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In the first set, Carol Allerton had suicidally lunged at the fake Serrano, knocking a table of ceramic keepsakes to the floor. Gomez had sighed, resigned himself to death and said a prayer.

And Foster had played the OG card, invoking the name of Lamont Howard to save himself.

‘If you’d passed the test, it would have meant Steve Lu was the one. Since you said you’d told Kathryn you were the only connection, he’s clean.’

‘You fucking set me up.’

Finally, quiet Al Stemple spoke: ‘I think “set up” means more wrongly implicating an innocent person, ’stead of trapping a guilty asshole. Am I being transparent enough, Steve?’ He gave a loud grunt, then sat back and crossed his arms, wide as tree trunks.

The Guzman Connection sting had been Dance’s idea and she’d fought hard for it. All the way up to Sacramento.

She’d decided to put together the operation after a horrific drive-by shooting in Seaside, a mother killed and a child wounded. The woman had been a witness to one of the Pipeline hubs. But no one could have known about her – except for a leak inside the operation itself.

‘I went through the files a hundred times and looked for any other instance of operations that could’ve been compromised. TJ and I spent weeks correlating the personnel. We narrowed it down to four people involved in all of them – and who knew that Maria Ioaconna was a witness. You, Carol, Steve Lu and Jimmy. We brought you here. And set up the operation.’

There’d been risks, of course. That the guilty party might wonder why Dance was apparently working on the Solitude Creek case but was officially barred from the Serrano pursuit.

(Overby had said, ‘Can’t you forget about Solitude Creek, stay home and, I don’t know, plant flowers? You can still show up at the Serrano sets.’

‘I’m working Solitude,’ she’d answered bluntly.)

Risks to her physically too – as O’Neil had pointed out so vehemently: it was possible that their traitor would call someone like Lamont Howard, who’d show up at one of the sets with his crew and waste everybody present.

But there was nothing else to do: Dance was determined to find their betrayer.

Foster stared at the room’s ugly gray floors, and the muscles in his face flickered.

Dance added, ‘We never hoped for him directly. But getting Howard on the tape, ordering my hit?’

‘Ah, that’s righteous.’ Overby beamed.

A word she didn’t believe she’d ever heard Overby say. He seemed to mull the line over and was embarrassed.

But Dance smiled his way. He was right. It was righteous. And a lot more.

Overby looked at his watch. Golf? Or maybe he was considering with some dismay the call to Sacramento, the CBI chief, to tell them the traitor came from the hallowed halls of their own agency. ‘Keep going, Kathryn. Convince him of the futility of his silence. Convince him of the shining path of confession. Whatever he says or doesn’t, the media’ll be here soon. You’ll be at the podium with me, I hope?’

Charles Overby sharing a press conference?

‘You’ve earned the limelight, Kathryn.’

‘Think I’d rather pass, Charles. It’s been a long day.’ She nodded toward Foster. ‘And this may take a while.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I am. Yes.’ Dance turned to her prey.

CHAPTER 91

A shadow in her office doorway.

Michael O’Neil stood there. Somber. His dark eyes locked on hers. Brown, green. Then he looked away.

‘Hey,’ she said.

He nodded and sat down.

‘You heard?’

‘Foster. Yeah. Complete confession. Good job.’

‘Gave up a dozen names. People we never would’ve found. Bangers in LA and Oakland. Bakersfield, Fresno too.’ Dance looked away from her computer, on which she was typing notes from the Antioch March case. The promise of paperwork stretched out, long as the Golden Gate Bridge.

Documenting the Guzman Connection sting, part of Operation Pipeline, would be next, the arrest of Steve Foster.

She’d actually thought he was the least likely suspect, given his obnoxious nature. Kathryn Dance was accustomed to the apparent being the opposite of the real. Dance had suspected mostly Carol Allerton. What state cop didn’t love bashing a fed? But now she felt guilty about that. The DEA agent had been a good ally after the first sting operation. And she was very pleased too that Jimmy Gomez, a friend, had not been the betrayer.

She now told Michael O’Neil about the finale of the sting. She, of course, didn’t add that she believed she’d been right – that had she gone in armed, had she not maintained the sham of her suspension, Foster wouldn’t have bought the scam.

Then she noted: O’Neil was listening but not listening. He regarded the photographs on her desk – the one of her with the children and the dog. The eight-by-ten of her with her husband, Bill. Whatever happened in her personal life, she was never going to put those pictures in an attic box. Displayed, always.

She fell silent for a moment, then asked, ‘All right. What is it?’

‘Something happened today. I have to tell you.’ Then he turned his head, rose again and shut the door. As if he’d meant to do that when he walked in but had been so focused on what he wanted to say that any other thoughts had scattered, like dropped marbles.

Something happened …

‘The hate crime I’ve been working?’

‘Sure.’ Had there been another defacing? Was it an actual attack this time? Hate crimes often escalated from words to blood. Dragging to death gays, shootings of blacks or Jews.

‘Goldschmidt’s house again.’

‘The perps came back?’

‘They did. But it seems Goldschmidt wasn’t completely honest with us. Apparently he found their bikes and kept them. He wanted them to come back. He was using the bikes as bait.’

‘So, they were bikers.’

‘No, bicycles.’

‘Kids were doing it?’

‘That’s right.’

She looked at him levelly. ‘And what happened, Michael?’

‘Goldschmidt had a shotgun. Didn’t listen to you the other night.’

‘Goddamnit! Did he shoot anybody?’

‘He was going to,’ O’Neil said. ‘He denies it but – why else keep a loaded Beretta by the garage door?’

‘“Going to”?’

‘While they were on the street, getting closer, I got a call. It was from one of the perps, calling. He was warning me that something bad was going down. He was worried about weapons. I should get TAC and backup there immediately. He said TAC.’

‘One of the kids? Called you? And said that?’

‘Yep.’ He took a breath. ‘I called PG police and they had cars there in a minute or two. They secured everything. Kathryn, the one who called me was Wes.’

‘Who?’ Curious for a moment. And then the name settled. ‘But you said one of the perps!’

‘Wes, that’s right. The others were Donnie, his friend, and another boy. Nathan.’

She whispered. ‘A mistake. It has to be a mistake.’

He continued: ‘It was Donnie tagging the houses. Wes was with him. Nathan and another friend were doing other things. Stealing traffic signs, shoplifting.’

‘Impossible.’

O’Neil said, ‘That game they were playing?’

‘Defend and … I don’t know.’ Her mind was a whitewater rapid, swirling, out of control.

‘Defend and Respond Expedition Service.’

‘That’s it. What about it?’

‘It’s an acronym. D-A-R-E-S. There were teams. Each one dared the other side to do things that could land them in jail.’

Dance gave a cold laugh. She’d been so pleased that the boys were playing a game with paper and pen and avoiding the violence of the computer world, which had seduced Antioch March and helped turn him into a killer. And now the analog life had proven just as destructive.

A game you played with paper and pen? How harmful could that be? …

‘And Wes’s team was dared to commit the hate crimes?’

‘That’s right. Donnie has some juvie time under his belt. Troubled kid. And tonight? He had a weapon. His father’s gun. A thirty-eight.’

‘My God.’

‘He said at first he just brought it for protection but then he admitted he was going to rob Goldschmidt. Some dream of moving out of his home. I’ve spoken to his father. Frankly, hardly blame the boy. Whatever happens, he’ll be better off out of that household. I think he confessed so he didn’t have to go back home.’

Well, I’m not sure what to call you.

Mrs Dance …

‘Wes actually wrote those horrible things on the buildings and houses?’

‘No. He was just a lookout for Donnie.’

Still, that didn’t absolve him. Even if he hadn’t tagged the house himself he was a co-conspirator. An accessory. And with the gun? It could be conspiracy to commit armed robbery. And what if someone had been killed because of a stolen stop sign? Homicide.

‘I’m just setting the stage, Kathryn. There’s more.’

Seriously? How the hell much more bad can there be?

A cramp spidered through her right hand: she’d been gripping a pen furiously. She set it down. ‘I was concentrating on Maggie, who was upset about singing a damn song, and here was Wes committing felonies! I didn’t pay him any attention. His life could be over—’

‘Kathryn. Here.’ He set a mobile phone on her desk. And dug into his pocket and placed an envelope beside it.

She recognized the Samsung as Wes’s. She looked up, frowning.

‘There’re videos on the phone. And this’s a police report that Wes created.’ He pushed the envelope toward her.

‘A police report? What do you mean?’

‘Unofficial.’ O’Neil offered a rare smile. ‘He’s been working undercover for a month. That’s how he put it.’

She picked up the envelope, opened it. Pages of computer printouts, a diary, detailing times and dates.

28 April, 6.45 p.m. in the evening, I personally observed subject Donald, a.k.a. Donnie, Verso paint on the south-west wall of the Latino Immigration Rights Center, at 1884 Alvarado Drive, with a Krylon spray can the words: ‘Go back to Mexico you wetbacks.’ The color of the paint was dark red.

O’Neil took the boy’s phone and ran the camera app. He scrolled through until he found a video. It was shaking but it clearly showed Donnie tagging a building.

‘And the other dares? The ones Donnie challenged the other team with? Wes documented those too. And the stolen street signs? Wes followed Nathan and some friend Vincent when they dug up the stop sign. He called nine one one right away to report it. And stayed at the intersection to make sure nobody was hurt.’

She stared at the video. In a quiet voiceover: ‘I Wes Swenson am personally observing Donald Verso place graffiti on the Baptist New World Church …’

O’Neil continued, ‘A month or so ago a friend of Wes – I think his name was Rashiv – had a run-in with Donnie and Nathan and another one of Donnie’s crew.’

Dance told him, ‘That’s right. Rashiv and Wes were friends. Then Wes just stopped seeing him. I don’t know what happened.’

‘Donnie and the others were bullying him, extorting money, beating him up. They stole a games console. Rashiv told Wes about it. There wasn’t anything they could do themselves – you’ve seen Nathan?’

‘Yes. Big.’

‘He was the muscle in the crew. He’d do anything Donnie told him. Including hurting people badly. Wes’d heard that Donnie and his friends were into some illegal things – the DARES game was being talked about in school, though nobody knew exactly what it was. Wes decided to find out and – these were his words – “collar the bastard”. He talked his way into the clique and finally got Donnie to trust him enough to let him play.

‘He even set it up with Rashiv to meet “accidentally” and Wes’d pretend to steal a comic or something from him, threaten to hurt him. Donnie bought it all.’

‘And today? At Goldschmidt’s?’

‘Wes’d noticed Donnie acting strange lately. More erratic. The night Donnie tagged Goldschmidt’s house? Wes saw him pick up a rock. He was going to attack somebody who was approaching where they were hiding. Near Junipero Manor.’

Dance whispered, ‘Me. That was me.’

O’Neil said only, ‘I know.’ He continued, ‘Wes couldn’t give himself away to Donnie that night but he turned his phone volume up and scrolled to ringtones. It played a sample, like he was getting a call. Donnie got spooked and took off.’

Dance closed her eyes and her head dipped. ‘He saved me. Maybe saved my life.’

‘Then tonight he caught a glimpse of something in Donnie’s pocket and thought it might be a gun. So he decided, whatever evidence he had, enough was enough. It was time to call in the cavalry.’

‘Why didn’t he just report it in the first place? A month ago? Why play undercover?’

O’Neil’s eyes swept her desk. ‘I don’t know. Maybe to make you proud of him.’

‘I am.’

But even as Kathryn Dance said those words she wondered, Does he know it? Really know it?

Or, Dance suddenly thought of O’Neil, to make you proud of him.

Silence filled the room. Dance was thinking of the conversation she would have to have with the boy. Whatever the good motives, there were some minefields here. Dance had amassed capital in Monterey County with the prosecutor’s office; she’d have to see how much, and how negotiable it was. And, she thought too, Donnie’ll need help. Not just jail time. At that age, nobody was irredeemable. Kathryn Dance believed this. She’d do what she could to get him into treatment, whatever facility he was sent to.

Then she looked at O’Neil, to see that his expression and posture had changed dramatically. No kinesic subtlety here.

And everything she saw set off alarms within Kathryn Dance. She thought: As if what Michael just told me about Wes weren’t enough. What was coming next?

He said, ‘Look, as if what I just told you wasn’t enough …’

Any other time she might have smiled; now her heart was racing.

‘There’s something else.’ He glanced back to her door. Still shut.

‘I can see that. What’s it about?’

‘Okay, it’s about … I guess you could say, us.’

Dance’s head rose and dipped slightly, a nod being one of the most ambiguous of gestures. It was often a defensive move, meaning: I need to buy some time and toughen up the heart.

Because she knew what was coming next. Michael and Anne were getting back together. It happened more than one might think, reconciliation. Once the divorce papers had been signed, a little cooling off, the ex-wife’s lover turned into a creep or was duller than dull. Old hubby doesn’t seem so bad after all. They’d decided to clean house, roll up their sleeves and try again.

Why else would Anne have been there the other day, at CBI, with the kids? Dressed like the perfect mom from Central Casting. O’Neil’s comments: the sort-of babysitter, the plural pronoun about having plans the night of Maggie’s show.

‘So, here’s the thing.’

Michael O’Neil’s eyes were fixed on a thoroughly ugly yellow ceramic cat that Maggie had squeezed together in first grade.

Dance’s eyes were unwaveringly on his.

CHAPTER 92

Her house beckoned.

The Victorian structure glowed, thanks to subdued sconces near the door and, from inside, light paled to old bone by the curtains. Dots of white Christmas lights around an occasional window or clustering on a plant added to the ambience of magic. The illumination was lopsided but no matter: Dance had never felt the need to be symmetrical.