Colby smiled. He’d covered his tracks well. There was no way anyone could trace this place to him. “The less you know, the better. Safer for you. Safer for me. Go on upstairs. I have work to do in the cellar. I’ll look in on you before I leave.”

She climbed the stairs, mumbling something to herself all the way. He’d have to check out the apartment later, to make sure no one else had been there. Highly unlikely, he thought. Colby turned to the boarded-up cellar and pried loose the large sheet of plywood. It was painted black, rendering it almost invisible against the dark walls of the empty stockroom.

Colby entered what appeared to be a small closet. In the back of the compartment, he gripped the built-in shelves and pulled them toward him, revealing a steep stairway that led down to the windowless cellar. Stale, musty air wafted upward. God he loved that smell. He felt for the switch, pressed, and light flooded the room below.

Each step creaked as he made his way down. He hadn’t been sure if he would ever see this place again, but it now seemed inevitable that he should return. He finally reached the bottom. He turned.

Ah, at last.

A plastic-lined embalming table centered the room, equipped with nylon wrist and ankle restraints. Acoustic panels covered every inch of the walls and ceiling, rendering the room virtually soundproof.

A row of heavy plastic bags lined the back wall. They contained his tools and instruments, sealed and waiting to be pressed into service. He smiled. He knew he had several hours of work ahead of him, but he didn’t mind. He was back in his element. He had to prepare his chamber for a very special guest.

Ah, there was no place like home …

CHAPTER 4

KENDRA SPENT THE NEXT MORNING conducting three back-to-back music-therapy sessions in her office studio, and the last appointment ended with a difficult conversation with the wife of an eighty-eight-year-old Alzheimer’s patient. It had become apparent that the man would never respond to this type of therapy, and Kendra couldn’t waste his time when he could pursue other courses of action that might actually help him. His wife was still clinging to hope, trying to convince herself that he was showing improvement.

It just wasn’t happening.

The woman fought back tears as she led her husband out of the studio.

Kendra slowly sat down on the piano bench. Shit. Some days, her successes weren’t enough to erase the disappointment of her failures.

“You handled that very well,” Adam Lynch said as he stepped out from the small observation room. Kendra had been aware of his entering from the hallway outside, but she was too involved in her conversation to pay him much mind.

“My sessions are private, Lynch. You can’t just barge in here like this. I know for a fact that the hallway door to the observation room was locked.”

“Really? So how did I get in?”

“You picked it, of course. Well done. It’s supposed to be a tamper-proof lock.”

“No such thing.” He crossed the studio, which was outfitted with a piano, a drum set, a xylophone, and a pair of guitars on stands. “I would have rung the bell, but I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“How very considerate.”

“I heard you went to the FBI field office last night. You talked to Griffin.”

“Word travels fast. So you probably know as much about the conversation as I do.”

“I figure he pissed you off, you pissed him off, then you went your opposite directions. Does that about sum it up?”

“Yeah, that’s about the shape of it.”

“I also know about the case in Redondo Beach.”

“Is that supposed to be significant? As far as I know, Griffin was supposed to reach out to the local PD.”

“He already did. That’s why I’m here.”

Kendra stood up. “So why isn’t Griffin talking to me about this himself?”

“To be honest, he doesn’t consider it worth his time.”

Her half smile was bittersweet. “So what else is new?”

Lynch pulled out a flash memory stick and motioned toward a tablet computer sitting on one of the music stands. “May I?

“Knock yourself out.”

He picked up the tablet, inserted the stick, and pulled up a series of photos. He showed them to Kendra. “Look familiar to you?”

“These are the official police crime photos for the Redondo Beach murder scene. I’ve already seen those.”

“Probably not all of them. Redondo Beach PD sent over everything the photographer had. This is exactly the way the bodies looked when the building manager found them. No military hand signals, nothing like that.”

“How are you so sure?”

“I talked to the building manager myself less than an hour ago. I e-mailed a couple of these to him. And there was a whole crowd of people there. You know what it’s like at those scenes. I seriously doubt they were repositioned.”

Kendra took the tablet and swiped the photos. “I’m telling you, yesterday I saw half a dozen photos that—” Kendra stiffened, her eyes glued to the screen. “No way.”

“What is it?”

She swiped through a few more of the crime-scene pictures. “I don’t believe it.”

“What?”

“The pictures I looked at yesterday … They weren’t of this room.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Neither do I.” She showed him one of the photos with a long shot of the apartment interior. “The room’s layout and furnishings are identical in these and the pictures I saw yesterday, so it may be the same building. But the pattern of the crown molding is different here. And I believe the lamp shade is a slightly different shape. This is a cone, and the one I saw yesterday was more tubular.”

He studied the photo. “Are you certain? You didn’t notice the difference when you looked at those photos yesterday?”

“The differences may not have been visible in the official police crime photos I saw. There are a lot more shots here. And even if they were visible, it’s been a few weeks. They’re not details that would have necessarily stuck with me at the time.”

He nodded. “Okay, so we’re back to the original question. What does it mean?”

Kendra paced across the room. “There are only a couple possibilities. Either someone went through the trouble of staging those pictures to bring to the reporter…”

“… Or the reporter staged them to present to you,” Lynch finished.

“But why? In either of those scenarios, why would someone go to the time and trouble? Unless…” Her gaze flew to meet Lynch’s. “You don’t think…”

He took the tablet from her hands and quickly navigated to The Kinsley Chronicle.

“Shit,” he said. He turned the tablet around to show her the news site’s page one headline: “Deluded FBI Consultant Believes Executed Inmate Still Alive.”

Kendra felt her face flush with rage. “She screwed me. Unbelievable.”

“It’s extremely easy for me to believe,” Lynch said. “But I’ve always been a hell of a lot more cynical than you.” He turned the tablet back around and skimmed the article.

“How bad is it?”

“Really bad.” He read in silence for a few more moments. “She’s painting you as a nutjob. There’s a healthy sprinkling of nasty quotes from police sources, both named and unnamed. Probably every cop you’ve made look bad over the years. The ‘deluded’ quote comes from one of them. And you’re quoted all the way through, but in such a way to make you appear as hysterical as possible. Why in hell did you give her an interview?”

“I didn’t.” Kendra snatched the tablet from him and quickly read the story. It was packed with snarky, half-truths and outright lies. “That reporter, Sheila Hunter, played me. Under any other circumstances, I never would have talked to her. She found just the way in.”

Lynch nodded. “She presented herself as an ally in a situation where allies have been scarce for you. And what’s more, she came to you seeming to have evidence that you’ve been sorely lacking.” He shrugged. “As much as I join you in despising her right now, I have to admire her strategic abilities.”