The Memory Collector by Meg Gardiner Read Free Book Online

garbage cans in which stray dogs foraged. The street didn’t have a neighborhood watch. It was a place where nobody cared. And nobody would take notice of temporary tenants coming and going.
    The door from the house opened and Ken Meiring pushed into the garage. Gauze circled his overmuscled forearm, covering the bloody bite Seth Kanan’s dog had inflicted. Ken’s face was red, all the way into his crew cut. The acne that ringed his neck stood out like plague buboes. If the guy didn’t lose some weight and cut down his steroid dosage, he was going to give himself a stroke.
    Murdock walked to a cabinet along the wall. “Got news that’ll lower your blood pressure.”
    “Go ahead, Dirty Harry—make my goddamned day.”
    Murdock ignored the mockery. So he wasn’t a San Francisco cop anymore—he was entitled to wear the SFPD T-shirt until it fell apart.
    “You don’t complain about the parting gifts I brought with me from the department,” he said.
    He opened the cabinet. It was stocked with goodies he had liberated from police custody, including plastic handcuffs, CS gas, and a handy nightstick. He set a box of nine-millimeter ammunition inside, next to his pistol.
    Ken grunted. “Fine, sprinkle pixie dust on my mood.”
    “He’s here.”
    Ken’s eyebrows rose.
    “Came in on a Virgin Atlantic flight this morning.” Murdock smiled, exposing his small teeth. “We’re back in business.”
    “You positive?”
    Outside, the Caltrain lumbered down the tracks. The bare lightbulb that hung from the roof of the garage jittered. Ken stared at Murdock like he was watching the light reflect off Murdock’s shaven head.
    Murdock’s smile receded. “You should really have more faith in me, Ken. The deal is back on track.”
    “When?”
    Murdock locked the cabinet. “Patience.”
    “Patience is dangerous. Kanan is a wild card.”
    Murdock turned, stepped close, and lowered his voice. “But we hold all the aces.”
    Ken slowly, gradually, nodded. Murdock stepped back.
    “You need to expand your horizons,” he said. “This isn’t like hijacking a truck full of restricted electronic gear. This is the big leagues. Mergers and acquisitions, Ken.”
    Ken looked unconvinced.
    “Acquisition, anyhow,” Murdock said. He took out his phone. “And we have a monetary wizard setting up the next phase.”
    “That who you calling?”
    Murdock smiled again. His gums made a wet sound. “The sales department.”
    As he listened to the phone ring, he slapped Ken on the back. “Get yourself geared up. Kanan’s bringing back liquid lightning. Enough to shock the whole world.”
    Ken eyed him. “Maybe. But we have to get it from him.”

    Jo walked toward the E.R. with Simioni, flipping through Ian Kanan’s passport and wallet. The passport showed visits to Jordan, Israel, South Africa, Zimbabwe, and Zambia, all stamped within the past two weeks. His driver’s license listed a home address near Golden Gate Park. A corporate photo I.D. said IAN KANAN, CHIRA-SAYF INCORPORATED, SANTA CLARA . Silicon Valley, she suspected.
    Simioni had a printout of Kanan’s MRI. Jo knew it would hit Kanan like a hammer blow.
    As a forensic psychiatrist, she mercifully avoided dropping doom on people. She analyzed the dead for the police—she didn’t break bad news. Not anymore. Not since the moment she’d told her mother- and father-in-law their son was dead.
    She knocked and went through the door into the E.R. room. Kanan was pacing by the window, phone pressed to his ear. He was dressed in his street clothes. He looked like a penned animal.
    “Misty, I’m back, babe. I’m on my way.”
    The door clicked shut. Kanan turned, saw Jo and Simioni, and hung up. He extended his hand. “Ian Kanan. Doc, give me the word—what’s happening? Because I need to leave.”
    Simioni hesitated, comprehended that Kanan didn’t remember him, and shook. “Rick Simioni. I’m the neurologist who sent you for the MRI.”
    Kanan frowned. “MRI?”
    Jo