Solitude Creek

by Jeffery Deaver

  Foster continued to gaze at her, his eyes neutral but still managing to radiate criticism for her missing the clues with the interview earlier.

  "How?" Steve Lu asked.

  "I had a feeling she had a connection with the club. She's on welfare and poor but she loves music. I suspected she'd hike to the club and listen to the shows from the outside. I asked if she was there last night. She said no. But she was clearly lying."

  Foster looked over a pad containing his precise notes.

  Dance continued, "Generally, it's hard to tell if somebody's being deceptive without establishing their baseline behavior."

  "Charles was telling us," Allerton said.

  "But there're a few attributes that signal deception on their own. One is beginning to speak more slowly, since your mind is trying to craft the lie and make sure it'll be consistent with everything you've said before. The second is a slight increase in pitch--because deception creates stress and stress tightens muscles, including the vocal cords. Those both registered deception when she was talking to me. I called her on it. She broke down and confessed she'd lied and she had been outside the club, from about seven thirty until the incident."

  "What'd she see?" Lu asked.

  "White male, over six feet, in a dark green jacket with a logo, like a construction or other worker, black baseball cap, yellow aviator sunglasses. Medium build. Brown hair. Probably under forty. Nobody at Henderson Jobbing wears that kind of outfit. This guy parked the truck beside the club, started a fire in the oil drum and walked back to the warehouse--to drop the keys off. That was it. She stayed until the stampede happened and she took off."

  "Afraid to come forward."

  "She said anybody who'd do that, if he found out about her, would come back and kill her in a minute."

  "Bring her in, grill her," Foster said, still looking over his notes.

  "She's told us everything she knows."

  His look said, Has she? He said, "If she's afraid, maybe she's withholding."

  "She got unafraid when I told her we'd relocate her temporarily, get her into one of our safe houses."

  She saw Overby stiffen. She hadn't shared this with him. Keeping witnesses alive was expensive.

  Budget issues...

  Foster shrugged. "Get the descrip out on the wire. ASAP."

  "It is," Dance said. Every cop and government official on the Peninsula and in neighboring counties had the information this witness Annette had relayed. "She had no facial description; the light was too dim and she was too far away."

  "Get it to the news too," Foster said.

  "No," Dance said.

  He looked up from beneath impressive brows.

  Carol Allerton lifted an eyebrow, inquiring about the topic of conversation. Dance briefed her.

  Foster reiterated, "On the news. Go broad."

  Overby said, "We were debating that."

  "What's to debate?" Foster asked.

  Allerton said, "He hears, he vanishes."

  Gomez offered, "Yeah, what I'd do. He rabbits. He dyes his hair. Tosses the jacket, switches to pink Ray-Bans."

  Foster to Dance: "Did this witness of yours think he tipped to her?"

  "No. The wit's positive he didn't see her."

  "So he's still walking around and probably still wearing the same clothes. The green jacket and all that. A thousand people could've seen him. Maybe the clerk in his hotel, or his dry cleaner if he's local. It's standard operating procedure in my cases."

  Overby trod the tightrope. "Pluses and minuses on both sides."

  "I'd vote no," Gomez said. Allerton nodded her agreement.

  Dance turned to Overby. Her gaze lasered him briefly.

  After a moment, eyes on the well-examined linoleum floor, he said, "We'll keep it private for the time being. No releasing the details to the media."

  Well, score one for us, Dance thought and made an effort not to reveal her surprise.

  Chapter 15

  Mom, Donnie's got a, you know, a question."

  Dance, thinking: You know. But she rarely corrected the children in front of anyone. She'd give a gentle chide later. She cocked her head to her son, lean and fair-haired. Nearly as tall as she.

  "Sure. What?"

  Donnie Verso, a dark-haired thirteen-year-old in Wes's class, looked her in the eye. "Well, I'm not sure what to call you."

  Dusk was around the three of them as they stood on the expansive porch--known to friends and family as the "Deck"--behind Dance's Victorian-style house, which was dark green with gray railings, shutters and trim, located in northwestern Pacific Grove; you could, if you chose to risk a tumble, catch a glimpse of ocean, about a half mile away.

  Wes filled in: "He doesn't know whether he should call you Mrs. Dance or Agent Dance."

  "Well, that's very polite of you to ask, Donnie. But since you're a friend of Wes's, you can call me Kathryn."

  "Oh, I'm not supposed to call people that. I mean, adults. By their first name. My dad likes me to be respectful."

  "I can talk to him."

  "No, he just wouldn't like it."

  "Then call me Mrs. Dance."

  "Cool." His face brightened. "Mrs. Dance."

  With his curly hair and cherubic face, Donnie would be a girl magnet soon. Well, probably already was, she thought. (And Wes? Handsome...and nice. A dangerous combination; already girls were starting to flutter. She was inclined to put the brakes on her own children's growing up but knew it'd be easier to stop the surf crashing on the sand at Spanish Bay.) Donnie lived not far away, biking distance, which Dance was grateful for--being a single mother, even with a good support net like Dance's, anything that reduced the task of chauffeuring was a blessing. She thought Donnie'd look better not wearing hoodies and baggy jeans...but valedictorians of middle school classes and Christian pop singers all dressed like gangstas nowadays, so who was she to judge?

  Arriving from work just now, Dance had not come through the front door but through the side yard and gate--to make sure it was locked--and then ascended the steps to the Deck. Which meant she hadn't said hello to the four-legged residents of the household. They now came bounding forward for head rubs and, with any luck, a treat (alas, none today). Dylan, a German shepherd, named for the legendary singer-songwriter, and Patsy, a flat-coated retriever, in honor of Ms. Cline, Dance's favorite C&W singer.

  "Can Donnie stay for dinner?" Wes asked.

  "If it's okay, Mrs. Dance."

  "I'll call your mother." Protocol.

  "Sure. Thanks."

  The boys returned to a game board and dropped to the redwood decking, crunching down chips and drinking Honest Tea. Soda was not to be found in the Dance household.

  Dance found the boy's home number and called. His mother spoke briefly to her husband and then said it was fine for him to stay for dinner but he should be home by nine.

  She disconnected, then returned to the living room where her father, Stuart, and ten-year-old Maggie sat in front of the TV.

  "Mom! You came in the back door!"

  She didn't, of course, tell her that she'd been checking the perimeter and double-locking the gate. Two active cases, with a number of bad actors who could, if they really wanted to, find her.

  "Give me a hug, honey."

  The girl complied happily.

  "Wes and Donnie won't let me play their game."

  "It's a boys' game, I'm sure."

  A frown crossed the girl's heart-shaped face. "I don't know what that is. I don't think there should be boy games and girl games."

  Good point. If and when Dance ever remarried, Maggie had announced she was going to be "Best Woman"--whatever her age. The girl had also learned of feminism in school and, returning home after social studies, had declared, to Dance's delight, that she wasn't a feminist. She was an "equalist."

  "Hi, Dad," Dance said.

  Stuart rose and hugged his daughter. He was seventy, and though his time outdoors as a marine biologist had taken a toll on the flesh, he looked y
ounger than his years. He was tall, six two, wide-shouldered, with unruly white hair, thick. Dermatologists' scalpels and lasers had left their mark too and he now rarely went outside without a floppy hat. He was retired, yes, but when not babysitting the grandkids or puttering around the house in Carmel, he worked at the famed Monterey Bay Aquarium several days a week.

  "Where's Mom?"

  Staunch Edie Dance was a cardiac nurse at the Monterey Bay Hospital.

  "Took the late shift, filling in. Just me tonight."

  Dance headed into the bedroom, washed up and changed into black jeans, a silk T-shirt and burgundy wool sweater. The Central Coast, after sunset, could get downright cold and dinner tonight would be on the Deck.

  As she walked down the stairs and into the hallway a man stepped through the front door. Jon Boling, forties, wasn't tall. A few inches above Dance but lean--thanks mostly to biking and a bit of occasional free weights (twenty-five-pounders at his place and a pair of twelves at hers). His straight hair, thinning, was a shade similar to Dance's, though a little darker than chestnut, and with none of her occasional gray strands (which coincidentally disappeared after a trip to Rite Aid or Save Mart).

  "Look, I'm bearing Greek gifts." He held up two large bags from a Mediterranean restaurant in Pacific Grove.

  They kissed and he followed her into the kitchen.

  Boling was a professor at a college nearby, teaching the undergrad Literature of Science Fiction, as well as a class called Computers and Society. In the graduate school, Boling taught what he described as some boring technical courses. "Sort of math, sort of engineering." He also consulted for Silicon Valley firms. He was apparently a minor genius in the world of boxes--computers. She'd had to learn about this from the press and Wes's assessment of his skill in coding; modesty was hardwired into Boling's genes. He wrote script the way Richard Wilbur or Jim Tilley wrote poetry. Fluid, brilliant and captivating.

  They'd been going out for a while now, ever since she'd hired him to assist on a CBI case involving computers.

  As he off-loaded containers of moussaka, octopus, taramasalata and the rest, he noted her arm. "What happened there?"

  She frowned and followed his gaze. "Oh." Her watch, crystal shattered. "The Serrano thing." Dance explained about the run-in at CBI, when the young man had fled after the interview.

  "You all right?" His gentle eyes narrowed.

  "No danger. I just didn't fall as elegantly as I should have."

  She grimaced as she examined the broken glass. The watch had been a Christmas present from friends in New York, the famed criminalist Lincoln Rhyme and his partner, Amelia Sachs. She'd helped them out on a case a few years ago, involving a brilliant for-hire criminal known as the Watchmaker. She undid the dark-green leather strap and set the damaged watch on the mantel. She'd look into getting it repaired soon.

  Boling called, "Mags?"

  Dance saw her daughter leap up and run to the doorway. The girl wrinkled her brow. Then called, "Geia!"

  Boling nodded. "Kalos!"

  Dance laughed.

  He said, "Thought we should learn a little Greek in honor of dinner. Where's Wes?"

  "Outside with Donnie."

  Boling did a fair amount of babysitting too; his teaching load was light and as a consultant he could work here, there, anywhere. He knew as much about the children's schedules and friends as Dance did. "Seems like a nice boy. Donnie. Year older, right?"

  "Thirteen, yes."

  "His parents picked him up once. Mother's sweet. Dad doesn't say much." Boling frowned. "Was wondering: Whatever happened to Rashiv? He and Wes seemed pretty tight for a while. He was brilliant. Math, phew."

  "Don't know. Kids move on." Wes, who Dance had always thought was mature for his age, had recently gravitated to Donnie and an older crowd. Rashiv, she recalled, was a year younger than her son. Maggie, who'd always been a bit of a loner, had started hanging out with a group of four girls in her grade school (to Dance's further surprise, the popular ones, two contestants in National American Miss pageants, one a would-be cheerleader).

  Boling opened some wine and passed out glasses to the adults.

  A doorbell.

  "I'll get it!" Maggie charged forward.

  "Hold on, Mags." Boling knew that Dance was involved in several potentially dangerous cases and quickly walked there with the girl, peeked out. He let Maggie unlock the door.

  The guests were dear family friends. Steven Cahill, about Boling's age, was wearing a poncho. His salt-and-pepper ponytail dangled and he'd recently grown a David Crosby droopy mustache. Beside him was Martine Christensen. Despite the name she bore no Scandinavian blood. She was dark complexioned and voluptuous, descended in part from the original inhabitants of the area: Ohlone Indian, the loose affiliation of tribelets hunting and gathering from Big Sur to San Francisco Bay.

  Steve and Martine's children, twin boys a year younger than Maggie, followed them up the front steps, one toting his mother's guitar case, the other a batch of brownies.

  Maggie shepherded the twins and the two dogs down to the backyard, behind the Deck. Dance smiled, noting the girl had shot a fast aside to her brother, undoubtedly a snipe at male-exclusive games. The older boys ignored her.

  The younger children and the canines struck up an impromptu and chaotic game of Frisbee football.

  The adults congregated around the large picnic table on the Deck.

  This was the social center of the house--indeed of the lives of many people Dance knew, family and friends. The twenty-by-thirty-foot expanse, extending from the kitchen of Dance's house into the backyard, was populated by mismatched lawn chairs, loungers and tables. Christmas lights, some amber globes, up-lights, a sink and a large refrigerator were the main decorations. Some planters too, though the flowers struggled. In the backyard, you could find scrub oak and maple trees, grasses, monkey flowers, asters, lupine, potato vines and clover. Some veggies tried to survive but the slugs were merciless.

  The Deck had been the site of hundreds of parties, big ones and small ones, and quiet family meals or cocoa nights, just the four of them. Then, more recently, the three. Her husband had proposed to her here, and Dance had eulogized him in virtually the same spot.

  The evening was dank so Dance cranked up the propane heater, which exhaled cozy air. The adults sat around the table and had wine or juice or water and talked about...well, everything. That was one enduring quality of the Deck. Any topic was fair game. And it was here that all of the town's, state's, country's and world's problems were solved, over and over.

  Martine asked, lowering her voice, "You heard about Solitude Creek?"

  "I'm working it," Dance said.

  "No!"

  "Katie," her father said. "Be careful." As parents would do.

  Steve said, "That driver? Who left the truck blocking the doors? He'll go down. Jail time. The company'll be out of business, the trucking company."

  Dance said, "It's not for public consumption yet. Please don't say anything." She didn't bother to wait for nods of agreement. "It wasn't the truck driver. And it wasn't an accident."

  "How do you mean?" Martine asked.

  "We're still looking into it but somebody got into the truck and drove it against the doors to block them. Then started a fire nearby to send everybody into a panic." A glance to make sure the children were out of hearing. "And everybody sure did. The injured and dead were trampled and crushed or suffocated. There was blood everywhere."

  "What's the motive?" Boling asked.

  "That's a mystery. We find that out and we can track suspects. But so far, nothing."

  "Revenge?" Steven speculated.

  "Always a good one. But no patrons or employees or competitors stand out."

  Martine said, "I'm claustrophobic. I can't imagine what it would be like to be trapped in a crowd like that."

  Stuart Dance brushed a hand through his tempestuous hair. "I don't think I ever told you, Katie, but I saw a stampede once. Human, I mean. It was terribl
e."

  "What?"

  "You may have heard about it. Hillsborough, in Sheffield, England? Twenty-five years ago. I still have nightmares. Do you want to hear about it?"

  Dance noted the children were out of earshot. "Go ahead, Dad."

  Chapter 16

  He was sure they'd die.

  Some of them, at least.

  Antioch March was on the turbulent shoreline in Pacific Grove, near Asilomar, the conference center. Off Sunset Drive.

  March had been doing reconnaissance for tomorrow's "event" and was driving back to his room at the Cedar Hills Inn when he'd spotted them.

  Ah, yes...

  He'd pulled over.

  And then wandered to an outcropping of rock, from which he would have a good view of the unfolding tragedy.

  Now he was eyeing the cluster of people nearby, surrounded by spray flying over the rocks from the impact of the roiling water. The sun was low. That special time, he'd heard it called by photographers. When light became your friend, something to help out with the pictures, not fight against. March had studied photography, in addition to more esoteric, intellectual topics, and he was good. Many of the pictures on the Hand to Heart website were his.

  They're dead, he reflected again.

  The family he was watching was Asian. Chinese or Korean, probably. He knew the difference in facial structure--he'd been to both of those countries (Korea had been far more productive for his work). But here he was too far away to tell. And he certainly wasn't going to get much closer.

  A wife and husband, two preteen children, and a mother-in-law: a bundled-up matriarch. Armed with a point-and-shoot, the husband was directing the kids as they posed on dark brown and red and dun rocks.

  Spanish Bay, a tourist twofer with beach and rugged shoreline, is a beautiful coastal preserve featuring everything one would want in scenic California. A mile of sand, surfers immune to the icy water, dolphins, pelicans, dunes, deer, rocks on which seals perched, busy tidal pools.

  And sea otters, of course. Cute little fuzzy-faced critters that floated easily on the turbulent surface, smashing shellfish open on rocks perched on their chests

  The area was idyllic.

  And deadly.

  In researching his plans for the Monterey Bay area, March had learned that every few months tourists wandered too far out onto these craggy rocks and, crash, a muscular arm of the Pacific Ocean lapped them indifferently out to sea. Those who didn't break their heads open on the rocks and drown died of hypothermia before the Coast Guard found them, or breathed their last while tangled in the pernicious kelp. It was near here that the singer John Denver had died, his experimental plane falling from the sky.