She glanced down at a treatise on the law of eminent domain.
"How'd he meet the doer?" Dance wondered aloud. "He said a few years ago."
Batillo said, "I saw some texts about 'the gun show.' 'Enjoyed talking weapons with you.'
"And I found the ammo I think he was talking about. Brick of twelve gauge and two twenty-three. Arlington Heights Guns and Sporting Goods on the label."
"Chicago," Dance said.
O'Neil said wryly, "Tough manhunt. Six million people."
"We've got the gun show reference. The ammo. The phones." She shrugged and offered a smile. 'Needle in a haystack,' I know. Right up there with 'When it rains, it pours.' But that doesn't mean the needle isn't there."
Forty minutes later she was back in her office, scrolling through the crime scene pictures of the Otto Grant suicide--the rest of the report wouldn't be ready for a day or two--and considering how to narrow down the task of finding their unsub in the Windy City, or wherever he might be. Page after page...Dance found herself staring at the pictures of Stanley Prescott and the woman they suspected the unsub had killed, positioned under the lights to get pictures for proof of death. If only she could for a brief moment let her eyes be theirs, before they glazed over, and darkness enveloped them.
To catch a fleeting glimpse of the man who'd done this.
Who are you? Are you headed back to your home in Chicago, or somewhere else?
And are you working for someone else now, a new job? Nearby? Or in a different part of the world?
Questions she would answer, whether it took a week, a month, a year.
Chapter 79
Maggie's eyes were wide and even Dance's adolescent, seen-it-all son was impressed.
They were backstage at the Monterey Performing Arts Center with Neil Hartman himself. The lanky man in his early thirties, dark curly hair and a lean face, looked every inch the country-western star, though that genre was only part of his repertoire. His songs and performance style were very similar to Kayleigh Towne's, Dance's performer friend based in Fresno. Crossover/eclectic best described the sound.
When Dance and the kids had been ushered into the green room, the musician had smiled and introduced everyone to the band members present.
"Kayleigh sends her best," he told her.
"Where's her show tonight?"
"Denver. Big house, five thousand plus."
Dance said, "She's doing well."
"I'll head out there after tomorrow's show. Maybe we'll get to Aspen." He was grinning shyly.
That answered one of Dance's questions. The beautiful singer-songwriter hadn't been dating anyone seriously for a time. There were worse romantic options than a Portland troubadour with dreamy eyes and a lifestyle that seemed more mom-and-pop than Rolling Stones.
"Uhm," Maggie began.
"Yes, young lady?" Hartman asked, smiling.
"Ask him, Mags."
"Can I have your autograph?"
He laughed. "Do you one better." He walked to a box, found a T-shirt in the girl's size. It featured a photo from one of his recent CDs-- Hartman and his golden retriever, sitting on a front porch. He signed it to her with a glittery marker.
"Oh, wow."
"Mags?"
"Thank you!"
For Wes, the gift was age appropriate: a black T-shirt with NHB, for the name of the band.
"Cool. Thanks."
"Hey, you guys want to noodle around on a git-fiddle or keyboard?"
"Yeah? Can we?" Wes asked.
"Sure."
"Wooee," Maggie called. She sat down at the digital keyboard--Dance cranked the volume down--and Hartman handed Wes an old Martin. You couldn't live in the Dance household without knowing something about musical instruments, and though Maggie was the real talent, Wes could chord and play a few flat-pick licks.
When he started "Stairway to Heaven," Hartman and Dance glanced at each other and laughed. The song that will never die.
They talked about the show tonight. Hartman was growing in popularity but not at the Kayleigh Towne level yet, though his Grammy nomination had guaranteed a sold-out house at the MPAC; nearly a thousand people were coming to see him.
With the children occupied in the corner, the adults spoke in low voices.
"I heard you got him. The guy behind the attacks."
"Well, one who hired him."
"Grant, right? He lost his farm."
"That's him. But we still don't have the hit man he hired. But we will. We'll get him."
"Kayleigh said something about you being...persistent."
Dance laughed. "That's what she said, hm?" Her kinesic skills told her that Hartman was translating. Maybe "obstinate" or "pigheaded" had been the young woman's choice of words. She and Kayleigh were a lot alike in that regard.
"I thought we were going to have to cancel the show."
Dance had been fully prepared to do just that--if they hadn't closed the case before the concert.
"You hear about Sam Cohen?"
"No, what?"
"He's going to rebuild the roadhouse. A dozen of us or so are doing some benefit concerts, donating the money to him. He's going to tear down the old building and put up a new one. He didn't want to at first but we were..." He laughed. "Persistent."
"Great news. I'm really happy."
Maybe you can recover from some things, Sam. Maybe you can.
Hartman's drummer appeared in the doorway, smiled at the kids, then said, "Let's play."
Hartman gave the children a thumbs-up. "You got your chops down, both of you. Next time I'm in town, we'll work up some tunes, I'll get you out onstage with me."
"No way!" Wes said.
"Sure."
"Excellent!"
Maggie frowned, considering something. "Can I cover a Patsy Cline song?"
Dance said, "Mags, why don't you sing a Neil Hartman?"
The singer laughed. "I think Ms. Cline would be honored. We'll make it happen."
"Hey, gang, let's head to our seats."
"Bye, Mr. Hartman. Thanks."
Wes handed over the guitar and, looking at his phone, headed toward the door.
"Young man."
"Thanks."
"Say hi to Kayleigh for us."
They left the green room and walked into the theater itself, which was filling up. There were about eight hundred people here, Dance estimated.
Years ago, she had dreamed of being a musician, appearing in halls like this. She tried and tried, but however hard she worked, there came the point when her skill just didn't make the final bump into the professional world. She left that life behind. There came advanced degrees, a stint as a jury consultant, offering her kinesic skills commercially, then law enforcement. A wonderful job, a challenging job... And yet, what she wouldn't have given to have had the talent to make places like this her home.
But then that nostalgia faded as the cop within her resurfaced. Dance was, of course, aware that she was in a crowded venue that would be a perfect target for their unsub at-large. He was surely a hundred miles away by now. But just because Otto Grant had said he'd gotten sufficient revenge didn't mean he hadn't had his man set up a whopper of a finale. On the way back from Grant's shack, she'd arranged for a full sweep of the concert hall and for police to be stationed at each exit door.
Even now she remained vigilant. She noted the location of the exits and fire hoses and extinguishers. She noted no potential sniper nests. And checked that the red lights on the security cameras glowed healthily and, because these models didn't sport lights, unlike the one in the hospital elevator, she checked for emergency lighting; there were a dozen halogens that would turn the place to bright noon in the event of trouble.
Finally, confident of their security, Kathryn Dance sat back, crossed her legs and enjoyed the exhilaration that always accompanies dimming lights in a concert hall.
Chapter 80
Antioch March was enjoying another pineapple juice and studying the TV screen in the Cedar Hi
lls Inn.
The hotel was so posh that it featured a very special television--one with 4K resolution. This was known as ultra-high-definition video. The clarity was nearly double the current standard: 1920 wide by 1080 high.
It was ethereal, the depth of the imagery.
He was presently watching an underwater video, shot in 4K, flowing from his computer, via HDMI cable, onto the fifty-four-inch screen.
Astonishing. The kelp was real. The sunfish. The eels. The coral. All real. The sharks especially, with their supple gray skin, their singular eyes, their choreography of motion like elegant fencers.
So beautiful. So rich. You were there, you were part of the ocean. Part of the chain of nature.
There was not, as yet, much content in 4K--you needed special cameras to shoot it--but it was coming. If only the family on the rocks at Asilomar had lingered but a minute longer he might have given the Get their ultra-high-definition deaths; his Samsung Galaxy featured such a camera.
Somebody's not happy...
The landline phone rang and he snagged it, eyes still on the waving kelp, so real it might have been floating in the room around him.
The receptionist announced that a Larry Johnson had arrived.
"Thank you. Send him over." Wondering why that pseudonym.
A few minutes later Christopher Jenkins was at the door.
March let his boss into the entryway. A handshake and then into the luxurious suite. Once the door was closed, a hug too.
Mildly reciprocated.
Jenkins, who, yes, resembled March somewhat, was in his fifties, broad-shouldered, compact--a good six inches shorter than his employee--and tanned. His hair was blond, close cropped and flat against his skull. A military bearing because he had been military. He glanced up at March's shaved head.
"Hmm."
"Had to."
"Looks good."
Jenkins didn't really think so, March could see, but he'd never say a word against his favorite employee's appearance. To March, Jenkins seemed no older than when the two men had met three years ago. He was a bit heavier, more solid. Jenkins had his own Get, but it wasn't March's. Amassing money was what numbed Jenkins's demon. Whether buying a Ferrari for himself or taking a boy out for a thousand-dollar dinner or finding a Cartier bauble...that was what kept Jenkins's Get at bay.
Odd, how their respective compulsions worked. Symbiotic.
"Carole says hello."
"And to her too."
One of the girls Jenkins had dated on and off. March wasn't sure why he kept the facade. Who cared nowadays? Besides, you can't cheat the Get, which knows what you want and when you want it, so why complicate things. Life's too short.
"Your drive good?"
"Fine." Jenkins had a faint Bostonian clip to his voice. He'd lived in a suburb of Bean Town before the army.
March had ordered the best--well, the most expensive--wine on the list, a Chateau Who Knew from France. A 1995. Had to be good; it was six hundred dollars. It was already open, He'd had a taste. It was okay. Not as good as Dole.
"Well. Excellent!" Jenkins said, looking over the label--all Greek to March, a private joke, considering his heritage.
He allowed Jenkins to pour him some of the sludgy wine and they tapped glasses, toasting their success. Over the past few days they'd made several hundred thousand dollars.
"Always loved it here, the Cedar Hills."
Chris Jenkins reminded March of the people in those infomercials: the handsome man, next to the beautiful woman, on a Florida or Hawaiian porch, boats in the background, palms nearby, talking about how they'd made millions with hardly any effort in the real estate market or by inventing things. In Jenkins's case, his fortune arrived from selling something very, very rare and valuable.
Desire and fear are the keys to salesmanship, Andy, boy. But desire works best.
The men sat on the couch. They regarded the crystal TV screen, on which fish swam and kelp waved, hypnotic.
"Good picture. Four-K. Man, that's beautiful. We'll keep that in mind." He set the glass down. "Now where are we?"
"All good."
"What about Otto Grant? I heard the news. They seemed to buy it."
"They did."
March paused the shark video and called up another video file on his computer. The video, a high-definition (though only 2K), showed Otto Grant, kicking in the last moments of his life, trying to get leverage to pull himself up and somehow unhook the rope from where March had tied it to stage the suicide. He struggled for a time and then shivered and went limp.
"Did he come?"
There was a rumor that upon being hanged, men sometimes ejaculated. Neither had been able to confirm this.
"Just peed."
"Ah."
"I left evidence in the shack that the man he hired is from Chicago and has already left to go back there, left right after the incident in the hospital. Solid leads. Phone calls, proxies, e-mails. They'll sniff up that tree for a while."
"Good."
"Now, you were mentioning a new job." March knew Jenkins had come to Carmel for another reason, but he wouldn't've made up the part about a new job entirely.
"Client's in Lausanne, so he wants it to happen anywhere but Europe. He mentioned Latin America."
"Any preferences as to how?"
"He was thinking a fall, maybe a cable car."
March laughed. He could hot-wire an ignition, he could disable an elevator. That was the extent of the mechanical engineering skills. "I don't think so. A bus?"
"A bus would work, I'd think."
"Send me the details."
Glasses tapped again. March had sipped the wine once. He'd also eyed the pineapple juice.
Jenkins laughed and handed the glass to March, enwrapped his fingers. "Just don't mix it with Saint Estephe."
March let his boss's hand linger on his for a moment.
"Dinner?" Jenkins asked.
"Not hungry."
March never was, not at times like this. All the work, hoping it would pay off. The way he planned out the jobs, well, it was fragile. There was a lot that could go wrong. Wasting all that time and money, the risk. Anyway, what it came down to: When the Get was hungry, March was not.
"Oh, here. I brought you something." Jenkins dug in his Vuitton backpack. He handed over a small box. March opened it. "Well."
"Victoria Beckham."
They were sunglasses, blue lenses.
Jenkins said, "Italian. And the lenses change color in the sun. Or get darker. I don't know. I think there are instructions. You'll love them."
"Thanks. They're really something."
Though March's first thought was: Wearing bright blue sunglasses on a job, where you would want to be as inconspicuous as possible?
Maybe I'll go to the beach sometime. On vacation.
Would you let me do that, Get? Just relax?
He tried them on.
"They're you," Jenkins whispered, squeezing March's biceps.
March put the glasses away and picked up the remote.
Click. The hypnotic ballet of sea creatures resumed on the TV. "Extraordinary. Four-K," he said reverently. "Who shot this?"
"Teenager, believe it or not."
"Four-K. Hmm. Wave of the future."
Jenkins asked, "What's the plan?"
"We need to stop her."
"That investigator? Dance?"
"That's right." He explained that the attempt to injure her boyfriend, somebody named Boling, hadn't worked out. Now they needed to do something more efficient.
"We're leaving tomorrow. Why do anything? We'll be a thousand miles away by noon."
"No. We have to stop her. She won't rest until she gets us."
"You're sure?"
"Yes," March said, staring at the sharks.
"What do you have in mind?"
Dance, he'd seen when he'd slipped into her Pathfinder at the Bay View crime scene, was presently attending a concert at the Performing Arts Center in Monterey. T
he tickets were in her glove compartment. He'd thought momentarily about staging a final attack there, with the chance that she'd be severely injured or killed. But coming after Grant's suicide, that would be suspicious.
Besides, there was another reason he didn't want her dead.
He looked over the notes he'd jotted after getting the information on the man's license plate. "There's a close associate. Named TJ Scanlon. Lives in Carmel Valley. We'll kill him, make it look gang related. It'll deflect her. She'll drop everything and go after them."
"Why not just kill her?"
March could think of no answer. Just: "It's better this way."
Another reason...
He jabbed a finger at the TV screen. "Ah, watch. This is it."
On the screen a hammerhead shark, awkward yet elegant, swam toward the camera then veered upward and, as casually as a human swatting a mosquito, opened its mouth and neatly removed the leg of a surfer treading water overhead. The shark and limb vanished as the massive cloud of red streamed like smoke into the scene, eventually obscuring the mutilated young man, writhing as he died.
"Well," Jenkins said. "Here's to Four-K." He lifted a glass of wine.
March nodded. He stared at the imagery for a moment longer and shut the set off. He picked up the Louis Vuitton bag, checked that the hunting knife and gun were still inside, and gestured his boss toward the door. "After you."
Chapter 81
This was an era he knew nothing about, didn't care for, didn't appreciate.
The sixties in the U.S.
Antioch March believed it was called the counterculture, and, for some reason, CBI agent TJ Scanlon loved it.
As they stood in the living room of the three-bedroom ranch-style house in Carmel Valley, March and Jenkins surveyed the place. Orange and brown dominated. Carpet, furniture, tablecloths. On the wall were posters--nice ones, framed--of Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock, the Mamas and the Papas, Jefferson Airplane. The doors were strings of colorful beads that clicked when you pushed them. And, yes, a lava lamp.
"Sets you on edge, doesn't it?" Jenkins asked.
It did.
In his gloved hand March clicked on a black light. The ultraviolet rays spectacularly lit up what had been a dull poster of a ship improbably sailing through the sky.
He shut the light off again.
A glance at a large peace symbol, reminiscent of the Mercedes-Benz emblem on his car back home. This icon was made out of shells.
On edge...
He told the Get to relax; it was, he suspected, still angry that the Asian family on the rocks had missed the opportunity to die spectacular deaths in the icy bay.