“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.”