Blink of an Eye (Kendra Michaels #8) - Roy Johansen Page 0,3

really want me to do a bunch of lame parlor tricks, do you?”

More cheers, more applause. Okay, she’d give them what they wanted. As much as Kendra usually hated performing like a trained monkey, today was different. Of course these kids loved to see what was possible with the hand they’d been dealt.

She turned toward the politician. “Congressman Dalborne, thanks for coming out today.”

“My pleasure.” He stepped toward Kendra and waved to the crowd.

Kendra looked him up and down. “I always like politicians who patronize local businesses. You ate at the Breakfast Club Diner down on North Coast Highway this morning. I hope you enjoyed it.”

He frowned, puzzled. “You saw me there?”

“No. I haven’t been to the BCD in years.”

“Then how…?”

“You read the newspaper while you ate. Not on your phone or a computer, but a paper you probably got from a machine. And it wasn’t the San Diego Union. You went local again. The Coast News, probably.”

Dalborne turned to a bespectacled young aide standing a few yards away. “Curtis, did you tell her…?”

The aide shook his head no.

Kendra paced in front of the congressman’s group for a moment. “You wore braces as a child, didn’t you, sir? You were young. Younger than most kids when they wear braces.”

Dalborne flashed his perfect smile. “Right again. Though I’d really rather forget those days.”

“You managed to recover. From that childhood trauma and the cold you had last week. There’s been a bug going around. I caught it myself.”

Dalborne nodded. “It’s a nasty one, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely.” Kendra stared at his feet. “You grew up wearing flip-flops, and I’d say you probably still wear them quite a bit when you’re off the clock. I don’t know where you call home, but this seems to indicate you live on or near the beach somewhere.”

Dalborne blinked, staring at her in disbelief. “You’re right about the shoes. And I live in a beach house in Del Mar.”

“Nice neighborhood.”

“Very.” His brows rose quizzically. “So are you going to tell us how you knew all this?”

“By doing something most of the kids here do better than anyone else. I just pay attention.”

“How did you know where I ate breakfast?”

She shrugged. “I smelled your breath. The Breakfast Club Diner serves up a mean plate of huevos rancheros, with a homemade sauce to die for.” She wrinkled her nose. “And that sauce hasn’t changed in twenty years, and it’s on your breath right now.”

The kids loved that.

After the laughter subsided, Kendra continued. “They’re also famous for their orange marmalade muffins. It’s a very distinctive color.”

Dalborne squinted at her. “I didn’t have a muffin.”

“No, but your assistant did.”

The assistant quickly looked down at his shirt and tie.

“Not on your clothes,” she said to the assistant. “There’s a distinctive orange splotch under your right thumbnail.” She turned back to Dalborne. “Your breath and his orange thumb can only mean you guys ate at the Breakfast Club Diner.”

“The newspaper?”

“Your right fingers have newspaper ink on them, meaning you’re left-handed, by the way.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Only one hand is stained, meaning you were probably eating with the other hand. If you were holding the newspaper with your right hand, you were holding your fork with your left. Your dominant hand.”

“How did you know which paper?”

“The San Diego Union doesn’t come off on the hands nearly as much as the Coast Group of neighborhood papers. It’s a pretty safe assumption you were reading the Coast.”

“The fact that I wore braces?”

“Aside from that perfect smile of yours?”

“Thank you.” He smiled again. “Aside from that.”

“You have a habit of breathing in through your teeth. A lot of kids who wore braces do that. And it’s a habit some people carry with them throughout their lives, even if they aren’t aware of it.”

“Trust me, I’m aware of it. Every time I watch replays of myself at debates. It’s that obvious?”

“Not to most people. But I bet a lot of these kids could hear it.”

“Interesting,” he said as he heard sounds of agreement from the audience. “I think I just found my next debate prep team. What else can they hear?”

“A very slight rattle in your chest, a postnasal drip that’s probably a residual effect from your cold. I’m sensitive to it, because I also had it. And they might also hear the sound of your very elegant loafers snapping up against your heel. It’s the same sound someone makes when they wear flip-flops. That says to me you’re probably used to wearing flip-flops more than any other type