And admittedly aroused.

That sexual response had come out of nowhere after she had carefully detailed the reasons why it couldn’t be that kind of reaction or caress. Or perhaps it had been waiting below the surface, submerged by her surprise that Lynch had acted in a way that she considered out of character. As she had left him, she had suddenly been swept away by a physical jolt of pure lust that had sent her running. It shouldn’t have startled her, she told herself. From the moment she had met him, she recognized that Lynch was a force with which to be reckoned on all levels. She had just experienced one of the more primal levels, and it made her a little dizzy. The essential maleness and sexuality of Lynch, the feel of him.

Probably just the reactions he was going for.

And yet it hadn’t seemed calculated. Lynch’s actions were generally designed to achieve a specific result, but this one seemed spontaneous, beyond the realm of any rational thought. And that last kiss on the tip of her nose had been definitely big brotherly.

To hell with him. She’d be damned if she was going to spend the next couple of days trying to figure out what it meant, when he probably didn’t even know himself. Especially when bikini-model Ashley was out there waiting to jump back into his bed.

Kendra pulled the flash drive from her pocket and plugged it into her computer. She perused the document files, both for the current investigation and collections of Web forum posts devoted to her and her cases.

She knew from her e-mails just how fascinated some people were about real-life murders, but she was still amazed at the level of obsessive interest on display. There were dozens of true-crime forums, she discovered, each populated with scores of people who traded opinions and insights over the cases that were hot in the media at any given time. Their fervor was such that they might as well have been discussing favorite sports teams.

And she was one of the players.

Although she never discussed her cases with the media, that didn’t stop other cops, family members, and even perps from spilling their guts to whoever would listen. The discussion boards frequently got the facts wrong, but she was surprised at the number of tiny details they actually got right. Her surprise wasn’t because the details were necessarily secret but because she didn’t think anyone could possibly care about each case’s minutiae.

But clearly some people did care, and one of them had murdered six people.

Kendra finally turned her attention to the current investigation files, which featured photographs of each place where the Cabrillo State Bridge victims had been killed or abducted. She paged through dozens of shots of the Sabre Springs home where Corrine Harvey and Gary Decker had been taken.

Typical Southern California Spanish-style home, all stucco and clay-tile roof. The pics didn’t show much. Hopefully, the cops and the FBI hadn’t already traipsed all over the place and destroyed whatever value the scene could have to her.

She picked up her phone and punched Griffin’s mobile number.

He answered immediately. “Griffin.”

“It’s Kendra.”

“No kidding. You know, they invented something a few years back called caller ID…”

“If you’re through being a smart-ass, I want to take a look at Corrine Harvey’s home in Sabre Springs.”

“Now?”

“Yes. As soon as possible. The scene hasn’t been broken down, has it?”

“No, it’s still sealed under the jurisdiction of San Diego PD. But I heard that Adam Lynch had to hightail it back to Washington.”

“That’s right, he did. Can you get me a key?”

“Look, it’s already getting dark out. Why don’t we wait until tomorrow morning? I’ll have Metcalf or Reade call you and arrange—”

“That’s pretty lame. I’m not afraid of the dark. And I don’t need anyone to hold my hand, Griffin. Do you want my help on this investigation or not?”

He cursed under his breath. “Fine. I’ll call San Diego PD and have them open up the house for you. But if you get a lead on anything, I want to hear about it right away.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t ‘of course’ me. I’ve been down this road with you before. Remember that we’re working together on this case. This isn’t the Kendra Michaels Show.”

Kendra smothered her irritation. Just as she thought. Griffin wasn’t nearly as concerned with helping her as he was with making sure that she kept them in the loop. “You have to admit, Griffin, it’s a damned good show.”

He muttered something that was probably obscene. “It’s just as well that Adam Lynch has left you on your own. His damn arrogance has been rubbing off on you. The last thing we need is another Lynch around here.” He hung up on her.

*   *   *

A POLICE CRUISER WAS PARKED in front of Corrine Harvey’s house when Kendra arrived. The yellow police tape had already been pulled and rolled up on the walkway, and light poured from every window.

A young uniformed officer stepped outside before she reached the door. “May I help you?”

“I’m Kendra Michaels. I believe you’re expecting me?”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re why I’m here.” He shook her hand. “I’ve been told to extend every courtesy to you.”

“I appreciate that, Officer…” She read the nameplate above his right breast pocket. “Jillette.”

He raised a small plastic basket. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take any photography or recording devices before I can let you come inside.”

Her brows rose. “Seriously?”

He shrugged. “Departmental procedure.”

“Since when?”

“There have been photos of closed crime scenes that have found their way onto the Web and the TV news lately. If there are any shots you need, let me know, and I’ll have a police photographer come here and take them for you. The department will have to sign off on any photos you request.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” Kendra put her cell phone into the basket.

The officer stepped aside for her to enter the house.

Kendra was first struck by the unique and adventurous artwork that adorned each wall in the foyer and living room. Not a surprise, she thought, since Corrine Harvey managed an art gallery.

But the abstract paintings pulsed with rage and brutality, streaked with blood reds and bold, violent slices. If indeed the woman died a horrible death here, the surroundings couldn’t have been more appropriate.

“Kinda scary, if you ask me,” the officer said.

She wasn’t asking, but she had to agree. She glanced around the living-room area, paying particular attention to recently shampooed carpets.

There, near the sofa, were two large indentations that didn’t appear to be footprints.

Knee prints, perhaps?

Yes, that was it. Someone had been standing near the couch and was brought down to his knees. Almost assuredly a man, judging from the size.

“I think Gary Decker was strangled here,” she said aloud.

The officer studied the carpet impressions. “Are you sure?”

“No, not absolutely. Too many people have walked across the carpets for me to be positive. But the footprints leading to this spot are the only set that don’t match any of the prints leaving the room. I’ll bet Gary Decker wore a size eleven-and-a-half, maybe a twelve.”

She caught a faint whiff of pomegranate on the couch. Slightly tart. Perfume?

Not perfume, she realized. Body lotion. Jafra Royal Pomegranate. Corrine Harvey’s lotion of choice?

She cast one more glance around the living room. Not much more to be gleaned here.

She turned toward the kitchen, where, as in the case-file photos, she saw a lawn mower and pressure washer. She stepped toward them.

“Weird place to keep these, huh?” Officer Jillette said.

“She didn’t normally store them there.” Kendra opened the kitchen door and glanced into the garage. “I’m sure they were usually out here. But the killer needed to make room for Gary Decker’s BMW. That’s where he loaded the corpses before taking them to the bridge. Probably not something you would do in a front driveway.”