Solitude Creek: Kathryn Dance Book 4

by Jeffery Deaver

  As Dance, Maggie and Boling set the table, she told those assembled that her friend, country crossover singer, Kayleigh Towne, who lived in Fresno, had sent her and the children tickets to the Neil Hartman concert taking place next weekend.

  ‘No!’ Martine hit her playfully on the arm. ‘The new Dylan? It’s been sold out for months.’

  Probably not the new Dylan but a brilliant singer-songwriter, and ace musician too, with a talented backup band. The gig here in town had been scheduled before the young man’s Grammy nomination. The small Monterey Performing Arts Center had sold out instantly after that.

  Dance and Martine had a long history and music informed it. They’d met at a concert that was a direct descendant of the famed Monterey Folk Festival, where the ‘original Dylan’ – Bob – had made his west coast debut in ’65. The women had become friends and formed a non-profit website to promote indigenous musical talent. Dance, a folklorist by hobby – song-catcher – would travel around the state, occasionally farther afield, with an expensive portable recorder, collect songs and tunes, sell them on the site, keeping only enough money to maintain the server and pay expenses, and remitting the profits to the performers.

  The site was called American Tunes, a homage to the great Paul Simon song from the seventies.

  Boling brought the food out, opened more wine. The kids sat at a table of their own, though right next to the adults’ picnic bench. None of them asked to watch TV during the meal, which pleased Dance. Donnie was a natural comedian. He told joke after joke – all appropriate – keeping the younger kids in stitches.

  Conversation reeled throughout dinner. When the meal wound down and Boling was serving Keurig coffee, decaf and cocoa, Martine cracked open her guitar and took out the beautiful old Martin 00-18. She and Dance sang a few songs – Richard Thompson, Kayleigh Towne, Rosanne Cash, Pete Seeger, Mary Chapin Carpenter and, of course, Dylan.

  Martine called, ‘Hey, Maggie, your mom told me you’re singing “Let It Go” at your talent show.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You liked Frozen?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘The twins loved it. Actually, we loved it too. Come on, sing it. I’ll back you up.’

  ‘Oh. No, that’s okay.’

  ‘Love to hear it, honey,’ Stuart Dance encouraged his granddaughter.

  Martine told everyone, ‘She has a beautiful voice.’

  But Maggie said, ‘Yeah, it’s that I don’t remember the words yet.’

  Boling said, ‘Mags, you sang it all the way through today. A dozen times. I heard you in your room. And the lyric book was in the living room with me.’

  A hesitation. ‘Oh, I remember. The DVD was on and they had the, you know, the words at the bottom of the screen.’

  She was lying, Dance could easily see. If she knew anything, it was her own children’s kinesic baseline. What was this about? Dance recalled that Maggie had seemed more shy and moody in the past day or two. That morning, as she’d tipped her mother’s braid with the colorful elastic tie, Dance had tried to draw her out. Her husband’s death had seemed to hit Wes hardest at first but he seemed better, much better, about the loss; perhaps now Maggie was feeling the impact. But her daughter had denied it – denied, in fact, that anything was bothering her.

  ‘Well, that’s okay,’ Martine said. ‘Next time.’ And she sang a few more folk tunes, then packed up the guitar.

  Martine and Steven took some leftovers that Boling had bagged up for them. Everyone said goodbye, hugs and kisses, and headed out of the door, leaving Boling alone with Dance and the older boys. Wes and Donnie were now texting friends as they sat around their complicated board game, gazing at it intensely. At their phone screens too.

  Ah, the enthusiasm of youth …

  ‘Thanks for the food, everything,’ Dance told him.

  ‘You look tired,’ Boling said. He was infinitely supportive but he lived in a very different world from hers and she was reluctant to share too much about her impossible line of work. Still, she owed him honesty. ‘I am. It’s a mess. Not Serrano so much as Solitude Creek. That somebody’d do that on purpose. It just doesn’t make sense. It’s not like any case I’ve ever worked. It’s already exhausting.’

  She hadn’t told him about the run-in with the mob outside Henderson Jobbing. And chose not to now. She was still spooked – and sore – from the encounter. And, to be honest to herself, she just didn’t want to relive it. She could still hear the rock shattering Billy Culp’s jaw. And still see the animal eyes of the mob as it bore down on them.

  Fuck you, bitch …

  The doorbell rang.

  Boling frowned.

  Dance hesitated. Then: ‘Oh, that’d be Michael. He’s running Solitude Creek with me. Didn’t I tell you he was coming over?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Been a crazy day, sorry.’

  ‘No worries.’

  She opened the door and Michael O’Neil walked in.

  ‘Hey, Michael.’

  ‘Jon.’ The men shook hands.

  ‘Have some food. Greek. Got plenty left.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Come on,’ Boling persisted. ‘Kathryn can’t eat moussaka for a week.’

  She noted that he didn’t say, ‘We can’t eat moussaka,’ though he might have. But Boling wasn’t a chest-thumping territory-staker.

  O’Neil said, ‘Sure, it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Wine?’

  ‘Beer.’

  ‘Done.’

  Boling prepared a plate and passed him a Corona. O’Neil lifted the bottle in thanks, then hung his sports jacket on a hook. He rarely wore a uniform and tonight was in khaki slacks and a light gray shirt. He sat on a kitchen chair, adjusting his Glock.

  Dance had known and worked with O’Neil for years. The chief deputy and senior detective for the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office had been a mentor when Dance had joined the Bureau. Her background wasn’t law enforcement: she’d been a for-hire kinesics expert, helping attorneys and prosecutors pick juries and providing expert testimony. After her husband’s death – Bill Swenson had been an FBI agent – she’d decided to become a cop.

  O’Neil had been with the MCSO for years and, with his intelligence and dogged nature (not to mention enviable arrest and conviction record), he could have gone anywhere but had chosen to stay local. O’Neil’s home was the Monterey Peninsula and he had no desire to be anywhere else. Family kept him close and so did the Bay. He loved boats and fishing. He could easily have been a protagonist in a John Steinbeck novel: quiet, solid of build, strong arms, brown eyes beneath dipping lids. His hair was thick and cut short, brown with abundant gray.

  He waved to Wes.

  ‘Hey, Michael!’

  Donnie, too, turned. The boy exhibited the fascination youngsters always did with the armament on the hip of a law officer. He whispered something to Wes, who nodded with a smile, and they turned their attention to the game.

  O’Neil took the plate, ate some. ‘Thanks. Okay, this is excellent.’

  They tapped bottle and glasses. Dance wasn’t hungry but gave in to a few bits of pita with tzatziki.

  She said, ‘I didn’t know if you could make it tonight. With the kids.’ O’Neil had two children from a prior marriage, Amanda and Tyler, nine and ten. They were good friends with Dance’s youngsters – though Maggie more, because of the age proximity.

  ‘Somebody’s watching them,’ he said.

  ‘New sitter?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  Footsteps approached. It was Donnie. He nodded to O’Neil and said to Dance, ‘Um, I really better be getting home. I didn’t know it was this late.’

  Boling said, ‘I’ll drive you.’

  ‘The thing is I’ve got my bike. I can’t leave it, you know.’

  ‘I’ve got a rack on the back.’

  ‘Excellent!’ He looked relieved. Dance believed the bike was new, probably a present for his birthday a few weeks ago. ‘Thanks,
Mr Boling. Night, Mrs Dance.’

  ‘Anytime, Donnie.’

  Boling got his jacket and kissed Dance. She leaned into him, ever so slightly.

  The boys bumped fists. ‘Later,’ Wes called, and headed for his room.

  Boling shook O’Neil’s hand. ‘Night.’

  ‘Take care.’

  The door closed. Dance watched Boling and Donnie walk to the car. She believed Jon Boling looked back to see her wave but she couldn’t tell for certain.

  CHAPTER 18

  After checking on the kids (‘Teeth! No texting!’), Dance joined O’Neil on the Deck. He was finishing up the food. He glanced at her and said, ‘All right. Solitude Creek. You’re sure you want to handle it this way?’

  She sat beside him. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You’re Civ Div?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘No weapon?’

  ‘Nope. Busted down to rookie. I’d be, quote, “briefing” on the roadhouse case. I boosted that up to “advising”, then I did an end run and—’

  ‘And blustered your way into running it.’

  She’d been smiling at her joke but, at his interruption, the smile faded. ‘Well, with you.’

  ‘Look, I’m happy to handle it solo.’

  ‘No, I want it.’

  A pause. O’Neil said, ‘This unsub. I profile he’s armed. Or could be. You think?’

  It was fairly easy to do a preliminary profiling of an unknown subject. One of the easiest determinations was an affinity to commit a crime with a weapon.

  ‘Probably. He’s not going into a situation like this clean.’

  He shrugged.

  She said, ‘You’ll look out for me.’

  O’Neil grimaced. He almost said something, which she suspected was, ‘I can’t babysit.’

  Her level gaze told him, though, she wasn’t going to be a spectator. She was going to run the case shoulder to shoulder with him. He nodded. ‘Okay, then, that’s the way it is.’

  Dance asked, ‘What do you have going on? Busy now?’

  ‘A couple of cases is all. You hear about Otto Grant?’

  ‘Sounds familiar.’

  ‘Sixty-year-old farmer, Salinas Valley. The state took a big chunk of his property, eminent domain. The farm had been in his family for years and he had to sell off the rest for taxes. He was furious about it. He’s gone missing.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Dance recalled the ‘Have You Seen This Man?’ posters around town. There were two images. One of a man, smiling at the camera, sitting beside his Labrador retriever. The other showed him with hair askew, looking a bit of a crank. He resembled the great actor Bruce Dern in Nebraska. ‘It’s sad,’ she said.

  ‘Is, yes. He was writing these blogs trashing the state for what it did. But they stopped a few days ago and he’s disappeared. His family thinks he’s killed himself. I suppose that’s it. No point in kidnapping a man who doesn’t have any money. I’ve got a team out trying to find him. Or his body.’

  O’Neil offered another grimace. ‘Then there’re the hate crimes. That’s on my plate too.’

  Dance knew this story. Everybody in town did. Over the past few weeks, vandals had defaced buildings associated with minorities. They’d tagged an African-American church with graffiti of the KKK and a burning cross. Then a gay couple’s house had been tagged with ‘Get Aids and Die’. Latinos had been targeted too.

  ‘Who do you think? Neo-Nazis?’

  Such groups were rare in the Monterey area. But not unheard of.

  ‘Closest are some biker and redneck white social clubs in Salinas and Seaside. Fits their worldview but graffiti’s not their MO. They tend to bust heads in bars. I’ve talked to a few of them. They were actually insulted I was accusing them.’

  ‘Guess there are degrees of bigotry.’

  ‘Amy Grabe’s considering sending a team down. But for now it’s mine.’

  FBI. Sure. The crimes he was referring to would probably fall into the category of civil-rights violations, which meant the feds would be involved.

  He continued, ‘But no physical violence so it’s not a top priority. I can work Solitude Creek okay.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Dance said.

  O’Neil let out a sigh and stretched. She was standing close enough to smell his aftershave or soap. A pleasant, complicated scent. Spicy. She eased away.

  He explained, ‘Crime Scene should have their report tomorrow from around the roadhouse and the jobbing company.’

  She told him in detail exactly what had happened that day from the moment of her arrival at Solitude Creek. He took notes. Then she handed him the printouts of the interviews she’d conducted. He flipped through them.

  ‘I’ll read these tonight.’

  She summarized: ‘You might find something I didn’t see. But there’re no employees, former ones, or patrons who might have been motivated to organize the attack. No competitor wanting to take Sam out of commission.’

  ‘Was wondering. Any pissed-off husband wanted to get even with somebody on a date at the club that night?’

  ‘Or wife,’ Dance pointed out. The second-most-popular motive for arson – after insurance fraud – was a woman burning down the house, apartment or hotel room with a cheating lover inside. ‘That was in the battery of questions. No hints, though.’

  He riffled the many pages. ‘Been busy.’

  ‘Wish I’d been productive.’ She shook her head.

  O’Neil finished his beer. Looked through the pictures again. ‘One thing I don’t get, though.’

  ‘Why didn’t he just burn the place?’

  He gave a smile. ‘Yep.’

  ‘That’s the key.’

  O’Neil’s phone hummed once. He looked at the text. ‘Better be getting home.’

  ‘Sure.’

  They walked to the door.

  ‘Night.’

  Then he was going down the front steps of the porch, which creaked under his weight. He turned back and waved.

  Dance checked the house, securing it, as always. She’d made enemies in her job over the years, and now, in particular, she could be in the sights of any of the gangs being targeted by Operation Pipeline. From Oakland to LA.

  And by the Solitude Creek unsub too. A man who had used panic as a weapon to murder in a horrific way.

  Then into and out of the bathroom quickly, change to PJs, then lugging her gun safe from floor to bedside table. A true Civ-Div officer, she couldn’t pack on the job but in her own home nothing was going to stop her triple-tapping an intruder with her Glock 26.

  She lay back in bed, lights out. Refusing to let the images of the crime scene affect her, though that was difficult. They returned on their own. The bloodstain in the shape of a heart. The brown pool outside the exit door where, perhaps, the girl had lost her arm.

  Really talented …

  Tough images reeling through her mind. Dance called this ‘assault by memory’.

  She listened to the wind and could just hear a whisper of the ocean.

  Alone, tonight, Dance was thinking of the name of the rivulet near the roadhouse. Solitude Creek. She wondered why the name. Did it have a meaning other than the obvious, that the stream ran through an out-of-the-way part of the county, edged with secluding weeds and rushes and hidden by hills?

  Solitude …

  The word, its sound and meaning, spoke to her now. And yet how absurd was that? Solitude was not an aspect of her life. Hardly. She had the children, she had her parents, her friends, the Deck.

  She had Jon Boling.

  How could she be experiencing solitude?

  Maybe, she thought wryly, because …

  Because …

  But then she told herself: Enough. Your mood’s just churned up by these terrible deaths and injuries. That’s all. Nothing more.

  Solitude, solitude …

  Finally, strength of will, she managed to fling the word away, just as the children would do with snowballs on those rare, rare occasions when the hills
of Carmel Valley were blanketed white.

  THE GET

  THURSDAY, APRIL 6

  CHAPTER 19

  No. Oh, no. …

  Having deposited the children at school and nursed a coffee in the car while having a good-morning chat with Jon Boling, Kathryn Dance was halfway to CBI headquarters when she heard the news.

  ‘… authorities in Sacramento are now saying that the Solitude Creek roadhouse tragedy may have been carried out intentionally. They’re searching for an unknown subject – that is, in police parlance, an unsub – who is a white male, under forty years of age, with brown hair. Medium build. Over six feet tall. He was last seen wearing a green jacket with a logo of some type.’

  ‘Jesus, my Lord,’ she muttered.

  She grabbed her iPhone, fumbled it, lunged, but then decided against trying to retrieve the unit. This angry, she’d be endangering both her career and her life to text what she wanted to.

  In ten minutes she was parking in the CBI lot – actually left skid marks, albeit modest ones, on the asphalt. A deep breath, thinking, thinking – there were a number of land mines to negotiate here – but then the anger lifted its head and she was out of the door and storming inside.

  Past her own office.

  ‘Hi, Kathryn. Something wrong?’ This from Dance’s administrative assistant, Maryellen Kresbach. The short, bustling woman, mother of three, wore complex, precarious high-heels, black and white, on her feet and impressive coifs on her head, a mass of curly brown hair, sprayed carefully into submission.

  Dance smiled, just to let the world know that nobody in this portion of the building was in danger. Then onward. She strode to Overby’s office, walked in without knocking and found him on a Skype call.

  ‘Charles.’

  ‘Ah. Well. Kathryn.’

  She swallowed the planned invective and sat down.

  On the screen was a swarthy, broad man in a dark suit and white shirt, striped tie, red and blue. He was looking slightly away from the webcam as he regarded his own computer screen.

  Overby said, ‘Kathryn. You remember Commissioner Ramón Santos, with the Federal Police in Chihuahua?’