Jeffery Deaver - Solitude Creek

Dance heard that the California state representative for this area — and a rumored competitor for the US Senate seat Nashima was considering next year — was out of town and not making the trip back from Vegas for a sympathy call. This would be an oops for his career.

Nashima politely but firmly ended the interview he was giving and walked away, refusing other media requests. He was studying the scene and walking up to people who were leaving flowers or praying or simply standing in mournful poses. He spoke to them with head down, embraced them. Dance believed once or twice he wiped tears from his cheek. That wasn’t for the camera. He was pointedly turned away from the media.

About thirty such grievers and spectators were present. With Bob Holly’s blessing, Dance made the rounds of them now, flashed her badge, as shiny and official in its Civ-Div mode as when she was a criminal investigator, and asked questions about the truck, about the fire in the oil drum, about anyone skulking about outside the club last night.

Negatives, all around.

She tried to identify anyone who’d been in the mob that morning but couldn’t. True, most had probably vanished. Still, she knew from her work that at harrowing times our powers of observation and retention fail us completely.

She noticed a car pulling into the lot and easing slowly to the police line, near where the impromptu memorial of flowers and stuffed animals was growing. The car was a fancy one, a new-model two-door Lexus, sleek, black.

There were two occupants, and, though Dance couldn’t see them clearly, they were having a serious discussion. Even in silhouette, the body radiates intent and mood. The driver, a man in his forties, climbed out, bent down, said a few more words through the car’s open door, then flipped the seat forward and extracted a bouquet from the back. He said something else to the other occupant, in the front passenger seat, whose response must have been negative because the man shrugged and continued on his own to the memorial.

Dance walked up to him, showed her ID. ‘I’m Kathryn Dance. CBI.’

Distracted, the handsome man nodded.

‘I assume you lost someone last night.’

‘We did, yes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

We ...

A nod back to the Lexus. There was a glare... and the Japanese engineers were quite adept, it seemed, at tinting glass but Dance could see that the person occupying the passenger seat had long hair. A woman. His wife, probably. But no ring on his finger. An ex-wife, perhaps. And she realized with a shock. My God. They’d lost a child here.

His name was Frederick Martin and he explained that, yes, his ex-wife, Michelle, had brought their daughter here last night.

She’d been right. Their child, probably a teen. How sad. And, given the flowers resting on the memorial, she hadn’t been merely injured. She’d died.

Dance’s worst horror. Every mother’s.

That had been the tension in the car. Ex-spouses, forced together at a time like this. Probably on the way to a funeral home to make arrangements. Dance’s heart went out to them both.

‘We’re investigating the incident,’ she said, a version of the truth. ‘I have a few questions.’

‘Well, I don’t know anything. I wasn’t here.’ Martin was edgy. He wanted to leave.

‘No, no. I understand. But if I could have a few words with your ex-wife.’

‘What?’ he said, frowning broadly.

Then a voice behind them, a girl’s voice. Nearly a whisper. ‘She’s gone.’

Dance turned to see a teenager. Pretty, but with a face distorted and puffy from crying. Her hair had been carelessly herded into place with fingers, not a brush.

‘Mommy’s gone.’

Oh. The ex was the fatality.

‘Trish, go back to the car.’

Staring at the club. ‘She was trapped. Against the door. I saw her. I can’t — we looked at each other and then I fell. This big man, he was crying like a baby, he climbed on my back and I went down. I thought I was going to die but I got picked up by somebody. Then the people I was with went through another door, not the fire exits. The crowd she was in—’

‘Trish, honey, no. I told you this was a bad idea. Let’s go. We’ve got your grandparents to meet at the airport. We’ve got plans to make.’

Martin took his daughter’s arm. She pulled away. He grimaced.

To the girl: ‘Trish, I’m Kathryn Dance, California Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.’

‘We do,’ Martin said. ‘We do mind.’

Crying now, softly, the girl stared at the roadhouse. ‘It was hell in there. They talk about hell, in movies and things, but, no, that was hell.’

‘Here’s my card.’ Dance offered it to Frederick Martin.

He shook his head. ‘We don’t want it. There’s nothing she can tell you. Leave us alone.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

He got a firmer grip on his daughter and, though she stiffened, maneuvered her back to the Lexus. When they were seated inside, he reached over and clicked on her belt. Then they sped from the lot before Dance could note the license plate.

Not that it mattered, she supposed. If the girl and her mother had been inside during the panic, they wouldn’t have seen what really interested Dance: the person who’d parked the truck in front of the doors and lit the fire.

Besides, she could hardly blame the man for being protective. Dance supposed that the father had now been catapulted into a tough, alien role; she imagined that the mother had had a higher percentage of custody, maybe full.

The Solitude Creek incident had changed many lives in many different ways.

A gull strafed and Dance instinctively lifted her arm. The big bird landed clumsily near a scrap of cardboard, thinking it was food. It seemed angry the prize held aroma only and catapulted off into the sky once more, heading toward the bay.

Dance returned to the club and had a second difficult conversation with Sam Cohen, still bordering on comatose, then spoke with other employees. No one could come up with any patrons or former club workers who might have had gripes with Cohen or anyone there. Nor did competitors seem behind the incident — anyone who might want to drive the man out of business or get revenge for something Cohen had done professionally in the past.

Heading back outside, Dance pulled her iPhone from her pocket and phoned Jon Boling, asking if he could pick up the children at school.

‘Sure,’ he replied. She enjoyed hearing his calm voice. ‘How’s your Civ Div going?’

He knew about the Serrano situation.

‘Awkward,’ she said, eyes on Bob Holly, interviewing some of the same people she just had. ‘I’m at Solitude Creek.’

A pause.

‘Aren’t you handling soda-bottle deposits?’

‘Supposed to be.’

Boling said, ‘It’s terrible, on the news. They’re saying a truck driver parked behind the club to smoke some dope. Then he panicked when the fire started and left the truck beside the doors. Nobody could get out.’

Reporters...

She looked at her iPhone for the time, now that her watch was out of commission. It was two thirty. ‘I’ll be another three, four hours, I’d guess. Mom and Dad are coming over tonight. Martine, Stephen...’

‘The kids and I’ll take care of dinner.’

‘Would you? Oh, thanks.’

‘See you soon.’

She disconnected. Her eyes did a sweep of the club, the jobbing company, then the parking lot.

Finally the bordering vegetation. At the eastern end of the lot was what seemed to be a tramped-down area leading through a line of scrub oak, Australian willow, pine, magnolia. She wandered that way and found herself beside Solitude Creek itself. The small dark tributary — thirty feet wide there — was framed by salt and dune grass, thistle and other sandy-soil plants whose identity she couldn’t guess at.