I'll Be Watching You

Chapter Two

Adriana hugged her elbows, feeling cold and almost painfully brittle, as if someone had opened her up and exposed her insides to the world. “You don’t think it’s just a prank?” she said into the phone. To tell the truth, she didn’t think it was just a prank, but something in her was holding on to that idea all the same, with the desperation of a shipwreck victim clinging to a piece of driftwood.

“No, I don’t,” Liz replied softly. “I was there, remember?”

The day Addy had lost James wasn’t one she could easily forget. But while her experience had been confined to getting the long-dreaded visit from a cop who wasn’t her fiancé, Liz’s had been far more physically painful. James had been shot in the line of duty while pursuing a killer, and Liz had been right beside him when it had happened. James’s murderer had taken Liz hostage for several hours, an experience she never talked about, which had landed her in the hospital for over a week. If the rumors were true, her clothes concealed some nasty knife-wound scars.

Addy looked to her right, where the ocean was barely visible between two of her neighbors’ houses. She could just glimpse a tiny corner of the sharp rocks that lined their portion of the beach, around which the cold sea boiled and churned, filled with riptides ready to drag down anything that fell into it.

Elijah Carter, aka The Surgeon—the man who’d killed James, who’d nearly killed Liz—had fallen into that water, in his final confrontation with the FBI and Monterey PD. His body had never been found.

“He couldn’t have survived, could he?” she asked, not taking her eyes off that sliver of blue-gray. In all the years that she’d lived on Monterey’s Mermaid Point, she’d never heard of someone falling into that water, and living.

Liz didn’t answer, and Addy’s vision blurred, until all she could see was the mental image of James as he was in the photo lying beside her. His cheek pressed into the wood-chip-lined ground, his glasses half off his face, one lens cracked in a spiderweb pattern, the rumpled brown hair she’d loved to smooth off his forehead partially obscuring his unfocused stare. He’d been breathing just seconds before that picture had been taken. She knew it. He’d been alive, and somewhere across town she’d been coming home after a day at work, engaged and in love. She’d been happy.

“Why?” The word came out broken, and sounding so lonely and scared, she wanted to take it back as soon as she’d said it.

“I don’t know, Addy. I’m so sorry.”

Wanting to get as far from Mermaid Point as she could, Addy said goodbye to Liz, who promised to wrap up her work at whatever scene she was at to meet her at the studio. Calling ahead to ask her office manager to cancel her classes for the day, Addy didn’t stop driving until she reached the bustling street. She pulled into the little parking lot behind her studio and took the keys out of the ignition.

And then found herself unable to get out of the car.

If he survived the fall off those rocks…

The thought of leaving the Scion and walking out into the wide-open street where anyone could see her made her stomach clench. He could be anywhere. He could be watching her. She glanced at the piece of paper lying facedown on the passenger seat. Who else but the man who murdered James could have taken that photo?

The man who got off on torturing women. The man who’d stalked and nearly killed two of her friends.

She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror, all too aware of just how neatly she fit The Surgeon’s victim profile: unmarried students or working women in their twenties and thirties, with dark hair, who live alone.

All alone.

Someone tapped on the driver’s-side window, and she jerked backward in her seat. Her hand flew to her mouth to muffle her instinctive shout.

One of her students. Stan, an inexperienced yoga practitioner who’d just started coming to her beginner class a few weeks ago. Forcing a smile, which made her skin feel too tight and her jaw ache, she rolled down her window.

“Hey, Stan.”

He shoved his overly long hair out of his eyes and smiled shyly at her, revealing a slight gap between his two front teeth. One of them looked slightly gray and off-kilter, as if it had been knocked out in the past and then haphazardly glued back into his mouth. “Hi, Addy.”

She waited for him to let her know what he wanted, but when he remained silent—for far longer than was socially acceptable—she grabbed her bags and the stupid note and busied herself with getting out of the car. As his yoga instructor, she was probably supposed to be radiating Zenlike patience, but something about Stan had rankled from the first day he’d walked into her studio. For one thing, she’d never asked him to call her Addy—most of her students called her Adriana.

“Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, I just saw you coming, and I thought I’d wait for you.” He nervously fingered the hem of his gray T-shirt, which hung a little too high over his tight bicycle shorts to be flattering. “To walk to class together, you know.”

Deep breath. Maybe as Terri, the office manager, often pointed out, the more difficult students who came their way were secret bodhisattvas, put on earth to teach everyone patience. And really, Stan wasn’t the worst they’d ever had—just a little socially awkward.

Slamming the door shut, she pressed the button on her key fob to lock the doors. Twice, just in case. “I’m sorry, didn’t Terri put up a sign yet? I’m having to cancel classes today.”

“Ohhhh. Oh, yeah. Umm.”

His stuttered reply gave her the distinct feeling that Terri had put up a sign and he’d seen it. But she pushed the thought out of her mind—she was just being paranoid. She’d read about conditions like Asperger’s where people had trouble reading social cues—Stan probably deserved patience, not condemnation.

Slinging her bags over her shoulder, she started walking toward the studio, and he fell into step beside her.

“Well, um…”

“I’m really sorry,” she said. “I have an emergency I’m having to deal with. We’ll add a free class to your prepaid schedule to make up for it. I know how I feel when I have to miss my morning yoga.” She gave a laugh that had been an attempt at being pleasant, but sounded hollow and artificial even to her ears.

“Sure, thanks, uh…”

She felt a rush of relief when they turned the corner onto Cannery Row and were suddenly playing Dodge the Tourists. Crowds. Crowds were good. Resurrected serial killers would have a hard time coming after her in a big crowd. She stopped underneath the hand-painted sign for her Laughing Lotus Yoga Studio and scanned the busy street, but she saw no evidence of Liz’s car.

When she turned toward the studio, she saw that Stan had planted himself in front of the doorway, where he was simply watching her with wide, staring blue eyes.

“Do you have a question for me, Stan?” His eyes were a nice blue. A perfectly normal shade of blue with the slightest smile lines at the corners. There was nothing wrong with him—no reason for him to be setting off her alarm bells this way.

Nerves. It’s just nerves.

“No—well, yes, actually, but it’s not about yoga.” Interrupting himself with a loud sigh, Stan rolled his eyes skyward. “Say it. Just say it. You can say it.”

Her eyes flicked back to the street, and as the silence stretched between them, she willed Liz’s car to appear. “Uh, Stan?”

“Would you go out with me? This Saturday, maybe? There’s a great little ice cream shop in Carmel, and we could walk on the beach afterward, and I’ll pick you up at one, if that’s okay with you.” He skimmed his hand along his hip bone during his entire nervous, rapidfire monologue, as if trying to shove his fingers into a pocket that wasn’t there. “I mean, if it’s not too drizzly on the beach. It always seems to rain on the public-access parts even when the rest of the area is sunny—”

“I’m seeing someone,” she blurted, cringing inwardly at the lie.

She should have known. Ever since James had died, shy, awkward men had come out from every corner of Monterey to ask her out, as if sensing that something was slightly off-kilter inside her, too. But she wasn’t socially awkward—she just didn’t want to socialize. She didn’t want to go out on dates, she didn’t want to go shopping with friends, she barely wanted to go to work in the morning. It all seemed so superficial and…unfair, since James couldn’t do any of it anymore. Maybe that’s why she’d upped her class load and spent more of her free time teaching, after selling the clothing boutique she used to own…before. At least teaching made her feel as if she was doing something useful with her life.

“Just as you should be,” Stan murmured to the sidewalk. He shuffled his weight from side to side, his hands moving awkwardly. He really wasn’t bad looking—he had a pleasant face, a healthy head of hair and a fit physique, if a little on the skinny side. But dating wasn’t something she did anymore—she just couldn’t drum up the energy to be attracted to someone.

“I’m sorry.” She really was. And now she knew why Stan had made her uneasy—she must’ve known at some unconscious level that they would be having this uncomfortable conversation soon.

He nodded several times, opening his mouth once to respond and then closing it again. Still nodding, he started ambling down the street. A few seconds later, he turned around and came back to stand beside her.

“I’m sorry to put you in that position.” He waved off her reflexive denial. “I don’t want my being in your class to get strange. It’s just…” His gaze darted across the street, and he shrugged. “My mother is in the hospital. They think she might be dying this time, and I just feel peaceful when I’m around you.” He looked back at the blue-and-green sign hanging over the studio door, showing a laughing woman sitting cross-legged and holding a lotus. “I bet you have that effect on a lot of people.”

She was officially a monster. The poor guy’s mother was dying, and she’d been acting all uncomfortable just because he’d paid her the compliment of asking her out. “I’m so sorry, Stan. Has she been sick long?” Making a conscious effort to relax her body, she glanced down at her hands to discover she’d woven her fingers through her set of keys while they’d been talking, so a key stuck straight out between each pair—instant brass knuckles.

Stan didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah. She had cancer a while back, and now it’s in her lungs. They told her she has about a month left.”

“I’m sorry.” What do you say to something like that without resorting to clichés and stale platitudes? She couldn’t even imagine going through what the poor guy was dealing with, as her own parents were strong and healthy. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Instead of replying, Stan suddenly lifted his arm in the air to flag a passing taxi. With a murmured goodbye, he got inside, and the cab disappeared down the street.

A few minutes later, Liz screeched into view in her off-duty Dodge Charger, black with dark-tinted windows. Nobody loved an American muscle car better than Liz. Leaning her body against the door, Adriana curled her fingers under its handle, then stopped.

A flash of gray out of the corner of her eye. The sense that someone was staring at her.

Stan was gone—the awkward moment had passed—and yet, something still felt…off, somehow. And all she had to go on to prove it was a feeling. She watched the street, as people strolled in and out of the vibrant little shops and art galleries lining the historic street. Some paused to admire the explosions of flowers planted near curbs and on the road dividers. Many were undoubtedly headed toward the far end of the street, to either visit the famous aquarium or just for a glimpse of Monterey Bay itself. It was a pleasant scene, one straight out of the glossy, free, tourist brochures inside her studio.

And something was so wrong about it all. But what?

Still looking down the street, she opened the door and got into the car.

“S ORRY I’ M LATE ,” a deep voice said to her left, the masculine sound very unlike Liz’s no-nonsense alto.

Whipping her head around in shock, she discovered that Liz wasn’t inside waiting for her…and that she herself wasn’t even in Liz’s car. The sleek black Charger looked exactly like Liz’s from the outside, but the gray interior lacked the crumpled soda cans and ballet and basketball gear her daughters perpetually left inside. Come to think of it, the familiar Truth or D.A.R.E. decal on the rear side window touting the police-run drug education program was also missing. And there was also the small detail that in the driver’s seat, instead of Liz, was a man she hadn’t seen in four years—one she remembered all too well.

“Lieutenant Borkowski sent me,” Detective Daniel Cardenas said without preamble, which was enough to stop her from apologizing and scrambling out of the vehicle.

“You two have the same car,” she replied, immediately wanting to kick herself for sounding so stupid.

“There’s a Dodge dealer in town who likes cops. Nice discounts.” He hit a button on the door armrest, causing all four doors to lock down with a loud thud. “Buckle up.”

She clicked her seat belt into place, knowing that if Liz had sent him, she’d had a good reason for doing so. “So, Detective, you want to tell me why Liz isn’t picking me up herself like she promised?”

“She said she promised you a ride, Ms. Torres,” he said, as unfailingly polite as she remembered. Despite the Latin last name—he was Puerto Rican, she remembered—his English was unaccented, until he said her name with the rolling R and musical tone of a native Spanish speaker.

“Adriana. Or Addy,” she said. He didn’t invite her to call him Daniel—and she knew he wouldn’t. If Cardenas was going to have anything to do with her case, he would keep things professional.

Concentrating intently on the road, he pulled the car away from the curb. He didn’t smile—she couldn’t remember ever having seen him smile—but his face was relaxed, pleasant. “She thought we should talk.”

“Oh?” Obviously, getting information out of Mr. Strong and Silent was going to be about as easy as bathing Liz’s cat. When Cardenas didn’t offer any further information, Adriana sat back in her seat, seeing if waiting patiently would produce some results.

Four years ago, at the age of twenty-eight, Daniel Cardenas had become the youngest detective sergeant in the City of Monterey Police Department’s history, James had told her. Known for his sharpshooting skills and a constant, almost preternatural cool under pressure that had earned him the nickname “The Zen Master,” the quiet detective with a rumored genius-level IQ had a case-solve rate that rivaled the best in the department, including Liz and James.

At one of the police department’s social events, Cardenas’s date had confided to Adriana that she referred to him as “The Kama Sutra Master” with her girlfriends, because “he had really great hands.” Fortunately, Addy had managed to excuse herself before the woman had provided any more details.

He was now dressed in a blue-gray silk tie and a tailored white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His dark gray suit jacket lay abandoned in the backseat, a fact that made her realize she’d never seen him look that rumpled. He’d always been buttoned up, pressed and coolly professional, usually with a pair of mirrored aviators hiding his dark eyes and making him look like Secret Service. Even his short, black hair was cool, the cut a combination of artfully mussed style and low-maintenance casualness that you couldn’t get from a discount barber.

She glanced at his hands, loosely clamped around the steering wheel at three and nine o’clock, the tendons standing out in sharp relief underneath his tanned skin. No rings.

She remembered those hands. They’d held her for hours after he’d come to her door to tell her that James had died in the line of duty. They’d wiped her tears and had dialed the phone to call her family. They’d stroked her hair and had given her something to hold on to when she thought she’d die because it hurt so much. Seeing him again was like a handsome, polite reminder of the worst day of her life.

The car crawled slowly through the tourists on Cannery Row, and since Cardenas seemed more focused on his driving than on enlightening her, she decided to start playing twenty questions. “You’re the one she was telling me about?” she asked, more than a little glad her voice sounded more normal than she felt. “The MPD ‘go-to guy’ on stalking cases?”

A corner of his mouth quirked upward. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was closer than she’d ever seen. Not that they’d crossed paths all that often. “Something like that.”

“But this might be more than just a stalking case.”

He nodded, a small, economic movement, quickly glancing in the rearview mirror before responding further. “I know.”

She turned her face away from him to stare out the window.

Arriving at the Hoffman Avenue intersection in time for a break in the tourists meandering through the crosswalks, Daniel made a sudden left. He followed that with an immediate, sharp right onto Lighthouse that had her grasping for the armrest so she wouldn’t careen into his side. She could have sworn she heard the tires squealing.

As she peeled herself off the door, she noticed he was driving calmly, as if the two Indy 500 turns he’d just made had never happened.

“Uh, Detective,” she said. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

“I like to drive fast.”

Okay, now he was just messing with her. And she was about to let him have it when everything clicked into place—the off-duty car, the rolled-up sleeves, the slightly askew tie.

“This isn’t official is it? You’re off duty.”

“I’m never off duty,” he replied, extremely focused on the road. “But I’m officially on the clock in exactly two minutes, if it makes you feel better.”

“Look. I don’t know what Liz told you, but I don’t need to waste the department’s time—and yours, since you’re not even on the clock at the moment, and I know they just cut the overtime budget because Liz has been ranting about that for weeks.”

Another glance in his mirrors. He slipped a pair of expensive aviators out of his shirt pocket and put them on, hiding his eyes. “You’re not wasting my time, Adriana.”

The rolling R again. She was a native Spanish speaker, and his accent still sounded sexy to her. “I am. I’m not rich or important enough to pull police off the streets—or out of their homes—for my personal protection. We’re not sure that The Surgeon is still alive. Frankly, I don’t see how he could be.” Liar. “Take me back to work, Detective, and then go do whatever it is you need to do for the day.” She just wanted to get out of the car, away from the hot guy with communication problems. Away from the memories he’d brought with him.

“Adriana Maria Imaculata Torres, age thirty-six,” he said, calmly staring at the road. “Parents are Ana Maria and Juan Roberto Torres of Carmel, net worth approximately $1.6 billion, mostly from the sale of the Asilomar Tire Company they inherited in 1972, which had been in the family for approximately three generations. Today the family owns a small vineyard that boasts several award-winning chardonnays and a tragically underrated merlot.”