Solitude Creek: Kathryn Dance Book 4

by Jeffery Deaver

  ‘Not at all. You want to come in?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Dance joined her. Thousands of CDs and vinyl records sat on the shelves and were stacked against the walls. A lapsed musician and co-founder of a website devoted to music, Dance was impressed. ‘You go to the roadhouse often?’

  ‘Sometimes. Little pricey for me. Sam’s got a pretty dear cover charge.’

  ‘So you weren’t there last night?’

  ‘No, I’m talking once a year I go and only if it’s somebody I really, really like.’

  ‘Now, Annette, I’m wondering if people boat down Solitude Creek.’

  ‘Boat? You can. I’ve seen a few kayakers and canoes. Some powerboats. Real small. It gets pretty shallow you go further east.’ Her fingers, quite ruddy, played with her feathered rope of purple hair.

  ‘Is there a place where anyone could park and kayak down to the club?’

  A nod toward the road. ‘No, this is the only place anybody could leave a car and Ernie—’

  ‘Across the street?’

  ‘Yeah, that Ernie. He’s not going to let anybody park here he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Ernie’s a big guy?’

  ‘Not big. Just, you know.’

  Hare-lick. Whatever that meant.

  Dance noticed state-government envelopes, ripped open like picked-over road kill. Welfare. The woman lit a cigarette and blew the smoke away from Dance.

  ‘So, last night, you didn’t see anybody on the creek in a boat?’

  ‘No one. And I could’ve seen. Look at the window. It looks over the water. Right there. That one.’

  It did indeed, though it was so grimy with smoke residue that at dusk it would’ve been impossible to spot much through it.

  Dance removed the small notebook she kept with her and flipped it open. Jotted a few notes. ‘Are you married? Anyone else live here?’

  ‘Nope. Just me. Solo. Not even a cat.’ A smile. ‘This,’ Annette said, ‘what you’re asking, makes it sound like there was something going on. I mean, like you think somebody did something at the club on purpose.’

  ‘Just routine investigation. We always do this.’

  ‘Like NCIS.’

  Now Dance smiled. ‘Just like that. You can’t see the club from here but would you have by any chance taken a walk last night, ended up near there?’

  ‘No. You gotta be careful. We’ve had mountain lions.’

  True. A woman had been killed not long ago, a jogger, banker from San Francisco.

  ‘You were in all night?’ Dance asked.

  ‘Absolutely. Right here.’

  ‘And anyone you didn’t recognize in the neighborhood recently? Not just last night.’

  ‘No, ma’am. I’d tell you if I did.’

  Another note.

  Dance reached into her purse and exchanged her pink-framed glasses for a pair that had black-metal frames.

  Predator specs.

  ‘Annette?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘Could you tell me why you’re lying?’

  She expected denial, expected resistance. Expected anger.

  She didn’t expect the woman to drop to her knees, overcome with sobbing.

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘Kathryn, no. You can’t be Civil half the time, Criminal the rest. It doesn’t work that way. We’ve been through this.’

  Charles Overby seemed just pissy. She was in his office, close to five p.m. She was surprised he was still there: there was still an hour of tennis light left.

  She knew he was right but the fast dismissal – It doesn’t work that way – was irritating. She asked, ‘Who else is going to handle it? We’re short-staffed.’ The CBI had been hit with budget cutbacks, like every other agency in California, whose new nickname among government workers was the ‘Bare State’, a play on the grizzly on the flag.

  ‘TJ. Rey. I’ll assign one of them.’

  They were two very competent agents but young. Neither they nor anyone else in the Bureau had Dance’s skill at interrogation. And this case, she felt, had instances aplenty to get people into interview rooms. There were nearly a hundred victims, any one of whom might have a lead. Any one of whom might also be the perp. Stationed by the club door last night, where he could escape safely if it became too dangerous – maybe to enjoy his revenge for a real or imagined slight.

  Or just because he wanted to watch people die.

  ‘You shouldn’t even be in the office. You should be home planting flowers or baking or something … All right, I’m just saying.’

  Dance forwent the grimace. She said, ‘How’s this? Michael O’Neil.’

  Chief of detectives of the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’ll run it.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Charles. It’s not a Fire Department matter. The burn in the oil drum was secondary. Makes sense the MCSO would handle it.’

  His eyes slipped away. ‘You’ll brief O’Neil, that’s all.’

  ‘Sure. I’d advise.’

  Advising wasn’t the same as briefing. Overby didn’t protest but she sensed he might not have noted her verb.

  ‘Nothing changes, Kathryn. No weapon. You’re still Civ Div.’

  ‘Sure,’ Kathryn Dance said brightly. She was winning.

  ‘You think he’ll agree?’ Overby said.

  ‘We’ll see. I think so.’

  She knew this because she’d already texted him. And he had agreed.

  But now Overby was troubled once more. ‘Of course, if it becomes a county operation …’

  Meaning he’d miss out on the credit – and press conferences – that went with closing a case.

  ‘Tell you what. You can’t do more than brief.’

  Advise.

  ‘But we can still get our oar in.’

  She’d never understood that expression. ‘How do you mean, Charles?’

  ‘Let’s involve the CBI folks we’ve got here, on the task force. Jimmy Gomez and Steve Foster.’

  ‘What? Charles, no. They’re on Serrano and Guzman … I need them focused on that.’

  ‘No, no, this’ll be good. Just to kick around some ideas with them.’

  ‘With Foster? Kick ideas around with Steve Foster? He doesn’t kick around ideas. He shoots them in the head.’

  Overby was looking away. Perhaps her glare seared. ‘Now that I think about it, makes sense to run it by them. Good on all counts. We have … considerations. Under the circumstances.’

  ‘Charles, please, no.’

  ‘Let’s just go talk to them, that’s all. Get Foster’s thoughts. Jimmy’s too. He’s one of us.’

  Whatever the consequences, he’d decided his office couldn’t take a complete back seat to the Sheriff’s.

  Avoiding her eyes, he rose, slipped his jacket over his immaculate white shirt and strode out of the office. ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea. Come along, Kathryn. Let’s have a chat with our friends.’

  CHAPTER 14

  The Guzman Connection task force was up to full strength.

  In addition to blustery Steve Foster and staunch Carol Allerton, two others were present in the conference room dedicated to the operation.

  ‘Kathryn, Charles.’ This was from Steve Lu, the chief of detectives at the Salinas Police Department, a.k.a. Steve Two, since another, Foster, was on the team. Lu, an excessively skinny man – Dance’s opinion – was a specialist in gangs. His younger brother had been in a crew and been busted on a few minor counts – though he was now out of the system and clean. Lu was persistent and no-nonsense, maybe trying harder to make up for his sibling’s stumble. He was humorless, Dance had learned over several years of working with him, but he was not, as the other Steve was, bluntly contrary.

  The fourth task-force member was Jimmy Gomez, the young CBI agent whose name had come up earlier. Dark-complexioned and sporting a moustache as brown as Foster’s was light and elaborate, he stayed in shape by playing football – that is,
soccer – every minute when he wasn’t at work or attending to his family. He was assigned to this division of the CBI and his office was two doors down from Dance’s. They were both co-workers and friends. (Just two weeks ago Dance, her children, Gomez, his wife and their three youngsters had done the Del Monte Cineplex thing, then gone to Lala’s after, to discuss over dessert and coffee the brilliance of Pixar and which animated character they each would want to be; Dance had selected the hero from Brave, mostly because she envied the hair.)

  The two Steves were at one table, Jimmy Gomez at another. Carol Allerton, in the corner, waved to the newcomers and returned to a serious mobile-phone conversation.

  Overby announced, ‘Some help, s’il vous plaît?’

  Dance felt her jaw tighten and knew exactly what she was radiating kinesically. She wondered if anyone else in the room did. Her displeasure had to be obvious.

  ‘You’ve probably heard about the incident at the roadhouse, Solitude Creek,’ Overby said. ‘I know you have, Jimmy.’

  ‘That fire?’ Foster asked. He seemed perpetually distracted.

  ‘No, it was more than that.’ Overby glanced at Dance.

  She said, ‘The club itself didn’t burn. The perp started a fire outside near the HVAC system to get the smell of smoke into the club. He’d blocked the exit doors. Three dead, dozens injured. A stampede. It was pretty bad.’

  ‘Intentional? People crushed to death,’ Allerton whispered. ‘Terrible.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Steve Lu muttered. ‘So it’s homicide.’

  Homicide embraces everything from suicide to vehicular manslaughter to premeditated murder. It was into the last of those categories that the Solitude Creek incident probably fell.

  Foster took the news less emotionally. ‘Can’t be insurance. Otherwise the owner would’ve torched the place empty. Wouldn’t want any fatalities. Disgruntled workers, pissed-off customers got kicked out drunk?’

  ‘Preliminary interviews don’t turn up any obvious suspects but it’s a possibility,’ Dance said. ‘We’ll keep looking.’

  Overby then said, ‘Now. Kathryn’s got a lead.’

  ‘I was canvassing the area. I found a woman who lives about two hundred yards from the end of the club’s parking lot. She told me she didn’t see anything odd around the time of the incident, she wasn’t near the club, but I knew she was lying.’

  Foster continued to gaze at her, his eyes neutral but still managing to radiate criticism for her missing the clues during 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 things 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 – 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 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 was 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 the 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 the witness 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 chide them gently 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 weathered gray railings, shutters and trim, in the north-western Pacific Grove. You could, if you chose to risk a tumble off the porch, 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.’ Wes readily shared with his friends that his father had died but Dance had learned that children rarely registered the niceties of Mrs versus Miss versus Ms.

  ‘Cool.’ His face brightened. ‘Mrs Dance.’

  With his curly hair and cherubic face, Donnie would be a girl magnet soon. Well, he 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 – as a single mother, even with a good support net like hers, 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 – 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 board game and dropped to the redwood decking, crunching some 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 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.’

  Maggie complied happily. ‘Wes and Donnie won’t let me play their game.’

  ‘It’s a boys’ game, I’m sure.’

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