Solitude Creek

Chapter 27

‘Never rains but it pours,’ Michael O’Neil offered, walking into Dance’s office.

TJ Scanlon glanced at the solid detective, who was sitting down across from her desk. ‘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 and 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 he had gone through, losing the 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 8.5-by-11 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 come back negative.’

The photo was of a young woman who’d been dead 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.’

‘No! What happened?’

‘Another gay couple. Two men from Pacific Grove. Not far from you, down on Lighthouse. A 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 a bright 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 any more.

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 youthening the girl, marginalizing her. 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, spotted 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 her 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 to 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 started. 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 had risen, 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. 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 PA 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. 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 in cupping the beverage between her fingers, her nails tipped with chipped black polish, than from 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 is to guide witnesses back to the time and place when they might have noted a tiny kernel that was nonetheless vital in nailing the 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 upset I just drive up and down One. Big Sur and back.’

‘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 One.

‘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...’ She ran out of steam and 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?’ she 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 to get a list of light-colored Honda owners in the area. She knew this was a weak lead. All law enforcers know that 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 that 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 now. ‘Dad’ll be bringing his stuff back to the house soon. I should be there.’ She finished her coffee quickly and pitched the cup into a rubbish bin.

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.’

Fell for his secretary. Dance recalled her earlier scenario of the break-up.

‘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.’

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 under water. 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.’

‘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 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 have 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.’

‘We can’t very well cancel. Tonight? It’s bringing in seven thousand dollars. It’s a book signing. The author’s publisher’s paying for it. You know the economy out here. We can’t afford to shut down.’

‘Like I said, your choice.’

‘What’s this inspection? I’ve got a current occupancy cert.’

‘No, this is different. We have to make sure the fire doors can’t be blocked. You need to remove all the locks from the emergency-exit doors, or tape the latches down and chain off the area around them from the outside, so nobody can block them.’

‘Like that guy did at the roadhouse, with the truck.’

‘That’s right,’ Dunn said. ‘Exactly. Everybody inside at this event tonight has to be able to get out, unobstructed.’

‘Chain off an area outside the doors?’

‘And I mean chain off. Literally. Ten feet away. So he can’t block them. Frankly, it’d be easier to cancel the event.’

‘You want me to cancel?’

‘I’m just telling you the options.’

‘But you’re leaning toward our closing.’

‘Easier for everybody,’ Dunn said.

‘Not for us.’

Seven thousand dollars...

‘Look, I’m just saying,’ Dunn said. ‘Protect the exit area with chains and make sure the doors don’t latch, so everybody can exit quickly in an emergency. Or you can cancel.’

Shit on a stick. As if he didn’t have enough to do already. ‘No, I’m not cancelling. But if people sneak in because we’ve left the doors unlatched, that’ll be on you.’

‘It’s a book signing, right? You get a lot of gate-crashers at book signings?’

Meddle hesitated. ‘It’s not like a Stones concert.’

‘So. There. Now, your smoke alarms? They’ve been tested recently?’

‘We had an inspection ten, twelve days ago.’

‘Good. Still, I’ll double-check them.’

Meddle asked Dunn, ‘For the chain, to block off the perimeter, any type in particular? Brand names?’

‘I’d probably pick one that a truck couldn’t break through.’

It sounded expensive. Meddle said, ‘I’ll go to Home Depot now.’

‘Thank you, sir. I’m sure everything’ll be fine... What is this book thing anyway?’

Meddle explained, ‘Hot new self-help thing. About living for tomorrow. I read it, like to keep informed about who appears here. The author says people live too much in the present. They need to live in the future more.’

‘Like what? Time travel?’ The inspector looked perplexed.

‘No, no, just think about where you want to be in the future. Picture it, plan it, think it. So you’ll reach your goals. The title is Tomorrow Is the New Today.’

Dunn frowned and nodded. ‘I’ll check those detectors now. You’d better measure for that chain.’

Chapter 30

Well, okay. Interesting.

Dance braked her SUV to a stop in one of the driveways that led to the Bureau of Investigation parking lot. She was between an unruly boxwood and a portion of a building occupied by a computer start-up.

Near the front door of CBI headquarters, Michael O’Neil stood in the lot talking to his ex-wife, Anne. Their two children — Amanda and Tyler, nine and ten — were in the back seat of her own SUV, visible through an open door. Anne’s was a pearl-white Lexus, California tags.

The woman was dressed in clothes that were very, very different from what Dance recalled when Anne had lived on the Peninsula with Michael. Then, it was gossamer, close-fitting gypsy outfits. Lace and tulle, New Age jewelry. Boots with heels to propel her to a bit more height. Today, though: running shoes, jeans and a gray jacket of bulky wool. And, my God, a baseball cap. Exotic had become, well, cute and perky.

Who could have imagined?

It had been her decision to end the marriage and move to San Francisco. Rumors of a lover up there. Dance knew Anne was a talented photographer and the opportunities in the Bay City were far greater than here. She’d been a functional but unenthusiastic mother, a distant wife. The split hadn’t been a surprise. Though it had certainly been inconveniently timed. Dance and O’Neil had always had an undeniable chemistry, which they let roam only professionally. He was married, and after Bill died, her interest in romance had vanished like fog in sunshine. Then, over time, Dance had decided for her sake and for the sake of the kids to wade into the dating pool. Slowly, feeling her way along, she’d met Jon Boling.

And, bang, O’Neil announced his divorce. Not long after, he’d asked her out. By then she and Boling were tight, however, and she’d declined.

It was a classic ‘Send In The Clowns’ moment, the Sondheim song about two potential lovers for whom the timing just wasn’t cooperating.

O’Neil, gentleman that he was, accepted the situation. And they fell into ‘another time, another place’ mode. As for Boling — well, he’d said nothing about Dance’s connection to the detective but his body language left no doubt that he sensed the dynamic. She did her best to reassure him, without offering too much (she knew very well that the intensity of denial is often in direct proportion to the truth being refuted).

She now noted: O’Neil had his hands comfortably at his sides, not in his pockets, or clutching crossed arms, either of which would have been a defensive gesture that meant: ‘I just don’t want you here, Anne.’ Nor was he glancing involuntarily to his right or left, which was a manifestation of tension, discomfort and of a subconscious desire to flee from the person creating the stress.

No, they were, in fact, smiling. Something she said made him laugh.

Then Anne backed away, fishing keys from her purse, and O’Neil stepped closer and hugged her. No kiss, no fingers cupping her hair. Just a hug. Chaste as soccer players after scoring a goal.

Then he waved to the children and returned to the office. Anne fired up the SUV. She drove toward the exit.

And Dance suddenly recalled something else. The other night when she’d asked about O’Neil’s new babysitter, his body language had changed.

New sitter?

Sort of.

So that’s who it was. And the ‘friend’ at Maggie’s recital? Anne, of course.

Dance watched Anne pull out of the lot.

Then a brief honk from behind the Pathfinder. Dance started. She glanced into the rear-view mirror and waved at the driver she’d been blocking, whispering a ‘Sorry’ that he couldn’t hear. She headed to the CBI building, parked and climbed out.

Thinking of Anne and Michael, she found herself humming the song.

Let it go...

Inside Headquarters she found O’Neil in her office with TJ, poring over what turned out to be DMV records.

‘Five thousand, give or take, Honda sedans in the three-county area. Gray, white, beige, anything light-colored.’

‘Five thousand?’ Ouch. As she sat down beside O’Neil, she smelled his aftershave, as last night... but it was slightly different.

Mixed with perfume?

O’Neil added, ‘No reports of theft.’

TJ added, ‘And none of the other people at the club, the ones I’ve talked to, remember it. The wheelbase and the track, they’ll give us the model. Civic and Accord’re different. Might help.’

Narrow the number down to 2500, she thought wryly. If — big if — it was even the unsub’s vehicle.

‘Want to take a look?’ O’Neil asked. ‘At where it was parked?’

Dance checked the time. It was three twenty. ‘The kids are at Mom and Dad’s.’

‘Mine’re covered too.’

I know.

She said, ‘Let’s take a drive.’

‘For this, it’s not Serrano. You going to take a weapon?’

He knew the rules. Wondered why he’d asked. ‘I’m still Civ Div.’

A nod.

Dance told TJ to start canvassing the owners of light-colored Hondas.

In a half-hour she and O’Neil were at the roadhouse. The club was still closed and the trucking company, where she’d nearly received a concussion, was also dark. But there was some activity. A couple was laying flowers at the front entrance. Dance and O’Neil approached and she asked them if they’d been patrons the other night. They hadn’t: the husband’s cousin had died, and they were paying respects.

There also were some workers about two hundred feet from the club, in the direction of the path she’d taken the other day to the witness’s house. It was a team of surveyors, with their tripod and instruments set up. They were engrossed in the obscure art of reckoning longitudes and latitudes, or whatever it was surveyors did.

‘Maybe?’ O’Neil asked. His voice sounded optimistic.

‘Sure, let’s give it a try.’

They approached and identified themselves.

The crew leader, a slim man, long hair under a cap, nodded. ‘Oh. Hey. Terrible, what happened.’

Dance asked, ‘Were you working here the day of the incident?’

‘No, ma’am, we weren’t. Had another job.’

O’Neil: ‘Anytime before that?’

‘No, sir. We just got the contract the other day.’

‘Who’re you working for?’ Dance asked.

‘Anderson Construction.’

A big commercial real-estate operation, based in Monterey.

‘Know what the job is?’

‘No, sir.’

They thanked the crew and wandered back toward the driveway. She said, ‘We should talk to the company. They might’ve had other workers out on Tuesday. We’ll see if they saw the Honda or anybody checking out the trucks or the club.’ She called TJ Scanlon and put him on the assignment to find out who’d hired Anderson and see if either the developer or the construction company had had workers there the day of the incident or before.

‘Will do, boss.’

She slipped the phone away.

O’Neil nodded. They continued past the roadhouse and headed down the driveway to the field where Michelle and Trish had seen the Honda.

Dance had wondered if she’d have to risk a call to Trish and find out exactly where the Honda had been parked but there was no need. It was clear from the trampled grass where it had turned off the driveway and bounded over the field of short grass and flowers to a stand of trees. Drought-stricken in most of the region, the ground was soggy from the creek, and the Honda’s tires had left distinctive prints in the sandy mud. When the driver had reversed out, one had spun reaching for traction.

They stopped before they reached the tracks, however, and examined the ground carefully, then surveyed the surrounding area. Dance dug into her purse and pulled out elastic hair ties, four of them. She and O’Neil put them around their shoes — a trick she’d learned from her friends in New York, Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs. It would differentiate their shoeprints from those of the suspect when the forensics officers ran the scene.

‘There,’ O’Neil said, pointing into the trees. ‘He got out of the car and walked back and forth to find a good route to circle around to the trucking company.’

Several cars drove past on the highway. One turned in at the next driveway. O’Neil was distracted and followed it until the lights vanished.

‘What?’

‘Just keeping an eye out.’

Guard dog. Because I don’t have a weapon. Though the odds on their unsub charging out of the woods with blazing guns seemed rather narrow.

He turned back to the scene. They moved closer and Dance looked down, circling the area where the car had been, carefully so as not to disturb any evidence.

‘Michael. Look. He wasn’t alone.’

The solid detective crouched down and pulled out a small flashlight. He aimed it at what she’d seen. There were two sets of shoeprints, very different. One appeared to be running shoes, or boots, with complex treads. The other, longer, was smooth-soled.

O’Neil rose and, picking his steps carefully, walked around to the other side of where the car had been parked. Examined that area.

‘No. Just one. Nobody got out on the passenger side.’

‘Ah. Got it. He changed shoes. No, changed clothes altogether.’

‘Had to be. Just in case somebody saw him.’

‘We should get your CSU team here, search for trace, run the prints.’

The MCSO and the FBI had tread-mark databases for both tires and shoes. They might find the brand of shoe and narrow down the type of car, with some luck.

Though luck was not a commodity much in evidence in the Solitude Creek investigation.

Chapter 31

‘Tomorrow Is the New Today... You have to think not about the present but about the future. You see, you blink and what was the future a moment ago is the present now. Are we good with that? Does that speak to you?’

The author looked like an author. No, not in a tweedy sport jacket with patches, a pipe, wrinkled pants. Which was, maybe, the way authors used to look, Ardel believed. This writer was in a black shirt, black pants and wore stylish glasses. Boots. Hm.

‘So while you’re focusing on the moment, you’ll miss the most important part of your life: the rest of it.’

Fifty-nine-year-old Ardel Hopkins and her friend Sally Gelbert, sitting beside her, had come to the Bay View Center, off Cannery Row, right on the shoreline, because they were on diets.

The other option, as they’d debated what to do on this girls’ night out, was to hit Carambas full-on, two hours. But that would mean six-hundred-calorie margaritas and those chips, then the enchiladas. Danger. So when Sally had seen that a famous author was appearing up the street, at the Bay View, they’d decided: perfect. One drink, a few chips, salsa, then culture.

Didn’t preclude an ice-cream cone on the drive home.

Also, good news: like everyone else, Ardel had been worried about a crowded venue — after that terrible incident at Solitude Creek, intentionally caused by some madman. But she and Sally had checked out the Bay View hall and noted that the exit doors had been fixed so they couldn’t be locked — the latches were taped down. And a thick chain prevented anyone from parking in front of the doors and blocking them.

All good. Mostly good — problem was, this guy Richard Stanton Keller, supposedly a self-help genius, was a bit boring.

Ardel whispered, ‘Three names. That’s a tip-off. Lot of words in his name. Lots of words in his book.’

Lots of words coming out of his mouth.

Sally nodded.

Keller was leaning forward to the microphone, before the audience of a good four hundred or so fans. He read and read and read.

Tomorrow Is the New Today.

Catchy. But it didn’t make a lot of sense. Because when you hit tomorrow, it becomes today but then it’s the old today and you have to look at tomorrow, which is the new today.

Like time-travel movies, which she also didn’t enjoy.

She’d’ve preferred somebody who wrote fun and talked fun, like Janet Evanovich or John Gilstrap, but there were worse ways to spend an hour after digesting a very small — too small — portion of chips and one marg. Still, it was a pleasant venue for a book reading. The building was up on stilts and you could peer down and see, thirty or forty feet below, craggy rocks on which energetic waves were presently committing explosive suicide.

She tried to concentrate.

‘I’ll tell you a story. About my oldest son going away to college.’

Don’t believe a word of it, Ardel thought.

‘This is true, it really happened.’

Not a single word.

He started telling the story of his son doing something bad or the author doing something bad or the author’s wife, the boy’s mother, doing something bad because they’d been living for today and not tomorrow, which really was today. Hm. Did that mean—

Suddenly a loud bang, from somewhere outside the hall. Nearby.

Everyone looked toward the lobby. The author fell silent.

Now screams from outside too. Then another bang louder, closer.

That wasn’t a backfire. Cars didn’t backfire any more. Definitely a shot. Ardel knew it was a gunshot. She’d been to a range a couple of times when her husband was alive. She hadn’t wanted to fire a gun, so she’d just sat back and watched the fanatics shiver with excitement over the weapons and talk shop.

Another shot — closer yet.

The manager hurried to a fire door, which he pushed open. A fast look out. He stepped back in fast.

‘Listen! There’s a guy with a gun. Outside. Coming this way!’ He pulled the door shut but it swung open, thanks to the taped-down locks.

People were rising to their feet.

Another shot, two more. More screams from outside.

‘Jesus Lord,’ Ardel whispered.

‘Ardie, what’s going on?’

One man was on his feet, a big guy. Former military, it seemed. He, too, looked out. ‘There he is! He’s coming this way. He’s got an automatic!’

Cries of ‘No!’, ‘Jesus!’, ‘Call nine one one!’

Several people ran for the emergency exit. ‘No, not that way!’ someone called. ‘He’s out there. I think he’s shooting people outside.’

‘Get back!’

A brilliant security light came on. No! Ardel thought. All the easier to see his target.

The author didn’t say, ‘Stay calm,’ or anything else. He leaped up and pushed some attendees out of the way, running for the lobby. A dozen people raced after him. They jammed the doorway. One woman screamed and fell back, clutching a horribly twisted arm.

Another shot from the direction of the lobby. Most of those who’d run that way returned to the main hall.

Ardel, crying, grabbed Sally’s hand and they tried to move away from the exit doors. But it was impossible. They were trapped in a sweating knot of people, muscle to muscle.

‘Calm down! Get back!’ Ardel cried, her voice choking. Sally was sobbing too, as were dozens of others.

‘Where’re the police?’

‘Get back, get off me...’

‘Help me. My arm — I can’t feel my arm!’

Deafening screams, screams so loud they threatened to break eardrums. As the mass pressed back from the exit doors, several people stumbled — one elderly man went down under a column of feet. He screamed as his leg bone snapped. Only through sheer strength, superhuman strength, it seemed, did two young men, maybe grandsons, manage to pry apart the crowd and get the man to his feet. He was pale and soon unconscious.

Two more shots, very close to the exit doors now.

The crowd surged away from the doors and toward the windows. Everyone was insane now, possessed with fury and panic. Slugging each other, trying to move back, thinking maybe, if anybody was thinking at all, that if they were not in the front line the bodies in front of them would take the bullets and the gunman would run out of ammunition or be shot by the police before he could kill more.

And moving relentlessly toward the only escape: windows.

Ardel heard a loud snap in her shoulder and her vision filled with yellow light, and pain, horrific pain, shot from her jaw to the base of her spine. A scream, lost amid the other screams. She couldn’t even turn to look. Her head was sandwiched between one man’s shoulder and another’s chest.

‘Ardie!’ Sally called.

But Ardel had no idea where her friend was.

The voice on the PA — it wasn’t the author’s: he was long gone — cried, ‘Get away from the door. He’s almost here!’

A series of crashes, breaking glass, behind her and the mob surged in that direction, Ardel with them. Not that she had any choice: her feet were off the ground. Finally Ardel could turn her head and she saw attendees throwing chairs through the windows. Then silhouettes of desperate people climbing to the window frames, some cutting hands and arms on jutting shards of glass. They hesitated, then jumped.

She recalled looking out of the window earlier. It was three stories above the shoreline — you’d have to leap far out to hit the water, and even then it seemed there were rocks and concrete abutments just below the surface, some bristling with rebar steel rods.

People were looking down and screaming, perhaps seeing their friends and family hit the rocks.

‘No! I’m not jumping!’ Ardel shouted to no one in particular. And tried to use her good arm to scrabble in the other direction. She’d take her chance with the gunman.

But she had no say in the matter, no say at all. The writhing mass pressed closer and closer to the windows, where some people were hesitating and others pushing the reluctant ones down and climbing on their backs or chests or bellies to launch themselves into the questionable safety of the stony shoreline below.

‘No, no, no!’ Ardel gasped, as the cluster around her mounted the fallen bodies and made it to the sill. She couldn’t look down, couldn’t steady herself, couldn’t even find a safe place to land, if there was such a place.

‘Stop it!’ she shouted to the crowd.

But then she was tumbling through space, curiously grateful, in those two or three seconds of free fall, to be out of the constrictor grasp of the surging crowd.

Then a jarring, breath-wrenching thud.

But she wasn’t badly injured. She’d landed on top of the man who’d jumped just before her. He lay, unconscious, on the outcrop of rock, the right side of his face torn open, jaw and cheek and arm shattered. She’d even landed more or less on her feet, and slid back on her butt, avoiding what would have been a catastrophic, torturous collision of her shattered shoulder and the cracked rock.

A massive spray of pungent salt water flared over Ardel and those around her, sprawled and sitting and crawling on the stone, cold as ice.

Screams from the victims, roaring from the water.

She rose, unsteadily, looking around, clutching her shoulder.

By now the police would be swarming the hall, and the gunman shot or arrested. She’d just stay here and—

‘Ah!’ Ardel barked a scream as one of the falling patrons landed directly behind her, propelling her off the rock. She stumbled forward and fell into the raging water.

A wave was now receding, pulling her in the undertow, fast, away from the shore.

She inhaled at the pain and got only water. Retching, coughing, looking back for help, looking back to see how far she was from shore. Fifteen feet, then twenty, more. The chill stole her breath and her body began to shut down.

She glanced at her useless right arm, floating limp in the water.

Not that it mattered: even if it had worked perfectly fine, there was nothing she could do. Ardel Hopkins couldn’t swim a stroke.

Chapter 32

Antioch March had returned from the Bay View Center and was sitting in his Honda parked about five blocks away from the venue, near the Sardine Factory, the wonderful restaurant featured in Play Misty For Me, the harrowing movie by Clint Eastwood. It was one of March’s favorite flicks, about a beautiful woman obsessed with a radio disk jockey. Psychotically obsessed.

It was really about the Get, of course.

Anything to seize what she desired.

He stretched and reflected on the plan he’d just put into place. It’d gone quite well.

Forty minutes earlier he’d carted a Monterey Bay Aquarium shopping bag along Cannery Row, then slipped behind a restaurant near the Bay View Center. He’d changed into his ‘uniform’, militia chic, he joked to himself — camo, bandana, gloves, mask, boots. Then, ten minutes after the self-help author had started his reading, time for rampage.

He’d slipped out from the hiding spot and, firing his Glock, walked closer to the Bay View Center, aiming in the direction of people but not actually at them. Everyone scattered. Everyone screamed.

He made his way toward the center’s fire-exit doors, shooting away. He figured he had about four minutes until police showed up.

Then, when people began leaping out of the windows, falling on the rocks and into the ocean, he’d turned and slipped back to his staging area. He stripped the camo off and was once again in T-shirt, windbreaker, shorts and flip-flops, pistol against his spine. The costume went into a mesh dive bag weighted with rocks and he’d tossed it into the bay, sinking thirty feet into the kelp.

Then, newly touristed, March made his way along the shore to where the Honda was parked. On a prepaid he called 911 and reported the gunman had moved off — toward Fisherman’s Wharf, the opposite direction from where March now was. He then called a local TV station and said the same thing. Another call — to a Fisherman’s Wharf restaurant, not the one he’d eaten at last night, to report that the crazed gunman was approaching. ‘Run, run, get out!’

A lot of police — not everywhere, since this was a small community, but plenty of them. Not a single one paid any attention to him. Their focus was elsewhere. He’d wondered if they had any idea he’d masqueraded as the fire inspector, Dunn, to conveniently make sure that the exit doors were taped open. Probably not. The ‘precautions’ the venue used had assured the success of the attack.

He’d waited for a while but then decided he could return to, yes, the scene of the crime.

The streets were congested, of course, as he made his way toward the venue where the tragedy continued to unfold. In the water, he could see, a dozen police and Coast Guard boats cruised and floated, blue lights, searchlights. Some people bobbing, mostly divers. People on the rocks too, beneath the shattered windows of the venue. Some sat, seemingly numb. Some lay on their backs or sides. Rescue workers had carefully descended along a steep line of rock, slick with vegetation, like green hair, and salt water, to get to the injured. Several had lost their footing and gone into the ocean. A fireman was one of these, flailing in the water as it lifted and dropped him against the shore. Two fellow workers pulled him to safety.

He wasn’t, March noted, the Hero Firefighter. But March was sure Brad Dannon would be there somewhere.

Through an alley and onto Cannery Row itself. Across the street and up the hill overlooking the Bay View Center.

What delicious chaos...

March eased close. He saw three body bags resting respectfully in the side driveway of the Bay View, near the emergency-exit doors, which were all wide open. Not a bad plan, this one, sending the self-helping book buyers out of the windows and onto the craggy rocks or into the breathlessly cold water.

March glanced down and noted another vehicle honking its way close to the Bay View.

Ah, what have we here?

My friend...

The gray Nissan Pathfinder featured an impromptu blue flasher on the dash. The vehicle parked near him — because of the congestion of the crowds and emergency vehicles it couldn’t get close to the center itself.

Kathryn Dance climbed out, frowning. Looking around.

March had been to her house, of course, but hadn’t been able to see much. There’d been dogs, people coming and going. He’d gotten some details about her life, her family, her friends, though he hadn’t managed to get a good close look at her. Now he did. Quite attractive. A bit like that actress, Cate Blanchett. She wore a dark jacket and mid-calf skirt. Stylish boots. Her hair was back in a taut ponytail, secured by a bright red band.

Ah, interesting: in this outfit, with this hair, she looked a bit like Jessica, from the holy trinity of Antioch March’s life, along with Serena and Todd.

She walked quickly up to several uniformed police and flashed her badge, though the officers seemed to know her. Others approached and gave her information, the way they’d greet a queen. His impression from the other day, at the theater, had been right: she’s the one pursuing me. The lead detective, or whatever they called it. He supposed she was smart. She had a piercing, studious frown, an unyielding jaw.

In five minutes or so, she’d dealt with all the requests and had issued orders. She walked up to the bodies, looked down, grim-faced. Then into the hall itself.

When she was out of sight, Antioch March eased down the hill. Because of the congestion Dance had parked outside the police line perimeter and he was easily able to walk up to her car without being stopped.

Equally convenient, she’d been so focused on the Bay View Center disaster scene that she’d neglected to lock the SUV.

He looked around, saw nobody was paying him the least attention and popped open the driver’s-side door.

Chapter 33

‘About fifty people jumped. Most hit the rocks.’ Dance was explaining this now to Charles Overby in her office at CBI headquarters. O’Neil and TJ were present too. ‘Half ended up in the water. The temperature was forty-five degrees. You can stay alive for a little while in water like that, some people can, but the ones who died couldn’t swim or were stunned or injured by the fall. Then some were just picked up by the waves and slammed into the rocks. Knocked unconscious and drowned. Two got tangled in the kelp.’

‘The count?’

O’Neil: ‘Four dead, thirty-two injured. Twelve critical. Two are in comas from the fall and hypothermia. Three’ll probably lose limbs from the fall to the rocks. No one missing. All accounted for.’

‘No security?’

‘No,’ Dance said. ‘The manager was in the front line, trying to help. The author? He hid in the bathroom. Women’s room, actually. Then the shooter vanished — about three minutes before the police showed up. No sign whatsoever.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘We think he was wearing throwaways,’ O’Neil said.

‘The camo?’

Dance told her boss, ‘There were plenty of places along the shore where he could have gotten out of sight, stripped, thrown everything into a shopping bag and strolled into the crowd, vanished.’

‘There were reports he was headed toward Fisherman’s Wharf.’

‘We think he was behind that,’ Dance explained. ‘Called Dispatch, a TV station and another restaurant. Prepaid mobile. Bought in Chicago with cash about a month ago. And when I heard that I ran the call records the night of the Solitude Creek incident. Somebody called Sam Cohen from the parking lot and told him the fire was in the kitchen and backstage areas of the club. That sent more people into the crush.’

‘The number the same?’

‘No. But it was from Chicago too. Bought at the same time. I’ve sent a request to Chicago PD to see what they can find. I’m not holding my breath. Now, at the Bay View the manager said there was no security video. I saw cameras, in the hall and outside, but apparently they weren’t hooked up.’

‘And the unsub,’ Overby said slowly, ‘never went inside. Never actually hit anybody. Why?’

‘The first question Michael and I asked about Solitude Creek. Why not just burn it down? Why not shoot his victims? He prefers them to kill themselves. He plays with perceptions, sensations, panic. It doesn’t matter what people see. It’s what they believe. That’s his weapon, fear. And he knows what he’s doing. I talked to one of the survivors. A woman named Ardel Hopkins. She was crushed in the mob and shattered her shoulder. She was about to drown but the Coast Guard fished her out. From what she said, it sounded just like Solitude Creek — people went insane. Nobody listened to reason. Security lights came on, bright ones. That added to the panic. Somebody must’ve broken a window and jumped. And the rest followed. Lemmings. Nobody looked to see if the shooter was actually inside. They just heard one person say, “Jump!” and they did. The manager said they’d just had a fire-department inspection — the venue could either cancel the event or submit to the inspection, which required them to make sure no vehicles could park in front of the exit doors and to tape the latches open.’

‘At least the MCFD’s being proactive. I didn’t hear that. But it’s ironic, hmm? The manager took all the right precautions — only that contributed to the frenzy.’

O’Neil said, ‘Forensics is going over the site now. Oh, we did get the shoeprint analysis back from CSU — of the prints Kathryn and I found at Solitude Creek. And? Turns out the unsub’s shoes’re pretty rare.’

‘What makes shoes rare?’ Overby asked.

‘Ones that cost about five thousand dollars a pair.’

‘What?’

‘The tool mark people’re ninety percent sure. Louis Vuitton. I’m having somebody run sales throughout the country but, well, there’s rare and then there’s rare. They sell about four hundred pairs a year. And I’m betting our boy paid cash for those too. And the tire evidence for the Honda? Wheelbase, track and tires mean it’s an Accord. Within the last four years.’

‘Why’s a man with five-thousand-dollar shoes driving a Honda?’ Overby mused. Then obvious answer: ‘Because it’s the most common vehicle on the face of the earth.’

‘Jesus. Five-thousand-dollar shoes.’ Overby laughed. ‘Who on earth is this guy?’ He began to say something else but then glanced at his computer screen. ‘Well. Oh.’

‘What, Charles?’

He read for a moment. ‘This’s from the Pipeline wire — Oakland task force. Two bangers burned down one of the G-eight-two’s warehouses. The one on Everly Street.’

‘Burned it down?’ Dance grimaced. She explained to O’Neil, ‘We found the place was a front, about a month ago. We could’ve raided it but decided to let it keep operating and put surveillance on it. So we could get the IDs of trucks headed south.’ She sighed. ‘Now the G-eight-twos’ll find someplace else and we’ll have no idea where. This’ll set us back.’

Overby continued to read: ‘Was loaded with about ten thousand rounds of ammo. Quite the fireworks display.’

Dance said, ‘I don’t get it. The ’house was neutral territory. All the crews knew that. Doesn’t make sense to take the place out.’

‘Well, somebody didn’t go along with the neutrality part,’ O’Neil said. ‘Maybe a renegade outfit from the south. Or here.’

Overby continued to read. Then looked up. ‘Except it’s odd. The guys who torched the place were white. At least, that’s what the video showed. All the crews involved in Pipeline’re black or Lat. But maybe they stepped on the wrong toes.’

‘And the owner wouldn’t do it for the insurance. Not with ammo inside,’ Dance said. ‘He’d wait till it was empty.’

Overby added, ‘Oakland PD and DEA have a partial on the arsonists’ license tag. Checking now. And video in the area, witnesses.’ Shaking his head, he turned from the screen.

Just then TJ Scanlon appeared in the office. He nodded to everyone. ‘Just want to keep you in the loop. I got some info on Anderson Construction.’

Ah. Dance explained to Overby that they’d found a crew of surveyors near the roadhouse. She’d hoped a construction worker might have seen the unsub near Solitude Creek.

‘Anderson’s been approached by a company in Nevada to do some development in the area. Nobody from Anderson has been at the site in two weeks. But they think the Nevada company’s had some people over there recently. I’ve left messages.’

‘Thanks, TJ. Get on home now.’

‘See you in the a.m. Night, all.’

Overby left as well, then Michael O’Neil after him.

Dance noted the time: it was nearly eleven p.m. As she ordered files on her desk, she glanced at her computer, on which was streaming a local TV news account of the Bay View incident, the sound down. Who was on but Brad Dannon, the Hero Firefighter. He hadn’t been the first on the scene this time but a close second or third. She watched the stark images. The blood on the doorway, the shards of glass from the shattered windows and the rocks, the huddled survivors who’d been fished from the water and wrapped in thin, efficient hypothermia blankets. People stumbling through the parking lot and among the crowd of onlookers, calling out, pathetic, for their missing relatives or friends.

A new, related story appeared. Dance turned the volume up. Henderson Jobbing had been sued by eighteen people for negligence in not securing their vehicles and keys. The commentators said bankruptcy was likely, not because of liability — it probably wasn’t responsible legally — but because defending the suit would be so expensive that it would have to close down.

‘The company has been a Monterey employer for years, providing warehouse services and running trucks throughout the state... and internationally as well. A local success story, but now, it seems, it will be shuttering its doors for good.’

Dance turned away from the screen. And thought, too, about poor Sam Cohen. The roadhouse would surely close, as well.

This is something you never recover from. Ever.

She pulled out her phone and made a call.

‘Kathryn,’ the man’s voice said.

‘You still here, Rey?’

‘Sure am.’

Rey Carreneo was an agent she described as older in heart than in years. The man had been a patrol officer in Reno, Nevada, where he’d got quite the lesson in policing. He’d had a rich past, some good, some dark, and he bore a tiny scar in the Y between his thumb and forefinger; it was where a gang tat had resided not too many years ago before he’d had it removed.

‘Need some help.’

‘Sure, Kathryn. The Serrano case?’

‘No, this is our Solitude Creek unsub. I need you to look into a couple of things. Can I come to your office in five?’

‘I’ll be here.’

Chapter 34

Antioch March sat parked in the Honda, observing a house fifty feet away and waiting for the right moment to change Kathryn Dance’s life for ever.

He shifted. A big man, March didn’t much care for the Accord. At home he drove a full-size Mercedes, and AMG, over 500 horsepower. A present from his boss. Here, though, of course, he needed to keep a low profile.

Squinting as he looked over the house.

He was there because he’d found some quite helpful information in Dance’s Pathfinder not long ago, and an obvious plan had presented itself. On the seat beside him were his ski mask, the cotton gloves and a tire iron. He pictured dear Kathryn’s face when she learned of the tragedy here. Would she cry? Scream? Both March and the Get wondered.

He was intermittently listening to the account of the Bay View disaster and to an audiobook, Keith Hopkins’s brilliant Death and Renewal. March had failed as an academic because of the Get, not because of his intelligence: he had always read a great deal. He preferred non-fiction — biographies and histories primarily. Renewal was a scholarly work about death and social structure in ancient Rome, an era that fascinated him. The battles, the spreading of the empire, the culture. Gladiatorial contests were one of the topics covered in the book and they were of particular interest to March. He’d read whatever he could find on them, but there was little scholarship on gladiators and their world. It was astonishing to March that the bulk of the books on the topic were romance novels, featuring muscular men sweating through the strappy leather garb that encased them.

Romance novels!

My God.

He shut off the audiobook and stared at the house. He wondered how long he’d have to wait.

March relaxed, sat back.

What interested him about gladiators, of course, wasn’t the erotic side — hetero or homo — which was a product of Hollywood and, apparently, popular publishing. No, it was the institutionalization of death that was so captivating to him.

History taught, history explained. A man can’t be judged by one day: you have to examine his whole life to see trends, to see who he really is. The great leveling of time.

Mankind in general, the same.

And the world of gladiatorial contests had informed Antioch March’s being. Now, the combat itself was interesting and complicated. It had begun in a very modest form as a tribute to a deceased relative, called the munus, a fight between two or three professionals, sometimes to the death, sometimes not. Eventually Roman officials combined the munera and non-combative entertainments, like sporting events, popular with the citizenry, into gladiatorial (the word referred to ‘swordsmen’) shows.

A fan of video games forever — he still played them regularly to relax — March had decided to create one himself. It would be about gladiatorial contests, a first-person game, where you see the action as if you were participating in it. The enemy comes at you and you must fight for your survival (or, as in some of the games, you sneak up behind your foe and slit his or her throat). Thanks to books like the one he was listening to and other research, he’d learned all he needed to about the contests themselves. The next step would be learning how to craft video games. He’d played them, many to the end, for nearly twenty years and had a good idea of how they worked but he would have to learn the mechanics of putting one together and find a computer person to help.

He spent hours fantasizing about the game and imagining what it would be like to play. He even had a title: The Blood of All. It was from a poem, perhaps by Catullus, a paean to a particular gladiator, Verus, in first-century Rome. He knew the last stanza by heart.

He’d worked on the game off and on for years. If it became a hit, of course, he’d have to be careful to remain anonymous. A game designer would get some publicity and he supposed it wasn’t good for someone who spent his days doing, well, what he did, to be too much in the public eye. But then he figured that the project wouldn’t draw attention to him — not like a famous author. He’d never have four hundred people at a book signing, like I’m-a-Coward Richard Stanton Keller had had tonight.

Tomorrow Is the New Today. He smiled, thinking: Well, it sure wasn’t for some of the people in attendance at the Bay View.

Another glance at the house. A light was on. But—

Just then his phone hummed with a text.

He squinted and picked up the unit.

What the hell’s this? he thought. No. Oh, no...

The plans for the evening had changed.

Chapter 35

‘How bad?’ Jon Boling asked.

‘I don’t want to talk about my day. Let’s talk about yours.’

Boling smiled. ‘I’m not sure how captivating an article on flaws in Boolean search logic will be. How about we play roast beef sandwich?’

She smiled, too, and kissed him. ‘I’m starved. Thanks.’

He whipped up plates and brought them onto the Deck, set out a glowing candle. Dance couldn’t help but think: lighting it for the dead at Bay View Center.

He opened a bottle of Jack London Cabernet. The wine wasn’t bad but she really liked the wolf on the label.

‘What’ve the munchkins been up to?’ she asked, as they sipped wine and ate the sandwiches and potato salad.

‘Mags was still moody.’

Dance shook her head. ‘I’ll sit down with her again. See if I can pry it out of her.’

‘But she seems to like her club. She was Skyping with them for an hour or so.’

‘Oh, what’s it called? The Secrets Club.’

‘That’s it. Bethany and Cara. Lucie too, I think. Pretty exclusive, it sounds like.’

‘You kept an eye on it?’

‘I did.’

Dance’s rule was that the children could Skype or go online only if an adult was nearby and checking in occasionally.

‘An official club?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure Pacific Heights Grade School requires much in the way of charter for a club to be official.’

‘Good point... Secrets Club,’ she mused. ‘And what do they do? Gossip about their American Girl dolls?’

‘I asked her and she said it was a secret.’

They both laughed.

Boling waved off another pour of wine. Since the children were here, he was present only until bedtime, then would drive back home. Just like he never drank when he was chauffeuring them anywhere.

‘And Wes?’

‘Donnie came over for a while. I like him. Really smart. I was teaching them how to code. He picked it up fast.’

‘What do you think about that game they’re playing now — Defend and Respond Expedition? What is it again?’

‘Service.’

‘Right.’

‘I have no idea what it’s about but what I’m fascinated with is that they’re rejecting the computer model. Writing out their battle plans, or whatever they do, sort of like football plays. Or like the old Battleships game. Remember?’

‘Sure.’

‘It’s a return to traditional game practices. I think there’s even an aspect where they do a scavenger hunt or something outside, find clues in the park or down by the shore. They’re out in the real world, ride their bikes, get some exercise.’

‘Like I used to play when I was a girl.’

‘Have to say I was pretty box-oriented, even that age.’

Boxes. Computers.

She said, ‘I heard people’re going back to paper books, away from e-books.’

‘True,’ he said. ‘I prefer the paper ones. And, besides, given my typical reading material, you’re probably not going to find Vector Modeling and Cosine Similarity as Applied to Search Engine Algorithms on Kindle.’

Dance nodded. ‘They’re making a movie of that, aren’t they?’

‘Pixar.’

Patsy and Dylan wandered out onto the Deck. Molecules of roast beef aroma carry far on nights like that. They plopped down and Boling furtively, but not too, slipped them bits. He asked Dance, ‘Okay, how bad was it?’

She lowered her head, sipped wine again.

He said, ‘You didn’t want to talk about it. But maybe you do.’

‘It’s bad, Jon. This guy, we don’t have a clue what he’s up to. Tonight— Did you hear the news?’

‘Gunman, but he wasn’t actually shooting people. Just making them panic. They jumped into the water. Four or five dead.’

Dance fell silent, looked out over the tiny amber lights in the backyard. As she leaned back, a bone somewhere in her shoulder popped. Didn’t used to happen. She stared up through the pines at the stars. This was the Peninsula of Fog but there were moments where the temperature and moisture partnered to turn the air into glass and, with little ambient illumination here, you sometimes could peer up through a tunnel between the pines and see the start of the universe.

‘Stay,’ she said.

Boling looked down at the dogs. They were asleep.

He glanced at her.

A smile. ‘You. Not them.’

‘Stay?’

‘The night.’

He didn’t need to say, ‘But the children.’ Kathryn Dance was not somebody you needed to remind when it came to the obvious.

And he didn’t need to hesitate. He leaned over and kissed her hard. Her hand went around his neck and she pulled him to her.

Neither asked about finishing dinner. They picked up their half-empty plates and carried them inside to the sink. Then Dance ushered the dogs in, and locked the doors.

Boling took her hand and led her up the stairs.