Night Watch (Kendra Michaels #4)(18)

Kendra studied his pudgy features, bushy eyebrows, and unkempt white hair. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.” She turned to Paulsen. “Is this the man you were talking about? The one who also spoke with a British accent?”

“Yep. That’s him.”

Waldridge loaded his rollerboard suitcase into the hatchback, then climbed into the passenger seat as the white-haired man took his place behind the wheel. After another few moments, the SUV turned around and disappeared through an opening between the hangars.

“I’d like a photo printout of those two men,” Lynch said.

Paulsen smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid we’re not set up for that.”

Lynch pulled out his phone. “No problem. If you’ll rewind it, I’ll snap a photo right off the monitor.”

As Paulsen and Lynch worked on their crude frame grab, Kendra took the opportunity to take a closer look at the man. His suit, with its narrow cut, high arms, and sculpted shoulders, was likely British, as were the leather Cheaney shoes. She couldn’t get a read on his spectacles though they were consistent with many European frames she’d seen. His wild hair probably hadn’t been cut in three months or more.

“That SUV is over five years old,” Lynch said. “Too old to be in the fleet of the major rental car companies. Where could he have gotten it?”

Paulsen shrugged. “Those are popular rentals around here. Easy to throw skis and snowboards in the back.” He thought for a moment. “It could be one of Fennel’s cars.”

“Fennel?” Kendra repeated.

“Yeah, Wally Fennel. He runs a small used-car lot near the hospital, but I think he makes most of his money renting the cars while he tries to sell them. Some of those wrecks have a tough time making it back up the mountain. If anyone’s renting five-year-old cars around here, it’s probably that guy.”

Kendra nodded. “Okay. Good. We’ll find out where he lives and see if he—”

“Oh, you won’t find him at home. Not for another few hours.”

Kendra checked her watch. “It’s almost ten. Is his lot still open?”

“Uh, no. He spends most nights at Murray’s Saloon on Cottage Lane. He sings karaoke there until he gets too drunk. Then he just drinks.”

Lynch smiled. “In that case, we’d better get over there before he goes facedown on the bar.”

“You’re probably still okay.” Paulsen stopped the recording and the current security camera feeds resumed on the monitors. “But you still may have to listen to his really terrifying rendition of ‘My Sharona.’”





CHAPTER

4




ONE TEN-MINUTE CAB RIDE LATER, they walked through the front door of Murray’s Saloon and Eatery, a bustling bar/restaurant decorated with an uneasy mixture of wood and neon. A pool table was in heavy use by the door, and a small stand served as the karaoke stage, where three drunk young women belted out a song that might have been “Love Shack.” A long bar lined the left side of the room, which seemed to be populated by a combination of young snowboarders and older locals.

“I’ll talk to the bartender,” Lynch said.

Before he could get the bartender’s attention, the women finished their song and the DJ introduced the next karaoke singer. “Okay, everybody. Give it up for Wally F.”

Kendra and Lynch turned toward the stage, where a bearded man with long, kinky brown hair picked up a wireless microphone. No one applauded.

“Think we’re about to hear ‘My Sharona?’” Lynch murmured.

She listened to the first few bars of music. “No. God help us, I think we’re about to hear ‘Copacabana.’”

He flinched. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

She wasn’t joking. Wally performed the song with gusto, making up with enthusiasm whatever he lacked in actual talent. He danced during the extended musical bridge, oblivious to the fact that no one appeared to be watching him.

No one except Kendra and Lynch, that is. They stood next to the bar with stunned expressions. Lynch shook his head. “The guy has cojones, I’ll give him that.”

“I hope this is worth it.”

After the song ended, they walked over to him. “Good job,” Kendra lied.

Wally looked them up and down, perhaps registering that they didn’t look like the bar’s usual clientele. “Thanks. It’s a little cheesy, but what the hell?”

“What the hell,” Lynch agreed. He raised his phone and showed Wally the picture he’d taken of the security video. “Is this SUV one of yours?”

Wally suddenly appeared a bit guarded. “Who’s asking?”

“I am,” she said. “My name is Kendra Michaels. One of the men in this picture is a good friend of mine, and he’s missing.”

“Shit. What about the car?” he asked immediately.

Kendra rolled her eyes. “Your concern is touching.”

“Sorry, but I—”

“But you’re worried about your car,” Lynch interrupted. “It’s sitting in a police garage in LA.”

“A police garage? Why?”

“We’ll get to that,” Lynch said. “But you can confirm that this is your car?”