“Man,” Metcalf said. “If we don’t arrest her as a serial killer, she’s just nutty enough to be a reality-TV star.”
“Skip it,” Griffin snapped. “Get to Kagan.”
“Sorry.” Metcalf advanced to the next interviewee. “Here we go,” he said, reading the header card. “Lance Kagan, true-crime author. Okay, Kendra, you’re on.”
She eagerly stepped front and center. The on-screen image faded in, and—
Her hopes plummeted. “It’s not him.”
“Are you sure?” Lynch asked.
“Positive. Damn. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
Griffin frowned. “Well, he still goes to the top of our list of Colby’s suspicious prison visitors. I’ll get in touch with the warden and have them transmit those fingerprints to us. We need to find out who this guy really is.”
Reade stood up with her laptop. “Well, I have another one we should look at.”
“What do you have?” Kendra asked.
“I finally got all of Colby’s prison visitor logs in my database. I just now cross-referenced them with the names we gathered from online discussions about you, Kendra. I got a hit. He’s a local.”
“What’s his name?”
She glanced at her laptop screen. “David Warren. He has a Little Italy address, probably one of those funky lofts. On his visitor application, he listed his occupation as ‘artist and dreamer.’”
Lynch rolled his eyes. “Great.”
“He’s obviously a big admirer of Kendra’s, which would fit the profile of our copycat. He commented on many of her cases in the online forums. But he also visited Colby for some reason.”
“You’re right,” Lynch said. “We should talk to him.” He turned to Kendra. “Shall we take this one?”
Kendra nodded emphatically. The disappointment she had suffered about the identity of Kagan was still with her. She did not want this morning’s work to be a complete waste.
“Let’s do it.”
* * *
“WARREN’S BUILDING IS BEING marketed as a collection of artist lofts,” Kendra said as she walked with Lynch toward the Ash Street address. The building was nestled in the heart of Little Italy, which had recently emerged as a trendy neighborhood of restaurants, coffee shops, and art galleries.
Kendra glanced down the street. “I like this neighborhood. I come here most Saturday mornings for the farmer’s market.”
“That’s interesting. I stay away from here most Saturday mornings for the exact same reason. Street closures aren’t my thing.”
“Huh. You might think it was worth it if you used veggies for something other than a garnish for those strong alcoholic drinks you pound back.”
“You may have a point there.” Lynch found David Warren’s name on the building directory and pressed the buzzer.
After a moment, a young man’s voice came from the intercom. “Yeah?”
“David Warren?”
Long pause.
“Yeah?”
“My name is Adam Lynch. I’m here with Kendra Michaels. We wondered if we might—”
The buzzer sounded, and the front door unlocked.
Lynch grabbed the door and swung it open. “Looks like I found the magic words: ‘Kendra Michaels.’”
“Somehow, that isn’t very comforting.”
They entered the lobby and climbed the open stairway to the third floor. Except for the light hardwood floors, the building interior was entirely white, with a minimalist aesthetic that bordered on antiseptic.
Hard-driving metal music pounded their ears as they approached Warren’s door, which was open a few inches.
Lynch grimaced. “Can’t stand that stuff.”
“It’s Queensryche. You should try opening your mind a little.”
“I know who it is. It’s just that as far as their lead singers go, Todd La Torre doesn’t hold a candle to Jeff Tate.”
Kendra’s eyes widened. “Wow.”
“Impressed?”
“In shock. This conversation isn’t over.”
Lynch leaned into the open doorway. “Hello?”
No answer.
Lynch and Kendra exchanged a glance.
“It could be Myatt in there.” Kendra tensed. “I hope to hell I recognize him in some way. That damn disguise he used at the Harvey house…”
Lynch nodded and moved his jacket just enough to put his holstered automatic within easy reach. He pressed on the door with his fingertips.
“Hello?”
They walked into the apartment, which, like most so-called artist lofts, featured high ceilings, exposed ductwork, and ample natural light. In keeping with the minimalist design, there was almost no furniture. In-progress artwork leaned against almost every available inch of wall space and several of the large windows.