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CHAPTER 29

‘Hello?’

Arthur K. Meddle turned from surveying the placement of chairs at the Bay View Center to see a man in the doorway.

‘Help you? Hold on.’ He turned away and shouted, ‘Charlie, add another row. Come on. Four hundred. Got to be four hundred. Sorry. Help you?’

The man stepped closer. He seemed bored. ‘Yessir. I’m a Monterey County fire inspector.’

Meddle gave a fast glance at the ID. ‘Officer Dunn. Or inspector?’

‘Officer.’

‘Sure. What can I do for you?’

‘You the manager?’

‘That’s right.’

The well-dressed polite fellow looked around the interior of the center, with furrowed brows. Then his eyes came back to Meddle. ‘You may’ve heard, sir, about the incident at Solitude Creek? The club?’

‘Oh, yeah. Terrible.’

‘We’re thinking it was done intentionally.’

‘I heard that on the news.’ Meddle didn’t know this guy so he didn’t add what he wanted to: ‘What kind of crazy shit would do that?’

‘The county board of supervisors and the Sheriff’s Office – the Bureau of Investigation too – they’re thinking he may try another attack.’

‘No! Hell, is it really a terrorist? That’s what Fox was saying. Was it O’Reilly? I don’t remember.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Between you and me, I’d think if it was terrorists, somebody would’ve taken credit for it. They do that.’

‘True.’

‘Anyway, sir, the county supervisors’ve issued a reg that requires any venues with events of over a hundred people have to postpone or pass a special inspection.’

‘Postpone?’

‘Or pass the inspection. We’re making sure that what happened at Solitude Creek won’t happen again. I mean they could catch the perp first. That’s a possibility.’

‘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.’

‘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 cancelling. 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.’

‘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’d 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 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 back seat of her own SUV, visible through an open door. Anne’s was a pearl-white Lexus, California tags.

The woman was dressed in clothes that were very, very different from what Dance recalled when Anne had 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 had vanished like fog in sunshine. Then, over time, Dance had decided for her sake and for the sake of the kids to wade into the dating pool. Slowly, feeling her way along, she’d met Jon Boling.

And, bang, O’Neil announced his divorce. Not long after, he’d 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’d said nothing about Dance’s connection to the detective but his body language left no doubt that 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, either of which would have been a defensive gesture 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, 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 the ‘friend’ at Maggie’s recital? Anne, of course.

Dance watched Anne pull out of the lot.

Then a brief honk from behind the Pathfinder. Dance started. She glanced into the rear-view 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.

Thinking of Anne and Michael, she found herself humming the song.

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, 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 2500, 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 she and O’Neil were at the roadhouse. The club was still closed and the trucking company, where she’d nearly received a concussion, was also dark. But there was some activity. A couple was 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: 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 there 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 it 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 was soggy from the creek, and the Honda’s tires had left distinctive prints in the sandy mud. When the driver had reversed out, one had spun reaching for traction.

They stopped before they reached the tracks, however, and examined the ground carefully, then surveyed the surrounding area. Dance dug into her purse and pulled out elastic hair ties, four of them. She and O’Neil put them around their shoes – a trick she’d learned from her friends in New York, Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs. It would differentiate their shoeprints from those of the suspect when the forensics 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 on 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 shoeprints, 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 sport 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.’

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 margaritas and those chips, then the enchiladas. Danger. So when Sally had seen that a famous author was appearing up the street, at the Bay View, they’d decided: perfect. One drink, a few chips, salsa, then culture.

Didn’t preclude an ice-cream cone on the drive home.

Also, good 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.