Night Watch (Kendra Michaels #4)(47)
Kendra could barely contain the joy in her voice. “Dr. Waldridge … It’s me, Kendra. Sorry to bother you, but I really think you should get yourself here to Piccadilly Circus…”
Old Town San Diego
Present Day
Lynch held his phone between him and Kendra on a quiet side street on the bustling tourist and entertainment area of Old Town. He had Rye on speaker, and they had just given him the info on Dr. Porter Shaw and his involvement in the Night Watch Project.
“Night Watch,” Rye said. “Interesting.”
“How so?” Lynch asked.
“I’ve started asking around about Waldridge, and the Night Watch Project has been mentioned a few times. But when I try to dig in about it, people tend to clam up fast.”
“Do they not know or do they just not want to talk?” Kendra asked.
“Probably both, depending on the person with whom I’m talking. Don’t worry. I already have an idea how to find out what’s going on there. I promise I won’t leave London until I find out.”
“Keep us posted,” Lynch said. “We’ll check in when we hear more.”
He cut the connection and looked at Kendra. “I have faith in him. If anyone can figure out what’s going on there, it’s Rye.”
“I believe you.”
Lynch gestured for her to follow him around the corner, where they stood in front of a bar emblazoned with the words CAFé COYOTE high on a neon sign.
Kendra shook her head. “I can’t believe you took me to another bar. Did you suddenly acquire a taste for bad karaoke?”
“You don’t know bad karaoke. You haven’t heard me try to sing yet.”
“Ooh, now I’m intrigued. What’s your pleasure? ‘New York, New York’? Or maybe ‘The Gambler’?”
“That would take a lot more tequila shots than this place could possibly stock.”
“Oh, I’d gladly make a run to the liquor wholesaler to make it happen.”
“I bet you would. It’ll have to wait for another night. This isn’t a karaoke bar.” Lynch gestured for Kendra to precede him through the open door.
She entered to find herself in a rowdy bar largely populated by college-age patrons. In addition to a long bar, there was a dozen or so high-top cocktail tables, four dartboards, and a small stage elevated only a few inches above the rest of the floor. The stage held a guitar and keyboard duo of male vocalists who were covering Hall & Oates’ “You Make My Dreams Come True.”
“See?” Lynch said. “No karaoke.”
“Well, this is a close cousin. But these guys are pretty good.” She turned to Lynch. “So what lead are we following here?”
“No lead. No lead at all.”
She frowned. “Then why the hell are we here?”
“To allow you to decompress for a bit.”
She turned toward the door. “I don’t have time for this.”
He grabbed her arm. “Make time. You need it.” He met her eyes. “I’ve watched you since this began, and you’re at the point where you’re pulled taut and ready to break. Waldridge means too much to you. You’re losing perspective.” He gave a half shrug. “Added to the fact that it bothers the hell out of me to see you like this.”
“I’m fine. I’m not losing—” She stopped. She didn’t like to admit it, but she couldn’t lie about being on edge. At the FBI office today, she’d had trouble keeping it together. She asked sarcastically, “You think drinks at an Old Town bar are what I need to decompress?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then explain to me why we’re here.”
“For some music therapy.”
She pointed to the stage. “And you think listening to these guys will give me what I need?”
“Actually, no. The guitarist is a friend of mine, but I seriously doubt his talents have the rehabilitative power to soothe your nerves and restore a sense of calm and focus to your psyche.”
“You have a lot of friends in this town, you know that?”
“I can’t help it if I’m a popular guy. It’s the cross I bear.”
“So who is this music-therapy wizard you have in mind?”
“You.”
Her eyes widened as she stepped closer to him. “Are you crazy? You want me to practice music therapy on myself?”
“You do it all the time. I’ve seen it.”
“You’ve seen nothing of the sort.”
“Of course I have. Every time I’ve seen you with one of your clients. You come away invigorated, but at the same time a sense of calm comes over you. And that razor-sharp focus of yours is never more acute than it is after one of your sessions. Do you deny it?”
Kendra thought for a moment. She couldn’t deny it, but she hadn’t realized that Lynch had studied that aspect of her life enough to know that basic and very intimate force that drove her. But she should have realized it; anyone as controlling as Lynch would probe and watch until he did know everything. “Okay, music has always been a big part of my life. When I couldn’t see, it was one way I could connect with anyone else. It was one experience I could share completely.” She suddenly felt uncomfortable. “But you make it sound like I’m doing my sessions for myself instead of my clients.”