Double Blind (15 page)

From deep inside a voice whispered, “
Can any other person really make you whole?”

“I guess not, God,” I whispered. But sometimes it was easier to believe that.

This was something I'd have to deal with. If I was going to build a new outward life, I'd have to work on the inside, too. But right now I was facing so much already. Right now I just felt crushed and exhausted.

God, help me, please. When I can handle it.

Drowsiness cold-drizzled over me. I slipped under the covers and burrowed down. The world fell away.

Another nightmare bared its fangs and hissed into my sleep.

Chapter 18

I was inside the killer.

Through his eyes I saw his arm slam the SUV's hatchback shut, sealing the black suitcase inside. He exited the garage, back into his kitchen. Then—a glass under the sink faucet, filling with water. He brought it to his mouth and drank, gazing through the window at his expansive backyard. To his left the sun had half disappeared below the horizon.

The dishwasher opened. He put the glass inside. Brought up his left arm to glance at his watch. The time read 5:48.

He turned toward the door leading to the garage. I saw it approach, heard his footsteps. He opened the door and returned to the car. Slid into the driver's seat. I saw a beige center console. When the engine started, a dashboard full of digital readouts lit up. It included a GPS.

The man's finger—my finger—pushed a button, and I heard a garage door begin to open. He backed out, pausing at the end of the driveway to close the door. The three-car garage was painted off-white. Small windows ran across each door close to the top. The man had exited from the door on the far right.

His car backed out onto the street. For a second he looked at his house.
A magnificent two-story colonial, with a large front porch and pillars. Lots of windows with shutters in dark green. A curving front sidewalk lined with multicolored flowers. Three birch trees.

He drove down the street, expensive homes slithering by the passenger seat window. He hit an intersection and turned right onto a road with mature trees on either side. Houses were set back from the road behind large walls and gates. Glimpses of the homes showed they were expensive.

I saw an intersection ahead—wider, busier. Trees now canopied the road. The man reached the intersection during a green light and turned left. Businesses glided by. A Jack in the Box on the right. Jewelry store and an exotic car dealership on the left. A number of blocks later, just before an overpass, he veered right onto another major road, merging into traffic. Lots of cars. Stop lights. Then he hit the freeway.

Abruptly the scene switched to night. A speedboat skimmed over black water. The suitcase lay on the floor of the boat.

The engine cut. The boat gently rocked. The man's arms—my arms—reached for the suitcase. He hauled it up and over the edge of the boat. I heard a large splash.

He gazed into the water. In the darkness I could just make out one side of the suitcase sinking. It upended itself, then disappeared under water—

I awoke with a start, muscles twisted. Sweat dampened my back. My eyes locked onto my bedroom ceiling, my pulse clanging. The moment pulled me apart, half of me still in the dark boat, the other screaming to escape to reality.

It was just a dream . . .
But of course it wasn't. We knew the victim was real. This had
happened
. I could still feel the rock of the boat, hear the splash of the suitcase going into water.

But . . .

I checked the clock by my bed. Five fifteen. I'd slept over two hours.

It took awhile to sit up, then stand. My mind buzzed with the pictures. The house, the boat. Sunset, the time. More details to help me find the man.

My feet took me into the kitchen. Mom still sat before her computer, as if she'd never moved. She barely glanced at me. “I've been looking for pictures of women in this area through local newspapers. Haven't found her. It's a needle in ten haystacks.”

I sprawled into the chair opposite her. She looked up and me and stilled. “What's wrong?”

In my mind the suitcase splashed into water. “I had another dream. I saw so much. Maybe too much. Maybe it's just my brain, trying to fill in details. But all of it felt so real.”

“About the murder?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I've never heard you doubt any of the details you've seen before.”

“I don't really doubt these either. It's just . . . there's so many.”

She thrust the pad of paper toward me. “Can you tell them to me? And write them down. Then we can look at all of it.”

“Okay.”

The details sputtered out of me. Once I put them into words, any doubts of their being real faded. They still pulsed in my head as I wrote them. The car, the house. The boat. The splash of the suitcase. He'd
dumped
her in the water. What kind of man would do that? She was still out there, somewhere. She was someone's sister, daughter, maybe a mother. Someone's friend. I couldn't let her stay there, abandoned.

Or had she been found?

I finished writing. Filled a glass at the sink. I pictured the man in his own kitchen, doing the same thing. Saw the silver faucet, his hands—

My head jerked up. “The ring.”

“What?”

I faced Mom. “The dragon ring on his right hand. When he was at the sink he wasn't wearing it.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

She frowned. “But you definitely saw it when he killed her?”

“Yes. And when he zipped up the suitcase.”

“What about when he was closing the SUV doors. Did you see it then?”

I tried to remember. “I don't think so. The last time I saw it for sure was when he closed the bag.”

“But didn't he take the suitcase to the garage right after closing it?”

“I thought he did.” I pressed a hand to my cheek. This couldn't be right.

I leaned against the counter, my stomach in a knot. Once more I went over the scenes. Putting the woman in the suitcase. Closing it. The dragon ring was on his finger
.
I clearly remembered that. Wheeling the bag to the car. And suddenly—no ring.

Maybe all the details weren't reliable after all. Which meant my brain
was
making some of them up. But which ones? And why?

“This is a mess, Mom.” My throat tightened. “We can't know what to believe. Maybe the woman's not even real after all.”

“We know she is. Agnes recognized her.”

“Maybe she's mistaken. All the faces she's drawn.”

“All the faces she's drawn makes her more reliable. She
knows
eyes and noses and mouths.”

Tears splintered my vision. I didn't want to do this anymore.

Mom got up. “You hungry?”

Like I wanted food right now. I shook my head. “Did you eat something?”

“Yes, while you were sleeping.” She focused across the room. “You described all those roads and businesses. I wish there was a way we could find out where that is.”

“Yeah.”

“We know the license plate is from California. Still, it's a big state.”

A sudden thought flashed in my head. I pictured the man's car on the road. Veering onto another. Hitting the freeway . . .

Oh.

Slowly I set down my glass. That road. Just before an overpass. And those businesses he drove by. The car dealership and Jack in the Box. I'd been there.

I looked at Mom, my face slack. “It's Woodside Road.”

“What?”

I closed my eyes. “He starts on his own street, then another one I don't know. Then he turns left. And he passes those businesses. I think they're on El Camino. After that he veers onto Woodside. Which leads to Freeway 101.”

Mom took a breath. “Where is all this?”

“Just a few miles from here!”

I sagged against the counter. Maybe my brain had pulled these details from my own experiences. But if it hadn't . . . that killer lived
right here
.

“We should drive there,” Mom said. “See if everything fits.”

I managed a nod. “If it does, maybe I can figure out the street he turned off of to get to El Camino. And if we followed
that
road . . .” Could we find his own street. His
house
?

The thought terrified me.

“Let's do it,” Mom said. “We might also be able to figure out when the murder happened.”

I blinked at her. “How?”

“You said he looked at his watch. It was 5:48, and the sun was setting. And now you think he may live in this area.” She sat down at her computer. “If we could find some website that tells the time of sunset in a location on a given day . . .”

How had she even thought of that? I moved to the table. “You think there is such a site?”

“You can find anything on the Internet.”

Mom typed in
sunset times
and hit enter. One hundred thirty-six thousand results came up. I took one look at that and sat down. Mom clicked on the first link: www.sunrisesunset.com. Together we peered at the site. The directions were simple. First, name the state. Mom clicked on California. Then find the town. “What should I put in?”

“I don't . . . just do Redwood City for now.”

She clicked on Redwood City. Then we had to name a time. First she tried the current month, March. Sunset times were later than 5:48. Looking at the calendar the site created, we could see that sunsets changed about one minute a day. Except that daylight savings time had just begun the previous weekend, setting time forward an hour.

I leaned closer to the computer. “Go back to February.”

With a few clicks we could see the results. The sun set in Redwood City at 5:48 on Thursday, February 16. Nearly a month ago.

Mom looked up, grinning. “That's it! We could be off a day or two. But if he lives around here, this gives us our time frame.”

Could this be true? We'd really found the time of the murder?

If
my brain hadn't made up details on its own.

If it hadn't, that man was here. So close to me.

Mom glanced at the clock. “It's 5:40. Let's go check out those roads. It'll be dark before we know it.”

“Uh-huh.” But I couldn't move. No way. I could only think of that man, living right here . . .

“Lisa? Think you should get some shoes on?”

I blinked at my mother. She was trying so hard not to command. “I don't know if I can do this.”

She patted my arm. “Sure you can. Don't you want to know the truth?”

Yes. No.

I licked my lips. “The not knowing is killing me.”

Mom nodded, as if to say—
there's your answer
. The response rolled around my brain.

I got up to put my shoes on.

As we left the apartment I glanced at Agnes's drawing of the woman, lying on the counter. Beside it lay the Cognoscenti note. How much did they know at that company? Was someone there trying to cover up a murder?

My mind snapped to the suitcase sinking into black water. If that woman was still there, she deserved to be buried with dignity. Her family needed to know where she was. If she'd been found, they deserved justice.

And I just might be the only person who could make sure they got it.

Chapter 19

We headed for Mom's rental car, parked on the
street in front of the apartment building. She would drive; I'd navigate. Mom had suggested we take my digital camera. It sat in her purse.

As I walked to the car, clutching my notepad and pen, anxiety clawed my chest. I glanced all around. Whoever had left that note at my door—was he still here, watching us?

“You'll be sorry, Lisa.”

Sorry for what? Going to the media about Cognoscenti? Which I wasn't about to do. Or sorry for investigating this murder?