Jeffery Deaver - Solitude Creek

Maybe destroying evidence of a furtive meeting.

‘Thanks.’ Trish inhaled and then, her voice breaking, said, ‘Not okay.’

Dance lifted an eyebrow.

‘You asked me how I was. And I said, “Okay.” But I’m not okay.’ She shivered and cried harder. Dance pulled a wad of napkins from the holder and handed them over.

Trish said, ‘Not very fucking okay at all. Mom was, like, she wasn’t the best mom in the world — she was more of a friend to me than a mom. Which drove me fucking crazy sometimes. Like she wanted to be my older sister or something. But despite all that crap, I miss her so much.’

‘Your nose,’ Dance said. The girl wiped.

‘And Dad’s so different.’

‘They had joint custody?’

‘Mom had me most of the time. That’s what she wanted and Dad didn’t fight it. It was like he just wanted out.’

Fell for his secretary. Dance recalled her earlier scenario of the break-up.

‘It’s just going to be so weird, living in the house again, with him. They got divorced six years ago. Everybody tells me it goes away, all this stuff, what I’m feeling. Just time, it’ll be all right.’

‘Everybody’s wrong,’ Dance said.

‘What?’

‘I lost my husband a few years ago.’

‘Hey, I’m sorry.’

A nod of acknowledgment. ‘It doesn’t go away. Ever. And it shouldn’t. We should always miss certain people who’ve been in our lives. But there’ll be islands, more and more of them.’

‘Islands?’

‘That’s the way I thought of it. Islands — of times when you’re content, you don’t think about the loss. Now it’s like your world’s under water. All of it. But the water goes down and the islands come up. The water’ll be there always but you’ll find dry land again. That helped me get through it.’

‘I should go. He’ll be back soon.’

She rose and turned away. Dance did too. Then in an instant the girl turned and threw her arms around the agent, crying again. ‘Islands,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you... Islands.’

‘Hello?’

Arthur K. Meddle turned from surveying the placement of chairs at the Bay View Center to see a man in the doorway.

‘Help you? Hold on.’ He turned away and shouted, ‘Charlie, add another row. Come on. Four hundred. Got to be four hundred. Sorry. Help you?’

The man stepped closer. He seemed bored. ‘Yessir. I’m a Monterey County fire inspector.’

Meddle gave a fast glance at the ID. ‘Officer Dunn. Or inspector?’

‘Officer.’

‘Sure. What can I do for you?’

‘You the manager?’

‘That’s right.’

The well-dressed polite fellow looked around the interior of the center, with furrowed brows. Then his eyes came back to Meddle. ‘You may’ve heard, sir, about the incident at Solitude Creek? The club?’

‘Oh, yeah. Terrible.’

‘We’re thinking it was done intentionally.’

‘I heard that on the news.’ Meddle didn’t know this guy so he didn’t add what he wanted to: ‘What kind of crazy shit would do that?’

‘The county board of supervisors and the Sheriff’s Office — the Bureau of Investigation too — they’re thinking he may try another attack.’

‘No! Hell, is it really a terrorist? That’s what Fox was saying. Was it O’Reilly? I don’t remember.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Between you and me, I’d think if it was terrorists, somebody would’ve taken credit for it. They do that.’

‘True.’

‘Anyway, sir, the county supervisors’ve issued a reg that requires any venues with events of over a hundred people have to postpone or pass a special inspection.’

‘Postpone?’

‘Or pass the inspection. We’re making sure that what happened at Solitude Creek won’t happen again. I mean they could catch the perp first. That’s a possibility.’

‘We can’t very well cancel. Tonight? It’s bringing in seven thousand dollars. It’s a book signing. The author’s publisher’s paying for it. You know the economy out here. We can’t afford to shut down.’

‘Like I said, your choice.’

‘What’s this inspection? I’ve got a current occupancy cert.’

‘No, this is different. We have to make sure the fire doors can’t be blocked. You need to remove all the locks from the emergency-exit doors, or tape the latches down and chain off the area around them from the outside, so nobody can block them.’

‘Like that guy did at the roadhouse, with the truck.’

‘That’s right,’ Dunn said. ‘Exactly. Everybody inside at this event tonight has to be able to get out, unobstructed.’

‘Chain off an area outside the doors?’

‘And I mean chain off. Literally. Ten feet away. So he can’t block them. Frankly, it’d be easier to cancel the event.’

‘You want me to cancel?’

‘I’m just telling you the options.’

‘But you’re leaning toward our closing.’

‘Easier for everybody,’ Dunn said.

‘Not for us.’

Seven thousand dollars...

‘Look, I’m just saying,’ Dunn said. ‘Protect the exit area with chains and make sure the doors don’t latch, so everybody can exit quickly in an emergency. Or you can cancel.’

Shit on a stick. As if he didn’t have enough to do already. ‘No, I’m not cancelling. But if people sneak in because we’ve left the doors unlatched, that’ll be on you.’

‘It’s a book signing, right? You get a lot of gate-crashers at book signings?’

Meddle hesitated. ‘It’s not like a Stones concert.’

‘So. There. Now, your smoke alarms? They’ve been tested recently?’

‘We had an inspection ten, twelve days ago.’

‘Good. Still, I’ll double-check them.’

Meddle asked Dunn, ‘For the chain, to block off the perimeter, any type in particular? Brand names?’

‘I’d probably pick one that a truck couldn’t break through.’

It sounded expensive. Meddle said, ‘I’ll go to Home Depot now.’

‘Thank you, sir. I’m sure everything’ll be fine... What is this book thing anyway?’

Meddle explained, ‘Hot new self-help thing. About living for tomorrow. I read it, like to keep informed about who appears here. The author says people live too much in the present. They need to live in the future more.’

‘Like what? Time travel?’ The inspector looked perplexed.

‘No, no, just think about where you want to be in the future. Picture it, plan it, think it. So you’ll reach your goals. The title is Tomorrow Is the New Today .’

Dunn frowned and nodded. ‘I’ll check those detectors now. You’d better measure for that chain.’

Well, okay. Interesting.

Dance braked her SUV to a stop in one of the driveways that led to the Bureau of Investigation parking lot. She was between an unruly boxwood and a portion of a building occupied by a computer start-up.

Near the front door of CBI headquarters, Michael O’Neil stood in the lot talking to his ex-wife, Anne. Their two children — Amanda and Tyler, nine and ten — were in the back seat of her own SUV, visible through an open door. Anne’s was a pearl-white Lexus, California tags.

The woman was dressed in clothes that were very, very different from what Dance recalled when Anne had lived on the Peninsula with Michael. Then, it was gossamer, close-fitting gypsy outfits. Lace and tulle, New Age jewelry. Boots with heels to propel her to a bit more height. Today, though: running shoes, jeans and a gray jacket of bulky wool. And, my God, a baseball cap. Exotic had become, well, cute and perky.

Who could have imagined?

It had been her decision to end the marriage and move to San Francisco. Rumors of a lover up there. Dance knew Anne was a talented photographer and the opportunities in the Bay City were far greater than here. She’d been a functional but unenthusiastic mother, a distant wife. The split hadn’t been a surprise. Though it had certainly been inconveniently timed. Dance and O’Neil had always had an undeniable chemistry, which they let roam only professionally. He was married, and after Bill died, her interest in romance had vanished like fog in sunshine. Then, over time, Dance had decided for her sake and for the sake of the kids to wade into the dating pool. Slowly, feeling her way along, she’d met Jon Boling.