Solitude Creek: Kathryn Dance Book 4

by Jeffery Deaver

  ‘The hell happened?’ Kit asked.

  Dance explained about the mob. She added, ‘You could probably get a few collars for assault and battery.’ A nod toward Billy and she showed her own rock-bruised arm. ‘I’ll leave that up to you. I’m not processing criminal cases.’

  Kit Sanchez lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘Long story. I’ll witness, you need it.’

  John Lanners, the other deputy, looked over Billy Culp’s shattered face and asked if he wanted to press charges against anyone in the mob. Billy’s mumbled words: ‘I didn’t see anyone.’

  He was lying, Dance could see. She understood, of course, that it was simply that he didn’t want any more publicity as the man responsible for the Solitude Creek disaster. And his wife and children … They, too, would be targeted.

  Dance shook her head. ‘You decide.’

  ‘Who’s running this? CBI or us?’ Lanners asked, nodding back to the roadhouse.

  Sanchez said, ‘We don’t care. Just, you know …’

  ‘Bob Holly’s here, for the county, so I guess you are.’ Dance added, ‘I came to check some licenses.’ She shrugged. ‘But I decided to stay. Ask some questions.’

  Lanners wiped sweat – he was quite heavy – and said to Billy, ‘We’ll call in some medical help.’

  The driver didn’t seem to care, though he was in significant pain. He wiped tears.

  Lanners pulled his radio off his belt and made a call for the EMS bus. The dispatcher reported they’d have one there in ten minutes. Dance asked Lanners, ‘Can you go with him?’ She added, in a whisper, ‘It’s like there’s a price on his head.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘And we’ll give his family a call.’ The deputy, too, had spotted the wedding band.

  Dance swiped at her own injury.

  Kit asked, ‘You all right, Kathryn?’

  ‘It’s …’

  Then Dance’s eyes focused past the deputy to another sign on the wall. She pointed. ‘Is that true?’

  Henderson squinted and followed her gaze. ‘That? Yeah. Saved us a lot of money over the years.’

  ‘All the trucks?’

  ‘Every single one.’

  Kathryn Dance smiled.

  CHAPTER 10

  The man Ray Henderson was going to sell out, the man the crowd ten minutes ago was ready to lynch, was innocent.

  It took only five minutes to learn that Billy Culp was not responsible for the tragedy at Solitude Creek.

  The sign Dance’d seen on the wall of Henderson Jobbing, not far from where the driver sat, miserable in his heart and hurting in his jaw, read:

  WE know you Drive safely.

  Remember: Our GPS does too!

  Obey the posted speed limits.

  All the Henderson Jobbing trucks, it seems, were equipped with sat nav, not only to give the drivers directions but to tell the boss exactly where they were and how fast they’d been going. (Henderson explained that this was to protect them in the case of hijacking or theft; Dance suspected he was also tired of paying speeding tickets or shelling out more than he needed to for diesel fuel.)

  Dance got permission from Bob Holly and the county deputies to extract the GPS device from Billy’s truck and take it into the Henderson office. Once it was hooked up via a USB cord, she and the deputies looked over the data.

  At 8:10 last night the GPS unit came to life. It registered movement northward – toward the roadhouse – of about one hundred feet, then it stopped and shut off.

  ‘So,’ Kit Sanchez said, ‘somebody drove it into position intentionally.’

  Yep,’ Dance said. ‘Somebody broke into the drop-box. Got the key. Drove the truck into position to block the club doors, shut the engine off and returned the key.’

  ‘I was home then!’ Billy said. ‘When it happened, eight o’clock, I was home. I’ve got witnesses!’

  Henderson and his perhaps-nephew diligently avoided looking at either Dance or Billy, now knowing that the man they had wanted to throw under the … well, truck was innocent.

  ‘Security cameras?’ Dance asked.

  ‘In the warehouse. Nothing outside.’

  Too bad, that.

  ‘And the key to the truck?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve got it.’ He reached for a drawer.

  ‘No, don’t touch it,’ Dance said.

  Fingerprints. Forensics didn’t much interest Kathryn Dance but you had to treat physical evidence with consummate reverence.

  ‘Shit. I’ve already picked it up.’

  John Lanners, the MCSO deputy: ‘There’ll be plenty of prints on it, I’d imagine, but we’ll sort it out. Take yours for samples. Find the ones that don’t match Billy’s or the other drivers’.’

  In gloved hands, Kit Sanchez collected the key fob from the offending truck and put it in an evidence bag. Dance knew in her heart, however, that there was no way there would be any prints from the man who’d intentionally blocked the club’s doors. She knew instinctively he would be meticulous.

  Ironically, just after Dance had been shifted from criminal mode to civil, the administrative matter she’d come here about, taxation and insurance certificates, had just turned into a crime. A felony. Murder. Perhaps even a terrorist attack.

  She said to Sanchez and Lanners, ‘Can you declare this a homicide? I can’t.’ A wry smile. ‘That’s the long-story part. And secure the scene. The drop-box, the truck, the oil drum, the club. Better go for the parking lot too.’

  ‘Sure,’ Lanners said. ‘I’ll call Crime Scene. Secure everything.’

  With a dribble of a siren, a county ambulance pulled up and parked in front of the office. Two techs, large white men, appeared in the doorway and nodded. They spotted Billy and walked over to him to assess damage and mobility.

  ‘Is it broke, my jaw?’ Billy asked.

  One tech lifted off the icy and bloody towel. ‘Got to take X-rays first and then only a doctor can tell you after he looks over the film. But, yah, it’s broke. Totally fucking broke. You can walk?’

  ‘I’ll walk. Is anybody out there?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Dance glanced out of the window. ‘It’s clear.’

  The four of them stepped outside and helped the scrawny driver into the ambulance. He reached out and took Dance’s hand in both of his. His eyes were moist and not, Dance believed, from the pain. ‘You saved my life, Agent Dance. More ways than just one. God bless you.’ Then he frowned. ‘But you be careful. Those people, those animals, they wanted to kill you just as much as me. And you didn’t do a lick wrong.’

  ‘Feel better, Billy.’

  Dance found her shield, dusted it off and slipped it into her pocket. She then returned to the roadhouse. She’d tell Bob Holly what she’d discovered but keep the news from Charles Overby until she’d done some more canvassing.

  She needed as much ammunition as she could garner.

  As she approached the gathered press and spectators, she glanced toward a pretty woman TV reporter, in a precise suit, interviewing a Monterey County firefighter, a solid, sunburned man with a tight crew-cut and massive arms. She’d seen him at several other fire and mass-disaster scenes over the past year or so.

  The reporter said to the camera, ‘I’m talking here with Brad C. Dannon, a Monterey County fireman. Brad, you were the first on the scene last night at Solitude Creek?’

  ‘Just happened I wasn’t too far away when we got the call, that’s right.’

  ‘So you saw a scene of panic? Could you describe it?’

  ‘Panic, yeah. Everybody. Trying to get out, just throwing themselves against the door, like animals. I’ve been a firefighter for five years and I’ve never …’

  CHAPTER 11

  ‘… seen anything like this.’

  ‘Five years, really, Brad? Now tell me, it looks like the doors, the fire doors, were unlocked but they were all blocked by a truck that had parked there. A tractor-trailer. We can see … there.’

  Antioch March lifted his eyes from h
is present gaze – the pillowcase of fine-weave cotton, six inches from his face – and glanced at the TV screen, across the bedroom in the sumptuous Cedar Hills Inn in Pebble Beach. The camera from the crew outside the Solitude Creek roadhouse panned to Henderson Jobbing and Warehouse, which was all of ten miles from where March now lay.

  A mouth beside his ear: ‘Yes, yes!’ A moist whisper.

  On TV, the anchor, blonde as toffee, came back into high-definition view. ‘Brad, a number of victims and relatives of victims are accusing the driver of the truck of negligently blocking the doors, accusing him of parking there to go to the bathroom, or maybe even sneaking in to see the show last night. Do you think that’s a possibility?’

  ‘It’s too early to speculate,’ the firefighter replied.

  It’s never wise to speculate, March corrected Brad, early or late. The bodybuilding firefighter, not quite as buff as March, looked smug. Wouldn’t trust him to rescue me from a smoke-filled building.

  Much less a stampede in a roadhouse. Brad did, however, go on to offer graphic descriptions of the ‘horror’ last night. They were quite accurate. Helped by Brad and the images he was describing, March turned his attention back to the task at hand, lowered his head back to the pillow and pulsed away.

  Calista gripped his earlobe between two perfectly shaped teeth. March felt the pressure of the incisors. Felt her studded nose against his smooth cheek. Felt himself deep inside her.

  She grunted rhythmically. Maybe he did too.

  Calista whispered, ‘You’re so fucking handsome …’

  He wished she wouldn’t talk. Besides, he didn’t know what to do with that sentence. Maybe she was hoping for this to be more than a couple-days thing. But he also knew that people said all sorts of things for all sorts of reasons at moments like this and he didn’t sweat it.

  Just wished she wouldn’t talk. He wanted to hear. Wanted to see. Wanted to imagine.

  Her heels banged against his tailbone, her bright crimson fingernails – the color of arterial blood – assaulted his back.

  And he replayed what people often replayed at moments like now: earlier times. The Solitude Creek incident. But then, going way back: Serena, of course. He often returned to Serena, the way a top eventually spins to stillness.

  Serena. She helped move him along.

  Jessica he thought of too.

  And, of course, Todd. Never Serena and Jessica without Todd.

  He was moving more quickly now.

  Again she was gasping, ‘Yes, yes, yes …’

  As she lay under him Calista’s hands now eased up his spine and gripped his shoulders hard. Those GMC-finish nails pressed into his skin. He reciprocated, digging into her pale flesh. Her moaning was partly pain; the rest of the damp gusts from her lungs were from his two hundred plus pounds, little fat. Pounding.

  Compressing.

  Sort of like the people last night.

  ‘Oh …’ She stiffened.

  He backed off at that. There was a balance between his pleasure and her pain. Tricky. He didn’t really need her to cry at the moment. He had all he needed.

  ‘Again, if you’re just joining us …’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Calista whispered, and it wasn’t an act. She was gone, lost in the moment.

  His left hand slid out from under the bony spine and then was twining the strawberry mane of hair in his blunt fingers, pulling her head back. Her throat – smooth for cutting. Though that wasn’t on the agenda. Still, the image socketed itself into his thoughts. That helped him too.

  March gauged rhythm and sped up slightly. Then a rich inhale and those luminous pearls of teeth went against his neck – many women were into the vampire thing, Calista too, apparently. A shudder and she hissed, ‘Yesssss,’ not as an act or a prod for him to finish: it was involuntary. Genuine. He was moderately pleased.

  Now, his turn. He gripped her more tightly yet. Chest and breasts, thigh and thigh, sliding unsteadily; the room was hot, the sweat abundant.

  ‘I’m speaking to Brad Dannon, Monterey County firefighter and first on the scene at the Solitude Creek tragedy last night. Brad is credited with saving at least two victims, who were bleeding severely. Have you talked to them today, Brad?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. They’d lost a lot of blood but I was able to keep them going till our wonderful EMS got there. They’re the true heroes. Not me.’

  ‘You’re very modest, Brad. Now—’

  Click.

  He realized that the impressive nails of one hand had vanished from his back. She’d found the remote and shut off the TV.

  No matter. With a flash of Serena’s beautiful face, combined with Brad’s comment, a lot of blood, he was done.

  He gasped and let his full weight sag down upon her. He was thinking: It had been good. Good enough.

  It would distract for a while.

  Then he was aware of her squirming slightly. Her breath labored.

  He thought again: Compressive asphyxia.

  And stayed where he was. Ten seconds passed.

  Twenty. Then thirty. He could kill her by simply not moving.

  ‘Uhm,’ she gasped. ‘Could you …’

  He felt her chest heaving.

  March rolled off. ‘Sorry. You totally tuckered me out.’

  Calista caught her breath. She sat up slightly and tugged the sheets across her body. Why, afterward, did women grow modest? He pulled off a pillow case and used it as a towel, then glanced casually at his nails. No blood. He was disappointed.

  She turned back to him, faintly smiling, and put her head on the pillow.

  March stretched. As always, moments like this, just after, he remained silent, since you could never trust yourself, even someone as controlled as he was. He’d learned that.

  She, however, spoke. ‘Andy?’

  He preferred the nickname. ‘Antioch’ drew attention. ‘Yes?’

  ‘That was terrible, what happened.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The stampede or crush. It was on the news. Just a minute ago.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t listening.’

  Was this a test? He didn’t know. He’d provided the good answer, though. She put a hand, tipped in red, on his arm. He supposed he shouldn’t even have had the set on – not wise to be too interested in Solitude Creek. But when she’d arrived forty minutes ago, the first thing he’d done was pour some Chardonnay for her and start talking away, so she wouldn’t think to shut off the unfolding news reports.

  March stretched again, the luxurious inn’s mattress not rocking a quarter-inch. He thought of the endlessly moving Pacific Ocean, which you could hear, if not see, from the cranked-open window to his left.

  ‘You work out a lot,’ she said.

  ‘I do.’ He had to. His line of work. Well, one of his lines of work. March got in at least an hour every day. Exercise was easy for him – he was twenty-nine, naturally strong and well built. And he enjoyed the effort. It was comforting. It was distracting.

  With unslit throat and her non-compressed lungs, Calista eased from the sheets and, like an A-list actress, kept her back to the camera as she rose.

  ‘Don’t look.’

  He didn’t look. March tugged off the condom, which he dropped onto the floor, the opposite side of the bed. Out of her view.

  Looked at the remote. Decided not to.

  He thought she was going to the bathroom but she diverted to the closet, flung it open, looking through his hanging clothes. ‘You have a robe I can borrow? You’re not looking?’

  ‘No. The bathroom, the hook on the door.’

  She got it and returned, enwrapped. ‘Nice.’ Stroking the fine cotton.

  The inn was one of the best on the Monterey Peninsula, and this area, he’d learned in the past few days, was a place with many fine inns. The establishment was happy for guests to take its robes home with them as lovely souvenirs of their stay – for the oddly random price of $232.

  This, he reflected, defined Cedar Hills. Not an even
$250, which would have been outrageous but logical. Not $100, which would be the actual retail price and made more sense.

  Two hundred thirty-two pretentious dollars.

  Something to do with human nature, he guessed.

  Calista Sommers fetched her purse and rummaged, collected from it some of the contents.

  He smelled wine, from the glasses nearby. But that had been for her. He sipped his pineapple juice, with ice cubes whose edges had melted to dull.

  She tugged aside a curtain. ‘View’s amazing.’

  True. Pebble Beach golf course not far away, contortionist

  pine trees, crimson bird-of-paradise flowers, sculpture, fountains. Deer wandered past, ears twitchy and legs both comical and elegant.

  Her mind seemed to wander. Maybe she was thinking of her meeting. Maybe of her ill mother. Calista, a twenty-five-year-old bookkeeper, wasn’t from here. She’d taken two weeks off from work and driven to California from her small town in northern Washington State to look for areas where her mother, in assisted living because of Alzheimer’s, might relocate, a place where the weather was better. She’d tried Marin, Napa, San Francisco and was now checking out the Monterey Bay area. This seemed to be the front-runner.

  She walked into the bathroom and the shower began to pulse. March lay back, listening to the water. He believed she was humming.

  He thought again about the remote. No. Too eager.

  Eyes closed, he replayed the incident at Solitude Creek once more.

  Ten minutes later she emerged. ‘You bad boy!’ she said, with a devilish smile, but chiding too. ‘You scratched me.’

  Hiking the robe up. A very, very nice ass. Red scratch marks. The image of them hit him low in the torso. ‘Sorry.’ Not a Fifty Shades of Grey girl, it seemed.

  She forgot her complaint. ‘You look like somebody, an actor.’

  Channing Tatum was the default. March was slimmer, about the same height, over six feet.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Didn’t matter, of course. Her point was to apologize for the jab about the scratches.

  Accepted.

  She dug into her purse for a brush and makeup, began reassembling. ‘The other night you didn’t really tell me much about your job. Some non-profit. A website? You do good things. I like that.’