Jeffery Deaver - Solitude Creek

Deer?

She heard a branch snap not far away, but couldn’t tell exactly where it had come from.

Okay. Time to leave, she told herself. Now.

A crackle of underbrush.

And then—

A mobile phone started to ring — from about thirty feet in front of her.

‘Shit!’ a voice called from behind — close. Jesus, somebody’d been flanking her. One of the perps.

‘Run, run!’ A male voice, from the direction of the ringtone.

And she heard two sets of sprinting footsteps, heading away from her. She saw no one. She thought about ordering them to stop but, unarmed, she didn’t want to give her position away.

Dance lifted her phone and hit a speed-dial button.

‘Kathryn.’

‘Michael. They’re here, east at the end of the road. Junipero Drive.’

‘The perps? From Goldschmidt’s?’

‘Right. What I’m saying.’

‘What were you doing?’

What the hell was he asking this for? She snapped, ‘Call it in. They split up. One headed toward town. The other to Asilomar.’

‘Where are you?’

Why was he asking? ‘Where I just said. East, end of the road. A three-story Victorian.’

‘I’ll make the call.’ Then he grumbled, ‘Now get back here.’

A half-hour later Dance and O’Neil were with the crime-scene unit at Goldschmidt’s house.

A Pacific Grove Police Department car pulled up and two officers got out.

O’Neil nodded. ‘Anything?’

‘Nope. We locked down Sunset, Asilomar, Ocean View and Lighthouse. But they must’ve gotten to their car before we set up the roadblocks.’

‘Footprints?’

The wry smile on the face of one of the officers attested to the fact that they all knew: the ground here was mostly sand, and if you expected footprints for the electrostatic impression machine, you were going to be disappointed.

David Goldschmidt approached, carrying a roller and a can of paint. He set them down. He was interested to learn that Dance had had an encounter with the perps near the house up the street, Junipero Manor.

He said, ‘You were close to them, sounds like.’

‘Fairly. They’d split up. One was probably twenty feet away, the other fifty.’

‘What did they look like?’ His gray eyes narrowed. He focused intently, as if he wanted to learn all he could about those who had defiled his home.

She explained, ‘Too dark to see much.’ Pacific Grove was not known for abundant street lighting.

‘Twenty feet, you said? And you saw nothing?’

A nod toward the park. ‘Dark, I was saying.’

‘Ah.’ His eyes returned to the defiled side of his house.

‘I’m sorry for this, Mr Goldschmidt.’

‘Well, thank you for your prompt response.’ His mind was elsewhere.

Dance nodded and handed him one of her cards. ‘If you can think of anything else, please let me know.’

‘Oh, I will.’ He looked over the streets, eyes keen.

She watched him put the card into his back pocket, then walked to O’Neil’s car. The detective started the engine.

Dance started to get in. Then paused, said, ‘Give me a minute.’ And returned to the house. ‘Mr Goldschmidt?’

‘Agent Dance. Yes?’

‘A word?’

‘Sure.’

‘The law on self-defense in California is very clear.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yes. And there are very few circumstances that will justify killing someone.’

‘I watch Nancy Grace . I know that. Why do you bring it up?’

‘You seemed interested in getting a clear description of the perps who committed this crime. Clearer than what you might’ve seen on a security video.’ She glanced at the camera under his eaves.

‘Like I told you, I didn’t see them on the monitor. No, no, I was just thinking: what if I see them in town, or in the neighborhood? I could call the police. If I had a good description.’

‘I’m simply telling you that it is a crime to harm an individual unless you truly believe yourself or another to be in danger. And damage to property is not a justifiable reason to use force.’

‘I imagine these people are willing to do a lot more than paint messages. But why are we even having this conversation? There’s no reason for them to come back, now, is there? They’ve already done the damage.’

‘Do you own a gun?’

‘I do, yes. Here’s where you ask me if it’s registered. Surely you know, in California you don’t have to register guns you owned before January first. You may have to jump through hoops to get a conceal/carry permit. Which I don’t have. But the shotgun that I own does not have to be registered.’

‘I’m just telling you that the self-defense right is much more limited than most people think.’

‘Most people maybe. But I’m quite versed in the law of the land. Nancy Grace , as I was saying.’ His smile was assured, his light eyes narrow. ‘Goodnight, Agent Dance. And thank you again.’

Michael O’Neil pulled up to Dance’s house and braked to a stop.

She read texts. ‘From our office in LA. Orange County’ll upload the crime-scene and canvassing reports to you early tomorrow.’

He grunted. ‘Good.’

She flipped the lever and pushed open the door, then stepped outside, as O’Neil popped the trunk. He didn’t get out. Dance walked back to get her suitcase and her laptop bag.

A wedge of light filled the front yard and Jon Boling was stepping out.

As if O’Neil suddenly felt he was being rude, or inconsiderate, he glanced at Boling, then Dance. He climbed out of the car.

To Boling, O’Neil said, ‘Jon. Sorry it’s late. I kidnapped her for an operation on the way home.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘Another hate crime. Not too far from here.’

‘Oh, no. Anyone hurt?’

‘No. The perps got away, though.’

‘Sorry.’

Dance carried her wheelie to the porch and Boling took it from her.

‘Just to let you know,’ he said, ‘Wes came in about forty minutes late.’

She sighed. ‘I’ll talk to him.’

‘I think a girl said no to his invite to the graduation dance or something. He was in a mood. I tried to get him to help me hack some code. But he wasn’t interested — how ’bout that? So has to be love sickness.’

‘Well, we have something official I’m hoping you can help us with,’ she said.

‘Sure. What can I do?’

She reminded him of the clip that had been posted last night — of the Solitude Creek tragedy.

‘Right.’ To Michael: ‘What you were telling us this morning, breakfast.’

O’Neil nodded. Dance explained what Stan Prescott had done and that he’d been killed in Orange County — by the Solitude Creek unsub — without going into the part when she and O’Neil had both been in the line of fire.

‘Killed? Why?’

‘We aren’t sure yet. Now, there may be a connection between the unsub and this Prescott. Not likely, but possible. I’ve got his computer and the unsub’s phone. Can you crack the passcodes and run a forensic analysis?’

‘What kind of box is it?’

‘Asus laptop. Nothing fancy. Windows password protected. And a Nokia.’

‘Be happy to. I like playing deputy. I want a badge some day. Or, like on Castle, one of those windbreakers. Mine could say, Geek .’

O’Neil laughed.

She handed the items over. Without prompting from her, Boling signed the chain-of-custody card.

‘It’s been dusted for prints but—’

‘I’ll wear my Playtex Living gloves. I’ll take a peek now but I’ll probably need the big guns to crack it. I’ll start first thing in the morning.’

‘Thanks,’ she said.

O’Neil added, ‘Oh, and it’s been swept for explosives.’