“And where can we get this photo?”
“You check your sources. I’ll check mine.”
“And what are your sources?”
She tapped her temple. “The one that I told you that I didn’t have. Super-duper memory. I remember what he looked like. I remember everything about him.”
“After eight years?”
“It was a very strange and special night. I felt as if I were exploding inside, and everything around me was caught, held forever. I was looking into a crystal ball and seeing my life ahead of me. He was only on the edge of that crystal ball, but he was caught in it, too.”
“And how are you going to bring him out of that crystal ball?”
“I know a wonderful sketch artist, Bill Dillingham. He’s helped me on cases before. If anyone can do it, he will.”
“Some sketch artists are terrific. But they’re only as good as the witness who gives them the description.”
“Are you doubting me?”
“Yep. Eight years, no prolonged exposure to the subject, emotional involvement. It’s a long shot.”
Kendra nodded. “I know it is. But we haven’t gotten lucky so far. I’m figuring that it’s time. As I said, I don’t have a perfect memory, but it’s pretty darn good. And that night was so special for me, it might give me the edge I need.” She paused. “I’m going to call Bill Dillingham now and see if he’ll see me. Do you want to go along?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“So that you can laugh at me later?”
“No way. If anyone can pull it off, I think it could be you. And, if you really fall on your face, then I’ll be there to sympathize.” She grinned. “And then tell you I-told-you-so.”
WHEN KENDRA HUNG UP from talking to Bill Dillingham, she was frowning. The conversation had made her very uneasy, and so had Bill’s voice on the phone.
“Something wrong?” Jessie asked curiously.
“I hope not. He didn’t want to do the sketch. He told me he’d give me the name of someone else.” She shook her head. “I told him that I only wanted him, and I’d see him in an hour.”
“Pushy.”
“I didn’t like the way he sounded. Bill has to be almost eighty-five now, and he was kind of frail the last time I worked with him. I don’t think he has family. Or, if he does, he’s still something of a loner.” She got to her feet. “This may be a waste of time for you. You probably won’t be able to meet him. He doesn’t even want me to come.”
“Then I’ll wait outside.” She shrugged. “I don’t think a man that old is going to try to take you down, but a little moral support might do you some good.”
“Take me down?” She looked at her in disbelief. “That’s why you were going with me?”
“Of course not. I was interested, and I wanted to see how talented he was. I’m just accustomed to thinking in terms of protection.” She headed for the door. “Want to take my bike? It will be more fun.”
“I do not. All I’d need is to have Bill have a heart attack when we come roaring up his driveway. We’ll take my Toyota.”
“May I drive? I promise not to roar.”
“I don’t believe you could help yourself.” She headed for the front door. “I think it’s in your genes.”
“Actually, I had to work on it. I think the roar started about my second year in Afghanistan.” She followed her out the door. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s flip for it…”
13
BILL DILLINGHAM LOOKED TERRIBLY FRAGILE, and Kendra’s eyes widened with shock when he opened the front door of his small house in a subdivision in south San Diego. He was at least fifteen pounds thinner than he’d been the last time she’d worked with him, his faded blue eyes lacked the spark of former days. What was most troubling was the lack of vitality in his face.
“What are you looking at?” he asked sourly. “I never invited you here, Kendra. I know what I see in the mirror. I don’t have to see it reflected on your face. Why don’t you go away?”
She quickly recovered. “Because I need you to do this sketch for me. It’s very important that it be done right since your witness is questionable.”
“I don’t need to work with witnesses who are going to give me headaches before I even begin. Go away.”
“No. May I come in? I haven’t seen you for a couple years, but you’re just as rude as you’ve always been.” She smiled. “I’ve never seen your home.” She was peering over his shoulder. “I see an interesting painting of a little girl in a sun bonnet on that far wall. Is it yours? I’ve only seen your sketches.”
“Because that’s how I make my money,” he said dryly. “And are you trying to flatter your way into my house?”
“Yes. Though I would like to see that painting. If you don’t let me in, then I’ll stay out here on your doorstep.” She met his eyes. “Because when I knew I had to have this sketch done, I knew it had to be you, Bill.”
He was silent. “I’m not the same artist I was two years ago, Kendra.” He held up his hand, and she saw a slight quiver. “I had a bad case of pneumonia, and I didn’t bounce back. It seems unfair that when you age, every little illness seems to take its toll. Or maybe it’s the depression afterward. Anyway, I don’t do sketches anymore.”
She could see that depression was still a living presence in every line of his face. “But you could, Bill. I’ve seen you work.” She looked at the painting of the child. “That’s quite wonderful and I’m sure you enjoyed doing it. But it didn’t give you the same creative excitement as doing those sketches, did it?”
“I’m retired, Kendra.”
“Bullshit. I need this, Bill. It’s important to me. It might save a good man from being killed.” She took a step closer. “I know you. If you’re retired, then that’s probably what’s wrong with you. You need a reason to get up in the morning. Well, I’ll give it to you. It will only be a start, and you’ll have to take it from there. But you’ll do this sketch, and it will be good because you can’t be anything else.” She took another step. “Now, may I come in?”
He stood looking at her for a long moment. “I guess I’d better let you, or you’ll run me down like a bulldozer.” He stepped aside and gestured for her to enter. “But it’s not going to do you any good. You’ll see when I start to sketch.”
“Yes, I will.” She looked around the living room and saw three really fine paintings besides the one of the child in the foyer. “Wonderful. By all means, keep on doing them when you don’t have anything else to do. But you’re a true genius about translating words and vague thoughts into real faces, Bill. No one else can do it like you can.”
“I’m glad you’re going to permit me to continue my choice of art endeavor,” he said sarcastically. “Who is this questionable witness?”
“Me.” She smiled. “Eight years ago, Bill. But I remember him as if it were yesterday.”
He made a rude sound. “Tell me another one.”
“I can’t. I can only tell you the truth. I can’t even promise that it’s going to help to have his face. But it’s a chance, and I’ve got to take it.”
His gaze was searching her face. “It means something to you.”
“Yes, it means a good deal to me.”
“Personal.”
“Very personal.”
He went to the bookshelf and took down his sketchbook. “You see?” he said roughly. “Look at my hand. It’s shaking. What do you think that you’re doing to me?”
“I hope I’m waking you up. What do you think?”
He didn’t move, looking down at the sketchbook. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?” He jerked his head to a chair on the other side of the desk. “Sit your ass down and start talking to me.” He flipped open the sketchbook. “How old was he?”