"That's good. Sure. And, if I recall, he's not very expensive."
Dance let that go.
Overby added, "Any thoughts about why our boy would travel all that way to kill him?"
O'Neil explained the theory that Prescott had brought unwanted federal scrutiny to the incident with the "terrorist" comments. "That's all we can think of."
They arranged a meeting tomorrow in Overby's office, to review the crime scene reports from the sheriff's office in Orange County.
Dance clicked the phone off. Then made another call.
"Hey, boss. You back from La-La Land?"
"Just landed," she told TJ Scanlon. "Eleven tomorrow in Overby's office. On Solitude Creek and Bay View."
"Be there with bells on."
She asked, "And Serrano? The second lead? What's the name again?"
"Ah, Senorita Alonzo. The Oscar-winning role of Serrano's former squeeze. Moss Landing tomorrow at nine? Good for you?"
"Yep. I'll coordinate with Al."
"Foster'll be out. Steve Two and Jimmy'll be there."
"Thanks. See you tomorrow."
They disconnected.
Silence for some moments.
"Look out," she said sharply, pointing ahead.
Two flashes of yellow, close-set eyes.
"I got it," O'Neil said, braking.
They cruised past the deer as it debated who would win the collision.
O'Neil hadn't, however, seen the creature at first. He'd been distracted. Mind elsewhere, Dance could clearly read.
More silence. His body language revealed tension, too.
Another five minutes. Finally she'd had enough. She was going to pry the truth out of him--but just at that moment his phone rang. He unholstered it and hit Accept. He listened, his face morphing to grim. "Where?"
Her heart sank. Had the unsub returned so quickly and committed yet another mass attack?
"I'm headed in that direction now. I can be there in fifteen."
He disconnected.
"Another one?"
"Not our unsub. A hate crime again." He sighed, shaking his head.
"Anybody in custody?"
"No, the homeowner found his wall graffiti'd. I'm going to swing by and poke around the neighborhood. It's in Pacific Grove, not far from you. I'll take you home first."
"No, I'll go with you."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
He hit the flasher lights and sped up, though minding the slippery road.
She asked, "You think there's a chance you'll find the perp there?"
"He can't be too far away. The graffiti? The paint's still wet."
Chapter 49
Well, there you have it. Welcome to Berlin, nineteen thirty-eight."
Dance and O'Neil were standing next to David Goldschmidt, who ran one of the nicer furniture stores downtown. The slim, balding man was bundled in a navy watch coat and wore jeans. His sockless feet were in Top-Siders. They were in his side yard.
Goldschmidt was a bit of a celebrity in the area; the Monterey Herald had run an article on him last week. When Hamas began firing missiles from Gaza into Israel not long ago he'd volunteered to help. At forty, he was too old to serve in the Israeli army--the age limit was twenty-three--but he spent several months helping with medical and provisions support. She recalled that, according to the article, years before, when on a kibbutz outside Tel Aviv, Goldschmidt had, however, served in combat.
The publicity was probably why he'd been targeted.
And what a cruel attack it was.
On the side of his beautiful Victorian house was a swastika in bright red paint and below it: DIE JEW.
The paint dripped from the symbol and words like blood from deep wounds.
They were surrounded by a foggy dusk, the air fragrant with mulch from the Goldschmidts' beautiful garden.
"In all my years," he muttered.
"Did you catch a glimpse of anybody?"
"No, I didn't know about it until I heard the shout from across the street--ah, here."
A woman, mid-fifties, in jeans and a leather jacket, approached. "Dave, I'm so sorry." Then to the officers: "Hello."
O'Neil and Dance introduced themselves.
"I'm Sara Peabody. I saw them. I'm the one called the police. I shouted. I guess I shouldn't have. I should've just called you first. Maybe they'd be in jail now. But I just, you know, lost it."
"Them?" O'Neil asked.
"Two, that's right. I was looking through the trees there, see. I didn't have a good view. So young, old? Male, female? I couldn't say. I'd guess male, wouldn't you think?"
O'Neil said, "Generally that's the case in hate crimes. But not always."
"One stood guard, I guess, and the other jumped over the fence and sprayed those terrible things. The other one, the guard--he took pictures or a video of the other one. Like a souvenir. Disgusting."
Goldschmidt sighed.
Dance asked, "Have you been threatened by anyone recently?"
"No, no. I don't think it's personal. This's got to be part of what's going on, don't you think? The black churches, that gay center?"
O'Neil: "I'd say so, yes. The handwriting looks similar to the other attacks, spray paint in red. Looks like the same color."
"Well, I want it gone. Can you take pictures and samples of the paint or whatever you want to do? I'm painting over it tonight. My wife's back from Seattle tomorrow morning. I will not let her see this."
"Sure," O'Neil told him. "We'll get our crime scene people here in the next hour. They'll be fast." He looked around. "I'll canvass the neighbors now."
"Brother. After all these years," Goldschmidt muttered angrily. "Sometimes I think we're not making any progress at all." Dance looked him over, his body language of defiance, determination, his still eyes as he took in the obscene symbol and words.
O'Neil asked Dance if she'd take his and the neighbor's statements.
"Sure."
He wandered up the street to interview other neighbors who might have seen the vandalism.
Dance looked over the yard. No footsteps in the grass, of course. Maybe the CS team could pull a print from the fence the perps had vaulted but that would be a long shot.
Ah, but a moment of hope. Nestled under the eaves was a video security camera.
But Goldschmidt shook his head. "It's on but it doesn't record. The monitor's in the bedroom and I was in the den when they were here. We only use it after we're in bed. In case there's a noise."
Dance texted Boling that she'd be a bit later than she'd planned. He replied that Maggie was still Skyping and Wes had not returned yet--but he had ten minutes until the promised deadline. Leftovers were heating.
Michael O'Neil was up the street and Dance had nothing more to do here. She started her own canvass, going the other way. The houses there had no view of Goldschmidt's but the vandals might have parked in front of one. Those who were home, however, had seen nothing and Dance spotted no deception. As horrific as vandalism is, there's not much of a risk of physical assault and witnesses are more eager to come forward than if they've seen a murder, rape or assault.
Two more houses, dark and unoccupied.
She was about to return to the crime scene when she noticed one more house--it was on the other side of a city park, which was a known migration stop for monarch butterflies. The tree-filled park was about two acres in size.
The house bordered Asilomar, the conference area, and, beyond that was the coastal park at Spanish Bay. It also overlooked a sandy shoulder, a perfect place for the perps to leave their car and hike through the park to get to Goldschmidt's. Maybe these homeowners had seen them.
She waded into the park now, moving slowly; the place hadn't been trimmed recently--budget issues, she supposed--and underbrush could trip her.
Any risk? she wondered, pausing. No. The perps would have headed off as soon as they'd finished. If not, surely they'd done so when they'd seen the blue-and-white flashing lights on O'Neil'
s car.
She started through the dark preserve once more.
Chapter 50
Dude, somebody's coming. I'm, like, sure."
Wolverine was saying this.
"Shhh." Darth waved him quiet.
"Let's just go. Yo."
Darth ignored him and scanned the dusk-lit scene. The two boys remained motionless, still as snipers, in the large backyard of the house that the owners, weird, had named Junipero Manor or something, nestled in mossy trees like something out of The Hobbit, all bent and gnarly. A house with a name. Weird.
The ocean was not far away and Darth could hear the water smashing on the rocks, the seals, gulls. Good. It covered up the noise of their movement.
"I'm saying, we should book." Wolverine was in a navy jacket. Baseball cap, black, backward. Darth was wearing jeans and a black shirt and hoodie. Darth liked to think of him and his friend by their code names when they were out fucking up somebody's house or a church. Felt like soldiers, felt like superheroes. On a mission.
They were both slim, young. Darth was bigger, older by a year and change, though they were in the same grade. The two hid behind a bush that smelled like pee, and his knees felt moisture from the fog-damp sand.
"Dude?" Wolverine whispered more desperately. "Now! Let's history, man. We gotta get out of here."
Darth shifted. And: clink, clink.
"Jesus, quiet!"
Darth set the backpack down carefully and rearranged the cans of red spray paint, put a T-shirt between them. Hoisted the canvas satchel once more.
"Really, man." Wolverine wasn't exactly living up to his nickname. But Darth was patient with his friend. The bitch got freaked a lot. And, church, Darth was a little tweaked at the moment too, with some asshole prowling around, getting closer.
But he was leader of the crew and he now commanded, "Chill."
Wolverine nodded.
Okay, he was a pussy but he also was the one who'd spotted somebody coming through the park.
Sure, they ought to leave. Darth didn't have any hassle with that idea. But they fucking couldn't because the fucking Jew had found the bikes and rolled them into his garage. Just after they'd tagged the wall, and got over the fence out of the yard, some bitch from across the street had come out and started screaming, stop, what're you doing, how hateful and who did they think they were...
Blah, blah...
They didn't want to get seen so they'd run in this direction and hid in some bushes, watching Goldshit come out, spot the bikes and cart them away and--fucker--throw them into the garage.
Then the flashing lights.
And now the footsteps.
Who? Goldshit? The woman who'd snitched?
But why would they be here? No, it probably was a cop. And if so they'd be armed with a Taser and a Glock and one of those big fucking flashlights that could cave your head in. When Darth had been in juvie, he'd celled with a kid whose head'd been caved in by one of those.
Footsteps getting closer but still half a basketball court away.
"Why're we waiting?"
The why was something Darth didn't have the time--or the inclination--to explain: that if Darth's dad found out his bike was gone, out would come the branch and Darth'd get bloody.
Closer. The probably cop was moving slow but headed in their exact direction.
Darth nodded toward a garden shack at the back of Junipero Manor.
They slipped closer to the lopsided structure and crouched between it and a tangled bush. The cop didn't have a flashlight out. Just was walking slowly, stopping, listening. Playing it cautious, as if the dudes he was after were stone-cold. Anybody who'd sneak up to a house and write DIE JEW with a fat-ass swastika on it probably was.
And, yeah, Darth thought, guess what? We are.
Totally stone-cold...
Darth whispered, "Got an idea. I'm going to lead 'em off."
"But you'll...what're you gonna do?"
"I'll head that way into the park, make some noise or something and then you can run."
"Yeah? What'll happen to you?"
"Nobody can touch me," Darth whispered, mouth close to ear. "Track and field, remember? I'll be fine." Darth's father had made sure he'd gotten trophies in every event he could in T and F (it'd be the branch if he didn't).
"You cool?"
"Yeah." His friend's green eyes looked uncertain.
"Okay, just stay here and...give me sixty seconds to get into position. When you count sixty, run--that way. Asilomar. And just keep going. They'll start after you but I'll make a shitload of noise and lead 'em off."
"Okay. Sixty."
Then Darth gave a smile. "Yo. We did good tonight."
A nod. A fist bump.
"Start counting." Darth moved as quietly as he could into the woods away from the shed. As he did this he looked around. Ah, there, excellent. He found a perfect weapon. A rock about ten inches long, sharp at one end. He picked it up and hefted the stone. Good, good.
Darth had no intention of running. He was pissed off that they'd been pushed into a corner and pissed that the Jew had taken his bike. What he was going to do as soon as Wolverine took off was come up behind the cop, distracted by the noise of his friend's footsteps.
Then Darth'd slam the rock into the cop's head, knock him out.
And get the asshole's gun, which would be a slick and smooth Glock or Beretta or something.
He felt a chill of pleasure and enjoyed a brief fantasy of his father coming into his bedroom, pushing him onto the bed, facedown, lifting the branch...and Darth twisting away, grabbing the automatic from under the pillow and watching his father's terrified face stare into the muzzle of a fucking nine-mil.
Would he pull the trigger?
No. Yes. Maybe.
He silently made his way around the cop, looking carefully where he put his feet.
Okay, Wolverine. Up to you now.
About fifteen seconds left in the count. He gripped the rock and moved a bit closer to him.
Only, wait, weird. It wasn't a him. It was a woman. Was it the bitch across from Goldshit's? No, no that didn't make sense. It'd have to be a cop, just a woman cop.
Could Darth drop a girl?
Then he decided: What the fuck difference does it make? Of course he could.
Then he had a weird thought: Wolverine--his real name was Wes--his mother, Mrs. Dance, was a cop. What if this was her? It was too dark to see anything but long hair. But then Darth, well, Donnie Verso, remembered that Wes had said his mother was out of town. Some big case she was working on.
So, whoever she was, it wasn't Mrs. Dance.
Okay. He moved a bit closer and then paused, kneading the rock. He crouched and got ready to sprint up behind her and take the bitch out. In less than a minute Donnie Verso would have the gun he'd fantasized about for so long.
Chapter 51
Kathryn Dance continued toward the large Victorian house on the far edge of the park.
She was disappointed to see that while the porch lights were on, the rest of the house seemed dark. Too bad. Despite O'Neil's assessment she was still inclined to lay the crime at the feet of a biker gang. The family here might have heard the throaty clatter of a 'cycle engine, maybe peeked out the front window and gotten a good view. Make and model of the bike possibly, descriptions.
Still, someone might be home. That a lead was unlikely was no reason to ignore it.
Unleashed...
As she approached the large, rustic yard surrounding the house she paused once more. Now, she heard footsteps. Two sets, in fact. One in front of her some distance away; others, closer, to her right, moving behind. She squinted into the darkness but could see nothing. Deer, most likely. The population here in PG was huge.
Of course, she also wondered if she'd been too hasty in dismissing the possibility the perps were still here. True, an ordinary perp would be long gone. Hey, let's get the hell out of here. We've done the deed. Enough. But this wasn't a burglary or mugging or "let's torc
h the Porta Potti for the hell of it" kind of vandalism. This was different. And it wasn't unreasonable to think that the perps in this case would remain, to watch the reaction, the dismay of the victims.
She heard a snap of branch, not far away, but couldn't tell exactly where it was coming from.
Deer? Maybe yes, maybe no. And if it came down on the no side the consequences could be bad.
Okay. Time to leave, she told herself. Now.
Another crackle of underbrush. Close.
And then:
A mobile phone started to ring--from about thirty feet in front of her.
"Shit!" a voice called from behind her.
Jesus, somebody'd been flanking her. One of the perps. She crouched, making herself a smaller target.
"Run, run!" A male voice, from the direction of the ringtone.
And she heard two sets of sprinting footsteps, heading away from her. She saw no one. She thought about ordering them to stop but, unarmed, she didn't want to give her position away.
Dance lifted her phone and hit a speed dial button.
"Kathryn."
"Michael. They're here, east at the end of the road. Junipero Drive."
"The perps? From Goldschmidt's?"
"Right. What I'm saying."
"What were you doing?"
What the hell was he asking this for? She snapped, "Call it in. They split up. One headed toward town. The other to Asilomar."
"Where are you?"
Why was he asking? "Where I just said. East, end of the road. A three-story Victorian."
"I'll make the call." Then he snapped, "Now get back here."
A half hour later Dance and O'Neil were with the Crime Scene Unit at Goldschmidt's house.
A Pacific Grove Police Department car pulled up and two officers got out.
O'Neil nodded. "Anything?"
"Nope. We locked down Sunset, Asilomar, Ocean View and Lighthouse. But they must've gotten to their car before we set up the roadblocks."
"Footprints?"
The wry smile on the face of one of the officers attested to the fact that they all knew: The ground here was mostly sand and if you expected footprints for the electrostatic impression machine, you were going to be disappointed.
David Goldschmidt approached, carrying a roller and a can of paint. He set them down. He was interested to learn that Dance had had an encounter with the perps near the house up the street, Junipero Manor.
He said, "You were close to them, sounds like."
"Fairly. They'd split up. One was probably twenty feet away, the other fifty."
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