Touched (Second Sight) (4 page)

“Not like you,” said Brendan. “Maybe average?”

Though her hand went to the small pearl button at the base of her glove, Isabelle hesitated. Random readings of discarded objects would be draining, even painful. She stared hard at the coin. Especially something like that. A pair of earbuds that had likely had one owner was one thing. But a coin that had been in circulation for years, maybe decades, would carry the impressions of so many people, in so many circumstances…

“And what was Esme wearing?” Mac asked.

“Well, running stuff,” Brendan said. “Definitely she was wearing leotards or whatever they’re called. And a tank top.”

“What color?” Mac said.

“Um,” Brendan said. “Maybe white?”

“Remember what I said?” Mac cautioned. Isabelle finally looked back at the two of them. “Facts.”

Brendan’s eyes darted all around the structure, looking at the floor, the parked cars, the sergeant with his yellow tape. 

This was ridiculous.

“May I touch you?” she said.

“I’m not finished,” Mac said, a warning tone in his voice that she was getting used to.

“I didn’t ask you,” she said, not looking at him. “I asked Brendan.” She smiled at him and saw him grin crazily in return. “I’m a psychic and I’d like to read you.” 

“We don’t have time for this,” Mac said but, as she stepped toward Brendan, she undid the button of her glove.

“Then keep questioning him,” she said to Mac, never breaking her stare into Brendan’s eyes. His pupils dilated. “It has no effect on what I’m doing.”

“I was wondering why you wore the gloves,” Brendan said, as though he were mesmerized.

“Do I have your permission?” she said lowly, standing directly in front of him now. “I’m going to see everything you saw.”

“Brendan,” Mac snapped. “Was she wearing white or not?”

Isabelle slowly removed the glove, one finger at a time as Brendan watched. 

“I’m going to hold your hand,” she said.

“Okay,” he said excitedly, though he hadn’t moved a muscle.

Slowly, she reached down and took his hand in hers.

The surroundings instantly vanished. Brendan’s most recent thoughts were the strongest and those had to do with sex. With her. Then they were back in the station. He’d needed to use the bathroom but had been afraid to ask. Then, he was looking at the email. There’d been a chemistry quiz in his first class. She felt the tightness in her chest as the anxiety of failing again gripped him just as the TA handed him the paper face down. And then. And then…She gripped his hand hard and sucked in a ragged breath. There she was. It was Esme.

“Gray running shorts,” she said as quickly as possible. “White tank top. Silver chain necklace. Hair in a pony tail. Neon blue running shoes. The man is average. Average shoulders. Taller than her. She’s turning to look at me. He has dark hair. The suit is almost shiny and it’s jet black but his hair isn’t. He’s a brunette. Not yet gray. He won’t turn to look. I’m nearly past now. There are five cars. Dark blue SUV. Black Mini. On the other side, a gray Japanese compact. A beige Jeep with a palm tree on the door. A silver Prius.” 

Then Brendan and his skateboard were past the structure.

As quickly as she could, she dropped Brendan’s hand. Her shoes clattered to the floor, and as her purse slid off her shoulder, the parking structure started to spin. Suddenly, she was leaning backward into Mac’s chest and she felt his arm circle her waist from behind. With both hands, she grabbed the steely and steadying muscles over her midriff as he supported her from behind. As she blinked, the world finally came back into focus, including Brendan’s elated face.

“I remember the Jeep!” he said.

CHAPTER FOUR

Mac had to admit, it was a good act. 

As they headed back to the command post at the house, he’d gone over it in his mind. Three of the vehicles that Isabelle had mentioned were still parked where she’d ‘seen’ them. No trick there. A quick rundown of vehicles registered for permits in the structure might help to eliminate one or the other of the remaining two cars, though maybe not both–leaving one as a visitor. Even so, Isabelle hadn’t seen any license plates.
That
would really have helped. And if all they had to go on was a black Mini or a gray Japanese compact, that wasn’t going to be enough.

The description of Esme’s clothes had been confirmed by her mother but, again, a study of her closet in the dorms might have led to an educated guess on what colors Esme liked to wear. Besides, it was the kidnapper for whom they needed a description, not Esme. And Isabelle’s description of him had added little more than Brendan’s.

Mac crossed his arms over his chest and glared out the front window. Six lanes of traffic, virtually bumper to bumper, all going nowhere. Rush hour in LA was the worst kind of oxymoron. They’d hardly gone a mile in the last five minutes. He could have got out and run it in less time.

He glanced at Isabelle in the rear view mirror, sitting behind the sergeant. She’d seemed subdued since they’d left the parking structure.

It’d taken the rest of the afternoon to question drivers as they’d returned to their vehicles and were cleared one by one. Everything that had been on any floor of the structure had been retrieved and bagged according to location, by floor. He had noted that Isabelle had intently watched the objects being collected, occasionally reaching to the button of her glove but apparently thinking better of it. Mac had asked Brendan to stay on the remote chance that, if the man in the dark suit showed up, Brendan might recognize him. But as the cars had cleared out and no new ones were permitted entry, it became clear that the highly unlikely wasn’t going to happen–the man in the dark suit wasn’t going to saunter in and walk up to his car. 

They weren’t going to get lucky. 

But Mac already knew it wasn’t going to amount to luck. He’d pulled police reports for the campus going back three months. Esme’s bedroom at the house, the dorm room, and also the parking structure had been photographed. He’d even asked for a weather report for yesterday morning. There was no knowing where the telling clue would be found because it was only when the entire body of evidence was together that he’d see how it was interconnected. Even so, he’d begun to formulate a picture.

The abductor had been organized by virtue of the fact that he’d been premeditated, selecting an out of the way locale that was dark, a time of day that was less heavily trafficked, and a victim who was low risk for him, someone he could overpower easily. He was likely a sexual predator, whether that gratification came from sex itself or something else involving the victim, because there had been no ransom call. And Esme was likely not his first victim because her abduction had gone too well. There was virtually no evidence. 

Evidence
, he thought, clenching his jaw. In addition to time, it was something they sorely needed. There could be no analysis without data. Eventually, as he sifted through it and started to reach conclusions, he’d even examine his own biases. He glanced at Isabelle again.

She seemed to be looking directly into the setting sun, her amber eyes turned a sparkling hue of gold. Her face was aglow in the dim orange light and her lips–he could read so much there. When she smiled, as she’d done with Brendan, there was something completely guileless in her face but when she was impatient her lips nearly vanished into a thin line. She would crook her mouth up at the left corner when she was at a moment of decision and she thought no one was looking. No matter how sure she sounded, the little movement betrayed what she felt. And when she did a ‘reading,’ her full lips parted, the curve of them captivating. He glanced at the scoop neck of her dress and the gentle dip between her–

Mac tightened his jaw and pointedly looked back out the windshield. Female FBI agents invariably wore business suits, like their male counterparts. Wearing a dress was simply not part of the uniform.

The FBI suits
, he thought.
Brendan said the man wore a suit. But who wears a suit to a kidnapping? 

Mac narrowed his eyes. This abductor was moving further and further into outlier range. A college campus. Check. Not an unusual location. A parking structure? Check. Not an unusual spot. Close to the getaway vehicle. But a business suit? Not so much. Not on a campus.
Who wears a suit on a campus?

He was dimly aware of their SUV exiting the freeway.

Not professors and not students.

Did administrators wear suits?
Only higher ups. A dean or assistant dean, something on that order. 

Was there a business school on campus? That would be a fit.

What would a list of men with dark hair, an average build, who wore suits to campus look like?
It might not be too long
. As he blinked, the car inched past a barrage of flashing bulbs and glaring media lights. The news presence had to have tripled since the morning. 

“Wow,” said Sergeant Dixon. “Even for LA, this is pretty bad.”

“Get us as close to the house as you can,” Mac said.

“Oh I’ll get us in the driveway,” Sergeant Dixon said. “No problem.”

True to his word, he did just that. As he moved slowly but steadily down the street, past one checkpoint after another, the wood barricades were moved aside and then replaced as the sergeant waved to people he obviously knew. Reporters tried to press toward the vehicle and lights and microphones were aimed at them but to no avail. In only a few minutes, they were in the driveway. 

As Mac opened the door, the sound of helicopters drew his attention. Up in the darkening sky, at least three different television stations had reporters hovering.

“What a circus,” he muttered. 

He paused at the front bumper to let Isabelle precede him. She smiled a little at his gesture for her to go ahead and then was past him. It occurred to him that she’d never smiled at him before, not until that moment. But before he could smile back she was past him and headed toward the open front door. He frowned a little as he followed her, his eyes pausing on her narrow waist, then moving down those shapely legs. He couldn’t quite make sense of her.

When they’d left the house this morning, he’d been saddled with some friend of Ben's wife, some fraud claiming to be a psychic. In fact, even now, there had been no point in the day when she offered any more information than his investigation had turned up. Random chance could account for her selecting the Jeep. She threw out the information at a frantic pace, probably waiting to see what was confirmed or not. And yet…he followed her into the living room. It didn’t seem like she was acting. Profiling had come naturally to him, a lifelong student of human behavior. Her concern seemed like real concern, her exhaustion like real exhaustion. Wouldn’t a fraud, a user, have headed right for the reporters down at the bottom of the drive? Put her name out there, gotten in front of the cameras, drummed up business? Her profile wasn’t matching up.

Not unlike the kidnapper.

The kidnapper. The business suit. 

Although he knew Ben was heading directly for him, he held up a hand as he stopped next to where Agent Lyang sat in front of the computers, virtually where he’d left her seven hours ago.

“I want a list from the university of all senior, male, administrators,” he said to her as she looked up. “I want to know if there’s a business school there as well. Or a law school. I want to know of any middle-aged man of average build and dark hair who had reason to be on campus wearing a dark suit yesterday morning.”

Sharon only nodded.

“Mac,” Ben said. “Anything new?”

They’d been in constant contact the entire day. Ben had known, either from him or Sharon, exactly what was going on at all times. Ben knew there was nothing new but he couldn’t help but ask.

“Not yet,” Mac said, gripping Ben's shoulder. “Not yet.” Even though he slumped, Ben's shoulder felt tight. “Don’t give up. I haven’t.”

Ben nodded, as though he hadn’t either, but his eyes said something different. Mac read the resignation there as though Esme’s body had already been found.

Anita came through the swinging doors from the kitchen, followed by Isabelle. They both looked as though they’d been crying. 

“Ben,” Anita started.

“
What?
” Ben yelled, whirling on her. “
No
, there hasn’t been a phone call. No, there hasn’t been a new clue. No, there hasn’t been a body.”

Stunned silence fell on the room. Two uniformed police officers and two agents who were probably from CIRG all froze. Sharon, who was on the phone, covered the mouthpiece with her hand.

“Benicio,” Anita said, her voice calm, even commanding. “You eat something this very instant. Your skin is gray. You come into this kitchen right now and eat,” she said turning away from him. “I’m not asking you again.”

A collective eyebrow went up around the room and Mac cocked his head at Anita’s retreating back. That’s what
he’d
thought the first time he’d seen Ben that morning. The gray pallor of his skin was alarming–expected but alarming. As Anita passed Isabelle, the two women exchanged a look. Only when Ben moved did Mac realize he was still gripping the man’s shoulder. Ben shrugged him off.

“Everyone get out,” he said tiredly. “Just…please, get out.”

Sharon glanced at Mac and he shook his head a tiny ‘no.’ If a call came in, even though the odds were a million to one against, someone from the Bureau had to be here. 

“Oh for crying out–” Ben started.

“You heard the man,” Mac announced. He motioned to the other FBI agents. “Let’s go.” He waved the police officers toward the door. “Let’s give them a little privacy. Everybody’s tired. Including me.”

Though he needn’t have, he motioned to Isabelle. She was already moving toward the door. 

“Mac, I’m sorry,” Ben said, turning to him. “It’s just that–”

“Don’t apologize,” Mac said quickly, stopping him. “And don’t give up. Because I haven’t. Truly. You know me. I’m not going to offer you false hope. I wouldn’t do that.” He slowly shook his head. “But something’s wrong here. I feel it in my gut.”