第 34 页

‘Pay site? What’s that? I thought they were from a TV newscast.’

‘They were originally. But somebody uploaded them to a commercial site where members can see graphic violence – stills and movies. Do you know about them?’

Neither Dance nor O’Neil did.

‘Oh, well, here, take a look.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘You’d better brace yourself.’

‘Brace?’

He typed and a page loaded.

Dance’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, my. What’s this?’

O’Neil walked around and stood on Dance’s other side. The three of them stared at the website. It was called Cyber-Necro.com and the opening graphic revealed a computer-generated image of a man plunging a knife into the belly of a buxom woman strapped down to a medieval table.

Boling said, ‘It’s a pay site devoted to graphic images of murder and rape victims, disasters, crimes scenes, accidents, medical procedures. The Solitude Creek pictures were in the section on “Theater and Sporting Events Deaths”.’

‘That’s actually a category?’

‘Yep. People pay a lot of money to see those pictures and videos. I couldn’t tell you why. Maybe a shrink could. Voyeurism, sexual, sadistic. Who knows? I’ve gotten quite an education in the past few hours. There’re hundreds of sites like this. I might write a paper on it. Some sites are like this one.’ He nodded at the screen. ‘Real deaths and injuries. But you can also get custom-made videos. Actresses – usually actresses – being shot or stabbed or hit by arrows. Strangulation and asphyxia’re popular too. Sexual assaults. Some hard-core. And the weapons? The special effects’re good. Shockingly good. You’d almost think the women were actually being killed but they keep appearing in other clips. It seems some men have favorite actresses they want to see killed. Over and over.’

O’Neil whispered, ‘I’ve never heard of this.’

‘A whole underground, I found.’ Boling typed. ‘Here’re the pictures of Solitude Creek.’

The page on Cyber-Necro.com showing pictures of the disaster had about fifteen pictures. Most were from the media, shot afterward, depicting blood. Some were bad phone videos, low resolution, taken inside during the crush.

Dance and O’Neil glanced at each other. They’d both be thinking the same thing: was there anything in the videos or pictures that might help the case?

‘How can we watch the videos?’ Dance asked.

‘You join. A hundred a month and you can download whatever you want.’

Dance went to the home page and signed up.

Boling added, ‘If you want, you can get a discount if you join Cyber-Necro’s sister site at the same time.’

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

Boling smiled. ‘I think it’s called Sluts-On-Demand.’

Dance nodded. ‘Probably just the one. It’s going to be hard enough to get Charles to sign off on my expense account as it is.’

In a half-hour they’d downloaded all of the clips and images of Solitude Creek. She wondered who’d taken the videos. During the canvassing she’d asked if anyone had done so; no one admitted it, perhaps not wishing to seem heartless.

But they found nothing helpful. The images, video and still, were low resolution and murky. No clues.

One picture Dance stared at for a long moment. It was a still image similar to the one Prescott had used for his phony jihad rant on Vidster. It showed the interior of the club, taken several days after the event, according to the time stamp.

‘What?’ O’Neil asked, seeing her face.

‘Oh, I couldn’t place that face.’ She pointed. Although the focus of the pictures was the bloodstains, in the mirror behind the bar you could see several faces. They were indistinct but the one she indicated was fairly visible.

‘It’s the US Congressman.’

‘Congressman?’

‘Nashima. Daniel Nashima. He must’ve come back to examine the club after the police released the scene.’

Boling said, ‘If it’s an election year, he’ll be talking about reforms in fire codes and all that. Not to be cynical.’

Dance said, ‘Really appreciate all this. Thanks, Jon.’

‘Wish I’d been more helpful.’

‘That’s the thing about policing,’ O’Neil said. ‘Even when it doesn’t pan out, you’ve got to do the work anyway.’

So Prescott’s computer was a bust. But then Dance asked, ‘What about the unsub’s phone?’

The burner he’d dropped during the pursuit in Orange County.

‘It’s a prepaid from a Chicago exchange.’

‘Like the one he used at the site of the Bay View Center disaster to lead police into thinking the killer was headed toward Fisherman’s Wharf.’

Boling added, ‘My guess is he goes through a phone every few days. This one has only a few texts on it. To and from a prepaid with a California exchange.’ He consulted his notes. ‘Incoming: “Very pleased so far. Second installment en route.” Outgoing: “Good. Thanks.” Incoming: “What’s next?” Outgoing: “Cleaning up. All will be good. Will be in touch.”’

‘Well,’ Dance whispered.

O’Neil was nodding. ‘There’s our answer.’

She said, ‘Sure is.’

Boling said, ‘Sorry? What do you mean?’

She explained, ‘Our unsub is a pro. He’s working for somebody.’

Dance then placed a call to TJ Scanlon, gave him the number of the California phone and asked him to contact the service provider and see if it was still active.

‘On it, boss.’

Then a thought occurred to her. She considered it. Interesting idea. She said to O’Neil. ‘Do you have the pictures of your Jane Doe, the one we think our unsub killed?’

‘Sure.’

He went onto the MCSO secure server and called them up.

On her computer she accessed the images of Stan Prescott.

O’Neil said, ‘Right. Like we were saying: Same sort of MO. Strangled or asphyxia. On their backs.’

‘And,’ she said, ‘look. They’re both under lights.’

‘Maybe they just fell there.’

‘No. I don’t think so. I think he moved the lamps so he could get pictures on his cell phone. It occurred to me when I was looking at the crime-scene pictures on that website – those bodies were all well-lit too.’

O’Neil nodded, now understanding. ‘Proof of death.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What do you mean?’ Boling asked.

‘He needed clear pictures to prove that the witnesses’d been eliminated. That line in the text about “cleaning up”. He’s making a lot of money on this job and he wants to be sure the man who’s hired him is confident he’s not leaving any traces.’

Five-thousand-dollar shoes …

O’Neil said, ‘Brilliant. He’s targeted a couple of venues to make it look like this’s the work of a psycho. But, no, he’s got a specific venue in mind. He was hired to destroy it.’

‘Or a person,’ Dance said, after a moment. ‘He could’ve been hired to destroy a location, sure. But also to kill somebody specific.’

O’Neil nodded. ‘Sure. Makes sense. But if it’s an individual, then who?’

Dance offered, ‘At the hospital, no one in the elevator could have been the intended victim.’

‘Because how could he know who’d be in that car at that time? And at the Bay View Center – that venue wouldn’t’ve worked either.’

‘No,’ O’Neil said. ‘The people who died all drowned. He couldn’t be sure he’d get a specific target there. How’d he know who’d jump into the bay? No, it was Solitude Creek. His target was there, in the audience.’

O’Neil: ‘The panic starts. The unsub’s changed out of his workman’s clothes. He’s in the audience. He gets close to the victim and kills him or her. Trips them maybe, crushes their throat, breaks a rib that pierces their lung.’

‘He’d be in the mob too. But no—’

‘Right.’ O’Neil carried through on her thought: ‘He’s a big guy. He can survive a bit of jostling.’

‘Besides, remember, there was no fire. It wasn’t like he was going to burn to death. He knew most people would get out okay.’

O’Neil was scrolling through his mobile. ‘There were three deaths at Solitude Creek. Guess we’ll have to look at all the victims.’

It was then that she had one of those moments.

A to B to Z …

‘Let’s go for a drive,’ said Kathryn Dance.

‘Me?’ Boling asked.

She smiled.

‘No. Better if it’s just Michael and me.’

CHAPTER 68

‘Oh. Hi, Mrs Dance. I mean, Agent Dance.’

‘Hello, Trish. This is Detective O’Neil with the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office.’

Nervous. Naturally.

‘Hi.’

The detective nodded down to her. ‘Hello, Trish. I’m sorry about your mother.’

‘Yeah. Thanks. It’s, you know, tough.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

The three stood on the front porch of one of the nicest houses Dance had ever seen. Easily seven thousand square feet. Stone and glass and chrome. A Beverly Hills house, a Malibu house. A rich producer’s or film star’s house.

A moving company truck was parked by the garage. The workers were carrying boxes and furniture into the house, not out.

She’d known Frederick was moving back in but she appreciated this physical evidence regarding who had hired the Solitude Creek unsub.

Dance asked, ‘Is your father home?’

‘No. He’s taking my aunt and uncle to the airport. But he could be back soon.’

A conspiratorial smile. ‘We won’t be long. I know he’s not a big fan of mine. Do you mind if we ask you a few more questions?’

‘You want to come in?’

‘Thank you.’

They walked into the entryway – bigger than Dance’s living room and kitchen combined – then entered a study. Sumptuous leather and metal furniture. The couch alone could have been traded in for a new Pathfinder. They all sat.

‘Uhm, the thing is, I didn’t tell my father we talked, you and me,’ the girl said.

‘We’ll play along.’ Dance gave a smile. ‘If he comes back.’

Relief flooded Trish’s eyes. ‘Thanks. Like, really.’

‘Sure.’

‘I heard he did the same thing at the Bay View Center.’

O’Neil said, ‘And the hospital, the fire in the elevator.’

‘Why’s he doing it?’

They, of course, demurred on the suspected motive. Dance said, ‘We don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be any clear reason. Now, Trish, I’m sorry to ask but I need to know a little more about your mother’s death. Some of the facts. Are you up for that?’

She was still. She took a deep breath, then nodded. ‘If it’ll help you catch this asshole.’

‘I hope it will.’

‘Okay, sure. I guess.’

Dance said, ‘Go back to that night. At the Solitude Creek Club. After you and your mother got separated.’

A nod.

O’Neil, who’d read the account, said, ‘If I understand, you were being swept toward the kitchen and she was in the crowd going for the exit doors.’

‘That’s right.’

Dance asked, ‘But before you got into the kitchen, you could see your mother, right?’

Eyes hollow, she nodded. ‘Yeah. With the emergency lights. I could see good.’

‘Trish, this is a hard question but I have to know. Did it look to you like somebody hurt your mother intentionally? Pushed her out of the way? On to the floor? To save themselves?’ She was hardly going to suggest to the girl that her father had hired someone to kill Michelle Cooper, his ex-wife.

The girl said, ‘Oh, are you thinking of arresting some of the people in the crowd?’

‘Whenever somebody dies, it’s important to get the exact details.’

‘For the reports,’ O’Neil added.

Trish was shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. The last time I saw her—’ She choked, then continued, ‘The last time I saw her, she was waving at me and then she disappeared behind the pillar, near the last exit door.’

‘Did you see anybody beside her, holding her, pushing her?’

‘No. But the next thing I knew I was in the kitchen and then we were falling out onto the gravel and grass, and everybody was screaming and crying.’

Tears streaked her cheeks. Dance dug into her purse and found a pack of Kleenex. ‘Here you go.’

Trish opened the pack and pulled a few out, wiped and blew.

Dance was disappointed she hadn’t provided anything concrete. But Dance and O’Neil had other facts to uncover – slowly and with finesse.

‘Thanks, Trish, this’s been helpful.’

‘Sure.’ She sniffed.

O’Neil delivered his line, according to their script: ‘I don’t think we have anything else.’

Dance looked around the room. ‘Your father’s moving back. Where does he live now?’

‘Yeah. He lives in a place in Carmel Valley now.’

‘Nice.’

‘Not really. Not his place. It’s a total dive. And with me in school – Carmel High’s a mile away – it made sense for him to move here. Like …’ She glanced around her. ‘Not really too shabby, huh?’

O’Neil asked, ‘Was this your house when your folks were married?’

Finesse …

‘That’s right.’

Dance offered another glance to O’Neil. The cheating husband had lost it in the property settlement. Now he was back in. He couldn’t take title – it would be part of the bequest to Trish from her mother. But when she came of age he would work on her to get it transferred back to him. Motive one for Frederick Martin to be the killer. She suspected there was another too.

‘Was it a tough divorce?’ O’Neil asked. Good delivery, Dance thought. They’d rehearsed the line on the drive here.

‘Oh, yeah, really mean. It was awful. They said really bad things about each other.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Dance offered.

‘It totally sucked, yeah.’

Dance added, ‘Hard about the money too, I imagine. The alimony payments?’

‘Oh, yeah. I think they called it something else.’

‘Maintenance,’ O’Neil chimed in. Of the two of them, Dance and O’Neil, he was the only one with first-hand experience of the dissolution of a marriage.

‘Oh, yeah, that’s it. They don’t know that I know. But I heard them talk. Really big checks. Like fifteen thousand a month.’

Dance assumed that, while child support would go on as long as Trish was under eighteen, maintenance payments would terminate upon the death or remarriage of the ex-spouse. So Martin would save nearly two hundred K a year. For a man living in a small house in the valley, presumably with limited income, that could be a huge windfall.

Motive number two.

And Martin would have known Michelle would be at the club. He would have given instructions to the unsub to make sure the girl was safe.

Or would he?

Dance felt her gut flip. If the girl had died too, was her father the beneficiary of her will? Would he have gotten the entire house and estate back?

Then Trish was saying, ‘It’s, like, too bad Dad’ll lose all that.’

‘Too bad … what?’ Dance asked.

‘I mean, he does okay at his job but he could really use that money. Trying to go back to school and everything.’

Silence for a moment. The girl’s words spun like a top through Dance’s thoughts.

‘Your mother was paying your father alimony?’ she asked.

‘Yeah.’

O’Neil asked, ‘Why did your parents get divorced?’

Trish looked down. ‘My mom kind of cheated on him. And he’s such a nice guy. Really cool. But Mom, she just sort of … you know, she ran around a lot. And not just with one guy but a bunch of them. Dad worked part time to raise me and put Mom through school. He didn’t finish his degree. So when he found out she’d been cheating on him and went for the divorce, the judge made her pay alimony. I mean, maintenance. Man, I don’t know what he’s going to do now for money.’