Jeffery Deaver - Solitude Creek

Silence from Foster now. He didn’t say what he wanted to.

Dance continued, ‘But she gave up another name. Pete or Pedro Escalanza. TJ’s going to track it down. Ninety percent the guy’s got Serrano’s present whereabouts.’

‘Lead to a lead to a lead,’ Foster said, with buoyant cynicism.

Allerton asked, ‘So, at the houseboat. It was productive.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you’re okay. Jimmy’s okay?’

‘I’m good,’ Gomez said.

‘Tia was saying this Escalanza, he’s got access to some of Serrano’s accounts. If we play it right, we might be able to pick up his credit-card numbers, track him in real time.’

‘Or maybe we’ll find another lead,’ Foster chimed in. ‘Let’s be transparent here. I’m not overly reassured.’

Stemple coughed.

Dance said, ‘The best we could do, Steve.’

Allerton said, ‘I’ll tell Charles.’

‘Thanks.’

‘We’re coming back in.’ Dance disconnected.

Stemple said, ‘Life’s a fucking checkers game. No, chess. You play chess, Jimmy?’

‘No. You?’

‘Yeah, I play chess.’

‘Really?’ Gomez asked.

‘Why really? Because I bench-press three hundred and group my rounds touching at fifty feet — if I’m using the long barrel?’

‘I don’t know. You just don’t seem like a chess player.’

‘Mostly people think I tap dance for a hobby.’

In a half-hour, eleven a.m., she was back in CBI headquarters, making for Overby’s office, in the company of TJ Scanlon.

As they walked along, she checked her phone again. Texts from her mother, Boling. Maggie, silly and happy — because, of course, she’d been pardoned from the cruel and unusual punishment of singing in her class’s talent show.

Nothing from O’Neil.

Did she expect an apology? The hard words had been motivated by his concern for her but she’d found them patronizing. That was difficult for her to get past.

She supposed the frisson between them would dissipate, like smoke from a brief fire. This happened from time to time, head butting. Still, they had had such a complicated history, personal and professional, that she never knew if the flare would spread like a wind-fueled brushfire racing over the dry, bristly coat of the landscape in this state. Destructive, even fatal. She’d never prepared for a final rift with Michael O’Neil because, well, it was unimaginable.

A glance at her phone once more. Nothing.

Let it go...

They arrived at Overby’s office and the CBI head waved them inside. ‘Just found something interesting. Got a call from Oakland PD. The arson?’

Dance nodded and explained to TJ about the Operation Pipeline warehouse that some crew had burned down.

‘But — it wasn’t a gang that did it.’

Dance cocked her head.

Her boss continued, ‘Mercenaries.’

TJ said, ‘Working for a crew, then. Didn’t want to get their dainty little fingers dirty.’

‘No. Not working for a crew. They got out of the country but left some tracks behind. Guess where they were based? Baja.’

‘But not working for one of the Mexican cartels?’

‘No. Working for someone else.’

Dance understood. ‘Well, well: Santos hired them. He was behind it.’

‘Bingo,’ Overby said.

Chihuahua Police Commissioner Ramón Santos, who’d called the other day to excoriate the US contingent of Operation Pipeline for not doing enough to stanch the flow of guns into his country.

‘He took matters into his own hands.’

‘Oakland DEA contacted some of their people in Mexico and confirmed it.’

Dance grimaced. ‘Thought he was taking down a source for the guns? Well, he shot himself in the foot. That warehouse was a great source for intel. Does he know he’s set us back a month with his little fireworks display?’

‘He will,’ Overby said, ‘after I call him this afternoon.’

Whatever else about his personal style, Overby combined righteousness and indignation very, very well.

‘So Santos,’ TJ said, ‘has got an interesting approach to enforcing the law. He breaks the law.’

Then a sound behind her, paper shuffling, footsteps. Michael O’Neil came into the office.

‘Ah, Michael.’

‘Charles.’

She looked his way. He nodded to everyone. ‘Morning.’

Overby said, ‘Okay, the Solitude Creek unsub. Where are we?’

O’Neil glanced toward Dance. She said, ‘Well, all we have are dead ends with the unsub’s Honda. But Jon Boling’s hacking into the unsub’s phone now. It might be the burner he used to call Sam Cohen or the one at the Bay View Center, where he called nine one one, the media and the restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf after the Bay View incident. Or maybe another one. Jon’s also cracking Stan Prescott’s computer — the man killed in Orange County. We hope it gives us some clue why the unsub went to all that trouble to murder him. And TJ? Update on Anderson Construction?’

The young agent reminded Overby that he was trying to track down officials from the Nevada corporation hiring Anderson to do some construction work in the Solitude Creek area. In hopes of finding some witnesses. ‘They’re taking their sweet time getting back to me. Weekend-itis maybe. I’ll definitely squeeze them tomorrow. And I’m keeping up canvassing people who were at the roadhouse that day. But same old. No leads.’

Overby nodded and looked at O’Neil, who was opening his briefcase and extracting a folder. ‘Crime-scene report from Orange County?’ Overby asked.

‘That’s it. Not much. Some trace elements. Footprints that probably are the Louis Vuitton. They have good security video at the Global Adventure theme park but all it shows is the crash, then our man jumping over the car through the gate. The teams down there canvassed a hundred people but nobody saw anybody who could’ve been him.’

He added, ‘And some OC detectives looked over Prescott, fine-tooth comb. Talked to most of his friends, bosses, co-workers. All his redneck buddies. No connection to our unsub. He just randomly pulled the picture of Solitude Creek off the web and posted it in his rant.’

Dance said, ‘So, he just had the bad luck to pick our boy’s attack to use in his post.’

O’Neil continued, ‘There were nearly four thousand texts and voice calls out of the park, once the rumors started to spread. Some of those would be his prepaid mobiles. But Orange County can’t devote manpower to go through every one and try to narrow it down.’

Overby said, ‘He caused all that chaos by a few phone calls?’

‘Pretty much that’s it. But he was smart. He spread the rumors verbally in the park too. And the patrons helped him out, of course, when they texted and tweeted. Online media and TV picked up the story in seconds, and then those who weren’t at the park would text their family members and friends who were inside.’

Overby nodded. ‘Chain reaction.’

‘Flash mob,’ Dance said. ‘No prints on anything, not even shell casings — at either scene, Prescott’s apartment or the theme park. And the car he stole from the airport here?’ O’Neil explained it had been a sloppy theft, suggesting he wasn’t a pro at the art.

But, she reflected, it had worked.

Overby’s cheek twitched up. ‘So, nothing other than the phone.’

O’Neil said, ‘I’ve found something else, though. Not really a lead. But it’s something to throw into the mix about our unsub.’

‘What’s that?’ TJ asked.

‘Remember that Jane Doe?’ He spread out the photos that Dance had seen. ‘The asphyx?’ O’Neil explained about the homicide he was working, the attractive young woman found in a seedy motel, the bag rubber-banded over her head.