Solitude Creek: Kathryn Dance Book 4

by Jeffery Deaver

  CHAPTER 8

  Outside the club, Dance slipped the copies of the up-to-date tax- and insurance-compliance certificates into her purse, effectively ending her assignment there.

  Time to leave. Get back to the office.

  But she chose not to.

  Unleashed …

  Kathryn Dance decided to stick around Solitude Creek and ask some questions of her own.

  She made the rounds of the three dozen people there, about half of whom had been patrons that night, she learned. They’d returned to leave flowers, to leave cards. And to get answers. Most asked her more questions than she did them.

  ‘How the hell did it happen?’

  ‘Where did the smoke come from?’

  ‘Was it a terrorist?’

  ‘Who parked the truck there?’

  ‘Has anybody been arrested?’

  Some of those people were edgy, suspicious. Some were raggedly hostile.

  As always, Dance deferred responding, saying it was an ongoing investigation. This group – the survivors and relatives, rather than the merely curious, at least – seemed aggressively dissatisfied with her words. One blonde, bandaged on the face, said her fiancé was in critical care. ‘You know where he got injured? His balls. Somebody trampled him, trying to get out. They’re saying we may never have kids now!’

  Dance offered genuine sympathy and asked her few questions. The woman was in no mood to answer.

  She spotted a couple of men in suits circulating, one white, one Latino, each chatting away with people from their respective language pools, handing out business cards. Nothing she could do about it. First Amendment – if that was the law that protected the right of scummy lawyers to solicit clients. A glare to the chubby white man, dusty suit, was returned with a slick smile. As if he’d given her the finger.

  Everything that those who’d returned here told her echoed what she’d learned from Holly and Cohen. It was the same story from different angles, the constant being how shockingly fast a group of relaxed folks in a concert snapped and turned into wild animals, their minds possessed by panic.

  She examined the oil drum where the fire had started. It was about twenty feet from the back of the roadhouse, near the air-conditioning unit. Inside, as Holly had described, were ash and bits of half-burned trash.

  Dance then turned to what would be the crux of the county’s investigation: the truck blocking the doors. The cab was a red Peterbilt, an older model, battered and decorated with bug dots, white and yellow and green. The trailer it hauled was about thirty feet long and, with the tractor, it effectively blocked all three emergency-exit doors. The right front fender rested an inch from the wall of the Solitude Creek club; the rear right end of the trailer was about ten inches away. The angle allowed two exit doors to open a bit but not enough for anyone to get out. On the ground beside one door Dance could see smears of blood. Perhaps that was where the pretty girl’s arm had been sheared off.

  She tried to get an idea of how the truck had ended up there. The club and the warehouse shared a parking lot, though signs clearly marked which areas were for patrons of Solitude Creek and which for the trucks and employees of Henderson Jobbing. Red signs warned about ‘towing at owner’s expense’ but seemed a lethargic threat, so faded and rusty were they.

  No, it didn’t make any sense for the driver to leave the truck there. The portion of the parking space where the tractors and trailers rested was half full; there was plenty of room for the driver to park the rig anywhere in that area. Why here?

  More likely the vehicle had rolled and come to rest where it had; the warehouse, to the south of the club, was a higher elevation and the lot sloped downward to here, where it leveled out. The heavy truck had got as far as the side wall and slowed to a stop.

  Dance walked to the warehouse now, a hundred feet away, where the office door was marked with a handmade sign: ‘Closed’. The people she’d seen moments ago were now gone.

  She gripped the knob and pulled. Locked – though lights were visible inside through a tear in a window shade, and she could see movement.

  A loud rap on the glass. ‘Bureau of Investigation. Please open the door.’

  Nothing.

  Another rap, harder.

  The shade moved aside; a middle-aged man, unruly brown hair, glared at her. His eyes scanned her ID and he let her in.

  The lobby was what one would expect of a mid-size transport company squatting off a secondary highway. Scuffed, functional, filled with Sears and Office Depot furniture, black and chrome and gray. Scheduling boards, posted government regulations. Lots of paper. The smell of diesel fumes or grease was prominent.

  Dance introduced herself. The man, Henderson, was the owner. A woman, who appeared to be an assistant or secretary, and two other men, in work clothing, gazed at her uneasily. Bob Holly had said the truck’s driver was coming in: was he one of these men?

  She asked but was told, no, Billy hadn’t arrived yet. She then asked if the warehouse had been open at the time of the incident.

  The owner said quickly, ‘We have rules. You can see them there.’

  A sign on the wall nearby reminded, with the inexplicable capitalization of corporate culture:

  Remember your Passports for International trips!

  The sign he was referring to was beneath it:

  Set your Brake and leave your Rig in gear!

  Interrogators are always alert to subjects answering questions they haven’t been asked. Nothing illustrates what’s been going on in their minds better than that.

  She’d get to the matter of brakes and gears in a moment. ‘Yessir, but about the hours?’

  ‘We close at five. We’re open seven to five.’

  ‘But trucks arrive later, right? Sometimes?’

  ‘That rig came in at seven.’ He looked at a sheet of paper – which of course he’d found and memorized the minute he’d heard about the tragedy. ‘Seven ten. Empty from Fresno.’

  ‘And the driver parked in a usual space?’

  ‘Any space that’s free,’ the worker piped up. ‘The top of the hill.’ He bore a resemblance to Henderson. Nephew, son, Dance guessed. Noting he’d mentioned the incline. They’d already discussed scapegoating the driver and had planned his public crucifixion.

  ‘Would the driver have parked the truck there intentionally, beside the club?’ Dance asked.

  This caught them off guard. ‘Well, no. That wouldn’t make sense.’ The hesitation told her that they wished they’d thought about this scenario. But they’d already decided to sell the driver out by implying he hadn’t set the brake.

  The top of the hill …

  The third man, brawny, soiled hands, realized his cue. ‘These rigs’re heavy. But they’ll roll.’

  Dance asked, ‘Where was it parked before it ended up beside the club?’

  ‘One of the spots,’ Henderson Lite offered.

  ‘Gathered that. Which one?’

  ‘Do I need a lawyer?’ the owner asked.

  ‘I’m just trying to find out what happened. This isn’t a criminal investigation.’ And she added, as she knew she should: ‘At this point.’

  ‘Do I have to talk to you?’ Henderson asked the tax- and insurance-certification lady.

  She said evenly, as if concerned for him, ‘It will be a lot better for you if you cooperate.’

  Henderson gave a calculated shrug and directed her outside, then pointed to the spot that was, not surprisingly, directly uphill from the club. The truck seemed to have rolled in almost a straight line to where it rested. A slight bevel of the asphalt would have accounted for the vehicle’s angle with respect to the building: it had veered slightly to the left.

  Henderson: ‘So we don’t know what happened.’

  Meaning: Take the driver. Fuck him. It’s his fault, not ours. We posted the rules.

  Dance looked around. ‘How does it work? A driver comes in after hours, he leaves the key somewhere here or he keeps it?’

  ‘Leaves i
t.’ Henderson pointed. A drop-box.

  A white pickup pulled into the lot and approached them and squealed to a stop nearby. A slim man of about thirty-five, jeans and an AC/DC T-shirt stepped out of it. He pulled on a leather jacket, straightened his slicked-back blond hair, fringy at the ends. His face was etched with parentheses around his mouth, his brow permanently furrowed. He was white but his skin was leather-tanned.

  ‘Well,’ Henderson said, ‘here he is now.’

  The sheepish man stepped up to his boss. ‘Mr Henderson.’

  ‘Billy,’ the owner said. ‘This’s …’

  ‘I’m Kathryn Dance, CBI.’ Her ID rose.

  ‘Billy Culp,’ the young man said absently, staring at her ID. Eyes wide, perhaps seeing an opening door to a jail cell.

  She ushered him away from the others.

  The owner sighed, hitched up his belt, gave it a moment more, then vanished inside. His blood kin joined him.

  ‘Could you tell me about parking the truck here last night?’

  The young man’s eyes shifted to the club. ‘I came back this morning to help. I was thinking maybe I could do something. But there wasn’t anything.’ A faint smile, a hollow smile. ‘I wanted to help.’

  ‘Mr Culp?’

  ‘Sure, sure. I had a run to Fresno, came in empty about seven. Parked there. Spot ten. You can’t see clear. The paint’s gone mostly. Wrote down the mileage and diesel level on my log and slipped it through the slot in the door, put the keys in the drop-box, there. Call me “Billy”. “Mr Culp”, I start looking for my father.’

  Dance smiled. ‘You parked there and set the brake and put the truck in gear.’

  ‘I always do, ma’am. The brake, the gears.’ Then he swallowed. ‘But, fact is, I was tired. I admit. Real tired. Bakersfield, Fresno, here.’ His voice was unsteady. He’d been debating about coming clean. ‘I’m pretty sure I took care of things. But to swear a hundred percent? I don’t know.’

  ‘Thanks for being honest, Billy.’

  He sighed. ‘I’ll lose my job, whatever happens. Will I go to jail?’

  ‘We’re just investigating at this point.’ He wore a wedding band. She guessed children too. He was of that age. ‘You ever forgotten? Gears and brake?’

  ‘Forgotten to lock up once. Lost my CB. My radio, you know. But, no.’ A shake of his head. ‘Always set the brake. Never drive my personal car I’ve had a single beer. Don’t cruise through yellow lights. I’m not really smart and I’m not really talented at a lot of stuff. I’m a good driver, though, Officer Dance. No citations, no accidents were my fault.’ He shrugged. ‘But, truth is, yes, I was tired, ma’am. Officer.’

  ‘Jesus, look out!’ Henderson shouted, calling through the open office door.

  Billy and Dance glanced back and ducked as something zipped over their heads. The rock bounded over the asphalt and whacked the tire of another rig.

  ‘You fucking son of a bitch!’ the man who’d thrown the projectile shouted.

  A group of a dozen people – mostly men – were walking fast up the incline from the direction of the club. Another flung a second rock. Dance and Billy dodged. The throw was wide but if it had hit it would have cracked a skull. She was surprised to note that these were people who were well dressed. They seemed middle class. Not bikers or thugs. But their expressions were chilling: they were out for blood.

  ‘Get him!’

  ‘Fucker!’

  ‘You’re the fucking driver, aren’t you?’

  ‘Look! Over there! It’s the driver!’

  ‘Police,’ Dance said, holding up her ID, not bothering with specific authentication. ‘Stop right there.’

  Nobody paid the least attention to her.

  ‘You asshole! Killer.’

  ‘No,’ Billy said, his voice choking. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

  Suddenly the group was joined by others striding fast from the impromptu memorial site near the roadhouse. Some started running. Pointing. They numbered about twenty now. Faces red with anger, shouting. Dance had her mobile out and was dialing 911. Dispatch would have taken too long.

  She heard: ‘Police and fire emergen—’

  Dance gasped as a tire iron spiraled straight for her face.

  CHAPTER 9

  Billy tackled Dance as the metal rod zipped past.

  They both collapsed onto the ground. Then he yanked her to her feet and together they hurried toward the company’s office door. She completed her call, officer needs assistance, and twisted back, shouting to the approaching mob, ‘This is a police investigation! Disperse now. You will be arrested!’

  And was greeted with another missile – a rock again. This one connected, though obliquely, with her left forearm, not far from the watch, which had shattered in the CBI parking lot. She cried out in pain.

  ‘Arrest him!’ called the burly blonde woman, whose fiancé had been so badly injured.

  ‘Arrest him? Fuck him up!’

  Now the crowd caught up with them. Several of the men pushed Dance aside and shoved Billy backward, their palms slamming into his chest.

  ‘You are committing a felony! There are police on their way.’

  One man sprinted up and got right in their faces. Livid, he stuck a finger in Billy’s chest and raged, ‘You parked there to take a crap or something! Ran off. Fuck you, Officer! Why isn’t he under arrest?’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t do anything. Please!’ Billy was shaking his head and she saw tears in his eyes. He rubbed his chest from one of the blows a moment ago.

  Others were swarming around them now. Dance held her shield up and this resulted in a momentary stay of the madness.

  Dance whispered, ‘This’s going to blow up. We’ve got to get out of here now. Back to the office.’

  She and Billy pushed around those immediately in front of them and kept walking toward the door. The crowd followed behind them, a hostile escort. She told herself: Don’t run. She knew if they did the crowd would attack once again.

  And though it was impossibly hard, she kept a slow, steady pace.

  Somebody else growled, ‘Give me five minutes with him. I’ll get a confession.’

  ‘Fuck him up, I keep saying!’

  ‘You killed my daughter!’

  They were now thirty feet from the office door. The crowd had grown and were shouting insults. At least no more projectiles.

  Then one short, stocky man in jeans and a plaid shirt ran up to his prey and slugged Billy in the side of the head. He cried out.

  Dance displayed her shield. ‘You. Give me your name. Now!’

  He laughed cruelly, grabbed the badge and flung it away. ‘Fuck you, bitch.’

  She doubted that even a weapon brandished would have slowed them down. In any event she had no Glock to draw.

  ‘Fuck him up! Get him!’

  ‘Kill him.’

  ‘Her too, bitch!’

  These people were insane. Animals. Mad dogs.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Dance shouted. ‘You’re committing a felony! You will be arrested if you—’

  It was then that their control broke. ‘Get him. Now!’

  She glanced back to see several picking up rocks. One gripped another tire iron.

  Jesus.

  She ducked as a large stone zipped past her ear. She didn’t see who’d thrown it. She stumbled and ended up on her knees. The crowd surged forward.

  Billy yanked her to her feet and, hands over their heads, they sprinted for the office door. It was now closed. If Henderson had locked it, hell, they could very well be dead in a few minutes.

  Dance felt the full-on panic, an antelope hearing the rhythm of the lion’s paws moving closer and closer.

  The door …

  Please …

  Just as they arrived it swung open. Billy turned and this time a rock hit its target square. It slammed into the man’s jaw and he gave a sharp cry. Blood poured and it was obvious he’d lost a tooth or two and possibly a bone had broken.

  He stumbled inside
and collapsed on the floor, gripping his mouth. Dance leapt in too. The door slammed shut and Henderson locked it.

  ‘I called nine one one,’ the office manager said.

  ‘I did too,’ Dance muttered, looking at Billy’s gash. ‘They should be here soon.’

  She peered out of the window, her hands shaking, heart pounding audibly.

  Panic …

  The crowd had ganged at the door. Their faces were possessed. She thought of the time when a crazed Doberman, off its leash, had charged her and her German shepherd, Dylan, on a walk. Only pepper spray had stopped it.

  No reasoning, no escaping.

  Dance grimaced, noting that Henderson was holding a revolver, a Smith & Wesson, short-barrel .38 Special. Gripped uneasily in his hand.

  ‘Put that away.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Now,’ she snapped.

  He set the weapon back in its drawer.

  A rock smashed into the side of the office, a huge sound, thanks to the metal walls. Others. Two windows broke, though no one tried to climb in. More shouts.

  Dance looked at Billy, whose eyes were closed from the pain. He held a towel, filled with ice, against his swollen face. Henderson’s relative had brought it. It appeared that the jawbone was shattered.

  Looking out through a broken window Dance could see flashing blue-and-white lights.

  And, just like in the Solitude Creek video of last night, the madness vanished. The mob who’d been ready to lynch Billy and break Dance’s skull turned and were walking away, making for their own cars, as if nothing had happened.

  Fast, so fast. As quickly as they’d become enraged they’d calmed. The possession was over with. She noted several of them drop the rocks they held; it seemed some of them hadn’t even realized they were holding the weapons.

  Squad cars from the MCSO eased to a stop in front of Henderson Jobbing. Two sheriff’s deputies from the vehicle closest to the office surveyed the scene around them and walked inside.

  ‘Kathryn,’ said the woman deputy, a tall, striking Latina. The other, a squat African American, nodded to her. She knew both of them well.

  ‘Kit, John.’