Double Blind (13 page)

“I was just trying to protect you. Make you better.”

Didn't work, did it.

My mother started to say more, then closed her mouth. Silence filled the corners of the room.

“So.” She dropped her arm to her side. “Will my being here help you? Or not.”

I searched her face. She still didn't understand, did she? If I told her everything she'd done during my childhood that put me down, she'd never see it that way. But truth was, I didn't know how to fight Cognoscenti on my own. Sherry had her own life, with two small kids. As much as she wanted to help, I couldn't count a lot on her.

My lips curved into a wan smile. “It'll help.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

Mom dipped her chin in a decisive nod. “Good.” Her back straightened, that all-business aura once again bristling around her shoulders. “Because I've got a plan.”

Chapter 16

Step one, my mother declared, was finding the identity
of the murdered woman. But only I knew what the woman looked like. If Mom was to help me find her, we needed a picture.

Mom set her laptop up in the kitchen, telling me to use my own computer. “No.” She caught herself. “I mean—you might want to use your own computer too, so the work will go faster.”

Well, what do you know?

My chin raised in a nod. I stood at the sink, dressed, putting the last breakfast plate in the dishwasher. Mom had insisted I eat. “What work exactly?”

“We need to search online for forensic artists in this area who can sketch the victim's face.”

I frowned. “Won't we have to go through the police for that kind of service?” That's the last thing I wanted to do.

“Many forensic artists are laypeople who contract with the police. That's who we've got to find. Thank goodness you live in a big metropolitan area.”

Six million people ought to include someone we could use. “But don't they have better things to do than help me?”

“They help find criminals, don't they?” Mom stuck her fist on her hip. “You're looking for a murderer.”

It seemed like such a big step, and once we did it, we were committed. “Yes, but—”

“Lisa. You can do this.”

We locked eyes. Finally I nodded.

So we got down to work. Over the next hour we followed online hits, reading news stories about various forensic artists who worked on local crimes. Many were police officers. But two were not. Mom called the first one. No answer. She left a message.

I was back with her in the kitchen, mentally beating myself up for being so hesitant. What had happened to the Lisa of yesterday who'd stormed down to Cognoscenti? Who'd given it straight to Ice Queen over the phone? “I'll call the next—”

The SUV's hatchback door yawned open.

I gasped and froze.

“Lisa?” Mom started toward me.

My hand shot up—
Wait
.

The man pushed down the long pull bar of the suitcase. He gripped the front and side handles, grunting. The bag was heavy. He strained it upward, edging it into the hatchback, face up. Pushed it in farther until it cleared the door.

He stood back, panting. Then closed up the car. His eyes swept across the first part of the license plate.

6WB.

The man returned into his house . . .

The scene shimmered, then blitzed away. I found myself staring wide-eyed at a cabinet. My knees turned rubbery. I sank into a chair at the table.

“What happened?” My mother stood over me, hands at her neck.

“I . . . water.”

She brought me a glass. I gulped it down.

“He . . . I saw more. It's important.” I fumbled for my notes and wrote down the number and letters, my heart still beating double time. “6WB. The beginning of his license plate.”

“Oh!”

Oh
was right. Finally I had something solid to go on.

But if I found the man, actually proved he was real—then what?

“Did you see the state on the license plate?” my mom pressed.

I thought about it, hoping. “No.”

I leaned my head into my hands, the scene still grinding through me. The man had walked out of the garage, back into his house. Like nothing had happened. He'd left her there, shut up in that suitcase.

This man was a monster.

“What else did you see?” Mom sat across from me, leaning over the table.

I told her all of it. “Every time it happens it's so
real
.” I wiped away a tear. “I hear it, see it.”

Mom watched me. “Do you sense what
he's
feeling about it?”

I hadn't even thought about that. “Should I?”

“You think these are his memories, right? So they should contain more than just what he sees and hears. They should include his emotions.”

She was right. My hands clasped, one thumb rubbing over the other. “I don't feel anything he does. Only what
I
feel.” Why was that? “I guess my own horrified reaction to it all just . . . overpowers the rest.”

“Or he simply feels nothing. A sociopath.”

I clutched my temples. “I have to get this out of my head. I can't stand it. What if it plays over and over—forever? And what if this is just one woman in many he's killed, and I start seeing
new
murders?”

That thought withered me.

Mom put a hand on my arm. I blinked at the table, still feeling woozy. A loud car passed on the street below. In the distance a dog barked.

What were they planning against me at Cognoscenti right now?
“Don't do it.”
Were they devising ways to keep me quiet?

While my breathing returned to normal, Mom called the second forensic artist—and hit pay dirt. Agnes Brighton was between freelance jobs, she said, and could meet with us in the apartment at one o'clock. After a session of one to two hours, we would have a sketch of our woman. Agnes wanted to know what the woman had done, why we weren't working with the police. “We need more evidence before we approach them,” my mother told her. Apparently that was enough for Agnes. They talked for another minute or so, then hung up.

The cost: $300.

I waved away Mom's offer to help pay for it. “It'll come out of the life insurance money. I can afford it.”

We had only two hours before Agnes arrived. I went back to bed and slept for forty-five minutes. Yesterday I had way overextended myself. Now I was paying for it.

When I got up I found my mother still at the kitchen table, poring over my notes. She barely looked up at me. “6WB—the first part of his license plate.”

Not—
How was your nap? Feel better?

I sat down at the table.

“You sure it was the first part?” she asked. “Not the middle or end.”

I closed my eyes, trying to recall. “It's the beginning.” My eyes flew open. “You know what—it sounds like California. I think new cars here start with a six or seven. And that SUV looks pretty new.”

My nerves began to vibrate. No, please, any state but California. The man couldn't be that close to me.

“California license plates are long, aren't they? Do you sense how many numbers and letters there were altogether?”

“No.” For all I knew there were only five in total, making the plate from some smaller state.

“What was the background color?”

“White.” I knew that for sure.

“And the color of the letters?”

“Dark blue.”

The scene twitched in my head. The suitcase, lying in that car. Where was he going to take it? What gut-wrenching things would I have to witness next?

“You sure?”

“I know it. Like I was there.” I
had
been there.

My mother nodded. “All right then. Let's see if we can find the state.” She tapped her keyboard, two furrows between her eyes.

I went to the sink for water.

“Look at this!” She eyed the monitor in triumph. “First site that comes up—‘License Plates—1969 to present'.”

“For all fifty states?”

“Yes.” She tapped the keyboard. “Here's the page for California.” She hit the return key as I moved to look over her shoulder. “Here's the last one. But it only goes up to 2007. Guess the site isn't real new.” She pointed at the screen. The plate's background was white with dark blue letters and numbers, seven in all. The sequence started with 5, followed by three letters, then three numbers. “Does that look like what you saw?”

Absolutely. Which both terrified and excited me. “It fits. Except by now we're up to beginning with at least six. Maybe seven, I don't know.”

Mom considered the screen. “If this is it, he lives in California. And the murder is at least as recent as whenever the number six license plates started.”

I sank into the chair beside her, unable to respond. If Mom hadn't shown up, would I have figured this out on my own? It was one thing to believe the murder was real. But to
prove
it . . . Maybe I didn't want to go through with this, especially if the man lived in California. Maybe I should just let it be.

Mom checked the kitchen clock. “We've got an hour until the artist comes. Let's divide up the states and see if any others could be a match.”

Hope stirred. Maybe one would match. I'd take Maine. Or Florida.

I returned to my computer, found the Web site and started with New Hampshire. Mom began with the
A
s. After searching for some time, Mom found no states that could be a match. In my states, Virginia plates had a white background with dark blue writing, but the first three places were all letters. Only West Virginia plates used the same colors, with the format of a first number followed by two letters. But the plates also had a yellow line just above the letters and numbers. I couldn't remember seeing anything like that. In fact I remembered the starkness of the white background.

“It has to be California.” I was back at the kitchen table, a hand at my forehead. Not liking this at all.

Mom nodded. “Makes sense I suppose. The company's here. Easier for the data to wind up on a chip from someone nearby.”

“But who knows where the chip was manufactured? Could have been anywhere.” My voice wavered. I needed to pull myself together. “Anyway,
how
did the memories get on the chip in the first place?”

My mother pushed her lips together. “It had to have been a mistake. That murderer certainly wouldn't want anyone to know what he's done. Much less see it all in living color. But how a glitch like that happened, I can't imagine.”

We exchanged a long look.

Someone knocked on the door. Mom's face brightened. “Our artist is here.” She rose.

“Check through the peephole first.”

She waved a hand at me—
of course
.

A minute later Agnes Brighton entered the apartment—a woman in perhaps her midsixties with short gray hair and a weathered face. Dark, intense eyes. She stood tall and stocky, with determination, and carried a sizeable portfolio. She set it down on my kitchen counter, sticking her hand out toward me. “Hi. I'm Agnes.”

“Lisa Newberry.” I shook her hand.

She looked around. “You want to work at the kitchen table?”

“I guess. If that's comfortable for you.”

“Oh, I'm fine. Question is, will you be comfortable?” She peered at me. “You're the one describing the face, right?”

I nodded. “I'll be fine there.”

“All righty, then. Let's get to it.”

Mom and I exchanged a glance. This was a no-nonsense woman.

“Would you like something to drink?” Mom asked as Agnes carried her portfolio to the table.

“No thanks. I'll be concentrating.” She took a seat.

Stiffly, I sat across from her. What if this didn't work? What if I couldn't describe the face I kept seeing?

What if it
did
work?

Mom took the chair between us. Agnes began pulling out various pencils, a large book of some kind, and an eleven-by-fourteen-inch pad of paper. “First, as I understand it, you are not a victim, correct? The face you're about to describe to me is not linked to a traumatic event in your life?”

I hesitated. Seeing the murder was traumatic, but I knew what Agnes meant. This was nothing like trying to tell the policeman about the man who'd attacked me. Then I'd been besieged by fear yet had nothing to tell. I'd never even seen his face. “That's right.”

“Good. Makes it much easier on you.” Agnes flashed me a smile, softening her face. She set out more pencils. “I'm going to be using a technique called a composite-specific interview.” As if by habit Agnes's voice had fallen to a comforting cadence, one that would soothe a victim. “I'll draw the basic proportions of the face as you remember them. Then we'll layer in the details using pictures from the FBI
Facial Identification Catalog
.” She tapped the large book. “At first I'll just let you talk. Tell me everything you can remember. Then we'll work from there. Just relax. We'll do fine together.”