Solitude Creek

Chapter 86

‘Real, dude.’

Donnie and Nathan bumped fists. Wes nodded, looking around.

They were in the school yard, just hanging, on one of the picnic benches. There was Tiff; she looked his way and lifted an eyebrow. But that was it. No other reaction.

Some of the brothers, and there weren’t many of them here, were hanging not far away. One gave him a thumbs-up. Probably for track. Donnie’d just led the T and F team to victory over Seaside Middle School, winning the 200 and 400 dash (though, fuck, he’d gotten the branch once he’d gotten back home because he was one second off his personal best on the 400).

That was Leon Williams doing the thumbing. Solid kid. Donnie nodded back. The funny thing was that Donnie didn’t hate the blacks in the school at all, or any other blacks, for that matter. Which was one of the reasons that tagging black churches in the game was pretty fucked up. He disliked Jews a lot — or thought he did. That, too, was mostly from his dad, though. Donnie didn’t know that he’d ever actually met somebody who was Jewish, aside from Goldshit.

Donnie looked at his phone. Nothing.

He said to Nathan and Wes, ‘You heard from him? Vulcan?’

Vince had left right after class, saying he’d be back. It had seemed suspicious.

Nathan said, ‘He texted.’

Donnie said, ‘You, not me. Didn’t have the balls to text me.’

‘Yeah. Well. He said he’d be here. Just had something to do first and Mary might be coming by — you know her, the one with tits — and kept going on, all this shit. Which I think means he’s not coming.’

‘Fucker’s out if he doesn’t show.’ There was a waiting list to get in the DARES crew. But then Donnie reflected: of course, for what was going down today, maybe better Vince the Pussy wasn’t here. Because, yeah, this wasn’t the Defend game at all. It was way past that. This was serious and he couldn’t afford somebody to go, ‘Yeah, I’m watching your back,’ and then take off.

Wes asked, ‘Just the three of us?’

‘Looks like it, dude.’

Donnie glanced at his watch. It was a Casio and it had a nick in the corner, which he’d spent an hour trying to cover up with paint, so his dad wouldn’t see it. The time was three thirty. They were only twenty minutes away from Goldshit’s house.

‘Plan? First, we get the bikes. Get into the garage. That’s where they are,’ he explained to Nathan. ‘Here.’

‘What’s that?’

Donnie was shoving wads of blue latex into their hands.

‘Gloves,’ Wes said, understanding. ‘For fingerprints.’

Nathan: ‘So we get fingerprints on the bikes? We’re taking ’em, aren’t we?’

Donnie twisted his head, exasperated, studying Nathan. ‘Dude, we gotta open the door or the window and get in, right?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Nathan pulled the gloves on. ‘They’re tight.’

‘Not now, bitch. Jesus.’ Donnie was looking around. ‘Somebody could see you.’

Fast, Nathan peeled them off. Shoved them into the pouch of his hoodie.

Wes was saying, ‘We gotta be careful. I saw this show on TV once. A crime show, and my mom’s friend Michael was over. And he’s a deputy with the county. We were watching it together. And he was saying the killer was stupid because he threw his gloves away and the cops found them and his fingerprints were inside the gloves. We’ll keep ’em and throw ’em out later, someplace nowhere near here.’

‘Or burn them,’ Nathan said. He seemed proud he’d thought of this. Then he was frowning. ‘Anything else this guy would know, we should know? Your mom’s friend? I mean, this is like breaking and entering. We gotta be serious.’

‘Totally,’ Wes said.

Nathan squinted. ‘Maybe it’s legal, doing this, you know. Like we’re just retrieving stolen property.’

Wes laughed. ‘Seriously? Dude, are you real? The bikes got perped during the commission of a crime, so don’t count on that one.’

‘What’s “perped”?’ Nathan asked.

‘Bitch,’ Donnie said. ‘Stolen.’

‘Oh.’

Donnie persisted, ‘So? That cop, the friend of your mom’s? What else’d he look for?’

Wes thought for a minute. ‘Footprints. They can get our footprints with this machine. They can match them.’

‘Fuck,’ Nathan said. ‘You mean the government has this big-ass file on everybody’s footprint?’

But Wes explained that, no, they take the footprint, and if they catch you and it matches yours, it’s evidence.

‘CSI,’ Donnie said. ‘We’ll walk on the driveway. Not the dirt.’

‘They can still pick them up from concrete and asphalt.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Church.’

‘Fuck. Okay. We leave our shoes in the bushes when we get there.’

Nathan was frowning, ‘Can they take, like, sock prints?’

Wes told him he didn’t think they could do that.

Nathan asked, ‘That cop. Is he the guy I saw at your house, Jon?’

‘No, he’s into computers. He’s my mom’s friend.’

‘She’s got two boyfriends?’

Wes shrugged and didn’t seem to want to talk about it.

Donnie said, ‘So, I was saying: first, we get into the garage and get the bikes.’

Nathan said, ‘Dude, I heard you say that before. “First”. That means there’s a second or something. After we get the bikes.’

Donnie smiled. He tapped his combat jacket. ‘I brought a can.’

‘Fuck,’ Nathan said. ‘This isn’t the game. We’re just helping you out, him and me.’

Wes was: ‘Yeah! Dude, come on. Let’s just get the bikes and get the hell out of here. That’s what I’m on for. Tag him again? What’s the point?’

‘I’m tagging the inside of his house. Just to show the asshole.’

‘Not me,’ Wes said.

‘You don’t have to do anything, either of you bitches. Am I asking you to do anything? Either of you?’

‘I’m just saying,’ Nathan grumbled.

There was silence. They looked around the school yard, kids walking home, kids being picked up by parents, moms mostly, in a long line of cars in the driveway. Tiff looked their way again. Donnie brushed his hair out of his eyes, and when he smiled back, she’d turned away.

And she’d be interested why? he thought, sad.

Wes said, ‘Hey, come on, Darth. We’re with you. Whatever you want, tag or trash. We’re there. I’ll help you get the bikes but I’m not going inside.’

‘All I’m asking. You two. Lookouts.’

‘Fuck, amen,’ the big kid said.

Nods all around.

‘Roll?’ Donnie asked.

A nod. They headed for the gate in the chain-link that led to the street.

Donnie and his crew. He didn’t share with them what was really going down.

What he’d tapped inside his jacket wasn’t a can of Krylon. It was his father’s.38 Smith & Wesson pistol.

He’d made the decision last night — after the son of a bitch, his father, had pulled out the branch, tugged Donnie’s pants down and wailed on him maybe because of the bike or maybe for some other reason or maybe for no fucking reason at all.

And when it was over, Donnie had staggered to his feet, avoided his mother’s eyes and walked stiffly to his room, where he had stood for a while at his computer — his keyboard was on a high table ’cause there were plenty of times he couldn’t sit down — playing Assassin’s Creed, then Call of Duty, GTA 5, though he didn’t shoot or jump good. You can’t when your eyes are fucked up by tears. In Call of Duty, Federation soldiers kept him and the other Ghost elite special-ops unit pinned down and his guys had got fucked up because of him.

That was when he’d made the decision.

Donnie realized this life wasn’t going to work any more. He had two ways to go. One was to go into his father’s dresser, get the little gun and put a bullet in the man’s head while he slept. And as good as that would feel — so good — it meant his brother and his mother’s life’d be fucked for ever because Dad didn’t treat them quite as bad as Donnie got treated, and he might’ve been a prick but at least he paid the rent and put food on the table.

So, it was number two.

He’d take his father’s gun, go back to the Jew’s house, with his crew. After they’d got the bikes — evidence — he’d have the others keep an eye out for cops and he’d go inside, tie the asshole up and get every penny the prick had in the house, watches, the wife’s jewelry. He had to be rich. His dad said all Jews were.

He could get thousands, he was sure. Tens of thousands.

With the money, he’d leave. Head to San Francisco or LA. Maybe Hollister, where they made all the clothes. He’d get something on — and not selling ice or grass. Something real. He could sell the DARES game to somebody in Silicon Valley. It wasn’t that far away; maybe Tiff would visit.

Life would be good. At last. Life would be good. Donnie could almost taste it.

Chapter 87

Charles Overby, a man who loved the sun, who just felt good with a ruddy complexion, now walked toward the Guzman Connection task-force room, deer-eye level in CBI headquarters, and wasn’t pleased at what he saw.

It was late afternoon and the shade outside turned the glass to a dim mirror. He looked vampiric, which if it wasn’t a word should be. Too stressed, too busy, too much shit. From Sacramento all the way to Mexico with their smarmy, law-breaking ally Commissioner Santos.

He stepped inside the room. Fisher and Lu, Steve and Steve Two were at one table, both on phones. DEA agent Carol Allerton sat at another, engrossed in her laptop. She seemed to prefer to play alone, Overby had noticed. She didn’t even see him, so lost was she in the emails scrolling past on her Samsung.

‘Greetings, all.’

Allerton glanced at him. ‘Getting reports on that truck left Compton a day ago, the warehouse near the Four-oh-five. The Nazim brothers. May have twenty ki’s. Meth.’ This truck, Allerton explained, had been spotted on Highway One.

Lu asked, ‘A semi? There? Jesus.’

The highway, between Santa Barbara and Half Moon, could be tricky to drive, even in a sports car. Narrow and winding.

‘That’s right. I want to follow it. No reason for ’em to be taking that route, unless they’re going someplace connected with Pipeline.’ Allerton said to Lu, ‘You free?’

Lu nodded. ‘Sure. Could use a hit of field.’ The slim man rose and stretched.

Foster was lost in his phone conversation. ‘Really?’ Impatient, sarcastic, moving his hand in a circle. Get to the point. ‘Let me be transparent. That’s not going to work.’ Foster hung up. A gesture to the phone. ‘CIs. Jesus. There’s gotta be a union.’ He turned to Allerton and Lu. His moustache drooped asymmetrically. ‘Where’re you going?’

Allerton explained about the mysterious truck on Highway One.

‘Contraband on One? Is there a transfer hub along that way we don’t know about?’ Foster seemed interested in this.

‘That’s what we’re going to find out.’

‘Hope that one pans out.’

Overby said to Foster, ‘Can you and Al Stemple check out Pedro Escalanza?’

‘Who?’

‘The lead to Serrano. Tia Alonzo mentioned him, remember?’

Foster’s frown said, no, he didn’t. ‘Where is this Escalanza?’

‘Sandy Crest Motel.’ Overby explained it was a cheap tourist spot, about five miles north of Monterey.

‘I guess.’

‘TJ ran Escalanza’s sheet. Minor stuff but he’s facing a couple in Lompac. We’ll work with him on that if he gives up any info that gets us to Serrano.’

Foster muttered, ‘A lead to a lead to a lead.’

‘What’s that?’ Overby asked.

Foster didn’t answer. He strode out of the door.

Outside CBI, Steve Foster looked over his new partner.

‘Just for the record, I’m playing along with you because...’ a slight pause ‘... the rest of the task force wanted it. I didn’t.’

Kathryn Dance said pleasantly, ‘It’s your case, Steve. I’m still Civ Div. I just want the chance to interview Escalanza, that’s all.’

He muttered, repeating, ‘The rest of the task force.’ Then looked her over as if he were about to tell her something important. Reveal a secret. But he said nothing.

She waved at Albert Stemple, plodding toward his pickup truck. His cowboy boots made gritty sounds on the asphalt. Stone-faced, he nodded back.

Stemple grumbled, ‘So. That lead to Serrano?’

‘That’s it,’ Foster said.

‘I’ll follow you. Brought the truck. Was supposed to be my day off.’ Got inside, started the engine. It growled.

Dance and Foster got into the CBI cruiser. She was behind the wheel.

She punched the motel’s address into her iPhone GPS and started the engine. They hit the highway, headed west. Soon the silence in the car seemed louder than the slipstream.

Foster, lost in his phone, read and sent some text messages. He didn’t seem to mind that she was driving — some men would have made an issue of piloting. And he might have, given that Dance really wasn’t a great driver. She didn’t enjoy vehicles, didn’t blend with the road the way Michael O’Neil did.

Thinking of him now, his arms around her at the stampede in Global Adventure World. And their fight after they’d returned.

Tapped that thought away fast. Concentrate.

She turned music on. Foster didn’t seem to enjoy it but neither did the sound seem to bother him. She’d reflected that while everyone else in the task force had congratulated her on nailing the Solitude Creek unsub Foster had said nothing. It was as if he hadn’t even been aware of the other case.

Twenty minutes later, she turned off the highway and made her way down a long, winding road, Stemple’s truck bouncing along behind. From time to time they could see north and south — along the coast, misting away to Santa Cruz, the sky split by the incongruous power-plant smokestacks. A shame, those. The vista was one that Ansel Adams might have recorded, using his trademark small aperture to bring the whole scene into crystal detail.

Foster’s hand slipped out and he turned down the volume.

So maybe he was a music-hater.

But that wasn’t it at all. While the big man’s eyes were on the vista, Foster said, ‘I have a son.’

‘Do you?’ Dance asked.

‘He’s thirteen.’ The man’s tone was different now. A flipped switch.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Embry.’

‘Unusual. Nice.’

‘Family name. My grandmother’s maiden name. A few years ago I was with our LA office. We were living in the Valley.’

The nic for San Fernando. That complex, diverse region north of the Los Angeles Basin — everything from hovels to mansions.

‘There was a drive-by. Pacoima Flats Boyz had pissed off the Cedros Bloods, who knows why?’

Dance could see what was coming. Oh, no. She asked, ‘What happened, Steve?’

‘He was hanging with some kids after school. There was crossfire.’ Foster cleared his throat. ‘Hit in the temple. Vegetative state.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I know I’m a prick,’ Foster said, his eyes on the road. ‘Something like that happens...’ He sighed.

‘I can’t even imagine.’

‘No, you can’t. And I don’t mean that half as shitty as it sounds. I know I’ve been riding you. And I shouldn’t. I just keep thinking, Serrano got away, and what if he takes out somebody else? He can fucking waste all of his own crew if he wants. But it’s the kid in between the muzzle and the target that bothers me, keeps me up all night. And it’s my fault as much as yours. I was there too, at the interview. I could’ve done something, could’ve asked some questions.’

‘We’ll get him,’ Dance said sincerely. ‘We’ll get Serrano.’

Foster nodded. ‘You should’ve told me I’m a dick.’

‘I thought it.’

His silver mustache rose as he gave the first smile she’d seen since the task force had been put together.

Soon they arrived at the motel, which was in the hills about three miles east of the ocean. It was on the eastern side, so there was no view of the water. Now the place was shrouded in shade, surrounded by brush and scrub oak. The first thing that Dance thought of was the Solitude Creek roadhouse, a similar setting — some human-built structure surrounded by quiet, persistent California flora.

The inn had a main office and about two dozen separate cabins. She found the one they sought and parked two buildings away. Stemple drove his truck into a space nearby. There was one car, an old Mazda sedan, faded blue, in front of the cabin. Dance consulted her phone, scrolled down the screen. ‘That’s his, Escalanza’s.’

Stemple climbed out of his truck and, hand on his big gun, walked around the motel. He returned and nodded.

‘Let’s go talk to Señor Escalanza,’ Foster said.

The two agents started forward, the wind tossing her hair. She heard a snap beside her. She saw a weapon in Foster’s hand. He pulled the slide back and checked to see if a round was chambered. He eased the slide forward and holstered the gun. He nodded. They continued along the sand-swept sidewalk past yellowing grass and squatting succulents to the cabin registered in the name of Pedro Escalanza. Bugs flew and Dance wiped sweat. You didn’t have to get far from the ocean for the heat to soar, even in springtime.

At the door they looked back at Al Stemple — a hundred feet away. He glanced at them. Gave a thumbs-up.

Dance and Foster looked at each other. She nodded. They stepped to either side of the door — procedure, not to mention common sense — and Foster knocked. ‘Pedro Escalanza? Bureau of Investigation. We’d like to talk to you.’

No answer.

Another rap.

‘Please open the door. We just want to talk. It’ll be to your advantage.’

Nothing.

‘Shit. Waste of time.’

Dance gripped the door. Locked. ‘Try the back.’

The cottages had small decks, which were accessed by sliding doors. Lawn chairs and tables sat on the uneven brick. No barbecue grills, of course: one careless, smoldering briquette, and these hills would vanish in ten breaths. They walked around to the unit’s deck and noted that the door was open, a frosty beer, half full, on the table. Foster, his hand on his weapon’s grip, walked closer. ‘Pedro.’

‘Yeah?’ a man’s voice called. ‘I was in the john. Come on in.’

They walked inside. And froze.

On the bathroom floor they could see two legs stretched out. Streak of blood on them. Puddling on the floor too.

Foster drew his gun and started to turn but the young man behind the curtain next to the sliding door quickly touched the agent’s skull with his own gun.

He pulled Foster’s Glock from his hand and shoved him forward, then closed the door.

They both turned to the lean Latino gazing at them with fierce eyes.

‘Serrano,’ Dance whispered.

Chapter 88

They were back.

At last. Thank you, Lord.

The two boys from the other night. Except there were three of them at the moment.

Well, now that David Goldschmidt thought about it, there might’ve been three the other night. Only two bikes but, yes, there could have been another one then.

The other night.

The night of shame, he thought of it. His heart pounding even now, several days afterward. Palms sweating. Like Kristallnacht, the ‘Night of Broken Glass’, in 1938, when the Germans had rioted and destroyed a thousand Jewish homes and businesses throughout the country.

Goldschmidt was watching them on the video screen, which wasn’t, as he’d told Officer Dance the other night, in the bedroom but in the den. They were moving closer now, all three. Looking around, furtive. Guilt on wheels.

True, he hadn’t exactly gotten a look at them the other day, not their faces — that was why he’d asked Dance for more details: he didn’t want to make a mistake. But this was surely them. He’d seen their posture, their clothes, as they’d fled, after obscenely defacing his house. Besides, who else would it be?

They’d returned for their precious bikes.

Coming after the bait.

Which was why he’d kept them.

Bait...

Now he was ready. He’d called his wife in Seattle and had her stay a few days longer with her sister. Made up some story that he himself wanted to come up for the weekend. Why didn’t she stay and he’d join her? She’d bought it.

As the boys stole closer still, glancing around them, pausing from time to time, Goldschmidt looked up and watched them through the den window, the lace curtain.

One, the most intense, seemed to be the ringleader. He was wearing a combat jacket. Floppy hair. A second, a handsome teenager, was holding his phone, probably to record the theft. The third, big, dangerously big.

My God, they looked young. Younger than high school, Goldschmidt reckoned. But that didn’t mean they weren’t evil. They were probably the sons of neo-Nazis or some Aryan group. Such a shame they hadn’t formed their own opinions before their racist fathers, mothers too probably, had got a hold of their malleable brains and turned them into monsters.

Evil...

And deadly. Deadly as all bigots were.

Which was why Goldschmidt was now holding his Beretta double-barrel shotgun, loaded with 00 buckshot, each pellet the diameter of a.33-caliber slug.

He closed the weapon with a soft click.

The law on self-defense in California is very clear...

It certainly was, Officer Dance. Once somebody was in your home and you had a reasonable fear for your safety, you could shoot them.

And for all Goldschmidt knew, they too were armed.

Because this country was America. Where guns were plentiful and reluctance to use them rare.

The boys paused on the corner. Surveilling the area. Noting that his car was gone — he’d parked it blocks away. That the lights were out. He wasn’t home. Safe to come get your Schwinns.

The door’s open, kids. Come on in.

Goldschmidt rose, thumbed off the safety and walked into the kitchen, where he opened the door to the garage. That location, he’d checked, was considered part of your home too. And all he had to do was convince the prosecutor he’d legitimately feared for his life.

He’d memorized the sentence, ‘I used the minimum amount of force necessary under the circumstances to protect myself.’

He peered through the crack.

Come on, boys. Come on.

Chapter 89

‘And you, Officer Dance. Your weapon too. Let’s go.’

Without taking his eyes off them, the Latino tugged the curtain shut, a gauzy shield against passers-by.

‘I’m not armed. Look, Serrano. Joaquin. Let’s talk about—’

‘Not armed.’ A smile.

‘Really. I’m not.’

‘You say this, I say that.’

‘Listen—’ Foster began.

‘Sssh, you. Now, Agent Dance. How about you just tug up that fancy jacket of yours, turn around like my niece does, pirouette? I think that’s what it’s called. She in ballet class. She’s pretty good.’

Dance lifted her jacket and turned. Her eyes returned defiantly to his.

‘Well, they don’t trust you with guns, your bosses? My woman, she can shoot. She’s good. You afraid of shooting. Too loud?’

Foster nodded toward the bathroom, where a man’s legs were just visible. Crimson spatters covered the tiles. ‘That’s Escalanza?’

‘The fuck’re you to ask me questions?’ the man sneered. ‘Shut up.’ He stepped to the windows and looked outside. Dance could see through the slit in the flyblown drapes. She saw no one other than Stemple, gazing out over the highway.

‘Who’s that big boy out there?’

Dance said, ‘He’s with us, the Bureau of Investigation.’

He returned. ‘Hey, there, Officer... Or, no, it’s Agent. Have to remember that. Sí, Agent Dance. I enjoyed our conversation in the room, that interrogation room there. Always like talking to a beautiful woman. Too bad no cervezas. You get more confessions you open a bar there. Patron, Herradura, a little rum. No, I know! Hire a puta. Give somebody head, they confess fast.’

Dance said evenly, ‘You’re in a bad situation here.’

He smiled.

Foster said impatiently, ‘Look, Serrano, whatever you have in mind, nothing good’s going to come from killing law.’

‘That’s your opinion, whoever you are. Were you one of those watching me in the goldfish bowl the other day?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fooled you pretty good, didn’t I?’ he gloated.

Dance said, ‘Yes, you did. But my colleague’s right. It’s not going to work out how you want.’

The young man said evenly, ‘You said nothing good comes from killing law. Well, you know what? I’m thinking a lot of good’ll come of it. You been on my ass since Wednesday. I been hiding here, hiding there. That’s a pain I don’t need. So I think a lot of good is going to come from having you both fucking dead. Okay. Enough.’

Dance said, ‘You shoot us and you think the agent out there won’t hear? If he doesn’t nail your ass, he’ll keep you pinned down until a TAC team...’

Fishing in his back pocket, Serrano pulled a silencer out and screwed it onto the muzzle of his weapon. ‘I like the way you say “ass”.’

Dance glanced at Foster, whose expression remained placid.

‘So. Here. I’m a religious man. You take a few seconds to make your peace. Pray. You have something you want to say? Somebody up there you want to say it to?’

Her voice ominous, Dance said defiantly, ‘You’re not thinking, Joaquin. Our boss knows we’re here, a dozen others. I could get a call any minute. I don’t pick up and there’ll be a dozen TAC officers here in ten minutes, combing the area. Lockdown on the roads. You’ll never get away.’

‘Yeah, I think I take my chances.’

‘Work with me and I can keep you alive. You walk out that door and you’re a dead man.’

‘Work with you?’ He laughed. ‘You got nothing. What they say in football, I mean soccer? Nil. You’ve got nil to offer.’

The gun was already racked. He lifted it toward Foster, who said, ‘Lamont.’

The young man frowned. ‘What?’

‘Lamont Howard.’

A confused look. ‘What’re you saying?’

‘Don’t act stupid.’ Foster shook his head.

‘Fuck you saying to me, asshole?’

Foster seemed merely inconvenienced, not the least intimidated. Or scared. ‘I’m saying to you, asshole, the name Lamont Howard.’ When there was no response he continued, ‘You know Lamont, right?’

The Latino’s eyes scanned their faces uncertainly. Then: ‘Lamont, the gang-banger run the Four Seven Bloods in Oakland. What about him?’

Dance said, ‘Steve?’

Foster: ‘You been to his house in Village Bottoms?’

A blink.

‘West Oakland.’

‘I know where the Bottoms is.’

Dance snapped, ‘What’s this all about, Steve?’

Foster waved her silent. Back to the young man. ‘Okay, Serrano, here’s the deal. You kill me, Lamont will kill you. Simple as that. And he’ll kill everybody in your family. And then he’ll go back to his steak dinner, because he likes his steak. I know that because I have been to his crib and had a steak dinner with him. A dozen of them, in fact.’

Dance turned to Foster. She whispered, ‘What?’

‘Fuck you saying, man?’

‘Are you catching on? I’m Lamont’s inside man.’

Dance stared at him.

‘No fucking way.’

‘Yeah, well, Serrano, I can say yes and you can say no way until you have to take a crap. But wouldn’t it make sense just to ask him? ’Cause if you don’t and you take me out, Lamont and his crew lose their one connection to CBI and points beyond. DEA, Customs and Border, Homeland. And I wonder which dry well you and your mother and sister will be sleeping out eternity in.’

‘Fuck. Wait. I hear something. A month ago. Some Oakland crew was getting solids from Sacramento.’

‘That’s me.’ Foster seemed proud.

Dance looked out of the window. Stemple, still gazing away into the waving grass. She growled to Foster, ‘You son of a bitch.’

He ignored her. ‘So, call him.’

The Latino looked him over, not getting too close. Foster was much larger. ‘I no got his number. You think him and me, we asshole buddies?’

Foster sighed. ‘Look, I’m taking my phone out of my pocket. That’s all. My phone.’ He did. ‘Ah, Kathryn, careful there.’

Her hand had dropped toward a table on which a heavy metal lamp sat.

‘Serrano? Could you...’

The young man noted that Dance had been going for the lamp. He stepped forward and roughly pushed her against the wall, away from any potential weapons.

Foster made a call.

‘Lamont, it’s Steve.’ He hit the speaker.

‘Foster?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What you calling for?’ The voice was wary.

‘Got a situation here. Sorry, man. There’s a hothead, from one of the Salinas crews, with a piece on me. He’s out of the...’ Foster lifted an eyebrow.

‘Barrio Majados.’

‘You hear that?’

Howard’s voice: ‘Yo, I know ’em, I work with ’em. What’s this about? Who is he?’

‘Serrano.’

‘Joaquin? I know Serrano. He disappeared. There was heat on him.’

‘He’s surfaced. He doesn’t know who I am. Just tell him we work together. Or he’s going to park a slug in my head.’

‘Fuck you doing, Serrano? Leave my boy Foster alone. You got that?’

‘He with you?’

‘The fuck I say?’

The gun didn’t lower. ‘Okay, only... any chance he undercover?’

‘Well, he is, then he’s the only undercover took out a Oakland cop.’

‘No shit.’

Howard said, ‘Asshole show up at my place unexpected. Foster, pop pop, took him down.’

‘Steve, no!’ Dance whispered, dismay in her voice.

Howard called, ‘The fuck’s that?’

‘Another cop, works with Foster.’

‘That’s just fucking great.’ The banger in Oakland sighed. ‘You two take care of her. I got shit to do here.’

The call ended.

‘Serrano,’ Dance began, ‘what I was saying before. You need to be smart. You—’

The Latino snapped, ‘Shut up, Kathryn.’

With a cold smile, she said to Foster, ‘The story you told me before. You don’t have a son, do you? That was a lie.’

He turned to her, offering a nonchalant shrug. ‘I didn’t know what was going down. Needed you on my side.’

Dance sneered, ‘You can’t be running a network on your own. You’re not that smart.’

Foster was indignant. ‘Fuck you. I don’t need anybody else.’

‘How many people’ve died because of what you’ve done?’

‘Oh, come on,’ the man said gruffly. Then: ‘Serrano, let’s get this done. Do her, I’ll get the asshole outside in here. We take him out. I’ll tell the response team I got out the back and hid in the hills. I’ll say it was somebody else here, not you. One of the crews from Tijuana.’

‘Okay with me,’ was the matter-of-fact response.

Then Foster was squinting. ‘Wait.’

‘What?’

‘You... you said, “Kathryn”. You called her “Kathryn”.’

A shrug. ‘I don’t know. So?’

‘I never used her first name here. And I was at the interview last week between you and her. She never said it either.’

I’m Agent Dance...

A grimace. The Latino accent was gone as the young man said, ‘Yep, I screwed up on that. Sorry.’ He was speaking to Kathryn Dance.

‘No worries, José,’ she said, smiling. ‘We got everything we needed. You did great.’

Foster stared from one to the other. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’

‘Serrano’ who was actually a Bakersfield detective named José Felipe-Santoval, aimed his weapon center-mass on Foster’s chest, while Dance, relieved of her weapon but not her cuffs, ratcheted the bracelets on.

Adding to Foster’s shock, the agent who’d been pretending to be the deceased Pedro Escalanza hopped to and dusted off his jeans, drawing his own weapon. He’d been lying face down, head hidden from the trio in the hotel room.

‘Hey, TJ.’

‘Boss. Good takedown. How’s the blood?’ He glanced at his legs, spattered red. ‘I tried a new formula. Hershey’s syrup and food coloring.’

‘Big improvement,’ she said, nodding at the tiles.

Foster gasped, ‘A sting. The whole thing.’

Dance pulled out her cell phone. Hit speed-dial five as she glanced down and noticed her Aldo pumps had a scuff. Have to fix that. They were her favorite shoes for field work.

She heard, from the phone, Charles Overby’s voice: ‘Kathryn? And the verdict is?’

‘Foster’s our boy. It’s all on tape. He’s the only one.’

‘Ah.’

‘We’ll be back in a half-hour. You want to be there, at the interrogation?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

Chapter 90

Disgust overflowed in Foster’s face as he looked from Al Stemple to Dance to Overby. They were in the same CBI interrogation rooms where Dance had held the phony interview of the phony Serrano last week.

TJ was elsewhere; the faux blood was good, yes, but it stained far more than he’d thought it would. He was presently scrubbing hands and ankles in one of the nearby men’s rooms.

Foster snapped, ‘Jesus, you wanted Kathryn unarmed and demoted to Civ Div but still talking her way onto the interviews with the suspect to track down Serrano. So I wouldn’t feel threatened by her.’

Yep. Exactly.

Overby added, ‘So you’d be free to cut a deal with Serrano when he pulled a gun on you.’

Dance told him: ‘We made the case against the real Serrano ten days ago. Handed it over to the FBI, Amy Grabe in San Francisco. So you wouldn’t get wind of it. She busted him. He rolled over on Guzman. They’re both in isolation. The “Serrano” you saw was Bakersfield PD. José works undercover. He’s good, don’t you think?’

Not acting very professional. But she was in a mood.

‘We got him because he looks like the real Serrano.’

Anger joined Foster’s revulsion: ‘Jesus. We were all suspects. And you faked the “leads” to Serrano — with Carol, the bungalow in Seaside. With Gomez, the houseboat. At the motel just now. You ran the same set, the same play at every one of them. TJ played the dead snitch. All I saw was the legs and torso. Not his face.’

Overby filled in, ‘Except at the houseboat. That was Connie Ramirez, playing... What was her name again?’

Dance answered, ‘Tia Alonzo.’ She continued, ‘It was a test we put together. The real traitor’d save himself. Those on the task force who were innocent? Well, I’m afraid they had a few bad moments when José turned his gun on them. But it had to be done. We needed to find who’d sold us out.’

In the first set, Carol Allerton had suicidally lunged at the fake Serrano, knocking a table of ceramic keepsakes to the floor. Gomez had sighed, resigned himself to death and said a prayer.

And Foster had played the OG card, invoking the name of Lamont Howard to save himself.

‘If you’d passed the test, it would have meant Steve Lu was the one. Since you said you’d told Kathryn you were the only connection, he’s clean.’

‘You fucking set me up.’

Finally, quiet Al Stemple spoke: ‘I think “set up” means more wrongly implicating an innocent person, ’stead of trapping a guilty asshole. Am I being transparent enough, Steve?’ He gave a loud grunt, then sat back and crossed his arms, wide as tree trunks.

The Guzman Connection sting had been Dance’s idea and she’d fought hard for it. All the way up to Sacramento.

She’d decided to put together the operation after a horrific drive-by shooting in Seaside, a mother killed and a child wounded. The woman had been a witness to one of the Pipeline hubs. But no one could have known about her — except for a leak inside the operation itself.

‘I went through the files a hundred times and looked for any other instance of operations that could’ve been compromised. TJ and I spent weeks correlating the personnel. We narrowed it down to four people involved in all of them — and who knew that Maria Ioaconna was a witness. You, Carol, Steve Lu and Jimmy. We brought you here. And set up the operation.’

There’d been risks, of course. That the guilty party might wonder why Dance was apparently working on the Solitude Creek case but was officially barred from the Serrano pursuit.

(Overby had said, ‘Can’t you forget about Solitude Creek, stay home and, I don’t know, plant flowers? You can still show up at the Serrano sets.’

‘I’m working Solitude,’ she’d answered bluntly.)

Risks to her physically too — as O’Neil had pointed out so vehemently: it was possible that their traitor would call someone like Lamont Howard, who’d show up at one of the sets with his crew and waste everybody present.

But there was nothing else to do: Dance was determined to find their betrayer.

Foster stared at the room’s ugly gray floors, and the muscles in his face flickered.

Dance added, ‘We never hoped for him directly. But getting Howard on the tape, ordering my hit?’

‘Ah, that’s righteous.’ Overby beamed.

A word she didn’t believe she’d ever heard Overby say. He seemed to mull the line over and was embarrassed.

But Dance smiled his way. He was right. It was righteous. And a lot more.

Overby looked at his watch. Golf? Or maybe he was considering with some dismay the call to Sacramento, the CBI chief, to tell them the traitor came from the hallowed halls of their own agency. ‘Keep going, Kathryn. Convince him of the futility of his silence. Convince him of the shining path of confession. Whatever he says or doesn’t, the media’ll be here soon. You’ll be at the podium with me, I hope?’

Charles Overby sharing a press conference?

‘You’ve earned the limelight, Kathryn.’

‘Think I’d rather pass, Charles. It’s been a long day.’ She nodded toward Foster. ‘And this may take a while.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I am. Yes.’ Dance turned to her prey.

Chapter 91

A shadow in her office doorway.

Michael O’Neil stood there. Somber. His dark eyes locked on hers. Brown, green. Then he looked away.

‘Hey,’ she said.

He nodded and sat down.

‘You heard?’

‘Foster. Yeah. Complete confession. Good job.’

‘Gave up a dozen names. People we never would’ve found. Bangers in LA and Oakland. Bakersfield, Fresno too.’ Dance looked away from her computer, on which she was typing notes from the Antioch March case. The promise of paperwork stretched out, long as the Golden Gate Bridge.

Documenting the Guzman Connection sting, part of Operation Pipeline, would be next, the arrest of Steve Foster.

She’d actually thought he was the least likely suspect, given his obnoxious nature. Kathryn Dance was accustomed to the apparent being the opposite of the real. Dance had suspected mostly Carol Allerton. What state cop didn’t love bashing a fed? But now she felt guilty about that. The DEA agent had been a good ally after the first sting operation. And she was very pleased too that Jimmy Gomez, a friend, had not been the betrayer.

She now told Michael O’Neil about the finale of the sting. She, of course, didn’t add that she believed she’d been right — that had she gone in armed, had she not maintained the sham of her suspension, Foster wouldn’t have bought the scam.

Then she noted: O’Neil was listening but not listening. He regarded the photographs on her desk — the one of her with the children and the dog. The eight-by-ten of her with her husband, Bill. Whatever happened in her personal life, she was never going to put those pictures in an attic box. Displayed, always.

She fell silent for a moment, then asked, ‘All right. What is it?’

‘Something happened today. I have to tell you.’ Then he turned his head, rose again and shut the door. As if he’d meant to do that when he walked in but had been so focused on what he wanted to say that any other thoughts had scattered, like dropped marbles.

Something happened...

‘The hate crime I’ve been working?’

‘Sure.’ Had there been another defacing? Was it an actual attack this time? Hate crimes often escalated from words to blood. Dragging to death gays, shootings of blacks or Jews.

‘Goldschmidt’s house again.’

‘The perps came back?’

‘They did. But it seems Goldschmidt wasn’t completely honest with us. Apparently he found their bikes and kept them. He wanted them to come back. He was using the bikes as bait.’

‘So, they were bikers.’

‘No, bicycles.’

‘Kids were doing it?’

‘That’s right.’

She looked at him levelly. ‘And what happened, Michael?’

‘Goldschmidt had a shotgun. Didn’t listen to you the other night.’

‘Goddamnit! Did he shoot anybody?’

‘He was going to,’ O’Neil said. ‘He denies it but — why else keep a loaded Beretta by the garage door?’

‘“Going to”?’

‘While they were on the street, getting closer, I got a call. It was from one of the perps, calling. He was warning me that something bad was going down. He was worried about weapons. I should get TAC and backup there immediately. He said TAC.’

‘One of the kids? Called you? And said that?’

‘Yep.’ He took a breath. ‘I called PG police and they had cars there in a minute or two. They secured everything. Kathryn, the one who called me was Wes.’

‘Who?’ Curious for a moment. And then the name settled. ‘But you said one of the perps!’

‘Wes, that’s right. The others were Donnie, his friend, and another boy. Nathan.’

She whispered. ‘A mistake. It has to be a mistake.’

He continued: ‘It was Donnie tagging the houses. Wes was with him. Nathan and another friend were doing other things. Stealing traffic signs, shoplifting.’

‘Impossible.’

O’Neil said, ‘That game they were playing?’

‘Defend and... I don’t know.’ Her mind was a whitewater rapid, swirling, out of control.

‘Defend and Respond Expedition Service.’

‘That’s it. What about it?’

‘It’s an acronym. D-A-R-E-S. There were teams. Each one dared the other side to do things that could land them in jail.’

Dance gave a cold laugh. She’d been so pleased that the boys were playing a game with paper and pen and avoiding the violence of the computer world, which had seduced Antioch March and helped turn him into a killer. And now the analog life had proven just as destructive.

A game you played with paper and pen? How harmful could that be?...

‘And Wes’s team was dared to commit the hate crimes?’

‘That’s right. Donnie has some juvie time under his belt. Troubled kid. And tonight? He had a weapon. His father’s gun. A thirty-eight.’

‘My God.’

‘He said at first he just brought it for protection but then he admitted he was going to rob Goldschmidt. Some dream of moving out of his home. I’ve spoken to his father. Frankly, hardly blame the boy. Whatever happens, he’ll be better off out of that household. I think he confessed so he didn’t have to go back home.’

Well, I’m not sure what to call you.

Mrs Dance...

‘Wes actually wrote those horrible things on the buildings and houses?’

‘No. He was just a lookout for Donnie.’

Still, that didn’t absolve him. Even if he hadn’t tagged the house himself he was a co-conspirator. An accessory. And with the gun? It could be conspiracy to commit armed robbery. And what if someone had been killed because of a stolen stop sign? Homicide.

‘I’m just setting the stage, Kathryn. There’s more.’

Seriously? How the hell much more bad can there be?

A cramp spidered through her right hand: she’d been gripping a pen furiously. She set it down. ‘I was concentrating on Maggie, who was upset about singing a damn song, and here was Wes committing felonies! I didn’t pay him any attention. His life could be over—’

‘Kathryn. Here.’ He set a mobile phone on her desk. And dug into his pocket and placed an envelope beside it.

She recognized the Samsung as Wes’s. She looked up, frowning.

‘There’re videos on the phone. And this’s a police report that Wes created.’ He pushed the envelope toward her.

‘A police report? What do you mean?’

‘Unofficial.’ O’Neil offered a rare smile. ‘He’s been working undercover for a month. That’s how he put it.’

She picked up the envelope, opened it. Pages of computer printouts, a diary, detailing times and dates.

O’Neil took the boy’s phone and ran the camera app. He scrolled through until he found a video. It was shaking but it clearly showed Donnie tagging a building.

‘And the other dares? The ones Donnie challenged the other team with? Wes documented those too. And the stolen street signs? Wes followed Nathan and some friend Vincent when they dug up the stop sign. He called nine one one right away to report it. And stayed at the intersection to make sure nobody was hurt.’

She stared at the video. In a quiet voiceover: ‘I Wes Swenson am personally observing Donald Verso place graffiti on the Baptist New World Church...’

O’Neil continued, ‘A month or so ago a friend of Wes — I think his name was Rashiv — had a run-in with Donnie and Nathan and another one of Donnie’s crew.’

Dance told him, ‘That’s right. Rashiv and Wes were friends. Then Wes just stopped seeing him. I don’t know what happened.’

‘Donnie and the others were bullying him, extorting money, beating him up. They stole a games console. Rashiv told Wes about it. There wasn’t anything they could do themselves — you’ve seen Nathan?’

‘Yes. Big.’

‘He was the muscle in the crew. He’d do anything Donnie told him. Including hurting people badly. Wes’d heard that Donnie and his friends were into some illegal things — the DARES game was being talked about in school, though nobody knew exactly what it was. Wes decided to find out and — these were his words — “collar the bastard”. He talked his way into the clique and finally got Donnie to trust him enough to let him play.

‘He even set it up with Rashiv to meet “accidentally” and Wes’d pretend to steal a comic or something from him, threaten to hurt him. Donnie bought it all.’

‘And today? At Goldschmidt’s?’

‘Wes’d noticed Donnie acting strange lately. More erratic. The night Donnie tagged Goldschmidt’s house? Wes saw him pick up a rock. He was going to attack somebody who was approaching where they were hiding. Near Junipero Manor.’

Dance whispered, ‘Me. That was me.’

O’Neil said only, ‘I know.’ He continued, ‘Wes couldn’t give himself away to Donnie that night but he turned his phone volume up and scrolled to ringtones. It played a sample, like he was getting a call. Donnie got spooked and took off.’

Dance closed her eyes and her head dipped. ‘He saved me. Maybe saved my life.’

‘Then tonight he caught a glimpse of something in Donnie’s pocket and thought it might be a gun. So he decided, whatever evidence he had, enough was enough. It was time to call in the cavalry.’

‘Why didn’t he just report it in the first place? A month ago? Why play undercover?’

O’Neil’s eyes swept her desk. ‘I don’t know. Maybe to make you proud of him.’

‘I am.’

But even as Kathryn Dance said those words she wondered, Does he know it? Really know it?

Or, Dance suddenly thought of O’Neil, to make you proud of him.

Silence filled the room. Dance was thinking of the conversation she would have to have with the boy. Whatever the good motives, there were some minefields here. Dance had amassed capital in Monterey County with the prosecutor’s office; she’d have to see how much, and how negotiable it was. And, she thought too, Donnie’ll need help. Not just jail time. At that age, nobody was irredeemable. Kathryn Dance believed this. She’d do what she could to get him into treatment, whatever facility he was sent to.

Then she looked at O’Neil, to see that his expression and posture had changed dramatically. No kinesic subtlety here.

And everything she saw set off alarms within Kathryn Dance. She thought: As if what Michael just told me about Wes weren’t enough. What was coming next?

He said, ‘Look, as if what I just told you wasn’t enough...’

Any other time she might have smiled; now her heart was racing.

‘There’s something else.’ He glanced back to her door. Still shut.

‘I can see that. What’s it about?’

‘Okay, it’s about... I guess you could say, us.’

Dance’s head rose and dipped slightly, a nod being one of the most ambiguous of gestures. It was often a defensive move, meaning: I need to buy some time and toughen up the heart.

Because she knew what was coming next. Michael and Anne were getting back together. It happened more than one might think, reconciliation. Once the divorce papers had been signed, a little cooling off, the ex-wife’s lover turned into a creep or was duller than dull. Old hubby doesn’t seem so bad after all. They’d decided to clean house, roll up their sleeves and try again.

Why else would Anne have been there the other day, at CBI, with the kids? Dressed like the perfect mom from Central Casting. O’Neil’s comments: the sort-of babysitter, the plural pronoun about having plans the night of Maggie’s show.

‘So, here’s the thing.’

Michael O’Neil’s eyes were fixed on a thoroughly ugly yellow ceramic cat that Maggie had squeezed together in first grade.

Dance’s eyes were unwaveringly on his.

Chapter 92

Her house beckoned.

The Victorian structure glowed, thanks to subdued sconces near the door and, from inside, light paled to old bone by the curtains. Dots of white Christmas lights around an occasional window or clustering on a plant added to the ambience of magic. The illumination was lopsided but no matter: Dance had never felt the need to be symmetrical.

Kathryn Dance shut off the SUV’s engine but remained where she was, fingers enwrapping the wheel tightly. They trembled.

Wes...

Playing cop, Wes.

Lord, Lord... He might’ve been killed by Goldschmidt. A Beretta shotgun, O’Neil had reported. Those weapons are works of art, yes, but their purpose is to kill. And they do such a very fine job of it.

Releasing the wheel finally. Her palms cooled from the departing sweat.

Rehearsing what she’d say to her son. It was going to be a lengthy discussion.

Then, of course, her thoughts returned to what Michael O’Neil had said.

‘Look, as if what I just told you wasn’t enough...’

Well, isn’t that always the case? The conversations you don’t want to have, can’t have, refuse to have... they happen on their own, and usually at the worst possible moments. She was still nearly paralyzed with dismay. A dozen slow breaths.

Dance finally now climbed out of the Pathfinder and walked onto the porch, key out.

She didn’t need to do any unlatching, however. The door opened and Jon Boling stood before her, in jeans and a black polo shirt. She realized his hair was a little longer. It would have been that way for the past few days, of course, and she thought: Something else I missed. Missed completely.

Well, it had been one hell of a week.

‘Hey,’ he said.

They kissed and she walked inside.

A skitter of multiple feet behind her, claws that needed clipping. Some enthusiastic couch-jumping and a few good-to-see-you rolls on the back. Dance did the obligatory, but forever comforting to all involved, canine head rubs.

‘Wine?’

Good diagnosis.

A smile, a nod. She sloughed off her jacket and hooked it. Too tired even to search for a hanger.

He returned with the glasses. White for both of them. It’d be an unoaked Chardonnay that they’d discovered recently. Michael liked red. It was all he drank.

‘The kids?’

‘In their rooms. Wes came home about an hour ago. Didn’t want to look at a program I’d hacked together. And that’s a little weird. He’s in his bedroom now. Seemed kind of moody.’

Wonder why.

‘Mags is in her room too. Been singing up a storm. Violin may be a thing of the past.’

‘Not bad outside, the temperature. Shall we?’

They wandered out to the Deck, brushed curly yellow leaves off the cushions of a couple of uneven wooden chairs. The Monterey Peninsula wasn’t like the Midwest, no seasons really. Leaves fell at their leisure.

Dance eased down and sat back. Fog wafted past, bringing with it the smell of damp mulch, like tobacco, and the spice of eucalyptus. She remembered the time Maggie had made a pitch for getting a koala-bear cub, citing the fact that there were plenty of leaves for it to eat in the neighborhood. ‘Won’t cost us a thing!’

Dance hadn’t bothered to marshal arguments. ‘No,’ she’d said.

Boling zipped up his sweater. ‘News did a story on March.’

Dance had heard about it; she’d declined to comment.

‘Antioch March,’ Boling mused. ‘That’s his real name?’

‘Yep. Went by Andy mostly.’

‘Are March’s clients guilty of crimes?’

‘I’m not sure where it falls. Conspiracy probably, if they actually ordered a killing. That’s a wide net. According to March, though, a lot of the clients are overseas. Japan, Korea, South East Asia. We can’t reach them and this isn’t an extradition situation. TJ’s going through the website’s records now. I think we’ll have some US citizens the Bureau’ll talk to. March is cooperating. It was part of the deal.’

Another shiver.

I’m glad we’re in each other’s lives now...

Boling was saying, ‘I’ve always worried about video games, the desensitizing. Kids, at least. They lose all filtering.’

In 2006 a young man arrested on suspicion of stealing a car wrested a gun away from an officer and shot his way out of the police station, killing three cops. He was a huge fan of the very game that March had mentioned, Grand Theft Auto.

Other youthful shooters — the Sandy Hook killer and the two Columbine students — were avid players of violent shooting games, she believed.

One side of the debate said there was no causal effect between games and the act of violence, asserting that youngsters naturally prone to bully, injure or kill were drawn to video games of that sort and would go on to commit crimes even without gaming. Others held that, given the developmental process of children, exposure to games did tend to shape behavior, far more than TV or movies, since they were immersive and took you into a different world, operating by different rules, far more than passive entertainment. She sipped her wine and let these thoughts slip away, replaced by the memory of Michael O’Neil’s words an hour ago.

So, here’s the thing...

A tight knot in her belly.

‘Kathryn?’

She blinked and realized Boling had asked her something. ‘Sorry?’

‘Antioch. He was Greek?’

‘Probably second or third generation. He didn’t look Mediterranean. He looked like some hunky actor.’

‘Antioch. That’s a town, right?’

‘I don’t know.’

They watched a wraith of fog skim the house, urged on by a modest breeze. The temperature was cool but Dance needed that. Cleansing. So, too, was the noise of seals barking and of waves colliding with rock, the sounds comical and comforting respectively.

It was then, with a thud in her belly, that she noticed something sitting on the Deck floor, near Jon Boling’s feet. A small bag. From By the Sea Jewelry in Carmel. She knew the place. Since Carmel was such a romantic getaway, the jewelry stores tended to specialize in engagement and wedding rings.

My God, she thought. Oh, my God.

The silence between them rolled up, thicker than the fog. And she realized that he’d been mulling something over. Of course, a rehearsed speech. Now he got to it.

‘There’s something I want to say.’ He smiled. ‘How’s that for verbal uselessness? Obviously if I wanted to say something I’d just say it. So. I will.’

Dance administered a sip of wine. No, a gulp. Then she told herself: Keep your wits, girl. Something big’s happening here. She set the glass down.

Boling inhaled, like a free diver about to test himself. ‘We were talking about getting up to Napa, with the kids.’

The coming weekend. A little vineyard touring, a little shopping. On-demand TV in the inn. Pizza.

‘But I’m thinking we shouldn’t go.’

‘No?’

So he had in mind a romantic getaway, just the two of them.

Then he was smiling. A different smile, though. A look in his eyes she hadn’t seen before.

‘Kathryn—’

Okay. He never used her name. Or rarely.

‘I’m going to be leaving.’

‘Now? It’s not that late.’

‘No, I mean moving.’

‘You’re...’

‘There’s a start-up in Seattle wants me. May be the new Microsoft. Oh, and how’s this? It’s a new tech company that’s actually making money.’

‘Wait, Jon. Wait. I—’

‘Please?’ He was so even, so gentle, so reasonable.

‘Sure. Sorry.’ A smile and she fell silent.

‘I’m not going to use the clichés people throw around at times like this. Even though— Didn’t you say clichés are clichés because they’re true?’

A friend of hers, not she, but she didn’t respond.

‘What we’ve had is wonderful. Your kids are the best. Okay, maybe those are clichés. But they are the best. You’re the best.’

She gave him infinite credit for not talking about the physical between them. That was wonderful and comfortable and fine, sometimes breathtaking. But it wasn’t a spoke of this discussion’s wheel.

‘But you know what? I’m not the guy for you.’ He laughed his soothing laugh. ‘You do know what I’m talking about, right?’

Kathryn Dance did, yes.

‘I’ve seen you and Michael together. That argument you had on the porch after you came back from Orange County. It wasn’t petty, it wasn’t sniping. It was real. It was the kind of clash that people who’re totally connected have. A bit of flying fur but a lot of love. And I saw the way you worked together to figure out that the killer, the unsub, had done this for hire. Your minds jumping back and forth. Two minds but, you know, really one.’

He might have gone on, she sensed, but there was really no need for additional citation: it was a self-proving argument.

Tears prickled. Her breath was wobbly. She took his hand, which as always was warmer than hers. She remembered once, under the blanket, she’d slipped her fingers along his spine and felt him tense slightly from the chill. They’d both laughed.

‘Now, I’m not matchmaking. All I can do is bow out gracefully and you take it from there.’

Her eyes strayed to the bag. He noticed.

‘Oh, here.’ He reached to the floor and retrieved it.

He handed it to her. And she reached inside. As she did, the tissue rustled and Patsy, the flat-coated retriever, thirty feet away, swung a silky head their way. Leftovers might loom. When she saw the humans’ attention was not on food, she dozed once more.

The box, she noted, was larger than ring size.

‘Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not really a present. Considering it was yours to start with.’

She opened the box and gave a laugh. ‘Oh, Jon!’

It was her watch, the present from Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs, shattered in her enthusiasm to flop to the ground, adding credibility to the Serrano ‘escape’. Clutching the Rolex, she flung her arms around him, inhaled his complex scents. Skin, shampoo, detergents, aftershave. Then she eased back.

In his face, sadness, yes, but not a degree of doubt, not a hint that he hoped for her to protest. He’d analyzed the situation and drawn conclusions that were as true as the speed of light and the binary numerical system. And as immutable.

‘So, what I’m going to do now, so I can hold it together — because I really want to hold it together and I can’t for very long — is to head home.’

He rose. ‘Here’s my plan and I think it’s a good one. Come back every couple of weeks, keep an eye on my house, visit friends. Hack some code with Wes, come to some of Maggie’s recitals. And — if you make the decision you ought to make — you and Michael can have me over to dinner. And — if I make the decisions I ought to make — I imagine I’ll meet somebody and bring her along with me. And you can hire me to perform my cogent forensic analysis, though I have to say that the CBI’s outside-vendor pay rate is pitiful.’

‘Oh, Jon...’

She laughed through the tears.

They walked to the door and embraced.

‘I do love you,’ he said. And touched her lips with his finger, saving her from a stick-figure response. With a rub of Dylan’s sleek muzzle, Jon Boling stepped through the front doorway and, to all intents and purposes, out of her life.

Dance returned to the Deck, sat back in the chair, enwrapped by the damp chill she hadn’t been aware of earlier. Embraced too, far more strongly, by Jon Boling’s absence. She slipped on the repaired watch and stared at the face while the second hand made full circuit, just visible in the amber light from a maritime sconce mounted on the wall above and behind her.

Then she closed her eyes and sat back, as Michael O’Neil’s words, from forty minutes earlier, came back to her now.

‘So, here’s the thing. I’ve thought about this for months, and tried to figure out some other way to say it.’

Kathryn Dance had readied herself for ex-wife Anne’s name to rear itself in the next sentence.

‘I know you’re with Jon now. He’s a good guy and I’ve seen you both together. It clicks. The kids like him. That’s important. Real important. He’ll never hurt you.’

She’d wondered: Where is this going? These words, amounting to rambling from Michael O’Neil, were disorienting. Why was he justifying to her getting back together with his ex?

His eyes fixed on the ugly yellow ceramic cat, he’d continued, ‘I was saying, months and months. But there’s no way except meeting it head on. I don’t think you’re going to want to hear it but I’ve—’

‘Michael.’

‘I want to get married.’

Remarried to Anne? she’d thought. Why the hell ask my permission?

Then he added, ‘You can say no. I’ll understand. You can say Jon’s in your life for ever. But I had to ask.’

Oh, my God. Me. He’s proposing to me.

‘I thought Anne was back,’ she’d said. Well, stammered.

He’d blinked. ‘Anne? Sort of, I guess. She and her boyfriend are getting a small place in the Valley. She knows she hasn’t been the best mother. She’s resolved to change that and’s going to spend a lot more time with the kids. I was proud of her.’ He’d given a shallow laugh. ‘Anne has nothing to do with us. You and me.’

‘Oh, my,’ Dance had whispered. Her eyes, too, fell on the jaundiced feline sculpture squatting on her desk. It had never been examined as much as it had in the past three minutes.

Now, sitting on the chill Deck, she recalled perfectly O’Neil’s next words: ‘So there, I’ve said it. Will you marry me?’ He looked her over closely. ‘You know, I’m thinking, after all these years knowing you, working with you, I don’t believe I’ve picked up a lick of kinesics. I have no idea what you’re thinking.’

And Dance had risen from her office chair and walked around the desk to O’Neil. He, too, had stood up.

She said, ‘Sometimes it’s better to leave kinesics out of it. And stick with words. Well, one word.’ She’d put her arms around him and, her mouth close to his ear, gripped him as tightly as she could. And answered his question. ‘Yes,’ Kathryn Dance said. ‘Yes.’