"What did they look like?" His gray eyes narrowed. He focused intently, as if he wanted to learn all he could about the men who had defiled her home.
She explained, "Too dark to see much." Pacific Grove was not known for abundant street lighting.
"Twenty feet, you said? And you saw nothing?"
A nod toward the park. "Dark, I was saying."
"Ah." His eyes returned to the defiled side of his house.
"I'm sorry for this, Mr. Goldschmidt."
"Well, thank you for your prompt response." His mind was elsewhere.
Dance nodded and handed him one of her cards. "If you can think of anything else, please let me know."
"Oh, I will." He looked over the streets, eyes keen.
She watched him put the card into his back pocket, then walked to O'Neil's car. The detective started the engine.
Dance started to get in. Then paused, said, "Give me a minute." And returned to the house, where its owner was preparing to paint over the graffiti. "Mr. Goldschmidt?"
"Agent Dance. Yes?"
"A word?"
"Sure."
"The law on self-defense in California is very clear."
"Is that right?"
"Yes. And there are very few circumstances that will justify killing someone."
"I watch Nancy Grace. I know that. Why do you bring it up?"
"You seemed interested in getting a clear description of the perps who committed this crime. More clear than what you might've seen on a security video." She glanced at the camera under his eaves.
"Like I told you, I didn't see them on the monitor. No, no, I was just thinking: What if I see them in town, or in the neighborhood? I could call the police. If I had a good description."
"I'm simply telling you that it is a crime to harm an individual unless you truly believe yourself or another to be in danger. And damage to property is not a justifiable reason to use force."
"I imagine these people are willing to do a lot more than paint messages. But why are we even having this conversation? There's no reason for them to come back, now, is there? They've already done the damage."
"Do you own a gun?"
"I do, yes. Here's where you ask me if it's registered. Surely you know, in California you don't have to register guns you owned before January first. You may have to jump through hoops to get a conceal/carry permit. Which I don't have. But the shotgun that I own does not have to be registered."
"I'm just telling you that the self-defense right is much more limited than most people think."
"Most people maybe. But I'm quite versed in the law of the land. Nancy Grace, as I was saying." His smile was assured, his light eyes narrow. "Good night, Agent Dance. And thank you again."
Chapter 52
Michael O'Neil pulled up to Dance's house and braked to a stop.
She read texts. "From our office in L.A. Orange County'll upload the crime scene and canvassing reports to you early tomorrow."
He grunted. "Good."
She flipped the lever and pushed open the door, then stepped outside as O'Neil popped the trunk. He didn't get out. Dance walked back to get her suitcase and her laptop bag.
A wedge of light filled the front yard and Jon Boling was stepping out of the house.
As if O'Neil suddenly felt he was being rude, or inconsiderate, he glanced at Boling, then Dance. He climbed out of the car.
To Boling, O'Neil said, "Jon. Sorry, it's late. I kidnapped her for an operation on the way home."
"Nothing serious, I hope."
"Another hate crime. Not too far from here."
"Oh, no. Anyone hurt?"
"No. The perps got away, though."
"Sorry."
Dance carried her wheelie to the porch and Boling took it from her.
"Just to let you know," he said, "Wes came in about forty minutes late."
She sighed. "I'll talk to him."
"I think a girl said no to his invite to the graduation dance or something. He was in a mood. I tried to get him to help me hack some code together. But he wasn't interested--how 'bout that? So has to be love sickness."
"Well, we have something official I'm hoping you can help us with," she said.
"Sure. What can I do?"
She reminded him of the clip that had been posted last night--of the Solitude Creek tragedy.
"Right." To Michael: "What you were telling us this morning, breakfast."
O'Neil nodded. Dance explained what Stan Prescott had done and that he'd been killed in Orange County--by the Solitude Creek unsub. Without going into the part that she and O'Neil had both been in the line of fire.
"Killed? Why?"
"We aren't sure yet. Now, there may be a connection between the unsub and this Prescott. Not likely, but possibly. I've got his computer and the unsub's phone. Can you crack the passcodes and run a forensic analysis?"
"What kind of box is it?"
"ASUS laptop. Nothing fancy. Windows password protected. And a Nokia."
"Be happy to. I like playing deputy. I want a badge someday. Or, like on Castle, one of those windbreakers. Mine could say GEEK."
O'Neil laughed.
She handed the items over. Without prompting from her, Boling signed the chain-of-custody card.
"It's been dusted for prints but--"
"I'll wear my Playtex Living gloves. I'll take a peek now but I'll probably need the big guns to crack it. I'll start first thing in the morning."
"Thanks," she said.
O'Neil added, "Oh, and it's been swept for explosives."
"Always a plus."
"Thanks, Jon."
"The kids've eaten. We've got plenty of leftover leftovers. Why don't you stay for dinner?"
"No, thanks," O'Neil said. "We've got plans at home."
"Sure."
Boling gave a friendly nod. "See you later, Michael."
"'Night."
O'Neil said to Dance, "Overby's at eleven. See you then." He walked back to the car.
Dance put her hand on the doorknob. Released it. Turned and strode to the car before he'd gotten in. She looked up into his dark eyes; she was not a short woman but O'Neil was six inches taller.
"Anything else?" O'Neil asked.
Which was exactly the wrong thing to say.
"Actually, Michael, there is."
They rarely used each other's first names. This was a shot across the bow. "I want to know what's on your mind. And if you say 'Nothing,' I'm probably going to scream."
"Been a long day."
"That's as much of a screamer as a man saying 'Nothing.'"
"Didn't know that was a gender issue."
"You're right. But you're the one acting out here."
"Acting out."
"Yes."
"Well, if I'm pissed off, it's because this hasn't been the most successful operation on record. Losing the perp is one thing. But we also got an officer wounded down there."
"And that was unfortunate. But we didn't get him shot. He got himself shot by not being aware of his surroundings. Basic street procedures, and I'm not even a street cop. But, come on. No bullshit. Tell me."
The jaw and tongue form an obvious configuration to make the nasal occlusive sound--that is, a word beginning with the consonant n. O'Neil's face was clearly forming that, a preface to the word nothing. Instead he said, "You're making a mistake."
"Mistake?"
"Okay. The truth?"
As opposed to what? she thought and lifted an ironic eyebrow.
"The Guzman Connection, Serrano."
This surprised her. She was sure he was upset to find Jon Boling had spent the night.
"How do you mean? What about Serrano?"
"I don't like you involved, not the way you're handling it."
This was news to her. O'Neil wasn't involved in either Operation Pipeline or the subsets, the Guzman Connection and the Serrano matter.
"Why?"
"I just don't."
As if that told her anythin
g. She sighed.
"Let somebody else run it."
"Who? I'm the only one."
This wasn't completely accurate, and his silence called her on the matter. She was angry that she felt defensive. "I want to run it."
"I heard you with TJ. The Serrano thing tomorrow. There'll be somebody from the task force. Who else's going with you?"
"Al." Big Albert Stemple. Her muscle.
"Why not take a whole team?"
"Because that'll set off alarms."
"And what if some banger finds out a key player in the Pipeline op is in Motel Six with one of his boys and he sends in a team of shooters to take you out?"
"I've thought about that. It's an acceptable risk."
"Oh, define that."
"Michael."
"Just take a weapon. That's all I'm saying."
Oh, so that's what this was about.
"I'm Civ-Div, and I--"
"You are not. You're full investigative. That's the way you're acting, at least."
"Well, I can't have a gun. Procedures. There's no alternative."
"Take one anyway. A Bodyguard, a Nano. I'll give you one of mine."
"It's a breach of--"
"It's only a breach if you get caught."
"And getting caught could ruin everything."
"Okay, Serrano's your priority. You want to play that out, fine."
Like he was giving her permission.
"Then give up Solitude Creek. I'll run it with my people. Coordinate with TJ and Rey. Even bring Connie Ramirez in." His voice was raw, like a purple line of storm cloud moving in. He added, "CBI'll get full credit."
She scoffed. "You think I care about that?"
His eyes looked away, answering: no, of course not. His comment had been a reflexive jab.
"Michael, I can't give the case up. Simple as that."
"Why not?"
Because she couldn't.
He persisted. "Tonight, at the Goldschmidt house, you weren't even supposed to be canvassing. You were supposed to stay at the scene."
"'Supposed to'?" she whispered harshly.
"And I find out you're down near Junipero Manor, with the perps? You should've called me first. If they'd stayed around, they might have had something else in mind--nailing the law that's after them, for instance. Some neo-Nazi assholes, who cart around Glock forties?"
O'Neil continued, "Or in Tustin today, if the unsub had turned right coming out of Prescott's apartment, after shooting the deputy, not left, he would've run right up on you."
"We didn't know he was there. We were going to talk to a witness."
"We never know what direction a case'll take."
"You want me to sit in a room and talk my suspects into confessing on Skype? It doesn't work that way, Michael."
"Remember your kids."
"Don't bring my children into this," she snapped.
"Somebody has to," he muttered in his infuriatingly calm, though ominous, tone. "Nailing the Solitude Creek unsub, Kathryn? It doesn't have to be you." He dropped into the front seat of the car, fired it up.
O'Neil didn't skid angrily out of the driveway--he wasn't that way. On the other hand, neither did he stop, reverse and return to apologize.
She watched the taillights until they disappeared in the fog.
It doesn't have to be you...
Except, Michael, yes, it does.
Chapter 53
Wes was in bed, texting, when she went in to say good night.
"Hey."
"Hi," he replied.
"Got home late, I heard."
"Yeah. Flat tire. Had to leave my bike at Donnie's."
"You didn't call for a ride? Jon could've picked you up."
"Yeah, well. I was bummed about Karen. The dance. She's going with Randy."
True, not true? It seemed deceptive. But after this impossible day, her kinesic skills weren't firing on all cylinders. Besides, it would exhaust and alarm you to analyze everything children said.
She didn't push. "When you say you'll be home in fifteen, you'll be home in fifteen. There'll be consequences if this happens again."
"Yeah. Okay."
"Helmets?"
"Yeah, Mom. Helmets."
"'Night." She kissed him.
Into the next bedroom.
"Mags?"
Maggie was asleep. Dance tucked the blankets around her and latched her window. Kissed her on the head.
At close to midnight she and Boling walked upstairs to her bedroom. He had here a set of clothes in a gym bag, which represented a tentative escalation in their relationship. This was fine with her: some clothes, not wardrobes' worth.
No rush...
She showered and dressed in PJs and crawled into bed next to him. They lay thigh to thigh, and she sensed he was ready to talk about her day if she wished but wasn't going to push it. Thank you, she thought silently, and squeezed his hand as a gesture of the thought, which she knew he understood. She wondered if he'd heard the argument between her and O'Neil.
She asked, "How's Mags doing?"
"I kept an eye on the Skype session with the Secrets Club gang. Bethany's quite the young lady. I expect to see her as the head of the State Department in a few years. The White House is an option too. I think they were using codes. I couldn't figure them out. Like they've created their own language."
Dance laughed. "If they put half that energy into schoolwork."
"When I was a kid and supposed to take a shower, I spent more time running the water, getting a towel wet and rubbing dirt from the floor on the washcloth, than if I'd just jumped in. Something about getting away with it."
"Did it work?"
"Not once. But I kept trying. Oh, not to worry, I'm over shower-cheating now."
Her mind returned to the argument she'd had with O'Neil. Her gut clenched and she felt a flash of anger. She realized that Boling was saying something else.
"Hmm?"
"Just good night." He kissed her cheek.
"'Night."
Boling rolled over on his side and in a few minutes he was in enviable sleep.
Dance realized she was staring intently at the ceiling. Then she told herself to relax. But how ridiculous an order was that?
She continued to wrestle with the greater implication of O'Neil's words, which he had not spoken to her. That if she had taken a weapon, yes, maybe they would have stopped the Solitude Creek killer today. Maybe she would have been closer to the door and seen him trying to escape.
And if anyone else died in another attack, that would be on her shoulders.
But if she had, and word had gotten back to CBI headquarters that she'd broken protocol, with a pistol, that would be the end of her involvement in that case and, more important, her secret role in the Serrano matter. She wasn't willing to do that. Michael had to understand.
Except, obviously, he didn't.
She too rolled over, back to the man beside her, hoping for prompt sleep.
It was nearly dawn before her addled mind stumbled into nonsensical thought and, finally, dreamless dark.
SUNDAY, APRIL 9
The Secrets Club
Chapter 54
Did you hear from TJ? The lead came through, got a location and we better move on it."
Those words, uttered by Al Stemple, were virtually one sentence, one breath. And not a single grunt. He knew he wasn't known for speedy anything and the fact that he was taking a let's-go attitude with the Guzman Connection task force was meant to convey: Time's a-wasting, boys and girls.
Carol Allerton, Jimmy Gomez and Stephen Lu were in the war room. Lu asked, "Lead?"
Stemple grumbled, looking at his watch, "Yeah, yeah. Lead to Tia Alonzo, Serrano's skirt."
Drawing a glance from Allerton.
Oh, please...
Lu said, "Where?"
Stemple wondered where Lu got his clothes. He had to have a size-thirteen neck. Tiny. His white shirt and black slacks bagged.
"Houseboat off Moss
Landing."
"Houseboat?"
What I said, Stemple thought.
"She with anybody?" Gomez asked.
"No, just her. Was with some guy but he left, TJ said." He lowered his voice. "Kathryn's outside. She'll go with us. So, draw straws. Jimmy?"
"Sure, I'll go."
Lu said, "Why don't we all go?"
Allerton: "I need somebody here. I've got to finish these transcripts from Oakland. The prosecutor needs them in a couple of hours and I don't think I'm going to make it."
Lu said, "Sure. I can do that. Happy to help out." That defined Steve Two. Somebody else might've said, "Oh, I just lovvvvve paperwork. Can't get enough." But sincerity was baked into the slim man's core. He returned to the tasks on his desk.
Gomez pulled his tan sports jacket on, checked his Glock. As if the bullets had fallen out in between the last time he checked and now. "After you, Al."
Together the men walked out into the parking lot.
Kathryn Dance was waiting.
"Hey," Gomez said.
"Jimmy." She nodded. And they walked toward Stemple's cruiser.
Looking around, Dance asked, "Charles doesn't know I'm here, does he? You're sure?"
"Not from us," Gomez confirmed. "We Fab Four took a vow of silence. Even Steve Foster's agreed. He can be a, you know."
"I do."
It was transparent, Stemple thought, using Steve Foster's favorite catchword.
They climbed into the car. Stemple started the engine and sped west on 68, heading for Highway 1, which would get them to Moss Landing in twenty minutes.
"Who's this Tia we're going to see?" Gomez asked. Then: "Whoa."
Stemple never paid much attention to speed limits.
Dance said, "Tia Alonzo. Used to be an exotic dancer."
"Love that. 'Exotic.'"
"And model. Wannabe, of course. Serrano met her at a party and they, well, kept up partying for a month or two. It ended but they hook up occasionally. TJ found Tia's gotten a couple of texts from Serrano lately. He's checking her sheet now, seeing if there's any paper we can use to leverage her into helping us. Or maybe she'll just cooperate. Out of the goodness of her heart."
Now, yeah, Stemple grunted.
A real houseboat.
Run-down but Al Stemple liked it.
About forty feet long, fifteen wide, a squat whitewashed structure on top of pontoons.
Wouldn't mind something like that.
Moss Landing was a stretch of marinas, shops and restaurants scattered along a sandy road that paralleled Highway 1. The houseboat was anchored in a secluded portion of docks. In its heyday, the years of plentiful fish, the Steinbeck years, this spot was home to hundreds of fifty-and sixty-foot fishing boats. No longer. Some pleasure craft, a few small seafood operations--party boats and commercial--and then, like here, a houseboat or two.