Her posture, upright. March had sensed instinctively that this woman was one of the main investigators trying to find him.
The search had revealed that the Pathfinder belonged to one Kathryn Dance.
A lovely name. Compelling.
He pictured her again and felt a stirring low in his belly. The Get was unspooling. It too was growing interested in Ms. Dance. They both wanted to know more about her. They wanted to know all about her.
FRIDAY, APRIL 7
Precautions
Chapter 27
Never rains but it pours," Michael O'Neil offered, walking into Dance's office.
TJ Scanlon, who was sitting down across from her desk, glanced at the solid detective. "I never quite got that. Does it mean, 'We're in a desert area, so it doesn't rain but sometimes there's a downpour, so we get flooded. Because, you know, there's no ground cover'?"
"I don't know. All I mean is: My plate's filling up."
"With rain?" TJ asked.
"A homicide."
"Oh. Sorry." TJ often walked a fine line between jovial and flippant.
Dance asked, "The missing farmer? Otto Grant?" She was thinking of the possible suicide, the man distraught about losing his land to the eminent domain action by the state. She couldn't imagine what the man had gone through--losing a farm that had been in his family for so many years. She and the children had been at Safeway recently and she'd noticed yet more eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheets of paper, attention-getting yellow, with Grant's picture on them.
Have you seen this man?...
O'Neil shook his head. "No, no, I mean another case altogether." He handed Dance a half-dozen crime scene photos. "Jane Doe. Found this morning at the Cabrillo Beach Inn."
A dive of a place, Dance knew. North of Monterey.
"Prints came back negative."
The photos were of a young woman who'd been dead about seven or eight hours, to guess from the lividity. She was pretty. She had been pretty.
"COD?"
"Asphyx. Plastic bag, rubber band."
"Rape?"
"No. But maybe erotic asphyxia."
Dance shook her head. Really? Risking death? How much better could an orgasm be?
"I'll get it on our internal wire," TJ said. This would send the picture to every one of the CBI offices, where a facial recognition scan would be run and compared with faces in the database.
"Thanks."
TJ took the pictures off to scan them.
O'Neil continued, to Dance: "The boyfriend's probably married. Panicked and took off with her purse. We're checking video nearby for tags and makes. Might find something."
"Why wasn't she on the bed? I don't care how kinky I was, sex on the floor of that motel is just plain ick."
O'Neil said, "That's why I said maybe about the erotic asphyx. There were marks on her wrists. Somebody might've held her down while she died. Or it could have been part of their game. I'm keeping an open mind."
"So," she said slowly, "you still with us on the Solitude Creek unsub?" She was afraid that the death--accidental or intentional--would derail him.
"No. Just complaining about the rain."
"You still on the hate crime case too?"
"Yeah." A grimace. "We had another one."
"No! What happened?"
"Another gay couple. Two men from Pacific Grove. Not far from you, down on Lighthouse. Rock through their window."
"Any suspects?"
"Nope." He shrugged. "But, rain or not, I can work Solitude Creek."
He was then looking down at the newspaper on Dance's chair. The front page contained a big picture of Brad Dannon.
The fireman, in a suit and sporting an impossible-to-miss American flag lapel pin, sat on the couch next to an Asian American reporter.
Hero Fireman Tells the Horror Story of Solitude Creek.
"You interview him?" O'Neil asked.
She nodded and gave a sour laugh. "Yep. And his ego."
"Either of them helpful?"
"Uh-uh. In fairness, he was busy helping the injured. And we didn't know it was a crime scene at that point."
"You ran the Serrano thing, in Seaside?"
"Yep."
"How's that working out?" The question seemed brittle.
"It's moving along." Then she didn't want to talk about it anymore.
Her phone rang. "Kathryn Dance."
"Uhm, Mrs. Dance. This's Trish Martin."
The daughter of Michelle Cooper, the woman killed in Solitude Creek.
"Yes, Trish. Hi." She glanced toward O'Neil. "How're you doing?"
"Not so great. You know."
"I'm sure it's difficult."
Thinking back to the days after Bill had died.
Not so great... Never so great.
"I heard, I mean, I was watching the news and they said he tried to do it again."
"It's looking that way, yes."
There was a long silence. "You wanted to talk to me?"
"Just to ask what you saw that night."
"Okay. I want to help. I want to help you get him. Fucker."
"I'd appreciate that."
"I can't talk here. My father'll be back soon. I'm at my mother's house. He'll be back and he doesn't want me to talk to you. Well, to anybody."
"You're in Pebble Beach, right?"
"Yeah."
"You drive?"
"Uh-huh."
"Meet me at the Bagel Bakery on Forest. You know it?"
"Sure I have to go he's coming back bye." Spoken in one breath.
Click.
Chapter 28
She'd been crying.
Dance gave her credit for not trying to hide it. No makeup, no averted eyes. Tears and streaks present.
Trish Martin was sitting in the corner of the Bagel Bakery, toward the back, under a primitive but affecting acrylic painting of a dog carefully regarding a turtle. It was one of a dozen for sale on the walls, this batch by students, a card reported. Dance and the children came here regularly and she'd bought a few of the works from time to time. She really liked the dog and turtle.
"Hi."
"Hey," the girl said.
"How you doing?"
"Okay."
"What do you want? I'll get it."
Dance was tempted to suggest cocoa but that smacked of condescension; Trish wasn't a child. She picked a compromise. "I'm doing cappuccino."
"Sure."
"Cinnamon?"
"Sure."
"Anything to eat?"
"No. Not hungry." As if she'd never be again.
Dance placed the order and returned. Sat down. Automatically reaching for the plastic holster that held her Glock, which usually needed adjusting upon sitting. Her hand went to nothing and she remembered.
Then she was concentrating on the girl. Trish wore jeans and scuffed but expensive brown boots. Dance, a lover of footwear, guessed Italian. A black, scoop-neck sweater. A stocking cap, beige, pulled down over her hair. The sleeves of the sweater met her knuckles.
"Thanks for calling me. I appreciate it. I know what you're going through."
"Totally." Her keen eyes stabbed at Dance's. "You have any idea who it is? Who killed my mother and those other people?"
And nearly you, Dance thought.
"Not much. It's not like any case I've ever seen."
"He's a fucking sadist, whoever he is."
Not technically but that would do.
Dance opened a small grocery store notebook.
"Your father doesn't know you're here?"
"He's not so bad. This, like, freaked him out too. He's just being protective of me. You know."
"I understand."
"But I don't have much time. He's packing up stuff at his house now. He'll be back at Mom's soon."
"Then let me get right to the questions."
The drinks came, cardboard cups. They both sipped.
"Can you tell me what you remember?" Dance asked.
"The band had just start
ed. I don't know, maybe the second or third song. And then..." After a deep breath she gave much the same story as the other witnesses. The smell of smoke, though not seeing much. Then, almost as if somebody had flipped a switch, everyone in the audience rose, knocking over tables, scattering drinks, pushing others aside and rushing for the exits.
Her expression mystified, she repeated, "But there was no fire and still, you know, everybody went crazy. Five seconds, ten, from the first person who stood up. That was all it took." She sighed. "I think it was Mom. The first. She panicked. Then this bright light came on, pointed at the exit doors, you know, to show everybody where they were. I guess that was good but it made some of us panic more. They were so bright."
She sipped a little from her cup, stared at the foam. Then: "I got surrounded by this one bunch of people and my mother by another one. She was screaming for me and I was screaming for her but we were going in different directions. There was no way to stop." Her voice went low. "I've never seen anything like that. It was like I was totally... I don't know, not even me. I was part of this thing. Nobody was listening to anybody else. We were just out of control."
"And your mother?"
"She was going toward the fire doors. I could see her fight, trying to get back to me. I was going the opposite way--toward the kitchen, the group I was in. There wasn't an exit sign there but somebody said there was a door we could get out of."
"And you escaped that way?"
"Eventually. But not at first. That's why it was so bad." She teared, then wiped her eyes.
"What, Trish?"
"Somebody on the P.A. system said 'The fire's in the kitchen.' Or something like that."
Dance remembered Cohen had made the announcement.
"But somebody nearby saw that the kitchen was okay. No fire at all. We went in that direction. We tried to tell everybody else but nobody could hear us. You couldn't hear anything."
Dance jotted down the girl's recollections.
"What's most important for us to find out is anything about him, this man. We have some description but it's not very much. We don't think he was in the club. He was outside. When did you and your mother get there?"
"I don't know, maybe seven fifteen."
"I want you to think back. Now this guy--"
"The perp."
Dance gave her a grin. "We say 'unsub.' Unknown subject."
"I say asshole."
"Now, this asshole drove a truck from the warehouse to the club around eight. He had to've been there before, I'm guessing. Did you see anybody hanging around, maybe near the warehouse? Checking out the club? Near the oil drum where he set the fire?"
Trish seemed to find more comfort cupping the beverage in her fingers, the nails tipped in chipped black polish, than drinking it.
A sigh. "No. I can't remember anyone. You know, you go to a place, there's going to be a show, and you're just talking and thinking about what you're going to see and have for dinner, and you don't pay much attention."
Much of Kathryn Dance's job had nothing to do with spotting deception on the part of unsubs; it was about helping witnesses unearth useful recollections.
Teenagers were among the worst when it came to remembering details. Their minds danced around so much, they were so distracted, that they observed little and recalled less--unless the topic interested them. Still, the images were often there. One task of an interviewer was to guide witnesses back to the time and place when they might have noted a tiny kernel that was nonetheless vital in nailing a suspect. As she considered how she might do this, she noted the girl's keyless fob sitting on the table beside her purse.
A Toyota logo from a local dealer.
"Prius?" Dance asked.
She nodded. "My mom got it for me. How'd you know?"
"Guess."
A sensible car. And an expensive one. Dance remembered too that the girl's father had driven a new Lexus.
"You like to drive?"
"Love it. When I'm, you know, upset, I drive up and down Big Sur."
"Trish, I want you to think back to the parking lot that night."
"I didn't see anybody in particular."
"I understand. But what I'm wondering about is cars. We know this guy's pretty smart. There's no indication he's working with anyone, so he'd have to drive to Solitude Creek but he wouldn't have parked too close to the club. He'd've been worried about video cameras or getting spotted climbing out of the truck, after he parked it, and getting into his own car."
Trish frowned. "A silver Honda."
"What?"
"Or light colored. We were pulling off the highway, off One, on the road that led to the club, and Mom said, 'Wonder if it'll get stolen.' It was parked by itself, on the other side of that line of trees that surrounded the parking lot. Of the club, you know."
Dance recalled an area of weeds and dunes between the parking lot and Highway 1.
"We'd just seen a news story about the gangs around here? They drive around in flatbeds and, you know, scoop up cars parked in deserted areas. That's what Mom was talking about."
"You know the model?"
"No, not really. Just the style, you know. Accord or Civic. A lot of kids at school have them. Mom and I talked about calling the police to report it, so it wouldn't get stolen. But we didn't. I mean, if we'd done that, maybe..." The girl's words ran out of steam and she cried quietly for a moment. Dance reached over and gripped her arm. Trish gave no response. She calmed eventually and took a sip from her cup. "You think that's his car?" Trish asked.
Dance replied, "Possibly. It's the sort of place somebody would park, out of the way. Did you notice the plate, what state it came from, the number?"
"No, just the color, silver. Or light colored. Maybe gray."
"And nobody nearby?"
"No. Sorry."
"That's a big help, Trish."
Dance hoped.
She sent a text to TJ, instructions to compile a list of light-colored Hondas in the area. She knew this was a weak lead. Honda Civics and Accords are close to the most plentiful sedans in America--and therefore the most difficult to trace. She wondered if their unsub had bought or stolen the car for this very reason.
She also asked TJ to hit the list of witnesses from Solitude Creek once more. And see if anyone had spotted the car and had any more information that could be helpful. He should put it out on the law enforcement wire.
A moment later:
On the case, boss. :-)
Trish glanced at her iPhone. "It's late. I should go." No teenager had a watch anymore. "Dad'll be bringing his stuff back to the house soon. I should be there." She finished her coffee quickly and pitched the cup out.
Maybe destroying evidence of a furtive meeting.
"Thanks." Trish inhaled and then, her voice breaking, said, "Not okay."
Dance lifted an eyebrow.
"You asked me how I was. And I said 'Okay.' But I'm not okay." She shivered and cried harder. Dance pulled a wad of napkins from the holder and handed them over.
Trish said, "Not very fucking okay at all. Mom was, like, she wasn't the best mom in the world--she was more of a friend to me than a mom. Which drove me fucking crazy sometimes. Like she wanted to be my older sister or something. But despite all that crap, I miss her so much."
"Your nose," Dance said. The girl wiped.
"And Dad's so different."
"They had joint custody?"
"Mom had me most of the time. That's what she wanted and Dad didn't fight it. It was like he just wanted out."
To be with a coworker or waitress or secretary. Dance recalled her earlier speculation about the breakup.
"It's just going to be so weird, living in the house again, with him. They got divorced six years ago. Everybody tells me it goes away, all this stuff, what I'm feeling. Just time, it'll be all right."
"Everybody's wrong," Dance said.
"What?"
"I lost my husband a few years ago."
"Hey, I'm sorry."
r /> A nod of acknowledgment. "It doesn't go away. Ever. And it shouldn't. We should always miss certain people who've been in our lives. But there'll be islands, more and more of them."
"Islands?"
"That's the way I thought of it. Islands--of times when you're content, you don't think about the loss. Now it's like your world's underwater. All of it. But the water goes down and the islands come up. The water'll be there always but you'll find dry land again. That helped me get through it. A friend told me that." Martine Christiansen.
"I should go. He'll be back soon."
She rose and turned away. Dance did too. Then in an instant the girl turned and threw her arms around the agent, crying again. "Islands," she whispered. "Thank you...Islands."
Chapter 29
Hello?"
Arthur K. Meddle turned from surveying the placement of chairs at the Bay View Center to see a man in the doorway.
"Help you? Hold on." He turned away and shouted, "Charlie, add another row. Come on. Four hundred. Got to be four hundred. Sorry. Help you?"
The man stepped closer. He seemed bored. "Yessir. I'm a Monterey County fire inspector."
Meddle gave a fast glance at the ID. "Officer Dunn. Or Inspector?"
"Officer."
"Sure. What can I do for you?"
"You the manager?"
"That's right."
The well-dressed polite fellow looked around the interior of the center, with furrowed brows, then his eyes came back to Meddle. "You may've heard, sir, about the incident at Solitude Creek? The club?"
"Oh, yeah. Terrible."
"We're thinking it was done intentionally."
"I heard that on the news." Meddle didn't know this guy so he didn't add what he wanted to: What kind of crazy shit would do that?
"The county board of supervisors and the sheriff's office--the Bureau of Investigation too--they're thinking that he may try another attack."
"No! Hell, is it really a terrorist? That's what Fox was saying. Was it O'Reilly? I don't remember."
"Oh, I don't know. Between you and me, I'd think if it was terrorists, somebody would've taken credit for it. They do that."
"True."
"Anyway, sir, the county supervisors've issued a reg that requires any venues with events of over a hundred people to postpone or pass a special inspection."
"Postpone?"
"Or pass the inspection. We're making sure that what happened at Solitude Creek won't happen again. I mean they could catch the perp first. That's a possibility."