第 27 页

But he was leader of the crew and he now commanded, ‘Chill.’

Wolverine nodded.

Okay, he was a pussy but he also was the one who’d spotted somebody coming through the park. Sure, they ought to leave. Darth didn’t have any hassle with that idea. But they fucking couldn’t because the fucking Jew had found the bikes and rolled them into his garage. Just after they’d tagged the wall, and got over the fence out of the yard, some bitch from across the street had come out and started screaming, stop, what’re you doing, how hateful and who did they think they were …

Blah, blah …

They didn’t want to get seen so they’d run in this direction and hidden in some bushes, watching Goldshit come out, spot the bikes, cart them away and – fucker – throw them into the garage.

Then the flashing lights.

And now the footsteps.

Who? Goldshit? The woman who’d snitched?

But why would they be here? No, it probably was a cop. And if so they’d be armed with a Taser and a Glock and one of those big fucking flashlights that could cave your head in. When Darth had been in juvie, he’d celled with a kid whose head’d been caved in by one of those.

Footsteps getting closer but still half a basketball court away.

‘Why’re we waiting?’

The why was something Darth didn’t have the time – or the inclination – to explain: that if Darth’s dad found out his bike was gone, out would come the branch and Darth’d get bloody.

Closer. The probably cop was moving slow but headed in their exact direction.

Darth nodded toward a garden shack at the back of Junipero Manor.

They slipped closer to the lopsided structure and crouched between it and a tangled bush. The cop didn’t have a flashlight out. Just was walking slowly, stopping, listening. Playing it cautious, as if the dudes he was after were stone cold. Anybody who’d sneak up to a house and write, Die Jew with a fat-ass swastika on it, probably was.

And, yeah, Darth thought, guess what? We are.

Totally stone cold …

Darth whispered, ‘Got an idea. I’m going to lead ’em off.’

‘But you’ll … What’re you gonna do?’

‘I’ll head that way into the park, make some noise or something and then you can run.’

‘Yeah? What’ll happen to you?’

‘Nobody can touch me,’ Darth whispered, mouth close to ear. ‘Track and field, remember? I’ll be fine.’ Darth’s father had made sure he’d gotten trophies in every event he could in T and F (it’d be the branch if he didn’t).

‘You cool?’

‘Yeah.’ His friend’s green eyes looked uncertain.

‘Okay, just stay here and … give me sixty seconds to get into position. When you count sixty, run – that way. Asilomar. And just keep going. They’ll start after you but I’ll make a shitload of noise and lead ’em off.’

‘Okay. Sixty.’

Then Darth gave a smile. ‘Yo. We did good tonight.’

A nod. A fist bump.

‘Start counting.’ Darth moved as quietly as he could into the woods away from the shed. As he did so he looked around. Ah, there, excellent. He found a perfect weapon. A rock about ten inches long, sharp at one end. He picked it up and hefted it. Good, good.

Darth had no intention of running. He was pissed off that they’d been pushed into a corner and pissed that the Jew had taken his bike. What he was going to do as soon as Wolverine took off was come up behind the cop, distracted by the noise of his friend’s footsteps.

Then Darth’d slam the rock into the cop’s head, knock him out.

And get the asshole’s gun, which would be a slick and smooth Glock or Beretta or something.

He felt a chill of pleasure and enjoyed a brief fantasy of his father coming into his bedroom, pushing him down on the bed, facedown, lifting the branch … and Darth twisting away, grabbing the automatic from under the pillow and watching his father’s terrified face stare into the muzzle of a fucking nine-mil.

Would he pull the trigger?

No. Yes. Maybe.

He silently made his way around the cop, looking carefully where he put his feet.

Okay, Wolverine. Up to you now.

About fifteen seconds left in the count. He gripped the rock and moved a bit closer to him.

Only, wait, weird. It wasn’t a him. It was a woman. Was it the bitch across from Goldshit’s? No, no, that didn’t make sense. It’d have to be a cop, just a woman cop.

Could Darth drop a girl?

Then decided: What the fuck difference does it make? Of course he could.

Then he had a weird thought: Wolverine – his real name was Wes – his mother, Mrs Dance, was a cop. What if this was her? It was too dark to see anything but long hair. But then Darth, well, Donnie Verso, remembered that Wes had said his mother was out of town. Some big case she was working on.

So, whoever she was, it wasn’t Mrs Dance.

Okay. He moved a bit closer, then paused, kneading the rock. He crouched and got ready to sprint up behind her and take the bitch out. In less than a minute he’d have his gun.

CHAPTER 51

Kathryn Dance continued toward the large Victorian house on the far edge of the park.

She was disappointed to see that while the porch lights were on the rest of the house seemed dark. Too bad. Despite O’Neil’s assessment she was still inclined to lay the crime at the feet of a biker gang. The family here might have heard the throaty clatter of a ’cycle engine, maybe peeked out of the front window and gotten a good view. Make and model of the bike possibly, descriptions.

Still, someone might be home. That a lead was unlikely was no reason to ignore it.

Unleashed …

As she approached the large, rustic yard surrounding the house, she paused once more. Now she heard footsteps. Two sets, in fact. One in front of her some distance away; others, closer, to her right, moving behind. She squinted into the darkness but could see nothing. Deer, most likely. The population of the critters around here was huge.

Of course, she wondered, too, if she’d been too hasty in dismissing the possibility that the perps were still here. True, an ordinary perp would be long gone. Hey, let’s get the hell out of here. We’ve done the deed. Enough. But this wasn’t a burglary or mugging or ‘Let’s torch the Porta Potti for the hell of it’ kind of vandalism. This was different. And it wasn’t unreasonable to think that the perps in this case would remain to watch the reaction, the dismay of the victims.

Deer?

She heard a branch snap not far away, but couldn’t tell exactly where it had come from.

Okay. Time to leave, she told herself. Now.

A crackle of underbrush.

And then—

A mobile phone started to ring – from about thirty feet in front of her.

‘Shit!’ a voice called from behind – close. Jesus, somebody’d been flanking her. One of the perps.

‘Run, run!’ A male voice, from the direction of the ringtone.

And she heard two sets of sprinting footsteps, heading away from her. She saw no one. She thought about ordering them to stop but, unarmed, she didn’t want to give her position away.

Dance lifted her phone and hit a speed-dial button.

‘Kathryn.’

‘Michael. They’re here, east at the end of the road. Junipero Drive.’

‘The perps? From Goldschmidt’s?’

‘Right. What I’m saying.’

‘What were you doing?’

What the hell was he asking this for? She snapped, ‘Call it in. They split up. One headed toward town. The other to Asilomar.’

‘Where are you?’

Why was he asking? ‘Where I just said. East, end of the road. A three-story Victorian.’

‘I’ll make the call.’ Then he grumbled, ‘Now get back here.’

A half-hour later Dance and O’Neil were with the crime-scene unit at Goldschmidt’s house.

A Pacific Grove Police Department car pulled up and two officers got out.

O’Neil nodded. ‘Anything?’

‘Nope. We locked down Sunset, Asilomar, Ocean View and Lighthouse. But they must’ve gotten to their car before we set up the roadblocks.’

‘Footprints?’

The wry smile on the face of one of the officers attested to the fact that they all knew: the ground here was mostly sand, and if you expected footprints for the electrostatic impression machine, you were going to be disappointed.

David Goldschmidt approached, carrying a roller and a can of paint. He set them down. He was interested to learn that Dance had had an encounter with the perps near the house up the street, Junipero Manor.

He said, ‘You were close to them, sounds like.’

‘Fairly. They’d split up. One was probably twenty feet away, the other fifty.’

‘What did they look like?’ His gray eyes narrowed. He focused intently, as if he wanted to learn all he could about those who had defiled his 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. ‘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. Clearer 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. ‘Goodnight, 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 LA. 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.

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. 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 when 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 possible. 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 some day. 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 door knob. 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’s 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.’