Sight Unseen(65)
“You often surprise me. But I can usually count on you for clear thinking.” She was silent a moment, her gaze meeting Lynch’s. Time to bring this encounter to an end. There were too many shadings of emotion and erotic response. She was too aware of him, dammit. “But I do thank you. I feel much safer in your fortress. It was a good idea to come here.”
“Sure.”
She was having trouble looking away from him.
Lynch took a step closer and moved a lock of hair from her face. “You’re sure I can’t give you anything else?”
A loaded question if there ever was one. She was tingling, her breathing shallow. She shook her head.
Another long moment of silence.
“I guess … I should let you get some sleep. Since we’re determined to be so logical.”
She didn’t reply.
Another pause.
“Well…” He motioned toward the door.
He was waiting for a sign, any sign.
And she wanted to give it, she realized.
“Good night,” he said softly. His hand caressed her cheek, then he turned and left the room.
Kendra let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She was still tingling from the electric charge between them. Her cheek felt warm, sensitive where he’d touched her.
On the plane, all she had wanted was to go to sleep. Right now, that seemed impossible.
Damn him.
* * *
“KENDRA? KENDRA, WAKE UP.”
She opened her eyes, at first confused about where she was. Then she remembered.
Eric Colby.
The ridiculous and wonderful suburban fortress.
Bikini-model Ashley.
Lynch’s amazing, unexpected, yet frustrating restraint.
“Wake up, dammit.” Lynch was standing over her. His shirt was unbuttoned, and he was zipping up his pants. His hair was tousled, and he looked intense. She glanced at the window and saw that it was still dark out.
“What time is it?”
“Three thirty. Get up and get moving.”
She sat up in bed. “What the hell, Lynch?”
“Griffin just called. There’s been another murder.”
Go Nuclear Dance Club
University Avenue, San Diego
KENDRA AND LYNCH MADE THEIR WAY toward the club’s main entrance, where velvet ropes held back the ejected patrons who had decided to remain behind and see what was going on. As Kendra walked past the crowd, she heard snippets of conversations that confirmed the rumor mill was in high gear. In the space of fifteen seconds, she heard that the cops had closed the place down due to a) a drug bust, b) a brawl upstairs, or c) the discovery that the club was a front for the Russian mafia.
If only.
Lynch flashed his government ID to the cop outside and opened the door for Kendra. “Ever been here before?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not since they changed the name and went respectable.”
“Respectable?”
She glanced around at the mirrored walls and pulsing, rotating lights, which emitted mechanized whirring sounds that were eerily audible now that the club music was turned off. “Yeah, this used to be a real dive. The bartenders would cheat drunk customers on their change, you’d see rats in the corners, and next to the back bar, some woman would always be treating customers to Jell-O shots off her bare stomach.”
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely.” She shot him a look. “And a couple times, that woman was me.”
“I’m finding that hard to imagine.”
“Why? I wondered what it would feel like. The world was full of curiosities and wonder for me back then. And most of the time, I didn’t hesitate to satisfy it.”
Lynch smiled faintly. “If you decide you want a replay, you’ll have to let me experience that sometime.”
“Dream on. That was another time. Been there, done that.” Kendra glanced around. “I have to say, this place was probably a lot more fun in those days.”
“Hi, guys.” Metcalf was approaching them. “Long time no see.”
“What do we have?” Kendra asked.
“The victim was a twenty-seven-year-old woman in a men’s bathroom stall.”
“The men’s bathroom?” Lynch asked.
“You know what it’s like in places like this. When there’s a mile-long line in front of the ladies’ bathroom, it’s not uncommon for women to slip into the men’s room.”
“How was she positioned?” Kendra asked.
“On her knees. Classic hugging the porcelain goddess pose.”
Kendra chilled as memories flooded back to her. “Like in Phoenix…”
“Exactly like Phoenix,” Metcalf said.
“The Gregory Hammond case.” She swallowed, hard. “He lured clubgoers into bathroom stalls promising drugs and/or sex. He killed them and positioned them just like this. Sometimes, the victims weren’t discovered until closing time.”