Solitude Creek: Kathryn Dance Book 4

by Jeffery Deaver

  ‘Right. We raise awareness – and money – to benefit people in crises. Wars, natural disasters, famine, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You must be busy. There’s so much terrible stuff going on.’

  ‘I’m on the road six days a week.’

  ‘What’s the site?’

  ‘It’s called Hand to Heart.’ He rolled from the bed. Though not feeling particularly modest, he didn’t want to walk around naked. He pulled on jeans and a polo shirt. Flipped open his computer and went to the home page.

  Hand to Heart

  Devoted to raising awareness of

  humanitarian tragedies

  around the world

  How you can help …

  ‘We don’t take money ourselves. We just make people aware of needs for humanitarian aid, then they can click on a link to, say, tsunami relief or the nuclear disaster in Japan or gas victims in Syria. Make donations. My job is I travel around and meet with non-profit groups, get press material and pictures of the disaster to put on our site. I vet the groups too. Some are scams.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Happens, yep.’

  ‘People can be such shits.’ She closed the laptop. ‘Not a bad job. You do good things for a living. And you get to stay in places like this.’

  ‘Sometimes.’ In fact, he wasn’t comfortable in ‘places like this’. Hyatt was good enough for him or even more modest motels. But his boss liked it here; Chris liked all the best places so this was where March was put. Just like the clothes and accessories scattered about the room. The Canali suit, the Louis Vuitton shoes, the Coach briefcase, the Tiffany cufflinks weren’t his choice. His boss didn’t get that some people did this job for reasons other than money.

  Calista vanished into the bathroom to dress – the modesty bump was growing – and she emerged. Her hair was still damp but she’d rented a convertible from Hertz and he supposed that, with the top down, the strands would be blow-dried by the time she got to whatever retirement home she was headed for. March’s own sculpted brown hair, thick as pelt, irritatingly took ten minutes to bring to attention.

  Calista kissed him, brief but not too brief; they both knew the rules. Lunchtime delight.

  ‘You’ll still be around for a couple of days, Mr Humanitarian?’

  ‘I will,’ March said.

  ‘Good.’ This was delivered perky. Then she asked, genuinely curious, ‘So you having a successful trip?’

  ‘Real successful, yeah.’

  Then, moving breezily, Calista was out of the door.

  The moment it shut, March reached over and snagged the remote. Clicked the TV back on, thinking maybe national news had picked up Solitude Creek, and wondered what the big boys and girls were saying about the tragedy.

  But on the screen was a commercial for fabric softener.

  He put on his workout clothes, shorts and a sleeveless T, rolled to the floor and began the second batch of the five hundred push-ups for today. After, crunches. Then squats. Later he’d go for a run along Seventeen Mile Drive.

  On TV: acid-reflux remedies and insurance ads.

  Please …

  ‘And now an update on the Solitude Creek tragedy in Central California. With me is James Harcourt, our national disaster correspondent.’

  Seriously? That was a job title?

  ‘It didn’t take much at all for the panic to set in.’

  No, March reflected. A little smoke. Then a phone call to whoever was on duty in the lobby: ‘I’m outside. Your kitchen’s on fire! Back stage too! I’ve called the fire department, but evacuate. Get everybody out now.’

  He’d wondered if he would have to do more to get the horror started. But, nope, that was all it took. People could erase a hundred thousand years of evolution in seconds.

  Back to the workout, enjoying the occasional images of the interior of the club.

  After thirty minutes, sweating, Antioch March rose, opened his locked briefcase and pulled out a map of the area. He was inspired by something the national disaster correspondent had said. He went online and did some more research. He scrawled some notes. Good. Yes, thank you, he thought to the newscaster. Then he paused, replaying Calista’s breathy voice.

  ‘So you having a successful trip?’

  ‘Real successful, yeah.’

  Soon to be even more so.

  CHAPTER 12

  The politicos had started to arrive at Solitude Creek.

  Always happened at incidents like this. The bigwigs appearing, those in office or those aspiring, or those, like her boss, Charles Overby, who simply wanted a few minutes in the limelight because they enjoyed a few minutes in the limelight. They’d show up and talk to the press and be seen by the mourners or the spectators.

  That is, by the voters and the public.

  And, yes, occasionally they really would step up and help out. Occasionally. Sometimes. Possibly. (A state government employee, Kathryn Dance struggled constantly against cynicism.)

  There were more news crews than grandstanders here at the moment, so the biggest networks were targeting the most newsworthy subjects, like sportsmen on a party boat in Monterey Bay going for the fattest salmon.

  Networks. Nets. Fish. Dance liked the metaphor.

  The US Congressman representing the district Solitude Creek fell within was Daniel Nashima, a thirdor fourth-generation Japanese American who’d held office for several terms. In his mid-forties, he was accompanied by an aide, a tall, vigilant young man, resembling the actor Josh Brolin, in an unimpeachable if anachronistic three-piece suit.

  Nashima was wealthy, family business, but he usually dressed down. Today, typical: chino slacks and a blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up – an outfit you’d wear to a Kiwanis fundraiser pancake breakfast. Nashima, a handsome man with tempered Asian features – his mother was white – looked over the exterior of the Solitude Creek club with dismay. Dance wasn’t surprised. He had a reputation for being responsive to natural disasters, like the earthquake that had struck Santa Cruz not long ago. He’d arrived at that one at three a.m. and helped lift rubble off survivors and search for the dead.

  The anchor from CNN, a striking blonde, was on Nashima in a San Francisco instant. The Congressman said, ‘My heart goes out to the victims of this terrible tragedy.’ He promised that he would work with his colleague to make sure a full investigation got to the root of it. If there had been any negligence at all on the part of the club and its owner he would make sure that criminal charges were brought.

  The mayor of Monterey happened to arrive a few moments later. No limo. The tall Latino stepped from his personal vehicle – a nice one, a Range Rover – and made it ten steps toward the spectators/mourners/victims before he, too, was approached by the media. Only a few local reporters, though. He glanced toward Nashima and managed, just, to keep a don’t-care visage, downplaying that he’d been upstaged by the Congressman; the folks from Atlanta – and a woman with such perfect hair – knew their priorities.

  Dance heard that the California state representative for this area – and a rumored competitor for the US Senate seat Nashima was considering next year – was out of town and not making the trip back from Vegas for a sympathy call. This would be an oops for his career.

  Nashima politely but firmly ended the interview he was giving and walked away, refusing other media requests. He was studying the scene and walking up to people who were leaving flowers or praying or simply standing in mournful poses. He spoke to them with head down, embraced them. Dance believed once or twice he wiped tears from his cheek. That wasn’t for the camera. He was pointedly turned away from the media.

  About thirty such grievers and spectators were present. With Bob Holly’s blessing, Dance made the rounds of them now, flashed her badge, as shiny and official in its Civ-Div mode as when she was a criminal investigator, and asked questions about the truck, about the fire in the oil drum, about anyone skulking about outside the club last night.

  Negatives, all around.

  She t
ried to identify anyone who’d been in the mob that morning but couldn’t. True, most had probably vanished. Still, she knew from her work that at harrowing times our powers of observation and retention fail us completely.

  She noticed a car pulling into the lot and easing slowly to the police line, near where the impromptu memorial of flowers and stuffed animals was growing. The car was a fancy one, a new-model two-door Lexus, sleek, black.

  There were two occupants, and, though Dance couldn’t see them clearly, they were having a serious discussion. Even in silhouette, the body radiates intent and mood. The driver, a man in his forties, climbed out, bent down, said a few more words through the car’s open door, then flipped the seat forward and extracted a bouquet from the back. He said something else to the other occupant, in the front passenger seat, whose response must have been negative because the man shrugged and continued on his own to the memorial.

  Dance walked up to him, showed her ID. ‘I’m Kathryn Dance. CBI.’

  Distracted, the handsome man nodded.

  ‘I assume you lost someone last night.’

  ‘We did, yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  We …

  A nod back to the Lexus. There was a glare … and the Japanese engineers were quite adept, it seemed, at tinting glass but Dance could see that the person occupying the passenger seat had long hair. A woman. His wife, probably. But no ring on his finger. An ex-wife, perhaps. And she realized with a shock. My God. They’d lost a child here.

  His name was Frederick Martin and he explained that, yes, his ex-wife, Michelle, had brought their daughter here last night.

  She’d been right. Their child, probably a teen. How sad. And, given the flowers resting on the memorial, she hadn’t been merely injured. She’d died.

  Dance’s worst horror. Every mother’s.

  That had been the tension in the car. Ex-spouses, forced together at a time like this. Probably on the way to a funeral home to make arrangements. Dance’s heart went out to them both.

  ‘We’re investigating the incident,’ she said, a version of the truth. ‘I have a few questions.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know anything. I wasn’t here.’ Martin was edgy. He wanted to leave.

  ‘No, no. I understand. But if I could have a few words with your ex-wife.’

  ‘What?’ he said, frowning broadly.

  Then a voice behind them, a girl’s voice. Nearly a whisper. ‘She’s gone.’

  Dance turned to see a teenager. Pretty, but with a face distorted and puffy from crying. Her hair had been carelessly herded into place with fingers, not a brush.

  ‘Mommy’s gone.’

  Oh. The ex was the fatality.

  ‘Trish, go back to the car.’

  Staring at the club. ‘She was trapped. Against the door. I saw her. I can’t – we looked at each other and then I fell. This big man, he was crying like a baby, he climbed on my back and I went down. I thought I was going to die but I got picked up by somebody. Then the people I was with went through another door, not the fire exits. The crowd she was in—’

  ‘Trish, honey, no. I told you this was a bad idea. Let’s go. We’ve got your grandparents to meet at the airport. We’ve got plans to make.’

  Martin took his daughter’s arm. She pulled away. He grimaced.

  To the girl: ‘Trish, I’m Kathryn Dance, California Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘We do,’ Martin said. ‘We do mind.’

  Crying now, softly, the girl stared at the roadhouse. ‘It was hell in there. They talk about hell, in movies and things, but, no, that was hell.’

  ‘Here’s my card.’ Dance offered it to Frederick Martin.

  He shook his head. ‘We don’t want it. There’s nothing she can tell you. Leave us alone.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  He got a firmer grip on his daughter and, though she stiffened, maneuvered her back to the Lexus. When they were seated inside, he reached over and clicked on her belt. Then they sped from the lot before Dance could note the license plate.

  Not that it mattered, she supposed. If the girl and her mother had been inside during the panic, they wouldn’t have seen what really interested Dance: the person who’d parked the truck in front of the doors and lit the fire.

  Besides, she could hardly blame the man for being protective. Dance supposed that the father had now been catapulted into a tough, alien role; she imagined that the mother had had a higher percentage of custody, maybe full.

  The Solitude Creek incident had changed many lives in many different ways.

  A gull strafed and Dance instinctively lifted her arm. The big bird landed clumsily near a scrap of cardboard, thinking it was food. It seemed angry the prize held aroma only and catapulted off into the sky once more, heading toward the bay.

  Dance returned to the club and had a second difficult conversation with Sam Cohen, still bordering on comatose, then spoke with other employees. No one could come up with any patrons or former club workers who might have had gripes with Cohen or anyone there. Nor did competitors seem behind the incident – anyone who might want to drive the man out of business or get revenge for something Cohen had done professionally in the past.

  Heading back outside, Dance pulled her iPhone from her pocket and phoned Jon Boling, asking if he could pick up the children at school.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied. She enjoyed hearing his calm voice. ‘How’s your Civ Div going?’

  He knew about the Serrano situation.

  ‘Awkward,’ she said, eyes on Bob Holly, interviewing some of the same people she just had. ‘I’m at Solitude Creek.’

  A pause.

  ‘Aren’t you handling soda-bottle deposits?’

  ‘Supposed to be.’

  Boling said, ‘It’s terrible, on the news. They’re saying a truck driver parked behind the club to smoke some dope. Then he panicked when the fire started and left the truck beside the doors. Nobody could get out.’

  Reporters …

  She looked at her iPhone for the time, now that her watch was out of commission. It was two thirty. ‘I’ll be another three, four hours, I’d guess. Mom and Dad are coming over tonight. Martine, Stephen …’

  ‘The kids and I’ll take care of dinner.’

  ‘Would you? Oh, thanks.’

  ‘See you soon.’

  She disconnected. Her eyes did a sweep of the club, the jobbing company, then the parking lot.

  Finally the bordering vegetation. At the eastern end of the lot was what seemed to be a tramped-down area leading through a line of scrub oak, Australian willow, pine, magnolia. She wandered that way and found herself beside Solitude Creek itself. The small dark tributary – thirty feet wide there – was framed by salt and dune grass, thistle and other sandy-soil plants whose identity she couldn’t guess at.

  She followed the path away from the parking lot, through a head-high tangle of brush and grass. Here, overgrown with vegetation and dusted with sand, were the remnants of old structures: concrete foundations, portions of rusting chain-link fences and a few columns. They had to be seventy-five years old, a hundred. Quite extensive. Maybe back then Solitude Creek was deeper and this was part of the seafood industry. The site was fifteen miles north of Cannery Row but back then fishing was big business all along this area of the coast.

  Or possibly developers had started to build a project here – apartments or a hotel or restaurant. Still would be a good spot for an inn, she reflected: near the ocean, situated amid rolling, grassy hills. The creek itself was calming and the grayish water didn’t necessarily mean bad fishing.

  Continuing past the ruins, Dance looked around. She wondered if the killer had parked his car here – there were residences and surfaced roads nearby – and walked this same path. He could have gotten to the parking lot without being seen, then circled around to the jobbing company to get to the drop-box and trucks.

  When she got to the pocket
of homes – a half-dozen bungalows, one trailer – she realized that someone would be very visible parking there: basically the only place would be directly in front of a house. She doubted that the perp would have been that careless.

  Still, you did what you could.

  Three of the homes were dark and Dance left a card in the doorframes of each.

  Two women, however, were home. Both white, large and toting infants, they reported they hadn’t seen anyone and, as Dance had surmised, ‘Anybody parking here, well, we would’ve noticed, and at night, Ernie would’ve been out to talk to him in a hare-lick.’

  Dance moved on to the last place, the trailer, which was the only residence actually overlooking Solitude Creek.

  Hmm. Had he used a boat to cruise up to the roadhouse and jobbing company?

  She knocked on the door frame. A curtain shifted and Dance held up her ID for the woman to peruse. Three locks or deadbolts got snapped. A chain too. The person lives alone, Dance thought. Or she’s a meth cooker.

  Dance’s hand dipped to where her gun used to be. She grimaced and tugged her jacket closed.

  The woman who opened the door was slimmer than the others, about forty-five, long gray-brown hair. A thin braid, purple, ended in a feather at her shoulder. From what she wore and what was scattered around the cluttered living area, Dance saw that the woman’s fashion choices favored macramé, tie-dye and fringe. She immediately thought of her associate TJ Scanlon, at the CBI, whose one regret in life was that he wasn’t living in the late sixties.

  ‘Help you?’

  Dance identified herself and flashed her ID once more for a closer examination The woman, Annette, didn’t seem uneasy to be talking to a law enforcer. Dance detected only cigarette smoke and its residue, bitter and stale. Nothing illegal.

  ‘Have you heard about the incident at Solitude Creek roadhouse?’

  ‘Terrible. Are you here about that?’

  ‘Just a couple of questions, you don’t mind.’