He stiffened. “Ryan Malone?”
“You know him? I’ve been waiting for him to come back.” Her expression was eager. “I wanted to tell him about everything that happened right after he came to the pub and started asking his questions. I told him I’d keep an eye on things for him.”
“I’m sure he appreciated it. Would you care to tell me instead?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know if I can trust you. You might be one of them.”
“Them?”
“Drug dealers, spies, whatever.”
“I assure you that I’m not one of ‘them.’” He met her eyes. “And Ryan Malone would want you to tell me anything you knew. Believe me. We worked closely together.”
She studied him. “Yeah, and you weren’t one of those men bustling all around and moving cars and trucks and stuff a couple days ago. And if you were one of the bad guys, what would you be doing standing out here like a hungry orphan, looking through those bars?”
“You’re very descriptive, if not complimentary,” he said wryly. “I never thought of myself in quite that way before. So that’s what happened? A complete cleanup and general abandonment?”
“As far as I could tell.”
He dialed up the photo that Kendra had sent him of Ted Dyle on his phone. “Did you see him?”
“I don’t think so. But most everyone who was here was wearing caps and jackets. Not suits, like this guy.” She shrugged. “And I decided not to walk over here and ask questions while it was going on. If Mr. Malone had given me his phone number, I might have called and told him.” She smiled. “He was a real gent. I could tell that he didn’t think that I could help him, but he was polite to me.”
“You were right not to try to do anything yourself. I’m certain he would have told you that himself.” It was like Rye to have been able to reach out and touch this woman, he thought. Even in the last hours of his life, he had done his job with kindness and dignity. He looked back at the factory. The chances of their finding anything were very slim now, but he had to try. “And he’d thank you if he were here.”
Her eyes widened and her smile faded. “Past tense,” she said jerkily. “You’re talking as if he—” She moistened her lips. “He’s dead?”
Lynch didn’t answer.
She looked back at the factory. “It was like a game to me. Or a puzzle. I never thought— But it’s not a game, is it?”
“No, it’s not a game.”
“I liked him.” She drew her coat closer about her as if warding off the cold. “But he was part of the game, too.” She looked back at Lynch. “Maybe if I’d paid more attention, if I’d been able to tell him more, he wouldn’t have died?”
“You had nothing to do with it. I’m certain that you only helped him.”
“Maybe.” She shook her head. “But it’s a terrible world when a nice man like that can die in the blink of an eye because he was just doing his job.” She turned away from the factory. “I’m going back to the pub. I don’t feel so good.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” She glanced over her shoulder, and she looked years older than that first moment when she’d so eagerly approached him. “You take care of yourself. If you need something, just ask. Or just come over and have a pint on the house, and we’ll drink to your friend.”
“I believe he might like that.”
He watched her cross the street and go into the pub. Another life touched by Rye. He’d not even known about Dorothy Jenkins. Rye had only spoken about the “locals.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Stephen Kincaid had pulled up to the curb and jumped out of his car. “Traffic was hideous.” He shook Lynch’s hand. “Glad to see you. Not glad that it’s on this occasion.” He added grimly, “Rye was a good friend. Let’s go see if we can find something to nail those bastards.”
Maybe he wasn’t going to have to worry about bureaucracy in motion, Lynch thought. Kincaid seemed sincere, and the SOCA could be efficient if motivated. “I’m not sure if we’ll find anything. I’ve had a recent report that there was a cleanup about the time of Rye’s death.” He turned to the gate. “And this gate looks different from the photo Rye sent me on that last day. The newer apparatus, like the automatic gates and cameras, have been removed. I imagine that’s a sign of what we’re going to find inside, too.”
“Well, I can take care of getting us in.” Kincaid went back to his car and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters from the trunk. “Always prepared.” He clipped one of the chains and swung the gate open. He turned to throw the cutter back into his trunk. “After you, Lynch.”
From the moment Lynch walked into the factory yard, he was aware of immaculate cleanliness … and emptiness. Only a few spots of motor oil on the concrete that had probably come from the vehicles, but there was no other sign of the cars and trucks Rye had been told about by the locals.