Good, comes the response.

She gives Pemberton her full attention again. Tries to see past the muscles, past the facial features. Tries to see what type of man his casual mannerisms suggest. She’s not a gym person, but his workout seems challenging, and he’s not getting tired. He’s barely sweating.

Now and then he pauses to sip water from the bottle he carries in a holster built into his waistband; a waistband that also holds his cell phone and what looks like his wallet. There’s even a pouch big enough for his keys.

Maybe he avoids the locker room. Just like he’s avoiding the crowd at a bigger, trendier, name-brand gym by coming here.

She’s changed positions twice, even pantomimed a phone call, just in case he notices her, by the time she realizes he’s emptied his bottle.

He heads to the nearest water fountain, starts to refill. That’s when something catches his attention, something on one of the TVs. As if in a mild trance, he walks to an empty bicycle in the second row, leans against it as though he’s about to get on, but instead stares up at the row of screens overhead. From her new position, she can barely see his face, but she can see the TVs and their predictable buffet of entertainment options. A reality-TV catfight in a crowded nightclub, a football game, a syndicated cop show she remembers Luanne watching when it was new.

It’s the local newscast that’s caught his attention.

Parked police cars. Shots of bicyclists and hikers entering and exiting the woodsy entrance to some sort of wilderness trail. Shots of local signage: Whiting Ranch Park. And then, as if these details weren’t dread inducing enough, a black-and-white image, taken in a crowded restaurant, of a plain young woman with brown hair and an uneasy smile. The group of friends she’s leaning into, as well as the drink she’s probably holding in one hand, have been cropped out. Then she’s replaced by images of Kelley Sumter and Sarah Pratt. Faces Charlotte last saw on a smaller, grimier TV inside that horrible bar where she almost killed two rapists.

The chyron on-screen confirms her suspicion about the news report.

IS MISSING OC WOMAN THIRD “MASK MAKER” VICTIM?

She steadies herself with a deep breath, reminds herself she’s there to watch Pemberton, not the news. But when she focuses on him, she sees that he’s staring up at the screen like a dog whose owner has a treat in hand.

She changes positions again. Tries for an angle on his face without exposing herself. She finds a reasonably decent one. It gives her a better view of the bike seat, and the hand he’s stroking it with. There’s no better word for what he’s doing. Stroking. Stroking the seat while he gently presses his crotch to the back of it.

Not just pressing, she realizes. Rubbing.

Pemberton seems to realize it at almost the same moment she does; he’s become fully erect in his skintight bike shorts in the middle of a gym while watching a news report about a woman who might have been murdered.

He swallows, glances behind him, and manages to keep his cool as he makes a show of stretching his arms, which gives him an excuse to drive himself against the back of the seat. He’s not trying to cause himself more pleasure; he’s trying for the opposite. Maybe that’s why he’s biting down hard on his lower lip. She can’t tell if any of it works. But at least he’s embarrassed by his display.

At the very least.

Quickly, he turns his back to her, heads in the opposite direction. She figures the hallway he’s turning toward now leads to the locker room. Next to him, there’s a shelf lined with fresh hand towels just like the kind the women on the cardio machines are using to mop their brows. He whips one off without slowing his pace and holds it against his stomach so that it covers his crotch as he walks.

As she heads for the nearest escalator, nausea and dizziness are doing a joint number on her, but she manages to stay upright and text Luke.

Pick me up same spot, she writes.

Then once she hits the sidewalk and takes a deep breath, she adds, It’s him.

37

I didn’t know.

They’re following Pemberton back to his condo, which at this hour of the day, makes her feel like they’re about to be swallowed by the sunset’s blaze.

When did this break? Charley types.

An hour ago, Bailey responds. No word of this at LAPD this weekend. Elle Schaeffer’s only been here a few months. Moved here from Wisconsin. No family in SoCal, and her parents passed away a few years ago. No one reported her missing until Monday when she didn’t show up for work.

Where are you getting this info? she types.

Um. The LA Times website.

The blood left Luke’s cheeks as Charley had described what she saw in the gym.

He’s been silent ever since, his focus on the road, his jaw working as if there’s something stuck in the back of his teeth. Maybe he was just indulging her, holding out hope they were following the wrong guy, and now the reality of this is sinking in.

Pemberton uses his remote to get through the entry gate to his building.

Luke keeps driving, bypasses the spot they parked in that morning, then onto side streets. Meanwhile, the blip indicating the doctor’s motorcycle goes still as he parks.

“If he has someone alive, this changes everything,” Charley finally says.

“It does.” For once he’s not disagreeing with her.

Lag time between abductions and masks. Three weeks, right?

Longer, Bailey answers. A month.

“Jesus,” she whispers.

“A month. A month goes by between the abduction and the mask. Luke, if he’s got a captive, we can’t just keep watching him like this.”

“I agree, but we don’t have evidence that he does.”

“I told you what I saw at the gym.”

“You did, and it’s revolting, but it’s not proof he abducted Elle Schaeffer.”

“He was literally aroused by the story of her disappearance. As in the actual definition of literally.”

“Which is proof that he’s a sexual sadist, and maybe even the Mask Maker. But it doesn’t connect him to Elle Schaeffer. The news could just be speculating about her being a victim. People go missing all the time. You really think he’s got a woman up there in that condo?”

“No, I think if he’s got her anywhere it’s at the Temecula house. I’m calling Marty.”

“OK. Once you do, I’ve got a question I want you to text Bailey.”

When Marty answers, he tells her he just got to the RV down at the casino, that he left the surveillance post about twenty minutes before. There’s been no sign of life from inside the house all day. The guy who feeds the dogs came back at the same time, obeyed the same routine. In short, nothing seems any different from the day before.

“You don’t sound good,” he says.

“Call me right away if it seems like anyone’s inside. Or anyone else shows up.”

“Sure thing, Charley.”

As soon as she hangs up, Luke says, “Ask Bailey how long this plastic-nation—”

“Plastination.”

“Right. Ask him how long the process takes.”

She does. Bailey’s response comes a minute later.

An entire body takes fifteen hours of work. But I don’t know what percent of that is just posing limbs. If you’re just dealing with a face separate from a body, a lot less time, obviously.

“He doesn’t know.”

“But a while, right?” Luke asks. He’s found a parking spot two blocks away. They can’t see the high-rise, but they can see the entry gate, and both trackers are stationary and right next to each other now. “Charley?”

“Yes, a while,” she says. “Just tell me what your theory is.”

“I think the lag time between the abductions and the masks is about the process he needs to actually make them. My guess? He kills his victims right away. Because if he did abduct Elle Schaeffer on Saturday, and we don’t have proof that he did, look at how he’s acting now. He’s been at work all day. He did . . . what? A two-hour workout at the gym?” She nods. “And there’s no sign of life at his country house. This isn’t the behavior of a man who’s got a captive somewhere. Also, the mask-making process is complex. I can’t see him making one mask while tending to a different captive in another room while also holding down what looks like a pretty kick-ass career as a plastic surgeon.”

They’re good points, all of them.

“And if you’re wrong?” she asks.

“Then we treat Graydon to a show of you fighting off some really mean Dobermans. Think you’re up to it? I mean, it might be an off-label use, but last time I checked, they didn’t exactly have FDA approval for this thing.”

“I’m glad I have you around for comic relief.”

“Hopefully, I’m worth more than that.”

“You are . . . I think.”

“You think?”

She reaches into her pocket, pulls out the case for the contact lenses, which looks somewhat like a normal case for normal contact lenses, except for the fact that it’s made out of stainless steel.

“Are we ready for these?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Are we? I mean, seems soon.”