Double Blind Page 11

  “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?

  I slid inside the car and locked the door.

  Mom put on her seat belt. “Where to?”

  How about anywhere but here? “Go to the next street and turn left. A few blocks down we’ll hit El Camino. Turn right to go south.”

  I’d been down El Camino plenty of times since Ryan and I moved to the area. It was a major road, stretching from up toward San Francisco all the way down to San Jose. One town blended into another along El Camino, with an endless stretch of businesses. Ryan and I had first driven it south from Redwood City to explore Stanford shopping center in Palo Alto.

  Mom reached El Camino and turned right. I gripped the paper and pen, praying all the way. Cars flowed by us on the multilaned road. I wanted to tur
n around, see if anyone was following us. More paranoia. Maybe the depression was coming back. Maybe I really did get a placebo. And my brain was making up details—which could be called panic attacks. I was worse off than ever after the surgery. Totally headed for disaster.

  I might as well curl into a ball and give up right now.

  Mom glanced at me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  We approached Woodside Road. After the underpass I looked back, peering at the exit I’d thought was in the dream. And there it was, just like I remembered. “There!” I pointed behind us. “That’s the road he took. It goes to 101.”

  “You sure?”

  “Mom, I know.”

  But had my brain just made this part up—or was it true?

  I turned around, concentrating on the businesses we passed. “See that fancy car dealership? That was in the dream too. And there’s the jewelry store.”

  “Wow,” Mom said. “This really isn’t far from you.”

  Way too close.

  “There’s the Jack in the Box.” I pointed left.

  My mother nodded. “Where do you think he turned off that residential road?”

  “I don’t know. But probably not far.”

  We passed into Atherton, where expensive houses were set behind walls and large trees, like in my dream. I studied each road going off El Camino, looking for the intersection where the man had turned. Nothing fit. We passed Tuscaloosa. And then I saw it. We were approaching the stoplight at Atherton Avenue. Opposite that street rose a beige stucco wall. That wall seemed to leap out at me. “That’s it! Just before he turned, his car was pointed at that wall.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes! Go right.”

  Mom got over in the far right lane and turned onto the avenue.

  My pulse skittered. “The town of Atherton. I should have known. All those big houses.”

  “Expensive area?”

  “Yeah.”

  My mouth dried out. Important people lived in Atherton. Execs in Silicon Valley, doctors, attorneys. One of them was a cold-blooded killer?

  A tree canopy covered the first part of Atherton Avenue. I hung on to my seat. “See the trees? This is it.”

  “Okay.” Mom sounded grim.

  Then came the walls and more trees on either side, shielding large homes. I’d seen that, too. I needed more eyes to take it all in. I needed bigger lungs to breathe.

  I saw no roads off to the right, only to the left. “Okay, go slow. I need to look up each street.” I perched on the edge of my seat, holding on to the dashboard as I peered left. A lot of the streets ended in short cul-de-sacs. That didn’t look right. “No,” I said at the first one—Odell. And the second—Mercedes. And the third and fourth—Stevenson. We drove by a fifth and sixth. A seventh. Had the man passed this many streets? They all looked too narrow. The one wide road had a median, and I hadn’t seen one of those in the dream.

  With every wrong street we passed, my muscles drew up tighter. This should be working.

  An eighth street. A ninth and tenth.

  “It’s not here.” My voice was thick.

  “Maybe we haven’t gone far enough.”

  “He didn’t pass that many turn-offs.” I slumped back in my seat.

  Mom turned onto the next lane and pulled over to the side. She put the car in Park. “Let’s think about this. You remember what the house looks like?”

  Off-white, two-story. Large porch with pillars. Dark green shutters. Lots of flowers and three birch trees in the yard . . .

  “Yeah, but who knows if it’s right. If we can’t find the street . . .”

  “Well, we’ve come this far. Let’s go up each street, even if it doesn’t look right. Maybe we’ll find the house.”

  We wouldn’t. Then what? We’d never figure this out. Mom might as well go back to Denver. And I’d keep turning in circles.

  “Okay, Lisa?”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  If only I’d never heard of Cognoscenti.

  Mom pulled a U-turn and got back on Atherton Avenue. We wormed our way back toward El Camino, taking each road either to its dead end or its first intersection with another street. None of the houses matched. They weren’t even close. All of them were set back from the street behind walls and gates. The man’s house hadn’t been like that. Neither had his neighbors’.

  I dug my knuckles into my chin. Maybe I’d seen the house in a magazine somewhere. Seen the woman’s face there, too. Some obscure actress.

  Jerry was right—I needed a psychiatrist. I had to understand what was happening to me.

  We turned off one of the lanes back onto Atherton Road. Some distance down I could see the El Camino intersection. “Mom, it’s not here.”

  “Let’s keep trying.” Mom turned onto the next street, the wide one with a grassy divider in the middle.

  “This can’t be it.” I just wanted to go home. “I never saw a median.”

  But the houses here were different. They were spread apart on large lots but without front walls. Looked more like what I’d seen in my dream. Newer homes, the trees not as large. But a median . . . ?

  We saw no one out in their yards.

  A house on the left jumped out at me. My heart stopped. “There it is!”

  “Where?”

  I couldn’t believe it. “There!”

  Mom pulled over to the right curb, opposite the house. We gaped at it. I started to shake. This was the place. The porch and paint color, the flowers and trees. Three-car garage. Everything fit. I even recognized the windows going across the tops of the garage doors.

  “You sure?” Mom’s voice was a whisper.

  “Positive.” My heart thumped. Even the sun was setting to the left of the house, like in my dream. This was it. A woman had been killed in that house. I could practically see through the walls, picture the living room and kitchen. The floor where she died.

  “But the median . . . Why didn’t I see that in the dream?”

  “You probably just saw the man’s car drive down his side of the street.”

  Maybe.

  Our white car suddenly felt like flaming red neon. What if the man looked out his window right now and saw us? “We have to get out of here.”

  “I know.” Mom leaned toward her window. “See a street number?”

  No. And I didn’t care. “Just go! He could come out any minute.”

  “There. On the mailbox. Ten.”

  Ten, fine. “Turn around.”

  “You need to write it in your notebook.”

  Now? “I’ll remember it. Just get us out of here.”

  “Did you notice the street name?”

  “No!”

  “We’ll get it on the way out.” Mom thrust the car into Park.

  “What are you doing? Mom!”

  “Where’s my purse? I need the camera.”

  “We don’t need a picture. Every detail’s in my head.”

  “It’s not in mine. Where’s the camera?”

  I squirmed around, frantically looking for Mom’s bag. She’d tossed it into the back seat. I heaved over and picked it up. Fumbled around inside for the camera. My eyes snapped toward the house. Still no sign of the man. But he could be watching us right now. If he saw me, if he knew, Mom and I were both dead. This was a man who would stalk us. Who would make sure we never opened our mouths.

  “Lisa, hurry.”

  My fingers kept scrabbling. Where was the camera?

  There. I yanked it out and turned it on.

  Mom tensed. “Oh, no.”

  I checked the house—and saw the middle garage door opening. My fingers froze.

  Mom shoved the car gear into Drive, her foot on the brake. “Take the picture, hurry.”

  The door was now half open.

  My hands started to shake. “I can’t, just go!”

  “Take it.”

  Twice I tried to aim the camera. On the third try I pushed the button. Click.

  Mom lunged
toward me. “Get your head down!”

  Holding our breath, we bent low over the console, as if peering at a map. I rolled my gaze up toward the house. The garage door stood wide open.

  “Get a picture of the car when he comes out.”

  “No, Mom, what if he sees me?”

  “Lisa, do it.”

  “But I can’t . . .”

  A car started backing out. My heart slammed into my ribs. But the car wasn’t a black SUV. It was a red sedan.

  “Is he coming out?” Mom hissed.

  “Yes.”

  “Take the picture.”

  I aimed the camera and pushed the button.

  “Take another one.”

  I tried, but my fingers had gone numb.

  “Here, give it to me.” Mom stuck out her hand. I shoved the camera into it.

  The red sedan backed into the street and sat parallel to the house. I ducked down more. In that second the driver turned toward us. An elderly man. White haired. Was that him?

  “He’s looking!” Fear stretched my words.

  “Keep your head down.” Mom swallowed hard. “Tell me when he turns away. I’ll get another picture. ”

  He kept staring at us. Time stopped moving. If he came over here . . .

  The man looked up toward his visor and pushed a button. The garage door began to close. I managed a breath. “Take it, quick.”

  Mom pointed the camera behind her with one hand and pushed the button. No telling what she got.

  The man drove off down the street.

  Air whooshed out of me. I thought I was going to faint. “He’s leaving.”

  Mom dropped the camera in my lap and checked in the rearview mirror, then headed up the street. She passed two paved turn-offs cutting through the median and drove to the end of the cul-de-sac. Only then did she turn around. By that time the man’s car was gone.

  I could hardly feel my body. “Get off this street. Please.”

  We passed the killer’s house without stopping.

  “Was that him?” Mom’s voice was clipped. “I know you’ve never seen him but . . . did you feel it?”

  I was still trying to get enough oxygen. “Give me a minute.”

  At the end of the road I managed to notice the street name. Amethyst Lane. Number ten. I wrote the address on my notepad.