

“I think he liked it.”

“Even worse. What kind of ghoul likes going to a murder scene?”

“You said you wish you could have seen me there last night.”

“Because this is my job. Professional interest. What does this guy do?”

“He’s a history professor.”

“Definitely a whack job.”

His attitude was very peculiar for Lynch, Kendra thought. “Hmm. Jealous much?”

“Jealous? That’s ridiculous.”

“I thought so, too, considering our relationship. I’m just going with what I see and hear. My ‘unique skill set’ you know.”

“Then you’re slipping.” He laughed. “Have you seen that swimsuit ad that’s been showing up on the sides of buses around town? The one with the Asian woman in the striped bikini?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve actually been dating her.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true. Her name is Ashley.”

Kendra raised her brows. “Wow. She’s beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“And are you taking her to her high-school prom?”

“She’s twenty-five.”

“Then she should be old enough to know better.”

He tilted his head. “Jealous much?”

“Not in the slightest.” This conversation had taken a very personal turn, and she had always tried to avoid that with Lynch. He was a dangerous man both professionally and personally, and she admitted that she was drawn to him. It would be terribly easy to become involved sexually with him. It was what would come after that she worried about. Better to stay clear. “But I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, Lynch. I really don’t have the time or the inclination to play detective.”

“So you’re telling me to go to hell.”

She smiled. “Yes. Go to hell.”

“Okay. Good enough. I can now tell them that I asked.”

“Yes, you can. And … believe it or not, it was good to see you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Kendra. There’s one more thing. It may or may not make a difference to you, but there’s something about this case you don’t know.”

“It won’t make a difference to me.”

“Maybe not.” He reached into the side pocket of his sports jacket and pulled out the small manila envelope protruding from it. “It’s all in here. Look at it, don’t look at it, whatever.”

Kendra took the envelope with a noncommittal shrug. “Okay.”

As he started to leave, he pointed to the white-faced street performers who had found other people to annoy. “And if you need me to knock off those mimes, the offer’s still open.”

She smiled. “Got it.”

*   *   *

KENDRA STROLLED THROUGH THE BUSY Gaslamp District and toward her condo building on E Street. She was trying not to let Lynch and that blasted murder investigation take over her thoughts. She had already decided not to open the envelope, but she still resisted the urge to toss it in one of the many trash cans on her way home. The FBI was smart to send Lynch as their ambassador. They had formed a strong partnership in their one case together, and he was enough of an outsider from all that bureaucracy that she trusted him.

And, she had to admit, she did find him extremely attractive. His movie-star looks hadn’t captured her, but his supreme confidence—backed by smarts, aggressiveness, and steely determination—had sparked the heat that had grown between them during the course of their investigation.

Sparked the heat. What was she, a schoolgirl?

Shake it off.

Kendra entered her building but decided to take a detour on her way to her unit. She approached a door on the second floor and knocked.

Two seconds later, she heard the electronic dead bolt unlock.

“Come in!” Olivia called from inside.

Kendra opened the door. Olivia Moore was seated at her desk, typing away at her computer keyboard. It’s where she was almost every time Kendra visited these days.

“Just a few more seconds. Sit down,” Olivia said as she continued typing. “Gotta keep feeding the beast.”

“The beast” was Olivia’s blog, Outta Sight, which was a popular Internet destination for the vision-impaired. Her Web site, which the blind could enjoy with Screenreader and other specialized text-to-speech applications, featured interviews, travel tips, and product reviews. In less than two years, Olivia had grown her evenings-and-weekends hobby into a full-time job that generated a six-figure income.

Finally, she pushed away from the desk. “Done. I was reviewing some new gadgets. I get stuff in the mail every day now. It’s amazing what’s out there. We sure could have used some of this stuff back at Woodward.”

Kendra smiled. She and Olivia had met as children at Woodward Academy, the school for the blind in Oceanside. Among the many emotions that greeted Kendra upon regaining her sight was the sadness and strange guilt about leaving Olivia behind in the darkness. Olivia, whose vision had been taken by a childhood traffic accident, was not a candidate for the regenerative corneal procedure that had given Kendra her sight. Olivia, for her part, had expressed nothing but support and happiness for her friend. But Kendra knew that Olivia spent a lot of time scouring the Internet for experimental procedures that might one day give her back her own vision.

Olivia tossed back her glossy dark hair, her beautiful face suddenly lit with a mischievous smile, as she picked up a palm-sized object and aimed it at Kendra. “Stay still for a second.”

“So you can tase me? If I’m on the floor twitching and wetting my pants in the next ten seconds, I will be very angry with you.”

“It’s not a Taser. Just wait.”

After a moment, a man’s voice sounded from the device. “Aqua blue.”

Olivia lowered the gadget. “Is that right? You’re wearing an aqua top?”

Kendra looked down at her shirt. “Yes. That’s impressive.”

“It’s for picking out clothes, sorting laundry, or maybe even to help connect audio or video cables. There are some bugs, but it works pretty well. I just uploaded my review.”

“Cool. You get to keep all this stuff that the manufacturers send you?”

“Most of it. It’s good exposure for them. I just don’t have enough time to review it all.” She stood up and moved across the room to the sectional sofa where Kendra was sitting. “But enough about that. How was your date last night?”

“Good. Mom kind of knocked it out of the park. He’s smart, kind of funny, good-looking…”

“Uh-oh. I sense there’s a ‘but’ coming.”

“No ‘but.’ I had a nice time. I’ll probably see him again.”

“A nice time. Hmm. Tell me you didn’t do your Kendra thing on him, where you disturbingly told him his entire life story?”

“Well…”

“I knew it.”

“It just happened. He didn’t mind.”

“Of course he minded. That freaks guys out. Not just guys, but everybody. People like to parse themselves out to dates that they’re just getting to know … You know, they like to wait a few dates before they discuss the STDs, the rotten credit history, the six hyperactive kids who…”

“Or the prison time?”

Olivia’s face froze. “Seriously?”

“Yes. It was a drug thing in college. It’s long behind him.”

“If you say so.”

She was silent a moment. “I actually have some bigger news. I saw Adam Lynch just a few hours ago.”

“And there’s the ‘but.’”

“No, why do you keep saying that? There’s no ‘but.’”

“Oh, yes. The hunky government agent from your past appears, and the new guy pales in comparison. That’s your ‘but.’”

“If we can move past my ‘but’ for a second, Lynch tried to recruit me for another job.”

Olivia nodded. “Of course he did. You told him to go to hell, right?”

She smiled. “I used those very words.”

“Good. How many times do you have to tell them you’re not interested in this stuff? I don’t see how they have the nerve to—”

“Actually, I kind of inserted myself into this one.”

Olivia went still. “And how, exactly, did you do that?”

Kendra told her about the Cabrillo Bridge crime scene, her observations, and her conversation with Lynch.

After she finished, Olivia didn’t speak for a moment. “The envelope he gave you … is that what I heard you put on the coffee table?”

“Yes.”

“I have a paper shredder near the desk. Go ahead and put it in.”

“I’ll take care of it later.”

“Take care of it now.”

“I—I don’t know what’s in it. They might need it back.”

“Do you really think they took a precious, one-of-a-kind piece of evidence, dropped it into an envelope, and gave it to you without even telling you what it is? And didn’t you just tell me his exact words were, ‘open it, don’t open it, whatever’? That doesn’t sound like something they need back.”

“You’re right.”

“So go over there and shred it.”

Kendra picked up the envelope but didn’t move from the couch.

Shit. She couldn’t make herself do it.

Olivia’s lips tightened. “You and I both know you’re going to open that envelope. And I know you’re going to help out on that investigation, even if you don’t.”

“So you’re clairvoyant now?”

“I don’t need to be. We’ve known each other most of our lives.”

“But I turn down cases all the time.”

“Most of them, yes. But as much as you say you’re not interested in this one, you can’t help yourself. It’s intriguing you. Even though you know it will probably put you through the ringer. I think it’s possible some of those cases—maybe even most—would have gone unsolved without you, and maybe you know that. So it could be that it would tear you up more not to do it. But if that’s true, that’s really screwed up. Is that the reason?”

“No.”

“Then do you even know the reason?”

Kendra leaned back on the sofa, still clutching the manila envelope. “I love my job, dammit. There’s nothing I love as much as my music-therapy work. I really do think I’m helping those people.”

“Of course you are.”

She waited.

“Okay. But sometimes I go weeks, months, without seeing signs of improvement in any of them. It goes with the territory, but it still makes me feel … powerless.”

Olivia half smiled. “And taking on these FBI cases makes you feel powerful?”

“Not really. Sometimes just the opposite.” She thought about it, trying to find an answer for herself as well as Olivia. It was time she stopped hiding and faced those reasons. “But those cases are finite problems with clear-cut solutions. I don’t often get that in my day job.”

“But your day job won’t get you killed.”

“I love life. I’m very careful, Olivia.”

“Sometimes, that’s not enough.”

“I know. Believe me, I usually leave the dangerous stuff to the people with guns.”

“Usually. That’s not very reassuring.” Olivia stood up. “Well, your psychosis will have to wait because I’m throwing you out. An Australian newspaper is calling me for an interview in a few minutes.”

“Whew.” Kendra grinned. “Saved by the bell.”

“This conversation isn’t over,” Olivia said sternly.

“Warning duly noted.” Kendra stood up and hugged her. So many years fighting the darkness together, so much love, so much friendship. “And I know it’s only because you care.”

“Damned right,” she said gruffly. “You’re my best friend, and I refuse to do without you.” She released her and turned away. “Now get out of here.”

*   *   *

KENDRA WALKED UP TO HER third-floor condo, let herself in, and tossed her keys onto the small foyer table. She was about to toss Lynch’s envelope next to them when she stopped.

Olivia was right. No way in hell she wasn’t opening it.

She tore open the envelope and unfolded the small sheaf of papers inside. After less than a minute, she froze. “Shit,” she whispered.

She let the papers and photo printouts fall to the floor.

She stood there for a long moment, trying to process what she had just seen.

What in the holy hell?

After another few seconds, she picked up her mobile phone and punched a number.

Lynch answered immediately. “Hello, Kendra.”

“You son of a bitch. You knew I’d look, and you knew I’d call.”

“Yes. All of the above.”

Kendra realized that her hands were shaking. “I need to meet Griffin and everyone else at the Bureau working on this.”

“I just set up a meeting between you and the entire team. They don’t want to wait until Monday. I told them I’d have you at the FBI field office at nine tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at eight thirty.”

Eight thirty in the morning. It could be five o’clock for all she cared. She knew she wasn’t getting much sleep tonight.

“See you then.” She cut the connection.

*   *   *

AT EIGHT THIRTY THE NEXT MORNING, she was out in front of her condo and waiting when Lynch roared up in his Ferrari. “Good God, are you still driving that ostentatious piece of junk?” she said as she got into the passenger seat. “Did it ever occur to you that most men don’t require that kind of ego building?”

“I don’t either, but I love great pieces of machinery, and I’m willing to pay for them.” He glanced at her. “Bad night?”

“Rotten. But I’d still think this luxury cruiser was unnecessary if I’d slept like a baby.”

“But you wouldn’t be so rude as to tell me so.” He suddenly grinned. “Correction. You probably would. What was I thinking?”

“You’re right.” She sighed wearily. “It was rude. It’s not my business if you need bolstering.”

“Now that really hurt.” His gaze was searching her face. “Angry?”

“I was angry. You were playing with me yesterday. You can’t resist manipulating everyone around you. I don’t appreciate it.”

“I thought you might need time to adjust to the idea. Wrong?”

“You were manipulating,” she repeated.

“Okay, I admit it. It comes so naturally that I don’t know I’m doing it sometimes.”

“Not true. You always know what you’re doing. You’re sharp and calculating and you—” She broke off. “God, I’m dreading this meeting, Lynch.”

“I know you are.” He added quietly, “But if it will help, I want you to know I’ll be there to watch your back.”

“I don’t think it will help. Not with what I’ll be facing when I walk into that office…”

FBI Field Headquarters

San Diego

“DR. MICHAELS, GOOD TO SEE YOU AGAIN.” Special Agent in Charge Michael Griffin was seated at the head of the long table in the field office’s cramped conference room. He didn’t stand to greet Kendra and Lynch, although the three other agents in the room did.

Bill Santini, a sandy-haired man with a large middle-aged paunch, smiled. “Hello, Kendra. Welcome back.”

It was actually a genuine smile, Kendra thought. She had never been his favorite person. But Santini had become much nicer to her since she’d let him grab an outsized portion of the credit for their last case together.

A slender man in his late twenties stepped forward and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, which were slightly too small for his face. “Special Agent Roland Metcalf. It’s a true pleasure.”

Kendra shook his hand. “Thank you, Agent Metcalf.”

The remaining agent, a thirtyish woman with short blond hair, approached. “Thanks for helping us, Dr. Michaels. I’m Special Agent Saffron Reade.”

“Agent Reade is why you’re here,” Lynch said as he pulled back a conference table chair for Kendra. “She put together that packet I gave you.”

“So it’s your fault,” Kendra said to Saffron, not entirely joking.

“Afraid so.”

“Sit down, everybody. Let’s get started.” Griffin leaned back and placed his hands behind his head. His silver hair had grown whiter in the year since Kendra had last seen him though his angular face was still unlined for a man of his fifty-or-so years. “I’m sure we all appreciate Dr. Michaels’s coming down here this morning.”

Why the hell didn’t he get down to it and stop all these pleasantries? Kendra thought as she sat down at the other end of the long table. He was being entirely too formal and polite. He always addressed her as Dr. Michaels when he was annoyed at any situation. Griffin had never liked or understood her. And none of these agents really liked her being here. She had never been shy about criticizing their methods and lack of vision, and they didn’t appreciate that she was usually proved right. Patience. It had been a sleepless night as predicted, but she wasn’t tired. The contents of that damned envelope had been an unpleasant jolt of pure adrenaline. She still felt sick to her stomach.

Griffin motioned to Agent Reade. “Please begin.”

“Certainly.” Reade pressed a button on the remote, and a projection screen lowered on the wall behind Griffin. Motorized shades closed over the window. A ceiling-mounted projector whirred to life, and a PowerPoint presentation appeared on the screen. The first image was the accident scene that Kendra had visited only two nights before.

Reade turned toward the group. “As you know, Dr. Michaels, the Cabrillo State Bridge staged-accident scene bore some hallmarks of another case of yours in Texas, the Stanley Veers killings. His victims varied in age and gender, but each was killed in a way that was made to look like an accident.” Using her small remote, Reade quickly displayed shots of Veers’s murder scenes. “But as you’ve seen in the packet we gave you, we believe this new perpetrator has killed at least two other times in the past month. On October 17, a woman in Mission Valley was garroted with piano wire, which was then coiled up and placed in her mouth.” Read displayed the graphic crime-scene photos, some of which Kendra had already seen in the packet. “Then, on October 25, a man in Old Town was stabbed and the Latin phrase Mens Rea—guilty mind—was carved on his chest.” Again, Reade showed crime-scene photos that Kendra had already seen. “San Diego PD initially worked those cases and had no reason to think they were the work of the same person. But when this office was consulted on the Cabrillo Bridge scene, things started to fall into place. We realized there is something that links these cases.”

“Yes.” Although Kendra had the entire night to tussle with it, hearing Reade review the cases still seemed so unreal. “The link between all these cases … is me.”

Everyone in the room was silent, waiting for her to continue.

Kendra stood up and gazed at the last gory crime-scene photo for a long moment before speaking. “The piano wire victim was killed using the M.O. of Martin Stout, who murdered four women exactly the same way in Reno, Nevada. It was one of my first cases.” Kendra looked at Reade. “Your packet didn’t say what kind of piano wire. Do you have any idea—?”