“So much for me taking a step back.”

“I figured this is one you need to be there for.”

“You’re right. Thanks, Lynch. I do need to be there.” Her eyes narrowed on his face. “But you meant something else, didn’t you?”

“We need to wrap this up before the police decide that you thought Sheila Hunter might do enough damage to your career to warrant killing.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“It’s a possibility. You came out of this as an obsessed crazy woman, and she came out as a squeaky-clean journalist.”

“Not quite.”

“From the outside, that will be how it looks.”

“Only until you look a little deeper.” She took out her phone and handed it to him. “Play the last recording.”

He pressed the button.

Sheila Hunter’s voice was suddenly there in the car with them.

He listened for a few minutes and turned it off. “You recorded that last conversation with her. You’re right, she came off as an unscrupulous bitch, framing you to get a story and not caring whom she hurt.” He paused. “You didn’t tell me.”

“She tried to record me again, and I stopped her. I was so angry that she probably didn’t think I had the composure to record her instead.” She looked at him. “You didn’t, Lynch. I wouldn’t have confronted her if I hadn’t had an ace in the hole to protect myself.”

“My apologies.” He shook his head. “I should have known.”

“Why? It was pure instinct. I was angry and emotional, but I knew that I couldn’t walk into another trap. So I made her say a few things that would put an end to any other articles she might write about me.”

“You could have told me afterward.”

“I was sick about the whole mess. I just wanted to forget it.” She looked down at the phone. “But I don’t believe anyone would think that Sheila came out on top. I could have caused her career more damage than she could mine. I might have come off as obsessed to find a killer. She came across as callous and crooked. I definitely wouldn’t have killed her out of fear or frustration.”

“I think I might borrow your phone recording and let San Diego PD have a listen. It might stop a problem before it begins.”

“Whatever. I just hope that it doesn’t get in the way at this murder scene.”

In a few minutes, they passed the airport and drove down Harbor Village Drive to Marina Cortez. The choppy bay water glittered from the lights of the city and work lights and squad car flashers immediately pointed the way to the crime scene. It was a houseboat on the marina’s outer edge.

As they drove closer, Kendra’s eyes narrowed in shock at a sight so horrible that it just didn’t seem real. “Shit. Did you know?”

Lynch jammed on the brakes and just stared at the grisly scene for a long moment. “No. No idea.”

The work lights were trained on the top of the houseboat’s tall mast, where Sheila Hunter hung from a guide rope wrapped around her neck. Blood oozed from her throat, down the front of her clothes to the deck below.

A fire truck had pulled alongside the dock, and its extension ladder soared over the mast, where a police photographer was snapping shots of the corpse.

Lynch gave a low whistle. “How would you like that job?”

“I’m going up there.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.”

Lynch glanced over at her. “Of course you are. Sorry, I forgot who I was talking to.”

“It’s the only way.” Kendra felt that familiar chill again. “Look at her eyes.”

Lynch nodded. “Wide open.”

“Unnaturally so. Almost like…”

“… like the top of her eyelids had been glued,” he finished. “Just like Colby’s victims. But he decapitated his kills.”

“It may not be Colby’s work.” Kendra pushed open the car door. “I need a closer look.”

Kendra swiftly climbed out of the car and hurried toward the fire truck.

Lynch was right behind her. “Be real. You can look at the photos he’s taking.”

“Photos can’t show me everything, you know that. And if looking at pictures was enough, I could have stayed home.”

Lynch pointed up at the photographer. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the ladder is occupied. Do you plan to share that perch with him?”

Kendra jumped to the fire engine’s rear running board. “Of course not. The second he climbs down, I’m going up.”

“The hell you are,” a voice called from the other side of the rig.

Kendra looked over to see Detective Martin Stokes, whom she had met at the domestic murder scene less than forty-eight hours earlier. “Dr. Michaels, get off the fire truck.”

“Not you, too.” She let out a long breath. “Fine. I’ll sign a waiver. If you’re worried that I’ll fall and—”

“That’s the least of my worries right now. I need you to immediately step away from the area.”

“I don’t think you understand. I met this woman just yesterday, Stokes. I find it very disturbing that—”

“I understand more than you think.” He raised his phone, which had The Kinsley Chronicle displayed on its screen. “Interesting reading. Especially when it’s written by a woman who lambasted you just a few hours before she’s murdered on her houseboat.”

Kendra stared at him. “You actually think I may have had something to do with this?”

“At this point, I’m not ready to think anything.”

“Obviously.”

He ignored the jab. “Okay, no, I don’t think you killed the woman. I respect my own judgment. I’ve been around long enough to sift out the bad guys. I’d let you go up there if I could. Look, you helped me the other night. You made me look good.”

“I take it you took full credit.”

He shrugged. “I might have left a few things out of my report.”

“I don’t care about that. Just let me climb this damn ladder.”

He shook his head. “Can’t do it. My captain would say you’re definitely a person of interest. Your, shall we say, contentious relationship with the deceased means that I can’t let you contaminate the crime scene. But I do need to get a statement from you.”

“Now?”

“I’m a little busy at the moment. Stand back and let us do our job.”

She shook her head in disbelief as Stokes turned and walked toward the houseboat.

Lynch took her arm. “Come on. I’ll make some phone calls. We’ll set that guy straight.”

Kendra’s eyes were still fixed on the houseboat’s tall mast. “Give me a minute.”

“What do you see?”

“Nothing yet. But if I can just…”

The sheer horror of the crime scene was preventing her from truly comprehending what she was seeing, she realized.

Block out the terror and the pain that was etched over this woman’s face.

Detach. Concentrate.

She scanned the houseboat, Sheila’s still-bleeding corpse, the dock, the surrounding area …

“Anything?” Lynch asked.

“The houseboat was her home. She didn’t stay there last night, and probably not the night before. Her car is the Volvo over there. She was killed as she walked from the parking lot.”

Lynch turned toward the lot. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. No one is even paying attention to the real murder scene, though a couple of the cops have already traipsed through it. They’ll realize it after sunrise tomorrow.”

“Do you mind telling me how—”

“On the window by the houseboat’s front door, there’s a small decal. The exact same decal that’s on the lower left corner of the back window of that white Volvo.”

Lynch studied the three letters on the houseboat window. “ONA?”

“It’s possible she was a fan of the former Grand Duchess Ona of Lithuania, but I’m guessing she was actually a proud member of the Online News Association.”

“Smartass.”

She turned toward him. “You did a trick for me once. When we first met, you secretly hacked my phone and pulled information out when it was still in my pocket.”

“Correction—I put information into your phone while it was still in your pocket. My name and phone number.”

“How could I forget? Smooth, real smooth.”