Jeffery Deaver - Solitude Creek

Stuart asked, ‘How’s it going?’

She shrugged. ‘Ruining people’s Sunday.’

‘So, Maggie’s not singing in the talent show?’

‘No, she didn’t want to. I was going to push it but...’ A shrug.

Stuart smiled. ‘Sometimes you let it go.’ He knew he’d made a pun on the song his granddaughter was going to have sung. Dance laughed, reflecting that the song title had become a theme of hers over the past few days.

‘When’s brunch?’ Wes called from the doorway, echoing his sister.

Dance glanced at her phone. Still no word from Boling. ‘We’ll get things started.’

She and Stuart walked into the kitchen. She Keuriged some coffee for them both and prowled through the fridge.

She glanced toward her son.

‘No texting at the table.’

‘We’re not eating yet.’

A look from Mom. The mobile disappeared into his back pocket.

‘So, what’s on the wish list for brunch?’

Maggie: ‘Waf—’

‘—cakes,’ her brother chimed in.

‘Wafcakes. Good.’

Maggie poured an orange juice and sipped. ‘When are you going to get married?’ she asked, like a father to a pregnant daughter.

Stuart chuckled.

Dance froze. Then: ‘I’m too busy to be thinking about getting married.’

‘Excuses, excuses, excuses... Are you marrying Jon or Michael?’

‘What? Maggie!’

Then the phone was ringing. Wes was closest and he answered. ‘Hello?’

They weren’t supposed to answer with their name or ‘Dance residence’. Security starts early in a law-enforcement household.

‘Sure.’ He looked at his sister. ‘For you. Bethany.’

Maggie took the cordless phone and wandered off. Dance checked her own cell for updates. Nothing from Jon. She called him and the line went right to voice mail.

‘Hey, it’s me. You on your way? Just checking.’

Dance disconnected and happened to glance toward her daughter on the phone. Bethany Meyer, the future secretary of state, was a precocious eleven-year-old, polite enough, though Dance thought of her as over-assembled. She believed kids that age should wear jeans or shorts and T-shirts most of the time, not dress up as if they were going for movie auditions every day. Her parents were well off, true, but they sank way too much money into the girl’s clothes. And such fastidious makeup? On a girl her age? In a word, no.

Suddenly she noticed Maggie’s body language change abruptly. Her shoulders rose and her head drooped. One knee went forward — a sign of a subconscious, if not physical, desire to flee or fight. She was getting troubling news. Her daughter continued to talk a bit more, then disconnected. She returned to the kitchen.

‘Mags, everything all right?’

‘Yeah, it’s fine. Why not?’ Jittery.

Dance looked at her sternly.

‘Everything’s, like, fine.’

‘Watch the “like”. What did Bethany have to say?’

‘Nothing. Just stuff.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Uh-uh.’

Dance gave her a probing look, which was conspicuously ignored, and began to assemble the ingredients for the meal. ‘Blueberries?’

Maggie didn’t answer.

Dance repeated the question.

‘Yeah, sure.’

Dance tried the proven tactic of diversion. ‘Hey, you all looking forward to the concert? Neil Hartman?’

The new Dylan...

‘I guess,’ Maggie said, less than enthusiastic.

A glance at Wes, who was, in turn, sneaking a look at his phone. He put it away fast. ‘Yeah, yeah... can’t wait.’ More enthusiastic but more distracted, as well. Dance at least was looking forward to seeing Hartman. She reminded herself to check the tickets to see where the seats were. She’d left Kayleigh’s envelope in the glove compartment of the Pathfinder.

A moment later, Wes: ‘Hey, Mom,’ Wes said. ‘Can I go meet Donnie?’

‘What about brunch?’

‘Can I do Starbucks instead? Please, please?’ He was cheerful, almost silly. She debated, extracted a five from her purse and handed it over.

‘Thanks.’

‘Can I go too?’ Maggie asked.

‘No,’ Wes said.

‘Mom!’

‘Come on, honey,’ Stuart said. ‘I want to have brunch with you.’

Maggie glanced at her brother darkly, then said, ‘Okay, Grandpa.’

‘Bye, Mom,’ Wes said.

‘Wait!’

He stopped and looked at her with small alarm in his face.

‘Helmet.’ She pointed.

‘Oh.’ He stared at it. ‘Well, we’re walking. I’ve still got that flat.’

‘All the way downtown?’

‘Yeah.’

‘All right.’

‘Yeah. Bye, Grandpa.’

Stuart said, ‘Don’t get a double shot of espresso. Remember what happened last time.’

Dance hadn’t heard about that incident. And didn’t want to know.

The door closed. Dance started to call Boling again when she noted that Maggie’s face was still troubled. ‘You wouldn’t’ve had any fun with them.’

‘I know.’

Dance began to say something to her, make a joke, when her cell rang again. She answered. ‘Michael.’

‘Listen. May have our Solitude Creek unsub. A PG patrolman spotted a silver Honda Accord at the Del Monte View Inn.’

Dance knew it, a big luxury non-chain hotel not far from where she lived.

‘It’s parked right behind the building. The driver was tall. Sunglasses. Hat but maybe he has a shaved head. Worker’s jacket. He’s inside now.’

‘Tag?’

‘Delaware. But how’s this? It’s registered to layers of shell corporations, including an offshore.’

‘Really? Interesting.’

‘I’ve got teams on the way there. Rolling up silent.’

‘You know the place? There’re two lots. Have the teams stage in the bottom one.’

‘Already ordered it,’ he said.

‘I’m ten minutes, Michael. I’m moving.’

She turned to her father and daughter, to see Stuart already on his feet, reading the recipe on the back of the Bisquick box.

She laughed. He looked as serious as an engineer about to power up a nuclear reactor. ‘Thanks, Dad. Love you both.’

As he walked to Starbucks to meet Wes, Donnie Verso was thinking about their friendship.

The kid wasn’t like Nathan or Lann or Vince or Peter. Not that stand-up. And wasn’t quite thinking right, the way he ought to if he wanted to hang with the Defend and Respond crew. Not muting his phone and alerting the bitch cop just as Donnie was about to crack her skull open and get her gun. Your phone, dude? Seriously? (Though, afterward, he thought maybe that had worked out for the best.)

Yeah, yeah, he was good backup, a good lookout — he’d saved Donnie’s ass a couple of times, warning him that somebody was about to see him tagging a church or stealing a watch from Rite Aid.

But Donnie just couldn’t get Wes to go the extra step.

Oh, he wanted to. That was obvious. Because Wes was mad. Oh, yeah. Totally mad. Wes was as pissed off at his father for being dead as Donnie was at his for being alive. That kind of anger usually pushed you dark really fast. But the dude was hanging back.

He was sure the kid could do it, if he wanted to, even though they’d known each other only a month. Donnie had seen the twelve-year-old Wes around middle school from time to time, and hadn’t thought anything of him. A church humper? Probably. Science club? Probably. Another time, Donnie might’ve wailed on him. (Or Donnie and Nathan together, since Wes wasn’t small.) But there were other, easier, targets at school.

He was thinking of the first time they’d really spoken. One day after school Donnie and Nathan had gotten this pussy grade-schooler down by Asilomar and fucked him up a little, nothing bad. While they were doing it Donnie had looked up and seen Wes standing there. Like he was curious was all.