Flashback, p.1
Flashback, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © by IJ Development and Roy Johansen
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Johansen, Iris, author. | Johansen, Roy, author.
Title: Flashback / Iris Johansen, Roy Johansen.
Description: First edition. | New York : Grand Central Publishing, 2024. | Series: Kendra Michaels series ; book 11
Identifiers: LCCN 2023054970 | ISBN 9781538726266 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781538726280 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction) | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3560.O275 F63 2024 | DDC 813/.54—dc23/eng/20231213
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023054970
ISBNs: 978-1-5387-2626-6 (hardcover), 978-1-5387-6650-7 (large print trade), 978-1-5387-2628-0 (ebook)
E3-20240320-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Discover More
About the Authors
Also by Iris & Roy Johansen (In Order of Publication)
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PROLOGUE
Is my mommy dead?”
San Diego police detective Paula Chase looked at the two little girls in her rearview mirror. The question had come from eleven-year-old Chloe Morgan, who was in the backseat with her nine-year-old sister, Sloane.
Paula exchanged glances with her partner, Detective Todd Williams, who was in the passenger seat. They were in her car riding to a popular walking trail in Tecolote National Park.
“No, honey,” she said gently. “We haven’t seen anything to make us think that happened to your mother. What makes you ask that?”
Chloe shrugged. “That’s what Aria Watkins said in school today. She said our mommy was dead and no one wanted to tell us the truth. I got in a fight with her after she said that. That’s why I was in detention when you picked us up.”
Paula sighed. As if these poor girls hadn’t been through enough. Their mother had disappeared four days before, while exercising in her wheelchair on this park nature trail. Her Toyota Sienna van was found on an adjacent gravel parking lot, but so far there had been no trace of Alyssa Morgan.
Until an hour ago.
Maybe.
Williams turned to face the girls. “Don’t listen to Aria Watkins or anyone else about your mother. They don’t know sh—” He stopped himself before completing the expletive. Paula smiled. Williams was obviously as angry as she was.
He took another moment to compose himself. “Just know we have a lot of people working on this. We’re doing everything we can to bring your mom home, okay?”
Sloane looked around at the wooded park. “Why are we here? This is where Mommy likes to ride.”
“We know. We need you to look at something for us.”
This appeared to unsettle both girls. Paula had been afraid it might. “What is it?” Chloe asked.
Paula hesitated a long moment before answering. “It’s a wheelchair.”
Both girls gasped. Sloane began to cry.
“We don’t know if it’s your mom’s,” Paula added quickly. “It looks like it might be from the photos we have, but we can’t tell for sure. That’s what we need you for.”
While this information only caused Sloane to crumble further, Chloe’s face tightened into a determined expression. It was a strength Paula had observed in her first interviews with the girls. “Where is it?” Chloe asked.
“Up ahead. Some hikers found it in the middle of the trail.”
Chloe shook her head. “But we looked there. We looked everywhere around here.”
“We know. We looked, too. Our department has combed this trail from one end to the other. I guarantee you, that wheelchair was not there before today.”
“But why would it be here now?” Chloe said.
Williams shrugged. “I don’t know. Somebody might be playing a sick prank. Pictures of your mom in her wheelchair have been all over the news these past few days. That’s why we need you to look at it for us. Okay?”
Chloe grasped her sister’s hand tightly and nodded. “Yes.”
They parked in the same gravel lot where the woman’s van had been found, then trudged up the path that had consumed so much of their attention in the past few days. Soon they were greeted by the sight of several uniformed officers, a pair of forensics specialists, and several yards of yellow police tape.
One of the officers stepped aside to reveal an ultralight manual wheelchair.
The girls froze for a long moment, transfixed by the sight.
Paula turned toward them. “What do you think? Have you seen it before?”
Chloe and Sloane didn’t answer. They stepped forward as a hush fell over the group. The investigators backed away, clearing a path to the chair. Chloe and Sloane approached and knelt beside it, still mesmerized. Sloane reached out, but Paula gently pulled back her arm. “Please don’t touch it, honey. It’s evidence.”
Sloane looked up. “It’s my mom’s chair.”
“Are you sure?”
Chloe pointed to tiny lightning bolt decals on the left and right footrests. “Mom loves Harry Potter. She put these here herself. And these blue scratches on the handles came from our front railing at home. This chair is hers.”
Paula flinched and then nodded. “Okay.” She spoke to her partner. “Let’s make sure our teams go over this whole trail again, Williams. Maybe somebody saw this chair being moved out here today. If so, there’s a chance—”
Everyone was suddenly looking behind her. She turned to see a grim-faced uniformed officer climbing through a clump of brush and back onto the trail. “Detectives… You should take the girls away now.”
“No! Why?” Chloe screamed as she jumped to her feet. “Why do we have to leave her? I have to find my mom!”
Detective Williams put his hand gently on Chloe’s shoulder. “Let’s get back to the car and let these people do their work.”
Chloe broke free and bolted toward the brush. “Mom!”
The uniformed officers rushed toward the girl and tried to block her path, but Chloe bent over and dove into the brush. Williams grabbed her ankles at the last second and pulled her back. She was still screaming and crying as he carried her back toward her sister.
Paula looked at the faces of the officers coming back from the other side of the hill. Grimmer than grim. Shit.
She pushed through the brush and looked down the ridge.
There, hanging from an oak tree, was the body of Alyssa Morgan. Her hands and feet were bound by the same green-and-white nautical rope used to wrap around her neck and the highest tree branch.
Paula turned away. In her years on the force, she’d seen more than her fair share of monsters. But with this poor woman’s little girls now sobbing less than a hundred yards away, she was sickened in a way most of the others couldn’t touch.
She sat on a large rock at the ridge’s edge. And rocked herself back and forth. “Jesus,” she whispered. “Dear Lord Jesus.”
CHAPTER
1
FIFTEEN YEARS LATER
Kendra Michaels looked at the sea of faces in f
“You want to hear some music?” She smiled at the group.
No reaction.
She smiled again. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She began playing Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons’ “December, 1963” on her keyboard. Aside from rhythmic swaying from a few staff members, there was still zero reaction from the crowd.
Kendra wasn’t surprised. She was a music therapist with a successful practice in San Diego, and she’d seen the same response—or lack thereof—literally thousands of times. Much of her academic research focused on the ability of music to reach and help certain patients form connections with the outside world. She’d had greater success with younger subjects, particularly autistic children, but she had recently begun a promising study involving elderly patients in advanced stages of dementia. Unfortunately, none of the seniors in front of her were exhibiting any positive signs of—
Wait.
In the second row, a woman in a floral sweater began to bob her head in time with the music.
Don’t get too excited, Kendra told herself. The woman might just be drifting off to sleep.
No. She was listening.
And feeling it.
The woman’s eyes opened wider.
And was that… a smile?
Kendra smiled back and raised the keyboard’s volume. Staff members smiled and gestured toward the woman, obviously surprised and pleased at her engagement.
But her attention faded after a couple of minutes, and despite Kendra’s best efforts to re-engage with her, the woman never responded to the twenty minutes of music that followed.
Kendra concluded her mini-concert, and the staff began the process of moving the residents away from the area.
Bill Dillingham stepped toward her. He was in his late eighties, and he looked elegant with his stylish slacks, well-coiffed hair, and neatly trimmed silver mustache. “Tough crowd.”
She hugged him. “Good to see you, Bill. Just so you know, I wasn’t here to entertain them.”
He chuckled. “That was painfully obvious.”
“You know why I’m here. And I appreciate your helping arrange it.”
“It was my pleasure, Kendra. You seemed to be reaching Sophie for a minute there.”
“The woman in the floral-print sweater? You know her?”
“No, I can’t say I do. As you can imagine, our dementia residents keep pretty much to themselves. They live in a different building from the rest of us. But an orderly told me that he hasn’t seen her so responsive to anything since she’s been here.”
Kendra unplugged her keyboard and wrapped the power cord around a spindle. “That’s nice to hear. I’d like to do some follow-ups with her. I’ll speak with her family about it.”
“I’m sure they’ll be glad to hear from you.”
“Hard to say. If a patient is here in that wing, the family has probably already given up hope that they can improve. With good reason, most likely. But even if I can’t help them, they can help add to the body of research that my colleagues and I can use to help others. That may not be good enough reason for them. I spend a lot of my time with this, believe me.”
“I believe you.”
Kendra smiled as Bill greeted several others as they walked past. He was obviously one of the institution’s most popular residents, which didn’t surprise her a bit. He was a gregarious, charming man who liked to tell stories from his colorful career as a sketch artist with the San Diego Police Department. But he was also a wonderful listener, a major reason he’d been so good at his job.
She slid her keyboard into its long vinyl sleeve. “How about I take you to lunch, Bill? I know a good restaurant near here.”
“Sounds fun. But there’s something I need to talk to you about first.”
“Sure.”
“You’re not gonna like it.”
She put down her keyboard and turned toward him. “Well, that sounds ominous.”
“It isn’t. Not really. I just know how you feel about investigative work.”
“Oh, no.”
“Sorry, kid. You have a gift, so you shouldn’t be surprised when people ask you to use it.”
“A gift? Sometimes it feels more like a curse.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?”
He nodded. “I know you better than that, my dear. Think of all the people you’ve helped. And I’m not talking about the police departments and the FBI. I’m talking about the lives you’ve saved.”
A voice came from behind Kendra. “He’s right, isn’t he?”
She turned to see a woman in her mid-sixties stepping toward her. She extended her hand to Kendra. “Detective Paula Chase, San Diego PD, retired. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kendra.”
Kendra shook hands with her and turned back to Bill. “You didn’t tell me I was walking into an ambush here.”
“Detective Chase is an old friend of mine,” Bill said. “There’s something I thought maybe you could help her with.”
Paula smiled at Kendra. “And even if you can’t, I knew I’d enjoy meeting someone I’ve heard so much about.”
“From Bill?”
“From Bill, from my other former colleagues, from everyone. How could I not? It’s an impressive story. You were blind for the first twenty years of your life, and after you gained your sight thanks to a surgical procedure, you still had all those other senses you’d improved during your years as a sightless person.”
“You do know my story,” Kendra said. “But I honestly don’t think my senses are better than anyone else’s. Like all blind people, I just learned to pay attention to what my senses of hearing, smell, touch, and taste told me about the world. It’s not something I’d ever forget how to do just because I’m fortunate enough to see now.”
Paula nodded. “But from what I understand, you’re now also extremely observant about things you see.”
“I guess that’s because sight is such a wonderful gift to me. I don’t take anything I see for granted, so I’m constantly absorbing and processing whatever passes in front of me.” Kendra shrugged. “Again, I think it’s a natural response.”
“Interesting,” Paula said. “I suppose all this is what makes you such an amazing investigator. I know the FBI has tried to get you to join their ranks, and I’m sure the SDPD would love to have you on their payroll.”
Kendra laughed. “Depends on who you talk to. A few people there would be happy never to see me again.”
“Only the insecure ones,” Bill said. “There’s a reason why Kendra is brought in to consult on the tough cases. Which is why I wanted you two to speak.”
Kendra turned back toward Paula. “But you said you were retired. Are you a private investigator now?”
Paula rolled her eyes. “Lord, no. When I say I’m retired, I’m most definitely retired.”
“So what’s this about?”
Paula took a deep breath before launching into it. “You probably would have been a teenager at the time… But have you heard of the Bayside Strangler?”
Kendra thought for a moment. “Sounds familiar, but I honestly don’t have any real memory of that.”
“You’re not alone. It was fifteen years ago, and most people have forgotten about it. The Bayside Strangler was a serial killer who murdered five women in a four-month period, all just south of downtown San Diego. Not all of them were near the bay, but the name stuck.”
“The case was unsolved?”
“Yes, unfortunately. It was my case, and I eventually led the task force.”
“Ah. Needless to say, you’ve never forgotten.”
The years of pain were suddenly etched on Paula’s face. “No, never. Not for a single day.”
“I can imagine.”
“Anyway, the FBI had just started to get involved when the murders stopped. The profilers thought the killer might have moved, gone to prison for something else, or died himself. It’s rare that a serial killer can just stop and lead a normal life for the rest of his days. We continued to investigate, of course, but the case just went cold. The task force was disbanded, and we moved on to other things.”
