“True,” Jessie said. “And a reasonable judge might consider it probable cause for a search warrant.”
Kendra lifted her phone. “I’ll call Griffin and see how he wants to play it.”
Jessie suddenly slouched in her seat. “Am I right to believe this killer knows you?”
“I know he does.”
“Then don’t turn around for the next minute or so. That goes for you too, pretty boy. We don’t want to tip him off.”
“Pretty boy?” Lynch murmured distastefully.
Kendra froze. “He’s outside?”
“Yep. And heading for his car. He’s almost there.” Jessie kept her head low as she watched him. “He doesn’t seem jittery. He’s not looking over his shoulder, not checking to see if he’s being watched.”
“That’s common,” Kendra said. “Serial killers often think they’re too good to be caught.”
Jessie reached under her chair for her helmet. “Okay, I’m going after him. I’ll call when he gets where he’s going. Maybe by then you guys can figure out what you want to do with him.”
Jessie sprinted across the sand to her motorcycle and started it up. She revved it and hit the street a couple of blocks behind Hagstrom’s SUV. After a hundred yards or so, she abruptly turned at a cross street.
“She’s good,” Lynch said. “She’s mixing it up, tailing him from parallel streets so he doesn’t catch on.”
“Not good. She’s the best. There’s no way she’ll lose him.” Kendra punched Griffin’s number and he answered immediately.
“You’re supposed to be resting, Kendra.”
“That’s over. The hospital cut us loose. We’re golden.”
“I’ll call and confirm that, you know.”
“Go ahead. But first I need you to tell me what you can find out about Schuyler Hagstrom. He lives in Carlsbad.”
“Who is he?”
“A possible suspect. His residential history lines up with the time and place of each series of murders.”
“How in the hell did you find that out before we did?”
“A friend in low places. She’s on his tail as we speak, following him to his job at NAB Coronado. After that, she’s out. You’d better figure out how you want to handle this.”
“Hmm. I’ll see. Let me do some digging.”
“Would his social security number help?”
He chuckled. “Maybe a little. Give it to me.”
She read the number from a page Jessie had given her.
“Okay, I’ll run this and see what turns up. We’ll probably pay him a visit and talk to him.”
Probably? The casualness of the answer annoyed the hell out of her. “When?”
“Depends what we find out. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Yeah, you do that.” Kendra cut the connection.
“Wishing you were on the back of Jessie’s Harley?” Lynch asked.
“It’s looking very attractive at this particular moment.” She grimaced. “Jessie doesn’t know the meaning of the words ‘probably’ or ‘depends.’ She just goes for it.”
“And that appeals to you.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“No, it’s part of the Kendra I’m trying to encourage at all cost. I enjoy every aspect of you, but I’m much more likely to end up in bed with that Kendra.” He smiled. “And that’s exactly where I want to be. So by all means, go for it.”
She could feel the heat move through her, the tingle of the pulse throbbing at her wrists, the faint vibration of Lynch’s breathing as he sat watching her.
An erotic sensation out of nowhere.
She pulled her gaze away from him. “But the reasonable Kendra tends to get more things done in situations like this.” She pushed back her chair. “And Jessie has run off and left me so I’d better just let her have her fun and go back to the FBI office and nag Griffin into getting us what we need.”
“As you like.” He got to his feet and left some bills on the table. “But I detect a thread of envy in your tone. Do you really think Jessie is having that much fun?”
Kendra had a vision of that last moment when she’d seen Jessie tearing down the street, her hair flying, the sunlight on her bike. Kendra was remembering those times when she’d experienced that same heady feeling of being one with her bike, one with life itself. “Yes, I really do think Jessie is having that much fun.” She sighed. “And I’d just as soon you not remind me, Lynch.”
*
SHIT-SHIT-SHIT-SHIT-SHIT!
Jessie swung her motorcycle hard right and jumped onto the sidewalk.
A road construction crew coupled with a dumber-than-hell UPS driver had thrown a serious wrench into her efforts to tail Hagstrom. She needed to cross back to Cassidy Road in time to make sure that he was veering onto the I-5 South as expected.
Time was running out. And so was this damned sidewalk.
She veered around an elderly man and turned down what she hoped was an alley.
Yes!
She roared down the narrow alley, her motorcycle engine deafening as it echoed against the brick and plaster walls.
Her back wheel spun out as she turned onto Cassidy Road.
Was Hagstrom still…?
There he was, blinker flashing, about to turn onto the I-5 entrance ramp.
As expected.
She eased off the throttle, keeping her distance as he took the onramp. She followed thirty seconds later.
Traffic on the I-5 was heavy. No surprise there. Normally she’d zip between the cars in a way that always terrified her out-of-state friends, but she hung back, keeping an eye on Hagstrom’s white Suburban as it poked along.
Hmm. Was this how serial killers drove?
She’d long ago given up trying to equate driving styles with what she knew about the people she tailed. As far as she could tell, corporate embezzlers, cheating spouses, and bail jumpers drove no differently than abusive assholes who beat their wives.
Or, apparently, serial killers. The guy had already politely let two cars merge in front of him.
A well-mannered psychopath. Wonderful.
She followed him downtown past the airport, keeping about a half mile between them. In another few yards, he would take the interchange toward the Coronado Bridge, and then— What in the hell?
He’d abruptly moved into the fast lane, away from the turnoff.
Had he spotted her? Was this a test to see if she’d follow his last-minute maneuver?
She slowed and stayed in her lane, watching as he sped around the freeway’s bend.
He sure as hell wasn’t watching her.
She swerved left and put on speed until he was once again within sight.
His head was now bobbing and his mouth was moving. Was he singing along to a favorite song? Cursing a caller on talk radio?
Neither, she decided. He was talking on the phone.
He exited onto Division Street, and she followed him through an industrial neighborhood that she remembered was called Shelltown, named for an abundance of shells in the area’s soft, sandy soil.
Not that there was any soil to be seen in this concrete jungle. Where was he going?
The traffic thinned to almost nothing, making it difficult for her to follow without being spotted. She put more distance between them.
Hagstrom drove past a machine shop and turned onto a street populated by narrow one-story houses.