Memory of Murder

kind of serenity that only comes from having lived through the worst life has to offer, and emerged whole and happy on the other side.

Holt looked up, smiled, and took the hand she’d placed on his shoulder. “Hey, there you are. Alan, Lindsey-like to have you meet my wife, Brenna.”

Alan, who had risen with old-fashioned courtesy, nodded and said, “Nice meeting you, Brenna.”

Lindsey nodded, too, and murmured, “Hi.”

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Brenna said. Her voice had a raspy, husky quality, and her eyes were a shade of golden hazel that seemed only a shade or two darker than her hair.

Alan smiled at her and continued. “And…four, Richard and Susan Merrill appear in San Diego, California, Susan gives birth to Lindsey roughly eight months later. Oh-and Susan Merrill also happens to have a scar on her head that closely corresponds to Sally Phillips’s head wound. And, has no record or memory of a past prior to San Diego.”

“Seems like a no-brainer to me,” Brenna said with a shrug.

Holt nodded, but then let out a breath in a frustrated gust. “Okay, I’m pretty much convinced. It all makes sense, except for one thing-why?”

Chapter 10

But when the man threw himself in front of her and my bullet went wild and missed its mark, I knew I had made a terrible-perhaps fatal-mistake.

He fought like a demon, even though his hands were bound. It was several minutes before I could regain control of the situation, and by that time, the woman had vanished in the darkness and fog. I searched, but could find no trace of her. At that point I could only hope the ocean had taken her after all.

Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

FBI Files, Restricted Access,

Declassified 2010

No one spoke. Holt looked at Alan, then Lindsey. After a long moment, he repeated it, in a voice rigidly controlled. “Why were they taken? There was no reason for them to be targeted-none whatsoever. That’s what’s always confounded me. It’s what confounded Baltimore PD. It’s damn hard to solve a case,” he growled, “when there’s absolutely no motive. No suspects. Nothing that makes any kind of sense.”

Alan cleared his throat. “Well, there is one thing.”

So Alan told him what Bob Faulkner, the retired Baltimore homicide cop, had said.

When he’d finished, Holt was staring at him, stony-faced. Brenna sat down on the arm of his chair and put her arm across her husband’s shoulders.

Lindsey whispered, “A mistake?” Her face was pale with shock. Alan wanted to go to her, tell her to sit down, for God’s sake. Hold her. But of course he didn’t.

They all sat in silence, listening to the noise the rain and wind made as if fascinated by it-such unfamiliar sounds in that part of the world. Alan thought there probably weren’t any words that could have expressed what they must be feeling, these two people whose lives had been turned upside down-forty years apart in time-by someone’s mistake.

If that’s what it had been.

Brenna rose abruptly. “Anybody want more coffee?”

“Yeah, Billie-thanks,” Holt said absently, and Alan said, “Billie?” He was tuned to pet names, it seemed.

Brenna turned to smile at her husband, but only said, “Long story.”

While they waited for the coffee, Holt made a visible effort to pull himself together and asked Lindsey to tell him about her mother.

His mother, too, Alan reminded himself. Most likely. There was real poignancy in that, he thought, but he had fortified himself against it; wallowing in the tragedy of these people’s lives, he told himself, wasn’t going to help solve the mystery of what had happened to Karen and James McKinney, and why.

He listened to Lindsey talk with only half of his attention, while he watched her avidly-watched the two of them, of course, but mostly Lindsey. It struck him how alike they were-not surprising, considering they were almost certainly brother and sister. He didn’t need DNA to know that, it was right there in front of him. They had the same general body type-tall and slim, athletic build. And the same thick dark hair-although Holt’s was a little more wavy and beginning to gray at the temples-and those same thick-lashed blue eyes.

Although Holt’s didn’t have quite the same effect on him Lindsey’s had.

What was it, he wondered, that made one particular person’s face so arresting to another? That made one face stick in his mind? Made him want to go on looking at it, never tire of watching it? He had no answers.

At one point he happened to glance over at Brenna, and found her watching him- watching him watch Lindsey-and there was something in her eyes…in her smile…that said, Yes, I know. I understand how you feel.

The cold squeezing sensation he felt in his belly was fear.

I can’t do this, he thought. Fall in love with her? Can’t happen. Can’t let it happen. No way.

“Look at the time,” he said abruptly, sitting up and glancing pointedly at his watch. “Lindsey-long drive ahead of us. We’ve kept you people long enough-didn’t realize it was getting so late.” He was on his feet, and instantly so were Holt, Brenna and Lindsey. Lindsey looked red-eyed and exhausted.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Holt reminded him. “We can sleep in-well, one of us can,” he added ruefully when his wife gave a huff of laughter and poked him with her elbow. “I guess with a toddler in the house, there’s no such thing as a lazy morning. But, hey, you two should think about getting a hotel room, staying in town overnight. Drive back tomorrow. You know the freeways are going to be a nightmare with the rain. Wish we had a place to put you, but-”

He and Lindsey both assured him they would be fine, as he’d said, tomorrow was Sunday, they had plenty of time. Eventually, they were able to take their leave, amid clasped hands and hugs and exchanges of addresses and phone numbers, including cell phones, and promises to keep each other up-to-date and in close touch. Alan had Holt’s DNA on a swab in a sealed evidence bag safely tucked away in his pocket.

In spite of the rain and the lateness of the hour-nearly midnight-being Saturday night, Hollywood was still clogged with traffic. Alan turned west on Sunset, figuring to make his way to the 405 freeway and thus avoid the nightmare through downtown L.A. However, the San Diego Freeway was also moving at a crawl, which was no big surprise to Alan. He’d become familiar over the years with Southern California drivers’ customary response to wet roads, which was to proceed at normal speed in complete disregard of the fact that a little moisture on top of several months’ buildup of oily scum would turn roadways into skating rinks.

After crawling along for half an hour or so, he looked at Lindsey and said, “What do you think?”

She looked back at him and said, “It’s up to you, you’re the driver.”

So, he took the next exit and headed toward Santa Monica. Not being familiar with that town, he headed straight for the beach, figuring that would be the most likely place to find hotels with vacancies on a rainy November night. He chose the first big franchise hotel he saw-a Holiday Inn, right on the beach-and left Lindsey in the car while he went in to ask about vacancies. He was lucky; two adjoining rooms were available on the fifth floor on the side of the hotel that overlooked the ocean. He put the rooms on his personal credit card, then went back outside to the car. The rain was still coming down hard, a rush of sound that muffled but didn’t drown the occasional boom of a wave thumping down on the shore at high tide. He slipped behind the wheel and slammed the door, cutting off the noise of storm and sea.

“Got us a couple of rooms,” he said, and Lindsey nodded.

The silence seemed to wait for something more, and Alan knew there were things that probably needed to be said but didn’t know what they were or how to say them. So, after a moment he started up the car and drove into the parking garage. As they waited for the elevator, he asked her if she was hungry. She shook her head. The