Apparently, he startled her, but she said, “Kit? Where are you?”
“I’m down the hall, in the study,” he answered. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“And this is how you do that?”
He didn’t answer.
She opened her door, came down to the study, said, “I’m fine, Kit,” turned around, walked back down the hallway, and closed her door again.
Moriarty, damn him, not only had watched but found amusement in all of this.
By the time Kit left, much later than he had wanted to, it was nearly dark. His plan was to observe Alex Brandon, maybe follow him to the next crime scene. Kit was still unconvinced that Brandon was trustworthy. He had to see that for himself. Too much was at stake. Gabe’s life, for starters.
As he drove down Pacific Coast Highway toward Manhattan Beach, he again felt that sensation of being followed. It was strong enough to make him hesitate to go near Brandon’s house. Moriarty had stressed how important it was not to let anyone else learn Brandon’s address-an unnecessary warning to give Kit, who was fully aware of the perils of drawing anyone else into the net Everett was casting. Kit believed that Everett could get Brandon’s address if he wanted it badly enough, but Kit wasn’t going to be the one to lead him to the detective’s home if he could help it.
Kit would do all he could to keep Brandon safe, even if the detective chose not to be of help. He had even given Brandon some milagros to help ward off danger. A man could never do too much to improve his luck.
So even though he had yet to see whomever it was that shadowed him, even though he was not entirely free of the suspicion that his imagination was getting the best of him, he made a decision when he reached LAX. He parked the Suburban near Terminal Four. He called Moriarty on his cell phone, so that by the time he took a van to the Hertz rental center, EL Enterprises had made arrangements for its representative, Mr. Ed Thomas, to pick up a Jeep there. He showed them his Ed Thomas driver’s license, and was on his way back to where the Suburban was parked. He loaded his equipment into the Jeep and drove away from the airport.
He turned on the scanner and heard a deputy call in a report of a 187-a homicide. Two victims. The deputy was shaken and asked the dispatcher to contact the task force. Within minutes, Kit found his way to the crime scene, but the Lennox Sheriff’s Station had already gone into action to close off the area.
He was already at its edges, though, and watching with binoculars when Alex Brandon arrived with a teenaged boy. That puzzled Kit. The boy’s eyes were the same bright blue as Brandon’s, and there was a resemblance, but he knew that Brandon had no children. He watched as the boy went back to the Taurus and stayed there-occasionally leaning out of the open car window to watch what was going on. The deputy they had spoken to when they first arrived took time to stroll over and talk to him whenever things slowed down a little.
Kit flipped through Moriarty’s notes and saw a reference to a nephew-one that Alex Brandon had supposedly never met, since he had nothing to do with his brother and ex-wife.
He looked up to see Diana Ontora, the reporter from Channel Three, hurrying alongside a young man in an Armani suit. The man in the suit was trying to make his way to the deputy checking the credentials of detectives, evidence technicians, coroner’s office personnel, and all the other people who had a legitimate reason to be on the other side of the yellow tape. He ignored the reporter and left her shouting questions while he signed in. The man seemed familiar to Kit, but he couldn’t recall where he had seen him. The questions indicated the man was an FBI agent.
The agent didn’t enter the building immediately, because Alex Brandon and Ciara Morton walked out, and he met them and spoke with them for a few minutes before going inside. As Kit watched through the binoculars, Detectives Morton and Brandon walked toward Brandon’s car. It seemed to Kit that the two detectives were on better terms now than they had been earlier in the day, at the press conference.
The teenager stepped out of the car again. Watching them together, Kit felt sure that this must be Brandon’s nephew. Chase Brandon.
Ontora was next warned away from Brandon’s Taurus by the deputy. Kit had to admire her tenacity.
All attention suddenly focused on some activity near the door of the building, and the television camera lights glared bright. Flashes strobed. The coroner’s assistants were bringing out the bodies. Both bodies were encased in dark bags. They were placed in the coroner’s van, which drove away within minutes after its doors were closed.
The television crews began leaving. The lieutenant made a final statement, and most of the reporters left, too. Close to the building, crime scene tape and wooden barriers were still in place, but beyond them, there was not the same number of patrol cars or officers on foot-most of the deputies were being released to other duties. Even the FBI man left. Ontora made another try, but again came up with nothing. Ciara Morton left next-he noticed Ontora didn’t even bother approaching her.
Kit got out of the Jeep and stretched his legs. The long hours of driving over the past few days had left his muscles stiff, and he decided to walk a little. He drank from a bottle of water and opened a package of beef jerky. He stayed in the shadows. If anyone else asked, he had credentials to show he was Ed Thomas, reporter for the Mountain Chronicle.
He found a short, darkened alley and stepped just inside its entrance. Its shadows hid him as he leaned against one of its walls. Perhaps some new story was breaking, because Ontora quickly ordered her crew back to the news van and drove off.
Something scraped against the pavement of the alley, and Kit flattened himself against the wall. It occurred to him that he might be invading some homeless person’s territory-or the territory of someone violent. He didn’t feel fear so much as annoyance. He had skills now that he had not had at fourteen and felt capable of defending himself. Besides, he wasn’t far from a dozen or more members of the sheriff’s department. But he’d prefer to avoid making any kind of scene.
His clothing was dark, so he might not be noticed. He listened carefully, and now he recognized the sound. He stared into the darkness, and gradually he made out the form of a large dog creeping slowly toward him.
As it moved into the light, he felt his heart stop.
A skinny yellow Labrador retriever.
Not Molly, he told himself, but he already knew that. The dog had a different face, was closer in looks to a true Lab than his beloved mutt, was younger, not much more than a pup. Again he felt the unyielding grip of grief, felt it take hold of him as it did with any thought of her, and for a moment he could not breathe or think or move.
Was this some omen? he wondered. Labradors were one of the most popular breeds in the country, but why, out of a thousand breeds of dogs, was this dog so similar to the one he had buried only a few days ago?
He stepped forward, and the dog flattened itself against the ground. Kit slowly lowered himself so that he was squatting over his heels. The dog crept closer, looking up at him uncertainly. Its tail was tucked between its legs. He saw it look nervously toward the street, and was surprised to see Chase Brandon standing nearby.
“Is that your dog?” Chase asked in a soft voice.
“No,” Kit said.
Chase moved a little closer, slowly approaching until he was only a few feet away from Kit. He kneeled down and sat back on his heels. “It’s okay, fella,” he said to the dog, half singing to it. “We won’t hurt you.”
The dog’s tail uncurled and gave a small wag.
To Kit, Chase said, “I think he wants your beef jerky. Or maybe your water.”
Kit saw his earnest look of concern for the dog and smiled. He extended both the water and the opened package of jerky to him. “Here, you try. I think he already trusts you more than he does me.”