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‘Can we get the prints from the man who found it?’

The uniform smiled. ‘He never touched it. He used a plastic bag. He watches all the crime-scene shows, he said.’

Dance took the phone and, through the plastic, tried the keys. ‘Passcode protected. Well, one way or the other, we’ll get inside.’ She said to the Orange County detective, ‘I’ll want to take his computer and the unsub’s phone into custody. You all right with that?’

‘Sure.’

O’Neil couldn’t have done this, not without Orange County’s okay, since the crime had occurred there and Monterey had no jurisdiction. The CBI, however, trumped county public-safety departments and she could take the evidence. Her intention, however, was not to deliver the phone and victim’s computer to the CBI’s small forensic department – they actually farmed out physical-evidence work to the Monterey lab most of the time – but to have Jon Boling analyze them. The former wonder boy in Silicon Valley, occasionally consulted for the CBI, FBI and other law-enforcement groups that needed IT or computer assistance. Computer forensic science is an art and he was good at it.

A woman officer with Crime Scene handed the computer over to Dance, who signed a chain-of-custody card for it and the phone. She stepped outside and slipped the plastic bags into her suitcase.

They arranged with the lead detective for the reports from there and the theme park to be sent to Monterey. In silence they walked to the rental car and headed for the airport. After a day like that, the idea of flying commercial, with the many hassles, had no appeal whatsoever; Dance reminded herself to do something nice for Charles Overby, thanking him for the pricey state jet.

Maybe she’d bake him a cake.

CHAPTER 48

Dance and O’Neil’s flight from John Wayne Airport in Orange County to Monterey landed at six. A young uniformed officer with the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office greeted them.

Dance knew him well. Gabriel Rivera was a young deputy who worked frequently with O’Neil. The round, cheerful man, with a well-tended mustache that rivaled Steve Foster’s, wanted to be a detective, like his mentor, and was known for putting in long hours.

‘Detective, Agent Dance.’

She shook his hand.

‘I’ve got the preliminary from the scene in Santa Cruz. Otto Grant.’

Dance recalled O’Neil had received the phone call about the discovery of a body in the Bay.

Worse ways to die than going to sleep in the Bay …

He handed O’Neil a manila envelope and the detective extracted the contents, copies of handwritten notes and some photos.

Dance glanced at the crime-scene photos. Hard to make an ID from them alone: he’d been in the water for some time and, though the chill would otherwise preserve flesh, critters had been dining. Much of the remains had been reduced to bone.

‘I haven’t contacted the family yet,’ Rivera said. ‘We’ve got a DNA sample from them and the lab’s running it now. Should be about twenty-four hours.’ A nod at a close-up of the corpse’s hands. ‘No fingerprints, of course.’

O’Neil squinted at one image. ‘Not Grant.’

‘It’s—’

‘Not him. Grant had had a knee replacement. Two of ’em. That man’s got both knees intact. Maybe homeless, maybe a drifter, fell asleep on the beach and got washed out to sea. Anyway, it’s not him.’

‘Okay, Detective. I’ll let everybody know.’

‘Oh, Gabriel?’

‘Yessir?’

‘Saves time to learn everything you can about whoever you’re searching for.’

‘I’ll remember that, sir.’ The deputy took the envelope back and returned to his squad car.

Dance and O’Neil walked to short-term parking and collected his vehicle. The fog was back, and the evening promised chill.

‘Solitude Creek … Bay View … What on earth is he up to?’ Dance mused.

O’Neil remained silent. A mood seemed to be on him. Understandable, of course: a deputy had been shot, a witness killed and their suspect had escaped. Yet she sensed there was something else on O’Neil’s mind.

His window was down and cold air streamed into the car. She thought about asking him to roll it up but chose not to, for some reason. She turned the heater up higher.

Well, if he wanted to talk, fine; it wasn’t her role to pry anything out of him, unlike with her daughter. She pulled out her phone to call Boling but somehow the idea of having a cheerful conversation with him didn’t appeal; it also seemed a bit passiveaggressive – payback for O’Neil’s mood. She texted, instead, saying she’d be home soon.

Almost immediately her phone dinged with a reply. Miss you. WDYWFD?

She answered back that leftovers were good, and asked about the kids.

He sent another, saying Maggie was Skyping with Bethany and Carrie (Secrets Club teleconference), Wes was out with Donnie, biking (back @ 7, promised).

She typed: C U soon. XO

Dance did make a voice call – to Charles Overby. ‘You’re on speaker with me and Michael,’ she told him.

Her boss called, ‘Michael, hello.’

‘Charles.’

She had, of course, called in from time to time to let him know how the incident in Orange County was proceeding. She now said, ‘No indication that Prescott was anything more than an oddball – a redneck, if they have rednecks in Orange County – stirring up anti-Islamic sentiment. Our office down there’ll canvass his friends and family, coworkers but I’m sure that the profile’ll be just that. We’ve got custody of his computer and a phone the unsub dropped. I’d like to have Jon Boling crack the passcodes and take a peek.’

‘That’s good. Sure. And, if I recall, he’s not very expensive.’

Dance let that go.

Overby added, ‘Any thoughts about why our boy would travel all that way to kill him?’

O’Neil explained the theory that Prescott had brought unwanted federal scrutiny to the incident with the ‘terrorist’ comments. ‘That’s all we can think of.’

They arranged a meeting tomorrow in Overby’s office, to review the crime-scene reports from the sheriff’s office in Orange County.

Dance clicked the phone off. Then made another call.

‘Hey, boss. You back from La-La Land?’

‘Just landed,’ she told TJ Scanlon. ‘Eleven tomorrow in Overby’s office. On Solitude Creek and Bay View.’

‘Be there with bells on.’

She asked, ‘And Serrano? The second lead? What’s the name again?’

‘Ah, Señorita Alonzo. Serrano’s former squeeze. Moss Landing tomorrow at nine? Good for you?’

‘Yep. I’ll coordinate with Al.’

‘Foster’ll be out. Steve Two and Jimmy’ll be there.’

‘Thanks. See you tomorrow.’

They disconnected.

Silence for some moments.

‘Look out,’ she said sharply, pointing ahead.

Two flashes of yellow, close-set eyes.

‘I got it,’ he said, braking.

They cruised past the deer as it debated who would win the collision.

O’Neil hadn’t, however, seen the creature at first. He’d been distracted. Mind elsewhere.

More silence. His body language revealed tension.

Another five minutes. Finally she’d had enough. She was going to pry a confession out of him, but just at that moment his phone rang. He unholstered it and hit accept. He listened, grim. ‘Where?’

Her heart sank. Had the unsub returned so quickly and committed yet another mass attack?

‘I’m headed in that direction now. I can be there in fifteen.’

He disconnected.

‘Another one?’

‘Not our unsub. A hate crime again.’ He sighed, shaking his head.

‘Anybody in custody?’

‘No, a homeowner found his wall graffitied. I’m going to swing by and poke around the neighborhood. It’s in Pacific Grove, not far from you. I’ll take you home first.’

‘No, I’ll go with you.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’

He hit the flasher lights and sped up, though minding the slippery road.

She asked, ‘You think there’s a chance you’ll find the perp there?’

‘He can’t be too far away. The graffiti? The paint’s still wet.’

CHAPTER 49

‘Well, there you have it. Welcome to Berlin, nineteen thirty-eight.’

Dance and O’Neil were standing next to David Goldschmidt, who ran one of the nicer furniture stores downtown. The slim, balding man was bundled into a navy watch coat and wore jeans. His sockless feet were in Topsiders. They were in his side yard.

Goldschmidt was a bit of a celebrity in the area: the Monterey Herald had run an article on him last week. When Hamas had begun firing missiles from Gaza into Israel not long ago he’d volunteered to help. At forty, he was too old to serve in the Israeli army – the age limit was twenty-three – but he had spent several months helping with medical and provisions support. However, she recalled that, according to the article, while on a kibbutz outside Tel Aviv years before, Goldschmidt had served in combat.

The publicity was probably why he’d been targeted.

And what a cruel attack it was.

On the side of his beautiful Victorian house there was a swastika in bright red paint and below it: ‘Die Jew.’

The paint dripped from the symbol and words like blood from deep wounds.

The three stood in his side yard surrounded by a foggy dusk, the air fragrant with mulch from the Goldschmidts’ beautiful garden.

‘In all my years,’ he muttered.

‘Did you catch a glimpse of anyone?’

‘No, I didn’t know about it until I heard the shout from across the street – ah, here.’

A woman, mid-fifties, in jeans and a leather jacket, approached. ‘Dave, I’m so sorry. Hello.’

O’Neil and Dance introduced themselves.

‘I’m Sara Peabody. I saw them. I’m the one who called the police. I shouted. I guess I shouldn’t have. I should’ve just called you first. Maybe they’d be in jail now. But I just, you know, lost it.’

‘Them?’ O’Neil asked.

‘Two, that’s right. I was looking through the trees there, see? I didn’t have a good view. So, young, old? Male, female? I couldn’t say. I’d guess men, wouldn’t you think?’

O’Neil said, ‘Generally that’s the case in hate crimes. But not always.’

‘One stood guard, it looked like, and the other jumped over the fence and sprayed those terrible things. The other one, the guard, he took pictures or a video of the first. Like a souvenir. Disgusting.’

Goldschmidt sighed.

Dance asked, ‘Have you been threatened recently by anyone?’

‘No, no. I don’t think it’s personal. This’s got to be part of what’s going on, don’t you think? The black churches, that gay center?’

O’Neil: ‘I’d say so, yes. The handwriting looks similar to the other attacks, spray paint in red. Looks like the same color.’

‘Well, I want it gone. Can you take pictures and samples of the paint or whatever you want to do? I’m painting over it tonight. My wife’s back from Seattle tomorrow morning. I will not let her see this.’

‘Sure,’ O’Neil told him. ‘We’ll get our crime-scene people here in the next hour. They’ll be fast.’ He looked around. ‘I’ll canvass the neighbors now.’

‘Brother. After all these years,’ Goldschmidt muttered angrily. ‘Sometimes I think we’re not making any progress at all.’ Dance looked him over, his body language of defiance, determination, his still eyes as he took in the obscene symbol and words.

O’Neil asked Dance if she’d take his and the neighbor’s statements.

‘Sure.’

He wandered up the street to interview other neighbors who might have seen the vandalism.

Dance looked over the yard. No footsteps in the grass, of course. Maybe the CS team could pull a print from the fence the perp had vaulted but that would be a long shot. Ah, but a moment of hope. Nestled under the eaves was a video security camera.

But Goldschmidt shook his head. ‘It’s on but it doesn’t record. The monitor’s in the bedroom and I was in the den when they were here. We only use it after we’re in bed. In case there’s a noise.’

Dance texted Boling that she’d be a bit later than she’d planned. He replied that Maggie was still Skyping and Wes had not returned yet – but he had ten minutes until the promised deadline. Leftovers were heating.

Michael O’Neil was up the street and Dance had nothing more to do there. She started her own canvass, going the other way. The houses had no view of Goldschmidt’s but the vandals might have parked in front of one. Those who were home, however, had seen nothing and Dance spotted no deception. As horrific as vandalism is, there’s not much risk of physical assault and witnesses are more eager to come forward than if they’ve seen a murder, rape or assault.

Two more houses, dark and unoccupied.

She was about to return to the crime scene when she noticed one more house – it was on the other side of a city park, which was a known migration stop for monarch butterflies. The tree-filled park was about two acres in size.

The house bordered Asilomar, the conference area, and beyond that was the coastal park at Spanish Bay. It also overlooked a sandy shoulder, a perfect place for the perps to leave their car and hike through the park to get to Goldschmidt’s. Maybe these homeowners had seen them.

She waded into the park now, moving slowly: the place hadn’t been trimmed recently – budget issues, she supposed – and underbrush might trip her.

Any risk? she wondered, pausing. No. The perps would have headed off as soon as they’d finished. If not, surely they’d done so when they’d seen the blue-and-white flashing lights on O’Neil’s car.

She started through the dark preserve once more.

CHAPTER 50

‘Dude, somebody’s coming. I’m like sure.’

Wolverine was saying this.

‘Sssh.’ Darth waved him quiet.

‘Let’s just go. Yo.’

Darth ignored him and scanned the dusk-lit scene. The two boys remained motionless, still as snipers, in the large backyard of the house that the owners, weird, had named Junipero Manor or something, nestled in mossy trees like something out of The Hobbit, all bent and gnarly. A house with a name. Weird.

The ocean was not far away and Darth could hear the water smashing on the rocks, the seals, gulls. Good. It covered up the noise of their movement.

‘I’m saying, we should book.’ Wolverine was in a navy jacket. Baseball cap, black, backward. Darth was wearing jeans, a black shirt and hoodie. Darth liked to think of him and his friend by their code names when they were out fucking up somebody’s house or a church. Felt like soldiers, felt like superheroes.

They were both slim, young. Darth was bigger, older by a year and change, though they were in the same grade. The two hid behind a bush that smelled of pee, and his knees felt moisture from the fog-damp sand.

‘Dude?’ Wolverine whispered more desperately. ‘Now! Let’s history, man. We gotta get out of here.’

Darth shifted. And: clink, clink.

‘Jesus, quiet!’

Darth set the backpack down carefully and rearranged the cans of red spray paint, put a T-shirt between them. Hoisted the canvas satchel once more.

‘Really, man.’ Wolverine wasn’t exactly living up to his nickname. But Darth was patient with his friend. The bitch got freaked a lot. And, church, Darth was a little tweaked at the moment too, with some asshole prowling around, getting closer.