Jeffery Deaver - Solitude Creek

‘Be there with bells on.’

She asked, ‘And Serrano? The second lead? What’s the name again?’

‘Ah, Señorita Alonzo. Serrano’s former squeeze. Moss Landing tomorrow at nine? Good for you?’

‘Yep. I’ll coordinate with Al.’

‘Foster’ll be out. Steve Two and Jimmy’ll be there.’

‘Thanks. See you tomorrow.’

They disconnected.

Silence for some moments.

‘Look out,’ she said sharply, pointing ahead.

Two flashes of yellow, close-set eyes.

‘I got it,’ he said, braking.

They cruised past the deer as it debated who would win the collision.

O’Neil hadn’t, however, seen the creature at first. He’d been distracted. Mind elsewhere.

More silence. His body language revealed tension.

Another five minutes. Finally she’d had enough. She was going to pry a confession out of him, but just at that moment his phone rang. He unholstered it and hit accept. He listened, grim. ‘Where?’

Her heart sank. Had the unsub returned so quickly and committed yet another mass attack?

‘I’m headed in that direction now. I can be there in fifteen.’

He disconnected.

‘Another one?’

‘Not our unsub. A hate crime again.’ He sighed, shaking his head.

‘Anybody in custody?’

‘No, a homeowner found his wall graffitied. I’m going to swing by and poke around the neighborhood. It’s in Pacific Grove, not far from you. I’ll take you home first.’

‘No, I’ll go with you.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’

He hit the flasher lights and sped up, though minding the slippery road.

She asked, ‘You think there’s a chance you’ll find the perp there?’

‘He can’t be too far away. The graffiti? The paint’s still wet.’

‘Well, there you have it. Welcome to Berlin, nineteen thirty-eight.’

Dance and O’Neil were standing next to David Goldschmidt, who ran one of the nicer furniture stores downtown. The slim, balding man was bundled into a navy watch coat and wore jeans. His sockless feet were in Topsiders. They were in his side yard.

Goldschmidt was a bit of a celebrity in the area: the Monterey Herald had run an article on him last week. When Hamas had begun firing missiles from Gaza into Israel not long ago he’d volunteered to help. At forty, he was too old to serve in the Israeli army — the age limit was twenty-three — but he had spent several months helping with medical and provisions support. However, she recalled that, according to the article, while on a kibbutz outside Tel Aviv years before, Goldschmidt had served in combat.

The publicity was probably why he’d been targeted.

And what a cruel attack it was.

On the side of his beautiful Victorian house there was a swastika in bright red paint and below it: ‘Die Jew.’

The paint dripped from the symbol and words like blood from deep wounds.

The three stood in his side yard surrounded by a foggy dusk, the air fragrant with mulch from the Goldschmidts’ beautiful garden.

‘In all my years,’ he muttered.

‘Did you catch a glimpse of anyone?’

‘No, I didn’t know about it until I heard the shout from across the street — ah, here.’

A woman, mid-fifties, in jeans and a leather jacket, approached. ‘Dave, I’m so sorry. Hello.’

O’Neil and Dance introduced themselves.

‘I’m Sara Peabody. I saw them. I’m the one who called the police. I shouted. I guess I shouldn’t have. I should’ve just called you first. Maybe they’d be in jail now. But I just, you know, lost it.’

‘Them?’ O’Neil asked.

‘Two, that’s right. I was looking through the trees there, see? I didn’t have a good view. So, young, old? Male, female? I couldn’t say. I’d guess men, wouldn’t you think?’

O’Neil said, ‘Generally that’s the case in hate crimes. But not always.’

‘One stood guard, it looked like, and the other jumped over the fence and sprayed those terrible things. The other one, the guard, he took pictures or a video of the first. Like a souvenir. Disgusting.’

Goldschmidt sighed.

Dance asked, ‘Have you been threatened recently by anyone?’

‘No, no. I don’t think it’s personal. This’s got to be part of what’s going on, don’t you think? The black churches, that gay center?’

O’Neil: ‘I’d say so, yes. The handwriting looks similar to the other attacks, spray paint in red. Looks like the same color.’

‘Well, I want it gone. Can you take pictures and samples of the paint or whatever you want to do? I’m painting over it tonight. My wife’s back from Seattle tomorrow morning. I will not let her see this.’

‘Sure,’ O’Neil told him. ‘We’ll get our crime-scene people here in the next hour. They’ll be fast.’ He looked around. ‘I’ll canvass the neighbors now.’

‘Brother. After all these years,’ Goldschmidt muttered angrily. ‘Sometimes I think we’re not making any progress at all.’ Dance looked him over, his body language of defiance, determination, his still eyes as he took in the obscene symbol and words.

O’Neil asked Dance if she’d take his and the neighbor’s statements.

‘Sure.’

He wandered up the street to interview other neighbors who might have seen the vandalism.

Dance looked over the yard. No footsteps in the grass, of course. Maybe the CS team could pull a print from the fence the perp had vaulted but that would be a long shot. Ah, but a moment of hope. Nestled under the eaves was a video security camera.

But Goldschmidt shook his head. ‘It’s on but it doesn’t record. The monitor’s in the bedroom and I was in the den when they were here. We only use it after we’re in bed. In case there’s a noise.’

Dance texted Boling that she’d be a bit later than she’d planned. He replied that Maggie was still Skyping and Wes had not returned yet — but he had ten minutes until the promised deadline. Leftovers were heating.

Michael O’Neil was up the street and Dance had nothing more to do there. She started her own canvass, going the other way. The houses had no view of Goldschmidt’s but the vandals might have parked in front of one. Those who were home, however, had seen nothing and Dance spotted no deception. As horrific as vandalism is, there’s not much risk of physical assault and witnesses are more eager to come forward than if they’ve seen a murder, rape or assault.

Two more houses, dark and unoccupied.

She was about to return to the crime scene when she noticed one more house — it was on the other side of a city park, which was a known migration stop for monarch butterflies. The tree-filled park was about two acres in size.

The house bordered Asilomar, the conference area, and beyond that was the coastal park at Spanish Bay. It also overlooked a sandy shoulder, a perfect place for the perps to leave their car and hike through the park to get to Goldschmidt’s. Maybe these homeowners had seen them.

She waded into the park now, moving slowly: the place hadn’t been trimmed recently — budget issues, she supposed — and underbrush might trip her.

Any risk? she wondered, pausing. No. The perps would have headed off as soon as they’d finished. If not, surely they’d done so when they’d seen the blue-and-white flashing lights on O’Neil’s car.

She started through the dark preserve once more.

‘Dude, somebody’s coming. I’m like sure.’

Wolverine was saying this.

‘Sssh.’ Darth waved him quiet.

‘Let’s just go. Yo.’

Darth ignored him and scanned the dusk-lit scene. The two boys remained motionless, still as snipers, in the large backyard of the house that the owners, weird, had named Junipero Manor or something, nestled in mossy trees like something out of The Hobbit , all bent and gnarly. A house with a name. Weird.