Honor (42 page)

“What did he look like?”

“Sunglasses. Evil smile. She couldn’t see his eyes.”

“Kenzie—”

Linc didn’t get a chance to finish what he wanted to say.

“I’m not going to promise to stay in my room. I never was too great at being a good little girl.”

“I’ll talk to Mike about the permit.”

A slab of chocolate cake arrived, piled high with whipped cream. She dug in.

Linc picked up a six of longnecks on the way back to the motel. She had cake. He had beer.

Mike called before he popped the cap on the first one.

“What’s up?”

“Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Linc blew out a breath. “I’m all right. The word from on high is that I have to go back to work in a week.”

“We’re going to miss you.”

“Not that much. Listen, I wanted to ask you about a gun permit for Kenzie.”

Mike listened. “Not a problem, but for what state? I have connections on either side of the river, but she has to apply herself, go through a background check. Tell her to come in.”

“Will do. And I have something else for you. Christine is beginning to remember a few things about the accident.”

“That’s good. Like what?”

Linc took out the piece of paper Kenzie had given him. “She had a nightmare. Don’t laugh. There could be something to this.”

“Dreams aren’t evidence.”

“But it could be a thread to follow. Just listen, will you?”

“Okay, okay. The folder on this guy is getting fat. We have a lot of data. But still no one to hang it on.”

Linc read aloud. Mike didn’t interrupt for once.

“Thorns. Blood. I wrote it all down,” he said. “Did you know there is a new nationwide database just for tattoos?”

“No.”

Mike had bragging rights, Linc knew he’d use them.

“Still getting the bugs out, but it’s coming along. We can pull up an image by design and type, sometimes by the artist who did it. Black ink, blue ink, full color. Arms, chest, back—one guy even had his crime scene done, starring himself. Charged with murder in the first degree, in part because of that. The DA got a conviction.”

“Nice.”

If Kenzie’s stalker landed behind bars for a few years they’d be lucky.

“And that guy originally was picked up for something else, not the murder. Cops take photos of tattoos now. Some detective remembered a few of the details.”

“Score one for the police.”

“Damn straight. Okay, I’ll ask for a database search on what you said,” Mike said. “Like everything else, not instantaneous.”

“Right.”

“If our creep committed a crime or got hauled in somewhere for reasonable cause, and got a souvenir photo of tats or gang marks, he could be in there.” Mike paused to take a breath. “No words, huh?”

“Kenzie didn’t mention anything but the thorns and the blood drops.”

“Too bad. Every little bit helps. Thanks, Linc.”

It was worth putting up with the lieutenant’s casual abuse to find out everything they could. And Mike Warren really was a good guy.

“Hey,” he was saying, “guess what the most common word is in criminal tattoos.”

“I have no idea.”

“
Love
. Hands down. They love their mothers, they love some girl, they love Jesus. And they keep right on doing wrong.”

Kenzie was stretched out on her bed with Beebee in attendance. “You shouldn’t be up here,” she told him.

The dog gave her a blank look.

“Don’t act like you have no idea what I’m talking about.”

Beebee yawned. She rumpled his ears.

“You’re worthless, you know that? I can’t believe I trained you.”

A ringtone drew her attention elsewhere as the dog settled down again. Kenzie arched her back to reach for her cell phone, glancing at the number.

“Christine? What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” her friend said. “But I was wondering—Mom, no. I don’t want you to go.”

Kenzie listened to the brief argument on the other end of the call. She gathered that the black laptop’s cord had somehow been caught in a piece of furniture and that a new one was needed.

Christine was too tactful to play the younger-generation card with her mother. Besides, Mrs. Corelli knew plenty about computers and laptops.

“The electronics shop at the mall should have one. If I go online, it would have to be shipped here.”

Kenzie got the idea. “Not a problem,” she said. “I’ll stop by tomorrow morning on my way over, okay?”

She smiled at Christine’s sigh of relief. “Mom, it’s right on her way. But thanks.”

They made small talk until Christine said her mother was leaving.

“Give her my love,” Kenzie said. “And your dad too.”

“He’s not here.”

“Tell him when he is.”

She hung up after saying good-bye, smiling to herself.

“She’s been a true friend, Christine.” Mrs. Corelli was getting ready to leave. She’d already said hello to the night nurse.

“I know.”

“Alf and I believe there isn’t anything she wouldn’t do for you.”

“Don’t make me feel guilty.”

“I’m not trying to,” her mother protested. “But she was at the ICU every minute she could get away.”

“I barely remember. Which is probably a good thing.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever forget it. All we ever thought about was whether you were going to live.”

“News flash. I did. So you don’t have to talk about me as if I were still unconscious.”

“You really are on the road to recovery.” Mrs. Corelli smiled. “Rude as ever.”

Christine went to the window.

“What are you looking at?”

“Kenzie told me they’d be there.”

The rear entrance to the rehab center was visible, illuminated by discreetly placed outdoor lights.

“Who?”

“The police. See that car? It’s unmarked.”

Her mother peered out. “Oh—yes. I do see it. Well, that’s something.” Her face became serious. “So long as you feel safe here.”

“Sometimes I do.”

“You’re not ready to come home, honey.” Her mother turned her way again. “Although there’s nothing I want more. I talked to Dr. Liebling about you this morning.”

“What did he have to say?”

“That you’re coming along.”

Christine leveled a look at her mother.

“Which means I’m stuck.”

“For a while longer, yes,” Mrs. Corelli admitted. “All right. I’m on my way. Alf made fettuccine.”

“Bring me some tomorrow.”

“Of course.” Her mother brushed a kiss against her cheek. “You can warm it up in the microwave in the nurses’ lounge.” She smiled. “I guess I’ve been here too long if I know where that is.”

They said their good nights and Mrs. Corelli left.

Christine went to draw the drapes closed over the window. The headlights on the patrol car weren’t on, just the parking ambers.

She did feel safer now with them there. She just wished Kenzie had the same protection.

Linc took his time to finish off two of the longnecks, assessing the situation thus far. He could sum it up in a couple of sentences.

One. They were in a holding pattern if they didn’t find the stalker. Two. That gave the psychotic bastard the advantage.

He hadn’t failed, but he hadn’t succeeded either.

The hour moved past midnight while he went over everything that had happened, moving the new facts around his mental grid.

Nothing connected.

The burger hadn’t been enough. He ordered a pizza over the phone. The greasy wheel of cheese and pepperoni cost him a twenty with the tip and required two more beers to wash it down.

He regretted every bite after he’d finished it.

Linc fell out on the bed, too tired to finish going through the CAC database, although there was no one left but the top execs.

Long shots, all of them. He had a feeling he’d walked right past the guy, literally and metaphorically.

Dreaming of vengeance, he went to sleep.

It was five past nine in the morning when he awoke, feeling lousy.

So much for his plan to work into the wee hours. He took a shower that was penitentially cold and brewed some coffee. Last night’s binge took care of morning hunger. He swore to himself that he wouldn’t stop to eat again until midafternoon.

Linc scalded his tongue on the first sip of the too-strong brew in his coffeemaker. He made a face and set the cup aside. It took him the rest of an hour to rip through the remaining candidates, right down to their iris scans.

The next-to-last one stopped him cold.

Vic Kehoe.

Wasn’t he the second-in-command at SKC?

Linc remembered the guy only slightly, but he was sure he had very dark eyes.

Seemed that he didn’t. He must wear colored contacts. Black or close to black. Opaque.

The real color on Kehoe’s scan was mixed. Brown and green with odd sparks of gold. But it wasn’t the color that got his attention.

He dug deeper, pulling up a video of the scan, wanting to know what the man’s eyes looked like in motion. A really good scan showed that. Eye tracking was as individual as the complex pattern embedded in each iris.

Vic Kehoe’s eyes moved rapidly, as if bothered by the camera, wet and weirdly alive. When they looked straight into the lens, the lids narrowed with suspicion.

It wasn’t just the algorithm that proved identity. The look in the eyes conveyed the truth.

Linc sat back. The magnetic intensity of Kehoe’s gaze felt like he was being pushed back.

He knew he was looking at a video, but he had a feeling he was seeing exactly what Kenzie had seen. He grabbed her drawing and held it next to the screen.

The resemblance was startling. Linc was sure of it—Vic Kehoe was their stalker.

Linc clicked out of the iris scan. He didn’t know who to call first—Mike could do something. Kenzie had to know. He punched the speed dial for her cell phone, frustrated when the call went straight to voicemail. He wasn’t going to tell her over the phone. If he had to, he’d go find her.

He kept the message he left brief. “Call me. Like right away. I have to talk to you.”

He’d be out of here in fifteen and searching for her. Mike wasn’t so easy. The lieutenant would demand more than a visual comparison.

Working like a madman, Linc dredged up documents from different databases and stacked them like big index cards on the screen.

He started with a read-only PDF tagged with a red bar.

Victor Kehoe. Age: 31. U.S. citizen.

Freelance agent from Gulf War onward, supporting black-op teams on clandestine missions abroad. Wide skill range. In-depth knowledge of weapons, explosives, and all intel practices including psychological warfare. Specialist in close confinement and intel extraction. Quasi-military clearance. This individual operates under special-order rules for non-combatant contractors and cannot be held accountable under military law.

Kehoe displays mental toughness far above normal limits and a markedly high tolerance for physical pain. High IQ coupled with extreme focus.

There was more. He read quickly. The final paragraph offered a final chilling detail.

Mental breakdown of unknown cause ten years ago. Kehoe taken from posting for treatment at base hospital. Released six months later.

Removed from active service, reasons unspecified.

Linc knew he was looking at the profile of a killer.

His phone rang without his hearing it as anything more than background noise. He grabbed it on the last ring.

Blocked number. Dana Scott again.

He had to answer the call.

“Didn’t I just talk to you yesterday?” He forced a lightness into his voice.

“Yes. I just wanted you to know that I heard from the ballistics lab again. About that chunk of stuff you threw in with the vests.”

“What about it?”

“The Kevlar backing on one of those dummies stopped a rifle bullet. Not the most powerful, but even so—”

Linc’s memory provided a picture of himself and Kenzie shooting handguns at blank-faced targets. Where had the unknown bullet come from?

“It was sniper grade,” Dana continued. “What was behind you at the shooting range?”

The question wasn’t hypothetical.

“A high fence. A busy road.”

“Think,” she said.

“There was a building on the other side,” he said slowly. “About five or six stories high. Not right on the road. Set back, oh, several hundred feet. Maybe more. The total distance could have been half a mile.”

He could almost hear Dana frown. He took her meaning.

“Watch your back, Linc.” She didn’t say anything else.

C
HAPTER
22

T
he mall parking lot was filled with cars by 10 a.m., and people coming and going. The sun shone brightly. It looked safe enough.

A heavyset attendant in an orange safety vest and ball cap jumped out of nowhere and made her slam on the brakes. She was about to roll down her window and yell at him when she realized he was waving her into a really nice space.