Flashback (Kendra Michaels #11)

“Maybe.”

Lynch clicked his tongue. “You’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”

“You do know me, Lynch. I don’t see that I have all that much choice.”

“Of course you do.”

“Paula Chase didn’t have to get involved. She’s been retired for years, but she put herself on the line for those two young women. Which is more than anyone else was doing. She may have died for them.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Which means I have to do what I can.”

He sighed. “Of course you do. Where will you start?”

Kendra threw the covers off and swung her feet over the bed. “Her house. Now.”

“Will you keep me informed?”

“Why should I bother? You’re a busy man. But I’m certain that you’ll be able to check your usual sources.”

“Kendra.”

“Sorry. I’m a little irritated. And I liked Paula. But I might be inclined to forgive and forget if you pull some strings that help me find out who the devil killed her.”

“Did it occur to you that I was feeling helpless and wanted to touch base with you occasionally?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said. “You never feel helpless. You rule the world.”

“Have it your way.” She could almost imagine him shrugging. “I’ll see if I can run a little of it your way if I get the chance. Take care of yourself, Kendra.”

“Always.”

“That’s the problem I’ve been having. ‘Always’ is a word that’s not in your vocabulary on a regular basis. You’re too damn independent. Perhaps we’ll both have to make a few adjustments.”

Less than half an hour later, Kendra was driving through Paula Chase’s pleasant San Marcos neighborhood where, she was sure, local television stations would soon be interviewing shocked residents about the horrible crime that had shattered their peaceful hamlet. It was still a good hour before sunrise, making it easy to spot the work lights and police flashers from almost a mile away.

Kendra parked her car, climbed out, and ducked underneath the yellow-and-black police tape stretched across the driveway.

“Kendra?”

She stopped and turned around. FBI agent Roland Metcalf was just a few steps behind her, slightly favoring his left leg. “What are you doing here? Somebody must have really begged you to be a part of this.”

“Somebody did.” Her lips tightened. “The victim.”

“The victim?” Metcalf pushed back his mop of thick brown hair. He was a handsome young agent, about thirty, who had recently spent several weeks in the hospital recovering from a killer’s booby-trap explosion. He’d been far enough away that he avoided the worst of the blast, and Kendra was happy that his recovery seemed to be going so well.

“Yes, the victim. Paula Chase herself. I just met her yesterday. But why are you here, Metcalf? This doesn’t seem like the FBI’s beat.”

“Normally, it wouldn’t be. But she’d been pushing us to follow up on an old serial killer case that our office had been helping investigate back in the day.” His eyes widened and he gave a low whistle. “She got you to help her, didn’t she?”

“It wasn’t definite. I hadn’t decided yet.”

“Neither had we. But when this call came in, Griffin sent me to represent the Bureau in case there might actually be some connection to that Bayside Strangler case.”

Metcalf flashed his badge at the officer guarding the scene, and he and Kendra stepped inside the one-story house. Kendra stopped. The place was a shambles, with every drawer, every cabinet, even the stove and refrigerator opened and contents spilled onto the floors.

“Wow,” Metcalf said. “I take it Detective Chase didn’t usually live like this.”