Night Watch (Kendra Michaels #4)(83)

“As far as I could tell.”

He dialed up the photo that Kendra had sent him of Ted Dyle on his phone. “Did you see him?”

“I don’t think so. But most everyone who was here was wearing caps and jackets. Not suits, like this guy.” She shrugged. “And I decided not to walk over here and ask questions while it was going on. If Mr. Malone had given me his phone number, I might have called and told him.” She smiled. “He was a real gent. I could tell that he didn’t think that I could help him, but he was polite to me.”

“You were right not to try to do anything yourself. I’m certain he would have told you that himself.” It was like Rye to have been able to reach out and touch this woman, he thought. Even in the last hours of his life, he had done his job with kindness and dignity. He looked back at the factory. The chances of their finding anything were very slim now, but he had to try. “And he’d thank you if he were here.”

Her eyes widened and her smile faded. “Past tense,” she said jerkily. “You’re talking as if he—” She moistened her lips. “He’s dead?”

Lynch didn’t answer.

She looked back at the factory. “It was like a game to me. Or a puzzle. I never thought— But it’s not a game, is it?”

“No, it’s not a game.”

“I liked him.” She drew her coat closer about her as if warding off the cold. “But he was part of the game, too.” She looked back at Lynch. “Maybe if I’d paid more attention, if I’d been able to tell him more, he wouldn’t have died?”

“You had nothing to do with it. I’m certain that you only helped him.”

“Maybe.” She shook her head. “But it’s a terrible world when a nice man like that can die in the blink of an eye because he was just doing his job.” She turned away from the factory. “I’m going back to the pub. I don’t feel so good.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” She glanced over her shoulder, and she looked years older than that first moment when she’d so eagerly approached him. “You take care of yourself. If you need something, just ask. Or just come over and have a pint on the house, and we’ll drink to your friend.”

“I believe he might like that.”

He watched her cross the street and go into the pub. Another life touched by Rye. He’d not even known about Dorothy Jenkins. Rye had only spoken about the “locals.”

“Sorry I’m late.” Stephen Kincaid had pulled up to the curb and jumped out of his car. “Traffic was hideous.” He shook Lynch’s hand. “Glad to see you. Not glad that it’s on this occasion.” He added grimly, “Rye was a good friend. Let’s go see if we can find something to nail those bastards.”

Maybe he wasn’t going to have to worry about bureaucracy in motion, Lynch thought. Kincaid seemed sincere, and the SOCA could be efficient if motivated. “I’m not sure if we’ll find anything. I’ve had a recent report that there was a cleanup about the time of Rye’s death.” He turned to the gate. “And this gate looks different from the photo Rye sent me on that last day. The newer apparatus, like the automatic gates and cameras, have been removed. I imagine that’s a sign of what we’re going to find inside, too.”

“Well, I can take care of getting us in.” Kincaid went back to his car and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters from the trunk. “Always prepared.” He clipped one of the chains and swung the gate open. He turned to throw the cutter back into his trunk. “After you, Lynch.”

From the moment Lynch walked into the factory yard, he was aware of immaculate cleanliness … and emptiness. Only a few spots of motor oil on the concrete that had probably come from the vehicles, but there was no other sign of the cars and trucks Rye had been told about by the locals.

“You’re sure this was the place?” Kincaid asked.

“This is the place.” He was gazing at the photos on his phone and letting them lead them on the same course that Rye had taken.

“What is this place?” Kincaid asked, puzzled, as they reached a bright, pristine-clean area that had transitioned from the older part of the factory. “It looks new…”

But it was as empty as the rest of the factory. Though there were signs that there might have been shelves or other pieces of furniture or equipment in that section. “I don’t know what it is. Rye didn’t send me any photos of this area.”

And he would have sent them, Lynch knew. He’d been documenting the entire factory, as was his custom.

And that meant that something had stopped him before he had been able to transmit them.

Was this the point where Rye was captured or killed?

No blood.

Of course not; it would have been cleaned and sterilized, like the rest of the factory.

“Do we go on?” Kincaid asked quietly.

Lynch nodded. “Sure.” He left the sterling-clean area where he was almost certain his friend had died and went out to a loading dock, then through several other areas. Nothing struck him as powerfully as that one bright place in all the darkness. He made his way back to the clean room, where Kincaid joined him.

“Have you seen enough?” Kincaid asked. “We’ll have a forensic team in to check for blood and fiber throughout the place.”