“You’re sure this was the place?” Kincaid asked.
“This is the place.” He was gazing at the photos on his phone and letting them lead them on the same course that Rye had taken.
“What is this place?” Kincaid asked, puzzled, as they reached a bright, pristine-clean area that had transitioned from the older part of the factory. “It looks new…”
But it was as empty as the rest of the factory. Though there were signs that there might have been shelves or other pieces of furniture or equipment in that section. “I don’t know what it is. Rye didn’t send me any photos of this area.”
And he would have sent them, Lynch knew. He’d been documenting the entire factory, as was his custom.
And that meant that something had stopped him before he had been able to transmit them.
Was this the point where Rye was captured or killed?
No blood.
Of course not; it would have been cleaned and sterilized, like the rest of the factory.
“Do we go on?” Kincaid asked quietly.
Lynch nodded. “Sure.” He left the sterling-clean area where he was almost certain his friend had died and went out to a loading dock, then through several other areas. Nothing struck him as powerfully as that one bright place in all the darkness. He made his way back to the clean room, where Kincaid joined him.
“Have you seen enough?” Kincaid asked. “We’ll have a forensic team in to check for blood and fiber throughout the place.”
“They might not find anything. Night Watch has some of the finest doctors and scientists in the world. It’s reasonable to expect they’d be able to cover their tracks if needed.” He stood there gazing at the bright, sterile room. “Scientists. A lab?”
“Reasonable enough.”
“Nothing is reasonable about any of this.” He started back toward the main gate. “What about Rye’s car? Have you located it yet?”
“Not yet.” Kincaid opened the gate. “We’ve checked out his home and the area around the landfill.” He gazed at Lynch. “But you think that was a waste of time, don’t you? You think he was killed here.”
“He should have sent me photos of that last area of the factory, and he didn’t do it.” He looked back at the brick building. “He was … interrupted.”
“And the car?”
“He would have had to drive here. It’s possible that whoever killed him searched for his car, found it, and any other evidence Rye had discovered.” He shrugged. “And the vehicle might be found in the Thames in six months.”
“Possible?”
“You know how sharp and professional Rye always was. He never just left his vehicle on the street when he went on a job like this. He’d park it close, but it would be out of sight and not easy to spot. There’s a chance that it’s still out there somewhere.” He was on the street now. “So let’s go find it.”
Kincaid nodded. “Where do we start?”
He hesitated, then started across the street toward the pub. “We start with a new friend of Rye’s…”
*
“I NEVER NOTICED HIS CAR at all,” Dorothy Jenkins said as she gazed out the back window of Lynch’s rental car. “I guess I was too excited and interested in what was happening at the factory.” They had driven slowly up and down the four streets of the town directly before the factory, with Kincaid following behind. But they hadn’t seen anything that appeared promising. “What kind of car did you say it was?”
“A gray Aston-Martin,” Lynch said. He pulled over to the curb and got out. “I think I need a closer look.” He started to go house to house, peering into backyards and garages.
“You’ll get knocked on the head if someone sees you doing that.” Dorothy was suddenly beside him. “They’ll think you’re casing the joint. If someone comes out of the house, let me talk. Most of these people know me.”
“I’ll leave it entirely up to you. That’s why I asked you to come along. I’m relying on you to protect me.” But so far, there had been no sign of Rye’s car, and Dorothy was right, he’d be lucky if he didn’t get arrested or assaulted before this was over. As they reached the end of the block, he turned to Dorothy. “Any ideas? It’s your town.”
She blinked. “Yes, it is.” She thought about it and smiled. “Turn the next corner and go down that block. It has a bunch of deserted homes that people just left when they lost their jobs. That might be a good place to look.”
“Right.” He turned at the corner and strode down the street. Nothing in the first three houses. The fourth house was almost falling down. No garage.
The fifth house had heavy shrubbery and a garage.
And a gray Aston-Martin.
“Yes.” He phoned Kincaid. “Get over here. I’ve got it.”
Dorothy had run up beside him, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “We found it? I helped?”