“None that I know of.”

Emily looked up from her notes. “If you were to guess, where do you think he might go?”

“If he’s not home, he’s usually on the boat. He’s kind of a simple guy.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Tyrone?” Emily said.

“Just that he’s a fine young man.” Lynch was picking at the shredded napkin again.

“Does he own a vehicle?”

“A truck, I think. I don’t know the make.”

“How can I reach you, Mr. Lynch?”

Lynch gave her a number. “Or over at Fisherman’s Wharf, the Miss Monica.”

Emily blinked. “The Miss Monica?”

“Yeah,” Lynch said.

“You have another employee . . . Gunther Mayo?” Emily asked.

“Did. Haven’t seen him in weeks. What’s that got—”

Emily slid the notebook back into her briefcase. She needed to call Wainwright, but she couldn’t do it here in front of Lynch. The guy was alarmed enough already.

“Mr. Lynch, I think you should go home,” she said, rising quickly.

“Home? What—”

“We’ll check it out and call you if we find anything.”

“But—”

Farentino hurried away, hefting her briefcase to her shoulder. As she started to the parking lot, she rummaged through the briefcase for the police radio. She couldn’t find it and stopped short.

“Shit!” she said.

She plunked the briefcase down on the hood of the nearest car and yanked the briefcase wide open, digging for the radio. Finally, her fingers found it and she pulled it out.

Suddenly everything went dark. There was something slick and damp over her head and an arm under her throat. A hand clamped down on her mouth.

Her heart surged up against her sternum. Her hands shot to her face as she tried to claw at the cloth. She twisted, trying to get free, but the hands tightened.

She felt a sudden sharp blow to her head. Her knees buckled and she went out.

Chapter Thirty-five

Louis screeched the cruiser to a stop, grabbed a flashlight, and climbed out. A man standing at the rear of a car came forward as he saw Louis emerge.

“It’s over there,” the man said, pointing.

Louis hurried to the red Honda. He immediately saw Farentino’s briefcase on the hood.

“I didn’t touch it,” the man said quickly, coming up behind him. “I mean, I didn’t move it after I started looking inside for a wallet. As soon as I saw that police radio I called you guys.”

“Did you see anyone?” Louis asked. “A woman, about five-two, red hair—”

But the man was shaking his head. “The lot across the street was full when I got here, so I parked over here. It was deserted when I came out. I figured some broad just left it on my hood and drove off—”

“This Honda is your car?”

The man nodded.

Louis surveyed the area. They were standing in a small parking lot in front of a bait store. There were only two cars in the lot, the red Honda and, about twenty feet away, Farentino’s rental, a black Nissan. The entrance to the Dockside Pub was about thirty yards away, across the street. The pub’s entrance faced the street, but there were no other businesses open and the street was quiet. The pub’s own parking lot was around the side. If someone had been standing in the pub’s lot, they would not have seen what was going on in the lot of the bait shop.

His heart was racing. There was no way Farentino would have left that briefcase. He could hear approaching sirens.

He went quickly to Farentino’s Nissan and shined the light inside. Still locked. He swung the light to the ground, looking for signs of struggle, keys, anything.

He returned to the red Honda, swinging his flashlight over the ground. The beam picked up a flash. Farentino’s glasses on the asphalt, just under the Honda. He gingerly picked them up with his shirttail and placed them on the hood of the Honda next to the briefcase.

The whoop of the sirens became deafening and the lot lit up with whirling lights. Louis looked over to see Lance Mobley bound out of a patrol car and sprint over to Louis. A deputy trailed behind.

“What do we got?” he asked tersely.

“Farentino’s missing.”

“Farentino?”

“The FBI agent.”

Mobley nodded quickly. “How do you know?”

Louis pointed the light at the glasses on the hood. “Those are hers. So’s the briefcase.”

Mobley peered into the open briefcase. Louis saw Wainwright hurrying toward them.

“You got gloves on you?” Louis asked as Wainwright came up to him.

Wainwright pulled a pair of latex gloves from his hind pocket and handed them to Louis.

“You should wait for CSU,” Mobley said.

“We don’t have time,” Wainwright said. “Put the briefcase on the ground, Louis. We need to dust the car.”

The man who had found the briefcase pressed forward. “What? What you going to do to my car?”

“Just look for fingerprints,” Wainwright said. “Please step back, sir.”

“Oh, man . . .”

Louis pulled on the gloves and set the briefcase on the asphalt. He gingerly began going through the briefcase as Wainwright held the flashlight.

“I think she stopped here and set the briefcase down to look for something and that’s when she was abducted,” Louis said.

“Why didn’t he take the briefcase?” Mobley said.

“He didn’t want it. He wanted her,” Louis said.

“That’s her rental,” Wainwright said, pointing to the Nissan. “Why don’t you go check it out, Lance?”

“It’s still locked,” Louis said.

Mobley stared at Wainwright for a moment, then moved away, yelling to his deputy, “Howard, bring me the punch.”

Louis pulled Emily’s wallet out of the briefcase. “Money’s still here,” he said, laying the wallet on the ground. He took out the folders of case files and laid them aside. He set a small makeup bag and a hairbrush next to the files.

“No keys,” he said.

He pulled out a small notepad. It was open, and he scanned the top page. Farentino had tiny, hen-scratch handwriting.

“Dan, shine that here.”

The words jumped out at him. Dockside Inn. George Lynch. Tyrone Heller. Miss Monica. Missing since eight P.M. Twenty-five years old.

“Jesus, Dan,” Louis said. “She was here to meet Lynch.”

“Why?” Wainwright asked.

Louis rose. “I think Lynch called the station to report his crewman missing. Farentino came here to take the report.”

“What the fuck was she doing down here taking a report?”

“Maybe she was just trying to help.”

Wainwright turned away. “Shit . . .”

“Dan,” Louis said, “we have two missing.” When Wainwright looked at him, Louis went on. “This crewman—his name is Tyrone Heller—he’s black.”

Mobley came back. “There’s nothing in the car or trunk.”

“Sheriff,” Louis said, “we need to find a man named George Lynch.”

“Who’s Lynch? A suspect?”

Louis paused just a beat. “Damn it, do you read anything we send over?”

“You badgeless punk,” Mobley said. “I have a hundred men under my command.”

Louis wanted to slug him. “Then fucking use them.”

“What for?” Mobley shouted.

“Lynch is a boat captain. His black crewman is missing. Someone needs to get to Lynch fast.”

“What’s the hurry? If this sicko did this, his crewman is already dead. So’s the woman,” Mobley said.

He snatched his radio from his belt and walked away, barking out commands.

Louis yanked off the latex gloves. He looked at Wainwright and knew he was thinking the same thing. Mobley was right.

Chapter Thirty-six

Blackness. She was floating up from the blackness to consciousness. She opened her eyes. The blackness was still there and she gave a terrified jerk. The thing . . . it was the thing covering her face. The cloth was still there. She could smell its musky odor, and when she drew in a breath, the soft fabric touched her lips.

She became aware of a sharp throbbing in her head, and a faint nausea boiling in her stomach. Her heart was pounding. But she had to stay calm.