Solitude Creek: Kathryn Dance Book 4

by Jeffery Deaver

  ‘Like the one he used at the site of the Bay View Center disaster to lead police into thinking the killer was headed toward Fisherman’s Wharf.’

  Boling added, ‘My guess is he goes through a phone every few days. This one has only a few texts on it. To and from a prepaid with a California exchange.’ He consulted his notes. ‘Incoming: “Very pleased so far. Second installment en route.” Outgoing: “Good. Thanks.” Incoming: “What’s next?” Outgoing: “Cleaning up. All will be good. Will be in touch.”’

  ‘Well,’ Dance whispered.

  O’Neil was nodding. ‘There’s our answer.’

  She said, ‘Sure is.’

  Boling said, ‘Sorry? What do you mean?’

  She explained, ‘Our unsub is a pro. He’s working for somebody.’

  Dance then placed a call to TJ Scanlon, gave him the number of the California phone and asked him to contact the service provider and see if it was still active.

  ‘On it, boss.’

  Then a thought occurred to her. She considered it. Interesting idea. She said to O’Neil. ‘Do you have the pictures of your Jane Doe, the one we think our unsub killed?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He went onto the MCSO secure server and called them up.

  On her computer she accessed the images of Stan Prescott.

  O’Neil said, ‘Right. Like we were saying: Same sort of MO. Strangled or asphyxia. On their backs.’

  ‘And,’ she said, ‘look. They’re both under lights.’

  ‘Maybe they just fell there.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. I think he moved the lamps so he could get pictures on his cell phone. It occurred to me when I was looking at the crime-scene pictures on that website – those bodies were all well-lit too.’

  O’Neil nodded, now understanding. ‘Proof of death.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Boling asked.

  ‘He needed clear pictures to prove that the witnesses’d been eliminated. That line in the text about “cleaning up”. He’s making a lot of money on this job and he wants to be sure the man who’s hired him is confident he’s not leaving any traces.’

  Five-thousand-dollar shoes …

  O’Neil said, ‘Brilliant. He’s targeted a couple of venues to make it look like this’s the work of a psycho. But, no, he’s got a specific venue in mind. He was hired to destroy it.’

  ‘Or a person,’ Dance said, after a moment. ‘He could’ve been hired to destroy a location, sure. But also to kill somebody specific.’

  O’Neil nodded. ‘Sure. Makes sense. But if it’s an individual, then who?’

  Dance offered, ‘At the hospital, no one in the elevator could have been the intended victim.’

  ‘Because how could he know who’d be in that car at that time? And at the Bay View Center – that venue wouldn’t’ve worked either.’

  ‘No,’ O’Neil said. ‘The people who died all drowned. He couldn’t be sure he’d get a specific target there. How’d he know who’d jump into the bay? No, it was Solitude Creek. His target was there, in the audience.’

  O’Neil: ‘The panic starts. The unsub’s changed out of his workman’s clothes. He’s in the audience. He gets close to the victim and kills him or her. Trips them maybe, crushes their throat, breaks a rib that pierces their lung.’

  ‘He’d be in the mob too. But no—’

  ‘Right.’ O’Neil carried through on her thought: ‘He’s a big guy. He can survive a bit of jostling.’

  ‘Besides, remember, there was no fire. It wasn’t like he was going to burn to death. He knew most people would get out okay.’

  O’Neil was scrolling through his mobile. ‘There were three deaths at Solitude Creek. Guess we’ll have to look at all the victims.’

  It was then that she had one of those moments.

  A to B to Z …

  ‘Let’s go for a drive,’ said Kathryn Dance.

  ‘Me?’ Boling asked.

  She smiled.

  ‘No. Better if it’s just Michael and me.’

  CHAPTER 68

  ‘Oh. Hi, Mrs Dance. I mean, Agent Dance.’

  ‘Hello, Trish. This is Detective O’Neil with the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office.’

  Nervous. Naturally.

  ‘Hi.’

  The detective nodded down to her. ‘Hello, Trish. I’m sorry about your mother.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks. It’s, you know, tough.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  The three stood on the front porch of one of the nicest houses Dance had ever seen. Easily seven thousand square feet. Stone and glass and chrome. A Beverly Hills house, a Malibu house. A rich producer’s or film star’s house.

  A moving company truck was parked by the garage. The workers were carrying boxes and furniture into the house, not out.

  She’d known Frederick was moving back in but she appreciated this physical evidence regarding who had hired the Solitude Creek unsub.

  Dance asked, ‘Is your father home?’

  ‘No. He’s taking my aunt and uncle to the airport. But he could be back soon.’

  A conspiratorial smile. ‘We won’t be long. I know he’s not a big fan of mine. Do you mind if we ask you a few more questions?’

  ‘You want to come in?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They walked into the entryway – bigger than Dance’s living room and kitchen combined – then entered a study. Sumptuous leather and metal furniture. The couch alone could have been traded in for a new Pathfinder. They all sat.

  ‘Uhm, the thing is, I didn’t tell my father we talked, you and me,’ the girl said.

  ‘We’ll play along.’ Dance gave a smile. ‘If he comes back.’

  Relief flooded Trish’s eyes. ‘Thanks. Like, really.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I heard he did the same thing at the Bay View Center.’

  O’Neil said, ‘And the hospital, the fire in the elevator.’

  ‘Why’s he doing it?’

  They, of course, demurred on the suspected motive. Dance said, ‘We don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be any clear reason. Now, Trish, I’m sorry to ask but I need to know a little more about your mother’s death. Some of the facts. Are you up for that?’

  She was still. She took a deep breath, then nodded. ‘If it’ll help you catch this asshole.’

  ‘I hope it will.’

  ‘Okay, sure. I guess.’

  Dance said, ‘Go back to that night. At the Solitude Creek Club. After you and your mother got separated.’

  A nod.

  O’Neil, who’d read the account, said, ‘If I understand, you were being swept toward the kitchen and she was in the crowd going for the exit doors.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Dance asked, ‘But before you got into the kitchen, you could see your mother, right?’

  Eyes hollow, she nodded. ‘Yeah. With the emergency lights. I could see good.’

  ‘Trish, this is a hard question but I have to know. Did it look to you like somebody hurt your mother intentionally? Pushed her out of the way? On to the floor? To save themselves?’ She was hardly going to suggest to the girl that her father had hired someone to kill Michelle Cooper, his ex-wife.

  The girl said, ‘Oh, are you thinking of arresting some of the people in the crowd?’

  ‘Whenever somebody dies, it’s important to get the exact details.’

  ‘For the reports,’ O’Neil added.

  Trish was shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. The last time I saw her—’ She choked, then continued, ‘The last time I saw her, she was waving at me and then she disappeared behind the pillar, near the last exit door.’

  ‘Did you see anybody beside her, holding her, pushing her?’

  ‘No. But the next thing I knew I was in the kitchen and then we were falling out onto the gravel and grass, and everybody was screaming and crying.’

  Tears streaked her cheeks. Dance dug into her purse and found a pack of Kleenex. ‘Here you
go.’

  Trish opened the pack and pulled a few out, wiped and blew.

  Dance was disappointed she hadn’t provided anything concrete. But Dance and O’Neil had other facts to uncover – slowly and with finesse.

  ‘Thanks, Trish, this’s been helpful.’

  ‘Sure.’ She sniffed.

  O’Neil delivered his line, according to their script: ‘I don’t think we have anything else.’

  Dance looked around the room. ‘Your father’s moving back. Where does he live now?’

  ‘Yeah. He lives in a place in Carmel Valley now.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Not really. Not his place. It’s a total dive. And with me in school – Carmel High’s a mile away – it made sense for him to move here. Like …’ She glanced around her. ‘Not really too shabby, huh?’

  O’Neil asked, ‘Was this your house when your folks were married?’

  Finesse …

  ‘That’s right.’

  Dance offered another glance to O’Neil. The cheating husband had lost it in the property settlement. Now he was back in. He couldn’t take title – it would be part of the bequest to Trish from her mother. But when she came of age he would work on her to get it transferred back to him. Motive one for Frederick Martin to be the killer. She suspected there was another too.

  ‘Was it a tough divorce?’ O’Neil asked. Good delivery, Dance thought. They’d rehearsed the line on the drive here.

  ‘Oh, yeah, really mean. It was awful. They said really bad things about each other.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Dance offered.

  ‘It totally sucked, yeah.’

  Dance added, ‘Hard about the money too, I imagine. The alimony payments?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I think they called it something else.’

  ‘Maintenance,’ O’Neil chimed in. Of the two of them, Dance and O’Neil, he was the only one with first-hand experience of the dissolution of a marriage.

  ‘Oh, yeah, that’s it. They don’t know that I know. But I heard them talk. Really big checks. Like fifteen thousand a month.’

  Dance assumed that, while child support would go on as long as Trish was under eighteen, maintenance payments would terminate upon the death or remarriage of the ex-spouse. So Martin would save nearly two hundred K a year. For a man living in a small house in the valley, presumably with limited income, that could be a huge windfall.

  Motive number two.

  And Martin would have known Michelle would be at the club. He would have given instructions to the unsub to make sure the girl was safe.

  Or would he?

  Dance felt her gut flip. If the girl had died too, was her father the beneficiary of her will? Would he have gotten the entire house and estate back?

  Then Trish was saying, ‘It’s, like, too bad Dad’ll lose all that.’

  ‘Too bad … what?’ Dance asked.

  ‘I mean, he does okay at his job but he could really use that money. Trying to go back to school and everything.’

  Silence for a moment. The girl’s words spun like a top through Dance’s thoughts.

  ‘Your mother was paying your father alimony?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  O’Neil asked, ‘Why did your parents get divorced?’

  Trish looked down. ‘My mom kind of cheated on him. And he’s such a nice guy. Really cool. But Mom, she just sort of … you know, she ran around a lot. And not just with one guy but a bunch of them. Dad worked part time to raise me and put Mom through school. He didn’t finish his degree. So when he found out she’d been cheating on him and went for the divorce, the judge made her pay alimony. I mean, maintenance. Man, I don’t know what he’s going to do now for money.’

  Frederick Martin’s motive for killing his wife vanished.

  Dance would have TJ check out the facts but she’d be very surprised to find any variation. It was obvious the girl was telling the truth.

  ‘Well, thanks for your help, Trish. I’ll let you know if we find anything else.’

  ‘You really think somebody hurt Mom on purpose, to get out of the club?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem likely, what we’re learning,’ O’Neil said.

  ‘If they did,’ the girl said, ‘I don’t really blame them. What happened that night, the panic and everything, it wasn’t human beings doing that. Like you can’t blame a tornado or an earthquake. They don’t think, they don’t plan on doing anything bad. They just happen.’

  CHAPTER 69

  At her desk, O’Neil beside her, Dance answered the phone. ‘’Lo?’

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘TJ. On speaker with Michael,’ Dance told him.

  ‘Hey, Michael. I love it when people say they’re on speaker. Think of all the juicy things they were about to say but can’t.’

  ‘TJ?’

  ‘I pulled strings and got into the courthouse. Yes, on Sunday. The girl’s story checks out. Trish. It’s confirmed. I read the settlement agreement and court documents, talked to the lawyers. Frederick Martin had zero to gain if his ex was gone. He had negative to gain – except it’s not like you gain anything negative. You know. Anyway, it’s going to cost him a lot now that she’s dead. Michelle didn’t leave much to her daughter either. The house, in trust, is hers but it’s mortgaged to the throat. Trish gets a small stipend. Somebody named Juan got the rest but it’s only fifty K. Not worth killing for. Yep, I said Juan. I’m betting the pool boy.’

  Dance sighed.

  ‘Good theory, though, boss. You’ve got two more fatalities at Solitude Creek. Maybe they were the intended victims.’

  O’Neil said, ‘We thought of that and I looked at them, TJ. One was a college student, one was a woman in her twenties – there with a bachelorette party. No motive that we could find.’

  ‘Back to Square A. You need me in the office, boss?’

  ‘No. Just track down that company in Nevada, the one doing the surveying at Solitude Creek. Give me an update in the morning.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’ He disconnected.

  O’Neil seemed preoccupied.

  Dance looked at the time. She said, ‘Oh, wanted to ask. You do any more thinking about Maggie’s talent show? Tonight at seven?’

  We might have plans. I’ll let you know. Bring a friend?

  ‘Oh, I should’ve mentioned. Can’t make it. Tell her I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sure. No worries.’

  Together they walked out of the office and made their way to the exit. Dance noticed the Guzman Connection task-force conference room was dark, Foster, Steve Two, Allerton and Gomez gone for the night.

  In the parking lot O’Neil and Dance walked to their cars, parked beside each other.

  ‘What a case, hmm?’

  ‘Yep,’ he replied. They stood together for a moment. Then he said, ‘Night.’

  That was all. She nodded. They got into the cruiser and the Pathfinder respectively, and without another look they drove to the highway and turned in different directions.

  A half-hour later she was home.

  ‘Mom!’ Maggie was waiting on the front porch.

  Dance had called and told her daughter she was on the way. But Maggie looked agitated. Had she been concerned that Dance was going to be late? Or was she troubled that her mother had shown up on time and there was no excuse to miss the show? Even though Maggie’d changed her mind about singing Dance knew she wasn’t looking forward to it.

  ‘Give me a few minutes and then we’ll be on our way. Go get dressed.’

  Her daughter had a special costume for the event.

  Together they walked inside and Maggie disappeared into her room. Dance kissed Boling.

  He whispered, ‘How’re you feeling?’ Touching her face gently.

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘My bandage’s bigger than your bandage.’

  She laughed and kissed him again. ‘We’ll compare bruises later.’ She saw Wes and Donnie on the back porch. They weren’t playing their game but intently looking over a Japanese comi
c. ‘Hi, boys!’

  ‘Hi, Mrs Dance.’

  ‘Hey, Mom.’

  ‘We leave in fifteen. Donnie, you want to come to Maggie’s class’s show? At the grade school. It’s at seven. We can have you home by nine.’

  ‘No, that’s okay. I’ve gotta get home.’

  Wes slipped the comic into his book bag.

  Dance had a sip of the wine Boling had ready for her, then headed upstairs for a shower and a change of clothes.

  She stripped off her outfit, which she now detected smelled of smoke – oil and rubber smoke. Might be destined for the trash. She ran the shower and stepped under the stream of hot water, feeling a one-two stab of pain: the right side of her torso from the pulled muscle and her cut cheek. She let the water pound her for five full minutes, then stepped out and toweled off.

  Examining the facial injury, she noted that the cut would leave a scar and that the bruise was striving to conquer more of her face. Probably should have had it looked at in the ER, after all.

  She thought wryly of the curious dynamics of her life. Caught in a stampeding herd of theme-park patrons, squeezing into an elevator car to rescue a pregnant woman and a choking victim … and now off to a ten-year-old’s talent show.

  Then she was dressed – black blouse, fancy jeans and navy jacket. Gold Aldos with exotic heels. A look in the mirror. She let her hair hang loose, better to conceal the banged-up jaw and cheek.

  Downstairs she called, ‘Donnie. Did you bike over? I didn’t see it.’

  The boy stared at her for a moment.

  Wes said, ‘No, we left them at his house.’

  ‘You want a ride home? It’s on the way to Maggie’s school.’

  Donnie glanced at Wes, then turned back. ‘No, thanks, Mrs Dance. I’ll walk. I feel like it.’

  ‘Okay. Come on, Wes, we have to go.’

  He and Donnie bumped fists and her son joined her in the front entryway.

  ‘Maggie!’ Dance called.

  Her daughter appeared.

  Boling said, ‘Well, look at you.’

  She gave a shy smile.

  Dance said, ‘Beautiful, Mags.’

  ‘Thank you.’ In a stilted tone. Formality is a form of deflection.

  ‘Really.’

  Maggie was looking pretty. Her outfit was a white sequined dress that Dance had snagged at Macy’s. It was the perfect outfit for singing a song by an ice queen or princess or whatever Elsa was. Light blue leggings too and white shoes.