"We can't very well cancel. Tonight? It's bringing in seven thousand dollars. It's a book signing. The author's publisher's paying for it. You know the economy out here. We can't afford to shut down."
"Like I said, your choice."
"What's this inspection? I've got a current occupancy cert."
"No, this is different. We have to make sure the fire doors can't be blocked. You need to remove all the locks from the emergency exit doors, or tape the latches down and chain off the area around them from the outside, so nobody can block them."
"Like that guy did at the roadhouse, with the truck."
"That's right," Dunn said. "Exactly. Everybody inside at this event tonight has to be able to get out, unobstructed. Fast."
"Chain off an area outside the doors?"
"And I mean chain off literally. Ten feet away. So he can't block them. Frankly, it'd be easier to cancel the event."
"You want me to cancel?"
"I'm just telling you the options."
"But you're leaning toward our closing."
"Easier for everybody," Dunn said.
"Not for us."
Seven thousand dollars...
"Look. I'm just saying," Dunn said. "Protect the exit area with chains and make sure the doors don't latch, so everybody can exit quickly in an emergency. Or you can cancel."
Shit on a stick. As if he didn't have enough to do already. "No, I'm not canceling. But if people sneak in because we've left the doors unlatched, that'll be on you."
"It's a book signing, right? You get a lot of gate-crashers at book signings?"
Meddle hesitated. "It's not like a Stones concert, I'll give you that."
"So. There. Now your smoke alarms? They've been tested recently?"
"We had an inspection ten, twelve days ago."
"Good. Still, I'll double-check them."
Meddle asked Dunn, "For the chain, to block off the perimeter, any type in particular? Brand names?"
"I'd probably pick one that a truck couldn't break through."
It sounded expensive. Meddle said, "I'll go to Home Depot now."
"Thank you, sir. I'm sure everything'll be fine... What is this book thing anyway?"
Meddle explained, "Hot new self-help thing. About living for tomorrow. I read it, like to keep informed about who appears here. The author says people live too much in the present. They need to live in the future more."
"Like what? Time travel?" The inspector looked perplexed.
"No, no, just think about where you want to be in the future. Picture it, plan it, think it. So you'll reach your goals. The title is Tomorrow Is the New Today."
Dunn frowned and nodded. "I'll check those detectors now. You better measure for that chain."
Chapter 30
Well, okay. Interesting.
Dance braked her SUV to a stop in one of the driveways that led to the Bureau of Investigation parking lot. She was between an unruly boxwood and a portion of a building occupied by a computer start-up.
Near the front door of the CBI headquarters Michael O'Neil stood in the lot talking to his ex-wife, Anne. Their two children--Amanda and Tyler, nine and ten--were in the backseat of Anne's SUV, visible through an open door. A pearl white Lexus, California tags.
The woman was dressed in clothes that were very, very different from what Dance recalled when Anne lived on the Peninsula with Michael. Then, it was gossamer, close-fitting gypsy outfits. Lace and tulle, New Age jewelry. Boots with heels to propel her to a bit more height. Today, though: running shoes, jeans and a gray jacket of bulky wool. And, my God, a baseball cap. Exotic had become, well, cute and perky.
Who could have imagined?
It had been her decision to end the marriage and move to San Francisco. Rumors of a lover up there. Dance knew Anne was a talented photographer and the opportunities in the Bay City were far greater than here. She'd been a functional but unenthusiastic mother, a distant wife. The split hadn't been a surprise. Though it had certainly been inconveniently timed. Dance and O'Neil had always had an undeniable chemistry, which they let roam only professionally. He was married, and after Bill died, her interest in romance vanished like fog in sunshine. Then, over time, Dance decided for her sake and for the sake of the kids to wade into the dating pool. Slowly, feeling her way along, she met Jon Boling.
And, bang, O'Neil announced his divorce. Not long after, he asked her out. By then she and Boling were tight, however, and she'd declined.
It was a classic "Send in the Clowns" moment, the Sondheim song about two potential lovers for whom the timing just wasn't cooperating.
O'Neil, gentleman that he was, accepted the situation. And they fell into "another time, another place" mode. As for Boling--well, he said nothing about Dance's connection to the detective but his body language left no doubt he sensed the dynamic. She did her best to reassure him, without offering too much (she knew very well that the intensity of denial is often in direct proportion to the truth being refuted).
She now noted: O'Neil had his hands comfortably at his sides, not in his pockets, or clutching crossed arms, both of which would be defensive gestures that meant: I just don't want you here, Anne. Nor was he glancing involuntarily to his right or left, which was a manifestation of tension and discomfort and of a subconscious desire to flee from the person creating the stress.
No, they were, in fact, smiling. Something she said made him laugh.
Then Anne backed away, fishing keys from her purse, and O'Neil stepped closer and hugged her. No kiss, no fingers cupping her hair. Just a hug. Chaste as soccer players after scoring a goal.
Then he waved to the children and returned to the office. Anne fired up the SUV. She drove toward the exit.
And Dance suddenly recalled something else. The other night when she'd asked about O'Neil's new babysitter, his body language had changed.
"New sitter?"
"Sort of."
So that's who it was. And would Anne also be the "friend" he'd mentioned in response to the invite to Maggie's recital? Probably.
Dance watched the sleek SUV pull out of the lot.
Then a brief honk from behind the Pathfinder. Dance started. She glanced into the rearview mirror and waved at the driver she'd been blocking, whispering a "Sorry" that he couldn't hear. She headed to the CBI building, parked and climbed out.
Glancing back to where Anne's SUV had just exited, she found herself humming the song Maggie had prepared for the concert.
Let it go...
Inside headquarters she found O'Neil in her office with TJ, poring over what turned out to be DMV records.
"Five thousand, give or take, Honda sedans in the three-county area. Gray, white, beige, anything light colored."
"Five thousand?" Ouch. As she sat down beside O'Neil, she smelled his aftershave again, as last night. But it was slightly different.
Mixed with perfume?
O'Neil added, "No reports of theft."
TJ added, "And none of the other people at the club, the ones I've talked to, remember it. The wheelbase and the track, they'll give us the model. Civic and Accord're different. Might help."
Narrow the number down to 2,500, she thought wryly. If--big if--it was even the unsub's vehicle.
"Want to take a look?" O'Neil asked. "At where it was parked?"
Dance checked the time. It was three twenty. "The kids are at Mom and Dad's."
"Mine're covered too."
I know.
She said, "Let's take a drive."
"For this, it's not Serrano. You going to take a weapon?"
He knew the rules. Wondered why he'd asked. "I'm still Civ-Div."
A nod.
Dance told TJ to start canvassing the owners of light-colored Hondas.
In a half hour Dance and O'Neil were at the roadhouse. The club was still closed and the trucking company was also dark. But there was some activity. A couple was here, laying flowers at the front entrance. Dance and O'Neil approached and she asked them if they'd
been patrons the other night. They hadn't been; the husband's cousin had died, and they were paying respects.
There also were some workers about two hundred feet from the club, in the direction of the path she'd taken the other day to the witness's house. It was a team of surveyors, with their tripod and instruments set up. They were engrossed in the obscure art of reckoning longitudes and latitudes, or whatever it was surveyors did.
"Maybe?" O'Neil asked. His voice sounded optimistic.
"Sure, let's give it a try."
They approached and identified themselves.
The crew leader, a slim man, long hair under a cap, nodded. "Oh. Hey. Terrible, what happened."
Dance asked, "Were you working here the day of the incident?"
"No, ma'am, we weren't. Had another job."
O'Neil: "Anytime before that?"
"No, sir. We just got the contract the other day."
"Who're you working for?" Dance asked.
"Anderson Construction."
A big commercial real estate operation, based in Monterey.
"Know what the job is?"
"No, sir."
They thanked the crew and wandered back toward the driveway. She said, "We should talk to the company. They might've had other workers out on Tuesday. We'll see if they saw the Honda or anybody checking out the trucks or the club." She called TJ Scanlon and put him on the assignment to find out who'd hired Anderson and see if either the developer or the construction company had had workers here the day of the incident or before.
"Will do, boss."
She slipped the phone away.
O'Neil nodded. They continued past the roadhouse and headed down the driveway to the field where Michelle and Trish had seen the Honda.
Dance had wondered if she'd have to risk a call to Trish and find out exactly where the Honda had been parked but there was no need. It was clear from the trampled grass where the car had turned off the driveway and bounded over the field of short grass and flowers to a stand of trees. Drought-stricken in most of the region, the ground here was soggy from the creek, and the Honda's tires had left distinctive prints in the sandy mud. When the driver had reversed out, the tires had spun reaching for traction.
They stopped before they reached the tracks, however, and examined the ground carefully. And then surveyed the surrounding area. Dance dug into her purse and pulled out elastic hair ties, four of them. Divided them up and she and O'Neil put them around their shoes--a trick she learned from her friends in New York, Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs. It was to differentiate their shoe prints from those of the suspects when the forensic officers ran the scene.
"There," O'Neil said, pointing into the trees. "He got out of the car and walked back and forth to find a good route to circle around to the trucking company."
Several cars drove past on the highway. One turned in at the next driveway. O'Neil was distracted and followed it until the lights vanished.
"What?"
"Just keeping an eye out."
Guard dog. Because I don't have a weapon. Though the odds of their unsub charging out of the woods with blazing guns seemed rather narrow.
He turned back to the scene. They moved closer and Dance looked down, circling the area where the car had been, carefully so as not to disturb any evidence.
"Michael. Look. He wasn't alone."
The solid detective crouched down and pulled out a small flashlight. He aimed it at what she'd seen. There were two sets of shoe prints, very different. One appeared to be running shoes, or boots, with complex treads. The other, longer, was smooth-soled.
O'Neil rose and, picking his steps carefully, walked around to the other side of where the car had been parked. Examined that area.
"No. Just one. Nobody got out on the passenger side."
"Ah. Got it. He changed shoes. No, changed clothes altogether."
"Had to be. Just in case somebody saw him."
"We should get your CSU team here, search for trace, run the prints."
The MCSO and the FBI had tread mark databases for both tires and shoes. They might find the brand of shoe and narrow down the type of car, with some luck.
Though luck was not a commodity much in evidence in the Solitude Creek investigation.
Chapter 31
Tomorrow is the new today... You have to think not about the present but about the future. You see, you blink and what was the future a moment ago is the present now. Are we good with that? Does that speak to you?"
The author looked like an author. No, not in a tweedy sports jacket with patches, a pipe, wrinkled pants. Which was, maybe, the way authors used to look, Ardel believed. This writer was in a black shirt, black pants and wore stylish glasses. Boots. Hm.
"So while you're focusing on the moment, you'll miss the most important part of your life: the rest of it." With a look of treacly sincerity he scanned the audience, aligned in rows of unpadded folding chairs.
Fifty-nine-year-old Ardel Hopkins and her friend Sally Gelbert, sitting beside her, had come to the Bay View Center, off Cannery Row, right on the shoreline, because they were on diets.
The other option, as they'd debated what to do on this girls' night out, was to hit Carambas full-on, two hours. But that would mean six-hundred-calorie margs and those chips and then the enchiladas. Danger, danger! So when Sally had seen that a famous author was appearing up the street, at the Bay View, they decided: Perfect. One drink, a few chips, salsa, then culture.
Didn't preclude an ice-cream cone on the drive home.
Also, comforting news: Like everyone else, Ardel had been worried about a crowded venue--after that terrible incident at Solitude Creek, intentionally caused by some madman. But she and Sally had checked out the Bay View hall and noted that the exit doors had been fixed so they couldn't be locked--the latches were taped down. And a thick chain prevented anyone from parking in front of the doors and blocking them, as had happened at Sam Cohen's club.
All good. Mostly good--problem was this guy, Richard Stanton Keller, supposedly a self-help genius, was a bit boring.
Ardel whispered, "Three names. That's a tip-off. Lot of words in his name. Lots of words in his book."
Lots of words coming out of his mouth.
Sally nodded.
Keller was leaning forward to the microphone, before the audience of a good four hundred or so fans. He read and read and read from his bestseller.
Tomorrow Is the New Today.
Catchy. But it didn't make a lot of sense. Because when you hit tomorrow, it becomes today but then it's the old today and you have to look at tomorrow, which is the new today.
Like time travel movies, which she also didn't enjoy.
She'd've preferred somebody who wrote fun and who talked fun, like Janet Evanovich or John Gilstrap, but there were worse ways to spend an hour after digesting a very small--too small--portion of chips and one marg. Still, it was a pleasant venue for a book reading. The building was up on stilts and you could peer down and see, thirty or forty feet below, craggy rocks on which energetic waves of the bay were presently committing explosive suicide.
She tried to concentrate.
"I'll tell you a story. About my oldest son going away to college."
Don't believe a word of it, Ardel thought.
"This is true, it really happened."
Not a single word.
He was telling the story of his son doing something bad or not doing something he should have--because he'd been living for today and not tomorrow, which really was today. Hm. Did that mean--
Suddenly a loud bang, from somewhere outside the hall, shook the windows. Nearby.
Gasps from the audience. Everyone looked toward the lobby. The author fell silent, frowning with concern.
Now screams from outside too. Then another bang louder, closer.
That wasn't a backfire. Cars didn't backfire anymore. Ardel knew it was a gunshot. She'd been to a range a couple of times when her husband was alive. She hadn't wanted to fire a gun
, so she just sat back and watched the fanatics shiver with excitement over the weapons and talk shop.
Another shot--closer yet.
Words zipped around them. "Jesus what's going on did you hear that where's it coming from it's not gunshots fuck yes it is a gunshot!"
The manager, a paunchy man in a blue button-down shirt, hurried to a fire door, which he pushed open. A fast look out. He stepped back in fast, eyes wide.
"Listen! There's a guy with a gun. Outside. Coming this way!" He pulled the door shut but it swung open, thanks to the taped-down locks.
People were rising to their feet, a wave, grabbing purses and books they'd brought to be signed. Or abandoning them and turning toward the entrance. Folding chairs skidded aside. Some were knocked over.
Another shot, two more. More screams from outside.
"Jesus Lord," Ardel whispered. The two women were on their feet now, in roughly the middle of the hall.
"Ardie, what's going on?"
One man, a big guy with a graying crew cut, strode toward a window. Former military, it seemed. He too looked out. "There he is! He's coming this way. He's got an automatic!"
Cries of "No," "Jesus," "Call nine-one-one!"
Dozens of people, eyes wide, surged for the emergency doors. "No, not that way!" someone called. "He's out there. I think he's shooting people outside."
"Get back!"
A brilliant security light came on. No! Ardel thought. All the easier to see his targets.
A loud thunk inside the venue set off screams. But it wasn't a shot. The author dropped the microphone as he leapt up and pushed some attendees out of the way, running for the lobby. A dozen people ran after him. A clot of them jammed the doorway. One woman screamed and fell back, clutching a horribly twisted arm.
Another shot from the direction of the lobby. Most of those who'd run that way returned to the main hall.
Ardel, crying, grabbed Sally's hand and they tried to move away from the exit doors. But it was impossible. They were trapped in a sweating knot of people, muscle to muscle.
"Calm down! Get back!" Ardel cried, her voice choking. Sally was sobbing too, as were dozens of others around them.
"Where're the police?"
"Get back, get off me..."
"Help me. My arm, I can't feel my arm!"
Deafening screams, screams so loud they threatened to break eardrums. As the mass pressed back from the exit doors, several people stumbled--one elderly man went down under a column of feet. He screamed; his leg was clearly broken. Only through sheer strength, superhuman strength, it seemed, did two young men, maybe grandsons, manage to pry apart the crowd and get the man to his feet. He was pale and soon went unconscious.