Page 26 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Jake stood in front of the digital murder board on I-squared’s otherwise unadorned walls. There was a lot of text, a lot of pictures, a number of maps. Some sketches.

Nothing was proving helpful, though.

Sanchez disconnected a call. “Not having much luck with Lauren Brock.”

The elusive sister of the victim at the Hollywood Crest.

They had gotten pertinent information about her from Allison and Ben, Anthony’s best man. Lauren worked as a bookkeeper at an automotive parts supplier in San Fernando Valley. She rented a small house in Van Nuys, a modest region of LA, also in the Valley.

Sanchez continued, “Her boss said she called in the day after Anthony’s death to tell him she was taking the week off. He advised her to use as much time as she needed. He didn’t say anything about substance issues, and I didn’t mention it.

“Sheriff’s deputies stopped by her place, but nobody was home. And the neighbors hadn’t seen her since the weekend. I tried the rehab center Anthony put her in, but she’s not there and hasn’t been in touch.”

Jake sighed. “Hate to picture her with a bottle or a bunch of dirty needles, holed up in some sleazy motel.”

“Tough, yeah.”

He noticed her face had stilled and wondered where her thoughts were.

The answer—possible answer—came a moment later. “I’m going to see Frank.”

They’d gotten no updates on Tandy’s condition.

“Sure. Give him my best.”

“Will do.”

After she’d left, Jake gave one last look at the uncooperative murder board and sat down at his workstation.

Sanchez’s comment brought to mind the phone call that made him swap tasks with the detective in the park north of Cedar Hills Cemetery—the call that had saved Jake from a vicious stabbing and maybe death.

The buzzing of his cell phone pulled his mind from dark thoughts. He glanced at the caller ID, smiled and tapped the screen.

“Uncle Jake!”

His niece’s cheerful voice always lifted his spirits. “Hey. I got your message.”

Julia Heron—his brother Rudy’s daughter—was presently in his apartment in the Bay Area. He was letting her stay there, as he had relocated temporarily to Southern California to take on the assignment with I-squared.

“I’m glad you called back,” she said.

He looked at his phone’s screen, taking in the miniature image of a slender woman in her twenties, with freckled cheeks.

Julia was on the other end of FaceTime—only it wasn’t FaceTime because Jake would never ever conduct a conversation on a commercial app.

Madness. He used a video comm app of his own making.

With pixie-cut blonde hair (the opposite of Jake’s and Rudy’s—shades could apparently skip generations), intense blue eyes and gray, logo-free hoodie, she looked every inch the earnest, no-nonsense grad student.

In truth, those days were behind her, having graduated early from Stanford with degrees in computer science and electrical engineering and—because why not? —fine arts.

Her message, which had derailed his trip back to the cemetery to interview Sylvie, was both simple and earth-shattering—to Jake, at least.

Your mom came here to your apartment. I wasn’t home. She left a security cam message. Wants to talk to you.

His mother.

Returning as if from the dead.

“Did she contact your dad?” Jake asked. His brother was currently in Africa on business.

Julia shook her head. “I asked him, but he hadn’t heard from her. I think it’s only you she wants to see.”

“Play it.”

His niece was sitting at his desk, dominated by several large monitors. Behind, unseen from this angle, was a beautiful view of the bay, with Alcatraz as the focal point. Jake rarely looked that way. Scenery didn’t interest him.

Julia entered a few commands on the keyboard and the security cam video appeared on the biggest screen. She turned her camera lens toward it.

Jake was taken aback by the sight of his mother.

Lydia Heron appeared gaunt, pale and somber, and the high-definition video revealed her to be makeup-free.

She was in a floral dress, the sort of garment he associated with Amish teachers, though he had never seen one in person.

The burgundy-and-black frock had a high collar and was accessorized with several prominent necklaces.

Her head was covered in a dark-brown ski cap, which unsettled him.

Mothers should not wear such things unless they were skiing.

Her voice was both familiar and eerily alien. “Jacoby ... Jake, it’s me.” A pause. “It’s been so long ... I know. Life has been so crazy. In so many ways ... but I want to see you. It’s important.” Then peering closer into the lens: “Are you there, Jake?”

She hit the door buzzer button again.

A moment later she did something curious. As he watched, she looked around, slowly pivoting in a 360-degree circle, then going back for a second glance up the street in both directions.

Her body language and her face, when she returned to the camera, radiated fear. Was she being followed? Was she in danger?

One more press of the button. “Jake, please ...”

A huge interval passed, though the time stamp revealed it was a mere ten seconds. “I’ll come back, Jacoby. I love you.”

Then she was gone.

Julia said, “I didn’t recognize her at first. I haven’t seen her since I was little.”

His parents, Lydia and Gary Heron, had not been fixtures in the extended family for ages.

His niece’s brow furrowed. “How do you think she found your address? You told me it was super secret.”

The ownership of his apartment was hidden in layers of corporations and trusts, which Jake himself owned. Completely legal.

And not a foolproof way to disappear.

“Mother’s brilliant. The smartest one in the family. If she wanted to find me, she’d find me.”

He didn’t add the obvious—that she clearly hadn’t wanted to before now.

Julia winked. “So that’s where you and Dad got your brains.”

This was probably true, though their intelligence was different in kind: Rudy was an owl. Jake was a fox.

“Uncle Jake, did she ever consider going into computer science? Or was she just interested in doing good? At that nonprofit she and your dad worked for.”

“The nonprofit,” Jake answered. And he didn’t elaborate.

“I remember they didn’t come by during Christmas or other holidays very much. Always out helping the homeless.”

“That’s right.”

Doing good . . .

“Wouldn’t she leave a number?”

“You’d think.”

“Well, I guess you can get in touch with her through the foundation, the nonprofit, right?”

“Yes. I have their information.”

She asked, “And where is it, exactly?”

“North of San Francisco.”

“Cool! Wine country?” Julia said this wistfully. “Miss seeing you, Uncle Jake. When are you coming back to the Bay Area?”

“Don’t know how long this project will last. But, yeah, miss you too.”

Julia had always been a favorite. They understood each other and spoke the same language—English, as well as C++ and JavaScript.

He noted now she was wearing the present he’d designed especially for her: a gold reproduction of the very first microchip in history, made in 1958 by a Texas Instruments engineer, Jack Kilby.

It faithfully re-created the exact location of the transistors on the original.

Curiously, owing to complications at the time, it had been Carmen Sanchez who had played Santa on his behalf.

“Hey, Uncle Jake, got a question.”

“Sure. What?”

“Have you asked out Agent Sanchez yet?”

This was the last thing he’d expected. “ What? ”

“I think you should. I like her.”

Twice in one day. What the hell?

“We’re colleagues. That’s all. It never ends well when work partners start dating. And, anyway, didn’t your dad tell you? I don’t date. Don’t have time. Maybe someday—”

“You’re rambling, Uncle Jake. People ramble when they want to deflect the conversation. Okay, I’ll consider myself deflected—for now.” A laugh. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The memory of the phone call ended, and his eyes once more took in the murder board. Julia’s call—and his personal life—were now distant memories, and hardly even those. A killer roamed the streets of Los Angeles.

And it was time to stop him. Whatever it took.