Jeffery Deaver - Solitude Creek

‘Sure.’

He went onto the MCSO secure server and called them up.

On her computer she accessed the images of Stan Prescott.

O’Neil said, ‘Right. Like we were saying: Same sort of MO. Strangled or asphyxia. On their backs.’

‘And,’ she said, ‘look. They’re both under lights.’

‘Maybe they just fell there.’

‘No. I don’t think so. I think he moved the lamps so he could get pictures on his cell phone. It occurred to me when I was looking at the crime-scene pictures on that website — those bodies were all well-lit too.’

O’Neil nodded, now understanding. ‘Proof of death.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What do you mean?’ Boling asked.

‘He needed clear pictures to prove that the witnesses’d been eliminated. That line in the text about “cleaning up”. He’s making a lot of money on this job and he wants to be sure the man who’s hired him is confident he’s not leaving any traces.’

Five-thousand-dollar shoes...

O’Neil said, ‘Brilliant. He’s targeted a couple of venues to make it look like this’s the work of a psycho. But, no, he’s got a specific venue in mind. He was hired to destroy it.’

‘Or a person,’ Dance said, after a moment. ‘He could’ve been hired to destroy a location, sure. But also to kill somebody specific.’

O’Neil nodded. ‘Sure. Makes sense. But if it’s an individual, then who?’

Dance offered, ‘At the hospital, no one in the elevator could have been the intended victim.’

‘Because how could he know who’d be in that car at that time? And at the Bay View Center — that venue wouldn’t’ve worked either.’

‘No,’ O’Neil said. ‘The people who died all drowned. He couldn’t be sure he’d get a specific target there. How’d he know who’d jump into the bay? No, it was Solitude Creek. His target was there, in the audience.’

O’Neil: ‘The panic starts. The unsub’s changed out of his workman’s clothes. He’s in the audience. He gets close to the victim and kills him or her. Trips them maybe, crushes their throat, breaks a rib that pierces their lung.’

‘He’d be in the mob too. But no—’

‘Right.’ O’Neil carried through on her thought: ‘He’s a big guy. He can survive a bit of jostling.’

‘Besides, remember, there was no fire. It wasn’t like he was going to burn to death. He knew most people would get out okay.’

O’Neil was scrolling through his mobile. ‘There were three deaths at Solitude Creek. Guess we’ll have to look at all the victims.’

It was then that she had one of those moments.

A to B to Z...

‘Let’s go for a drive,’ said Kathryn Dance.

‘Me?’ Boling asked.

She smiled.

‘No. Better if it’s just Michael and me.’

‘Oh. Hi, Mrs Dance. I mean, Agent Dance.’

‘Hello, Trish. This is Detective O’Neil with the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office.’

Nervous. Naturally.

‘Hi.’

The detective nodded down to her. ‘Hello, Trish. I’m sorry about your mother.’

‘Yeah. Thanks. It’s, you know, tough.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

The three stood on the front porch of one of the nicest houses Dance had ever seen. Easily seven thousand square feet. Stone and glass and chrome. A Beverly Hills house, a Malibu house. A rich producer’s or film star’s house.

A moving company truck was parked by the garage. The workers were carrying boxes and furniture into the house, not out.

She’d known Frederick was moving back in but she appreciated this physical evidence regarding who had hired the Solitude Creek unsub.

Dance asked, ‘Is your father home?’

‘No. He’s taking my aunt and uncle to the airport. But he could be back soon.’

A conspiratorial smile. ‘We won’t be long. I know he’s not a big fan of mine. Do you mind if we ask you a few more questions?’

‘You want to come in?’

‘Thank you.’

They walked into the entryway — bigger than Dance’s living room and kitchen combined — then entered a study. Sumptuous leather and metal furniture. The couch alone could have been traded in for a new Pathfinder. They all sat.

‘Uhm, the thing is, I didn’t tell my father we talked, you and me,’ the girl said.

‘We’ll play along.’ Dance gave a smile. ‘If he comes back.’

Relief flooded Trish’s eyes. ‘Thanks. Like, really.’

‘Sure.’

‘I heard he did the same thing at the Bay View Center.’

O’Neil said, ‘And the hospital, the fire in the elevator.’

‘Why’s he doing it?’

They, of course, demurred on the suspected motive. Dance said, ‘We don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be any clear reason. Now, Trish, I’m sorry to ask but I need to know a little more about your mother’s death. Some of the facts. Are you up for that?’

She was still. She took a deep breath, then nodded. ‘If it’ll help you catch this asshole.’

‘I hope it will.’

‘Okay, sure. I guess.’

Dance said, ‘Go back to that night. At the Solitude Creek Club. After you and your mother got separated.’

A nod.

O’Neil, who’d read the account, said, ‘If I understand, you were being swept toward the kitchen and she was in the crowd going for the exit doors.’

‘That’s right.’

Dance asked, ‘But before you got into the kitchen, you could see your mother, right?’

Eyes hollow, she nodded. ‘Yeah. With the emergency lights. I could see good.’

‘Trish, this is a hard question but I have to know. Did it look to you like somebody hurt your mother intentionally? Pushed her out of the way? On to the floor? To save themselves?’ She was hardly going to suggest to the girl that her father had hired someone to kill Michelle Cooper, his ex-wife.

The girl said, ‘Oh, are you thinking of arresting some of the people in the crowd?’

‘Whenever somebody dies, it’s important to get the exact details.’

‘For the reports,’ O’Neil added.

Trish was shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. The last time I saw her—’ She choked, then continued, ‘The last time I saw her, she was waving at me and then she disappeared behind the pillar, near the last exit door.’

‘Did you see anybody beside her, holding her, pushing her?’

‘No. But the next thing I knew I was in the kitchen and then we were falling out onto the gravel and grass, and everybody was screaming and crying.’

Tears streaked her cheeks. Dance dug into her purse and found a pack of Kleenex. ‘Here you go.’

Trish opened the pack and pulled a few out, wiped and blew.

Dance was disappointed she hadn’t provided anything concrete. But Dance and O’Neil had other facts to uncover — slowly and with finesse.

‘Thanks, Trish, this’s been helpful.’

‘Sure.’ She sniffed.

O’Neil delivered his line, according to their script: ‘I don’t think we have anything else.’

Dance looked around the room. ‘Your father’s moving back. Where does he live now?’

‘Yeah. He lives in a place in Carmel Valley now.’

‘Nice.’

‘Not really. Not his place. It’s a total dive. And with me in school — Carmel High’s a mile away — it made sense for him to move here. Like...’ She glanced around her. ‘Not really too shabby, huh?’

O’Neil asked, ‘Was this your house when your folks were married?’

Finesse...

‘That’s right.’

Dance offered another glance to O’Neil. The cheating husband had lost it in the property settlement. Now he was back in. He couldn’t take title — it would be part of the bequest to Trish from her mother. But when she came of age he would work on her to get it transferred back to him. Motive one for Frederick Martin to be the killer. She suspected there was another too.