With Open Eyes by Iris Johansen, Roy Johansen Page B

been doing, but you probably already knew in the first twenty seconds. Tell me.”
    “Janet, I don’t see why I should waste your time—”
    “I need to know I didn’t come here for nothing. Tell me .”
    Kendra sighed. “You’re still volunteering at the ballet, but for some reason you’ve been focusing on the American Ballet Theatre instead of the San Diego Ballet Company, even though it meant driving all the way down to Costa Mesa every night when they were in town last week. And you did drive down there five nights in a row when they were performing Giselle, didn’t you?”
    Janet stared at her for a long moment. “Okay, that’s amazing, even for you.”
    “And even though you were upset and spent the morning staking out the police station, you didn’t come right here, did you? You still pulled it together enough to go to work and teach a swimming class this afternoon.”
    “There was no one else qualified to fill in. The kids would have been disappointed.”
    “Of course they would. I would have been when I was your student. And you’re still fond of those overpriced coffee drinks. You had one on your way over here.”
    Janet brushed her lapel. “Don’t tell me I spilled some on myself.”
    “Not a drop. But it’s possible you may have spilled some on the seat of your new Volkswagen Bug.” Kendra pointed to a yellow VW parked just a few feet away. “That one. Nice car. It suits you.”
    Janet smiled for the first time since confronting Kendra. “There must be fifty cars in this lot. How did you know it was mine?”
    “Modern-day VW’s have a unique fob that swings out the ignition key with the press of a button, kind of like a switchblade knife.”
    “But you couldn’t see it. It’s been in my sweater pocket the whole time.”
    “Along with your hand. You’ve opened and closed it a few times since we’ve been sitting here. Nervous habit? I couldn’t see it, but I could hear it. It’s a very distinctive sound. There’s only one Volkswagen in this entire lot, so that has to be yours.” Kendra pointed to the car. “I see five parking stubs on your dashboard with Segerstrom Center for the Arts clearly printed at the top of each. None show a great deal of sun fading, meaning that they were put there recently, no more than a week or so, and probably on consecutive days, since there is some variation, but not a lot, in the fading between the various tickets. I happen to know that ABT’s production of Giselle played there Tuesday through Saturday last week, so it wasn’t a great leap to figure that your volunteer work has recently been centered in Costa Mesa.”
    “And the swimming class? My hair is dry.”
    “It is. But I can still smell the chlorine. It’s kind of hard to miss even after you’ve shampooed. I have fond memories of that school’s over-chlorinated pool.”
    “What about my iced coffee? Was that just a guess?”
    “They’re all guesses. I work the odds based on my observations.” Kendra pointed back to the trash can next to the building entrance. “There’s a clear coffee drink cup in the trash over half full of ice with no trace of any melting, meaning that the last of the liquid had been slurped up just seconds earlier. I didn’t see anyone entering the building or leaving the parking lot, so I’m thinking it was yours.”
    Janet nodded. “You never disappoint, Kendra. It doesn’t surprise me that the police come to you for help.”
    “But I’m not a cop. I’ve helped the FBI on a few cases, but my work is in this building, helping people and doing academic research. I don’t want to be anything but a music therapist.”
    “I know, and believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I had any idea where else to go. If the police won’t help me, what else can I do?”
    Kendra stared at Janet for a long moment. She resented the intrusion that her occasional investigative work made in her life, but this was different. Janet was a friend, and she was clearly distraught.