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‘Thanks.’

‘Anything else, Kathryn?’

‘Not yet. But stay close.’

‘Sure.’

Dance flipped through the folder, skimmed. She closed it and walked through the corridors to Overby’s office. Her boss gestured her inside, dropping his landline phone into its cradle. ‘Sacramento.’ He said this with a grimace. An explanation would logically follow that but none was forthcoming and she didn’t press it. She supposed he’d been dinged because of the latest incident on the Peninsula – the hospital attack – and the corollary: the tardiness of finding the Solitude Creek killer. Or the Oakland warehouse fire, which had damaged Operation Pipeline. Or the Serrano operation.

Or just because bureaucracy was bureaucracy.

As she sat down in one of the office chairs, Michael O’Neil stepped into the office too.

‘Michael, greetings,’ Overby said.

‘Charles.’ Then to Dance a nod. She thought he looked tired, as he sat heavily beside her.

‘What do you have?’

The deputy answered, ‘The preliminary report from the hospital. Not much, sorry to say. But not surprising. Given how smart this guy is.’

‘How did he do it, the elevator?’

‘There’s not a lot of security video but it seems he dressed in scrubs – cap and booties too – and stole a key from the maintenance room. He got into the elevator motor room on the top floor, cut the wires feeding both cars. Primary and backup. CSU took tool marks but you know how helpful those are.’

‘There was some power,’ Dance said, recalling the blinding glare from the lights attached to the security camera. She explained this.

O’Neil said, ‘Probably battery backup for that in the car itself. But it must not’ve been connected to the intercom.’ He glanced at his notes. ‘There was a fire in the elevator shaft but it was from ether. Hot burn but no smoke. What people smelled was from the burning Honda. We think he did that to make sure the fire alarms didn’t go off. That would send an automatic notice to the fire department. They’d be there in five, ten minutes. He wanted to keep the carnage going for as long as he could.’

‘Well,’ Overby said.

Dance added, ‘And we have no idea what he’s driving now. There’s no security video in the garage at the hospital. If that’s, in fact, where he parked. Or, for all we know, he hiked a mile to where he left his new wheels.’

She explained that while she believed the unsub was a pro, hired by somebody else, their one suspect – Frederick Martin – had not panned out. The other victims at Solitude Creek seemed unlikely targets for a pro. ‘We’re back to thinking somebody may have been targeting the venues themselves. The roadhouse, the Bay View Center or the hospital. But why? We just don’t know.’

She noted that Overby wasn’t fully attentive. He was staring at his computer screen, which showed a streaming newscast from a local TV station. The Hero Fireman was giving another interview – this time about his efforts at the hospital incident.

Overby muted the set. ‘I read an article one time. It was pretty interesting. About a fireman in Buffalo, New York. You ever hear about it?’

There were presumably a lot of firemen in Buffalo, Dance reflected. But you usually let Charles Overby run with whatever it was he was running with. ‘No, Charles.’

‘Nup.’

‘He was pretty good at his job. Brave. There’d be a fire in an apartment. He’d race in, make his way around the flames, save a family or the pet dog. Happened three or four times. He knew just where the fire’d started, how best to fight it. Amazing how he saved people. His truck was usually first on the scene and he could read a fire like nobody else. That’s what they say: reading a fire. Firemen say that, I mean.

‘Well, guess what, boys and girls? The fireman set the fires himself. Not because he was a pyromaniac, if that’s what they call those people. No, he didn’t care about the fires. He cared about the prestige. The glory. He basked in it. Went away for attempted murder, in addition to the arson, burglary and assault charges. I think they dropped the vandalism. Didn’t need it, really.’

He stabbed a finger at the TV. ‘Have you noticed that Brad Dannon has been on the scene of the disasters pretty damn fast? And that he was real eager to talk to the media about what he did? “Hero”. That’s what they’re calling him. So. You think he might be the perp, your unsub?’ A faint smile of triumph.

‘I—’ Dance began.

‘Wonder why we didn’t think of that before?’

Dance wished he hadn’t added that last sentence. Throughout his monologue she’d been trying to figure out some way to sideline him before he tossed out a line like that.

Well, nothing to do.

She set the folder she’d just received on his desk. ‘Actually, Charles, I did wonder if Brad might be a suspect. So I had Rey Carreneo check him out.’ She tapped the file. ‘He correlated his whereabouts and checked phone records. After Bay View, we’ve got the unsub’s prepaid number. There was no connection. He’s innocent. His boss at MCFD says he’s usually on the scene in the first ten minutes of a call. He cruises around the county with a scanner, even when he’s off duty. Oh, and he’s known for being a real pain in the ass.’

A pause.

‘Oh. Good. Great minds think alike.’ And the look on his face wasn’t sheepishness for having been out-thought, Dance believed: it was pure relief that he hadn’t offered up the theory at a press conference only to recant a few hours later based on the findings of his suspended underling.

Dance’s mobile hummed. It was TJ Scanlon.

‘Hey.’

‘Boss, I’ve been plundering various and sundry records. Real estate, deeds, construction permits. Per your request.’

She knew he had. ‘Yes?’

‘Dusty. You’d think everything would be online but, un-uh. I’ve been prowling through shelves, back rooms. Caverns. Where are you?’

‘Charles’s office.’

‘I’ll be there in one. You’re going to want to see this.’

He arrived in less time than that. And his flecked Jefferson Airplane T-shirt and, yes, dusty jeans attested to his old-fashioned detective work.

Caverns …

He held a folder similar to the one she’d just passed to Overby.

‘Michael, Charles. Hey, boss. Okay. Check this out. Nobody got back to me from that Nevada company, the one planning the construction near Solitude Creek? So I thought I’d do some digging. Try to find shareholders, whatever. Well, the company’s owned by an anonymous trust. I tried to get a look at the trust but it’s not public. I could, though, find out who represents it. Barrett Stone, a lawyer in San Francisco. How’s that for a lawyer’s name? I’d want him representing me, I’ll tell you. Okay, I’ll get to the point. The phone company coughed up his call log for me, and I looked them over. Guess who the lawyer’s been calling? Three calls in the past two days.’

Overby lifted his palms.

‘Sam Cohen. So I called him. And found out that Stone, on behalf of the trust, made a cash offer to buy the roadhouse and the property it sits on.’

‘So, there’s a motive,’ Dance said. ‘Ruin the business, then buy up the land cheap. Build a new development on it. Maybe buy Henderson Jobbing too, now that they’re going out of business.’

O’Neil asked, ‘How do we find out who’s behind the trust? … I don’t know if we’ve got enough for a warrant.’

‘I did the next best thing. I pulled together some of Stone’s more prominent clients. Recognize anyone?’ He set a sheet of paper in front of them.

One name was highlighted in yellow. He’d also drawn an exclamation point next to it.

Neither was necessary.

Dance blinked. ‘Hm.’

‘Well,’ Overby said. ‘This’s going to be … I don’t know what this is going to be.’

‘Awkward’ came first to Dance’s mind. Then: ‘explosive’.

Overby looked from her to O’Neil. ‘You’d better get on it right now. Good luck.’

Meaning he was already thinking about how to extricate himself from the train wreck about to occur.

CHAPTER 74

En route to Salinas.

Kathryn Dance was piecing together a portrait of the man now suspected of hiring the Solitude Creek Unsub. She was online. Michael O’Neil, driving.

Forty-one-year-old Congressman Daniel Nashima had represented what was now the Twentieth Congressional District of California for eight terms. He was a Democrat but a moderate one, advocating socially liberal positions, like gay marriage and a woman’s right to choose, but pushing for lower taxes on the wealthy (‘Most of the one percent got that way by working hard, not by inheriting their money’).

Nashima himself was a living example of that philosophy. He’d made a lot of money through Internet start-ups and real-estate deals. His goal of financial success, however, didn’t vitiate his do-good attitude, of course. If anything, the altruism deflected attention from his capitalistic side. You tend not to think of a man’s net worth when he’s hauling forty-pound blocks of concrete off victims trapped in earthquake rubble.

Nashima’s performance in Congress was stellar. He showed up for the majority of votes, he reached across the aisle, he served on the hardworking committees, Ethics and Homeland Security, without complaint. His term in office had never been tainted with the least scandal: he’d gotten divorced before commencing a romantic liaison with a lobbyist (who had no connection with him professionally), and in his closest brush with crime, it had been discovered that his housekeeper had herself forged visas – he had been duped like everyone else. Dance and O’Neil were accompanied by Albert Stemple and a Monterey County Sheriff’s Office deputy. Dance had learned that Nashima was a hunter and had a conceal-carry permit.

They now arrived at his office in Santa Cruz. In a strip mall, next to a surfboard rental and sales shop, whose posters suggested you could walk to Maverick, site of the most righteous surfing on the west coast (it was fifty miles north).

With Stemple remaining outside, lookout, the other three stepped inside. The Congressman’s assistant, a pretty, diminutive Japanese-American woman, looked them over, hostile, then walked to the back of the suite. She returned a moment later and ushered them inside.

After introductions, Nashima calmly surveyed them all. ‘And what can I do for you?’

Shields were displayed, identifications offered.

Nashima was still examining hers when Dance took the lead. ‘Congressman, we’d like to ask about your connection with Solitude Creek.’

‘I don’t understand.’ The man sat back, relaxed though stony-faced. His movement and gestures were precise.

‘Please. It’ll be easier for everybody if you cooperate.’

‘Cooperate? About what? You walk in here, accusation all over your face. Obviously you think I did something wrong. I don’t have any idea what. Give me a clue.’

His indignation was credible. But that was common among the High Machiavellians – expert deceivers – when they were called on lies they’d just told.

Calmly she persisted, ‘Are you trying to purchase property on Solitude Creek north off Highway One, the building and the land the roadhouse is located on?’

He blinked. Was this the point where he would demand a lawyer?

‘As a matter of fact, I’m not, no.’

The first phrase was often a deception flag. Like: ‘I swear’. Or ‘I’m not going to lie to you’.

‘Well, your attorney made an offer for the property.’

A pause. It could mean a lie was coming and he was trying to figure out what they knew. Or that he was furious.

‘Is that right? I wasn’t aware of it.’

‘You’re denying that Barrett Stone, your lawyer, talked to Sam Cohen and made an offer to buy the property?’

The Congressman sighed. And lowered his head. ‘You are, of course, investigating the terrible incident at the roadhouse.’ He nodded. ‘I remember you, Agent Dance. You were there the next day.’

O’Neil said, ‘And you came back a few days later to look over the property you wanted to buy.’

He nodded. ‘You’re thinking I orchestrated the attack to drive the property value down. Ah, and presumably the second attack at Cannery Row was to cover up the motive for the first attack. Make it look like some kind of psycho was involved. Oh, and the hospital too, sure.’

He was sounding oddly confident. Still, what else was he going to say?

‘I have alibis for one or all of the incidents … Oh, but that’s not what you’re thinking, I’m sure. No. You’re thinking I hired this psycho.’

Dance remained silent. In the art of interrogation and interviewing, all too often the officer responds to comments or questions posed by the subject. Keep mum and let them talk. (Dance had once gotten a full confession by asking a suspected murderer, ‘So, you come to Monterey often?’)

Daniel Nashima now rose. He looked both law enforcers over carefully. Then set his hands, palms down, on the desk. His face revealed no emotion whatsoever as he said, ‘All right. I’ll confess. I’ll confess to everything. But on one condition.’

CHAPTER 75

Donnie and Wes were hanging on Mrs Dance’s back porch, huddling in the back, along with Nathan (Neo, from the Matrix) and Vince (Vulcan – no, not the race of the dudes from Star Trek but the X-Man).

Fritos and orange juice and a little smuggled Red Bull were the hors d’oeuvres and cocktails of the hour.

‘So, what’re you? Like grounded?’ slim, pimply Vince asked.

Wes sighed. ‘My mother’s running that case, that thing at Solitude Creek, where the people got killed. And the Bay View Center?’

Nathan: ‘No shit. Where people jumped into the water and drowned. She’s doing that?’

‘And she’s like all paranoid he’s going to come around and mess with us.’

‘Get a piece, dude. Really. Waste him, the fucker shows up.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Wes said.

Vince asked, ‘How’re you gonna play the game, man? Jesus.’

Wes shrugged. ‘I gotta have rides to school and home. But I can still get away. Just have to be careful about it. Not when my mom’s here. But Jon? I can tell him I’ve got a headache or need to take a nap. Get out through my window. I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.’

Donnie waved to Mrs Dance’s boyfriend, Jon, who, Donnie thought, was spying on them, though maybe not. The guy actually seemed friendly enough and sure as shit knew machines: he hacked epic code and showed Donnie how to write script for games. Donnie had this fantasy about taking the Defend and Respond Expedition Service game onto the net, making millions. Where you’d fuck with people in the virtual world.

Yeah, it could be a good game. Mucho more interesting than wasting zombies with machine-guns.

Donnie shifted on the bench and he must’ve winced. Wes noticed. ‘Yo, what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, bitch. I’m fine.’

Except he wasn’t fine. His father’d noticed the missing bike and, even though he seemed to believe the lie that Donnie had lent it to a friend, he’d whacked him a half-dozen times with the branch for not asking permission to lend out a present. (‘And you know how much it cost?’) He was under orders to produce the bike tomorrow, or face even worse punishment.