“Well, considering that I flew out of a second-story window last night, wouldn’t you think I might just want to relax?”

“Hell, no. Nobody thinks that. Come on, what are we doing?”

“You guys are beginning to know me a little too well. Kinda depressing.” She studied Metcalf. If she had to have a bodyguard, at least it was one who could be of some use to her. He carried himself with an ease and jauntiness that made it clear that he didn’t take himself—or anything else in the world—too seriously. A pleasant change of pace from most other FBI agents she’d met. “Okay, how much do you know about cars?”

“Cars? I know you’re supposed to change the oil every three thousand miles, but it’s really okay if you wait and do it every seven or eight.”

“Awesome.”

“Glad I passed the test. So what are we doing?”

“I’m pretty sure I heard the killer start his car and drive away last night. I can identify the make and maybe the model of the car if I hear it again.”

“Now that’s awesome.” His eyes were glittering with eagerness. “Where do we start?”

“Car dealers. Not the most accommodating bunch, especially since there’s no chance of a sales commission. I’ll need you to flash your badge around.”

“It’s what I do best, ma’am.”

“I certainly hope not.” She smiled. “And don’t call me ma’am. I’m not that much older than you.”

His smile held equal parts mischief and a hint of sensuality. “Roger that, ma’am.”

*   *   *

KENDRA CHOSE TO FOCUS THEIR ATTENTION on the Convoy Street “auto row” of car dealerships within walking distance of each other. True to his word, Metcalf was very good at flashing his badge and exuding an air of authority that made the dealership managers snap to attention and race around their lots with fistfuls of keys. They started each model in their lines, punched the accelerators, and even drove around the parking lots when Kendra requested them to do so.

After listening to thirty-five vehicles at four dealerships, Kendra was certain she’d heard a six-cylinder engine the previous evening, but she knew little else. She thanked the Honda sales manager in the parking lot and turned to Metcalf in frustration. “This is starting to feel like a fool’s errand.”

“I also do those very well. But we won’t be complete fools until we impose on every sales manager on this street. So what do you say we—”

“Wait!” Kendra listened. “I hear it.”

“Where?”

“Shh.” She looked toward the road and saw a car speeding by the dealership. “There! What kind of car is that?”

“Uh, a blue one.” Metcalf grabbed a nearby saleswoman and pointed to the vehicle. “Pop quiz. Name that car.”

She responded immediately. “Nissan Skyline.”

Metcalf turned back to Kendra. “Is that a possibility?”

She nodded. “There’s a Nissan dealership one block up. Let’s go.”

*   *   *

FROM THE MOMENT THE MANAGER turned the key in a Skyline, Kendra recognized the engine’s growl as the same as she had heard the night before. She heard it again in a 370Z, and several more times in the nearby dealership of Nissan’s luxury division, Infiniti.

In the Infiniti showroom, Kendra compared brochures for the cars. “Look.” She pointed to the engine specifications. “Each one of those vehicles has a VQ37VHR engine, the same as the Nissan Skyline and the Z.”

“Does it?” Metcalf used his mobile phone to snap photos of each of the brochures. “Amazing. I’ll have to take your word for it. After all the cars we’ve heard today, everything was sounding alike to me.”

“Did they look alike to you?”

“Not really.”

“As someone who grew up without being able to see, I used the sounds I heard as my single biggest way of perceiving the world. Those engine sounds are as different to me as the difference between seeing a red car and a blue one, or a sports car and a pickup truck.”

“That makes sense, but it’s still fascinating to witness.” He paged through the photos he had taken with his phone. “I was hoping we could cross-reference ownership records with driver’s licenses, and maybe put together a virtual lineup of license photos for you to look at. But we’re looking at eight different models of cars here.”

“I know. Even if we narrow our focus to San Diego registrations, there are probably thousands of owners.”

“Still, it’s another piece we can match against potential suspects. We’ll check it against auto registrations on that block and make sure you weren’t hearing a neighbor’s car. I’d say that’s a decent afternoon’s work.”

“And at least now I have a pretty good working knowledge of various automobile engine sounds from the six dealerships we visited.”

He gazed skeptically at her. “You’d really remember if you heard them again?”

“Most of them. A couple weren’t that distinctive, but I could do pretty well with the rest.”

“Interesting.” Metcalf collected the brochures and walked with her out the door. It was getting dark, and the dealership street signs down the block had just started to flicker on. He gestured over his left shoulder. “I think I just heard a car pulling into the lot behind us. Are you telling me just by listening, you could—?”

“It’s a Toyota FJ. Probably without the four-wheel-drive package.”

They both turned and saw the distinctive, boxy form of a Toyota FJ cruiser.

Metcalf shook his head. “Incredible.”

“No big deal. But if it had been from a car dealer we didn’t visit today, I might have been out of luck.”

“We should hit those other dealers sometime to round out your repertoire. You never know when it could come in handy.”

“This isn’t my day job, Metcalf. I’d actually be happier if it never came in handy.”

He laughed. “Nah, I don’t believe that. You have a gift. It would be like Superman deciding that journalism is his true calling, or Batman thinking that his life’s work is really dating supermodels and making money.”

She gazed at him in horror. “Oh, God. You’re a comic-book geek.”

Metcalf smiled. “So everyone who enjoys the art of graphic storytelling is a geek?”

“I knew it! I’ll bet you’re one of those fan boys who takes over the Gaslamp District every summer and goes to Comic-Con.”

“That doesn’t make me a geek.”

“So you do go.” Her face suddenly lit with amusement. “Whoa. I just got a mental image of you wearing a brightly colored Spandex costume with big boots, cape flowing behind you…”

“I don’t wear a costume.”

“Do the people at your office know?”

“Of course they know. I have to take off work.”

“You actually take off work?”

He shrugged. “Don’t want to miss anything.”

“Be honest. You tell your fellow agents that you’re away on an annual fishing trip with your college buddies, don’t you?”

“I’m not discussing this anymore.”

“Aw, come on,” she urged teasingly.

“Nope. You obviously have no respect for the artistry and economy of storytelling in the modern graphic novel.”

Her smile faded. “I’m only kidding, Metcalf. You have the right to your opinion and to enjoy life in any way you choose. I admire you. I respect the fact that you’re reaching out for what makes you happy. I hope you keep on doing it.”

“Oh, I will.” His eyes were twinkling. “It keeps me young. You ought to come with me to the next Comic-Con.” He paused, then added slyly, “Ma’am.”

“Low blow. I might just—” She stopped as Metcalf’s mobile phone rang.

“This is probably Griffin,” he said as he pulled the phone from his pocket.

“You don’t have John Williams’s Superman theme as your ringtone?” she asked solemnly.

“Not during work hours.” He strolled a few steps away and answered his phone. After less than a minute, he returned to her. “Are you up to a meeting at the FBI field office?”

“Now?”

“Yes. That was Griffin as I thought. They have an idea how the killer knew where you were going last night.” He moved toward the car. “You’ll probably want to be part of this.”