He waved to Wes.

‘Hey, Michael!’

Donnie, too, turned. The boy exhibited the fascination youngsters always did with the armament on the hip of a law officer. He whispered something to Wes, who nodded with a smile, and they turned their attention to the game.

O’Neil took the plate, ate some. ‘Thanks. Okay, this is excellent.’

They tapped bottle and glasses. Dance wasn’t hungry but gave in to a few bits of pita with tzatziki.

She said, ‘I didn’t know if you could make it tonight. With the kids.’ O’Neil had two children from a prior marriage, Amanda and Tyler, nine and ten. They were good friends with Dance’s youngsters – though Maggie more, because of the age proximity.

‘Somebody’s watching them,’ he said.

‘New sitter?’

‘Sort of.’

Footsteps approached. It was Donnie. He nodded to O’Neil and said to Dance, ‘Um, I really better be getting home. I didn’t know it was this late.’

Boling said, ‘I’ll drive you.’

‘The thing is I’ve got my bike. I can’t leave it, you know.’

‘I’ve got a rack on the back.’

‘Excellent!’ He looked relieved. Dance believed the bike was new, probably a present for his birthday a few weeks ago. ‘Thanks, Mr Boling. Night, Mrs Dance.’

‘Anytime, Donnie.’

Boling got his jacket and kissed Dance. She leaned into him, ever so slightly.

The boys bumped fists. ‘Later,’ Wes called, and headed for his room.

Boling shook O’Neil’s hand. ‘Night.’

‘Take care.’

The door closed. Dance watched Boling and Donnie walk to the car. She believed Jon Boling looked back to see her wave but she couldn’t tell for certain.

CHAPTER 18

After checking on the kids (‘Teeth! No texting!’), Dance joined O’Neil on the Deck. He was finishing up the food. He glanced at her and said, ‘All right. Solitude Creek. You’re sure you want to handle it this way?’

She sat beside him. ‘How do you mean?’

‘You’re Civ Div?’

‘Right.’

‘No weapon?’

‘Nope. Busted down to rookie. I’d be, quote, “briefing” on the roadhouse case. I boosted that up to “advising”, then I did an end run and—’

‘And blustered your way into running it.’

She’d been smiling at her joke but, at his interruption, the smile faded. ‘Well, with you.’

‘Look, I’m happy to handle it solo.’

‘No, I want it.’

A pause. O’Neil said, ‘This unsub. I profile he’s armed. Or could be. You think?’

It was fairly easy to do a preliminary profiling of an unknown subject. One of the easiest determinations was an affinity to commit a crime with a weapon.

‘Probably. He’s not going into a situation like this clean.’

He shrugged.

She said, ‘You’ll look out for me.’

O’Neil grimaced. He almost said something, which she suspected was, ‘I can’t babysit.’

Her level gaze told him, though, she wasn’t going to be a spectator. She was going to run the case shoulder to shoulder with him. He nodded. ‘Okay, then, that’s the way it is.’

Dance asked, ‘What do you have going on? Busy now?’

‘A couple of cases is all. You hear about Otto Grant?’

‘Sounds familiar.’

‘Sixty-year-old farmer, Salinas Valley. The state took a big chunk of his property, eminent domain. The farm had been in his family for years and he had to sell off the rest for taxes. He was furious about it. He’s gone missing.’

‘That’s right.’ Dance recalled the ‘Have You Seen This Man?’ posters around town. There were two images. One of a man, smiling at the camera, sitting beside his Labrador retriever. The other showed him with hair askew, looking a bit of a crank. He resembled the great actor Bruce Dern in Nebraska. ‘It’s sad,’ she said.

‘Is, yes. He was writing these blogs trashing the state for what it did. But they stopped a few days ago and he’s disappeared. His family thinks he’s killed himself. I suppose that’s it. No point in kidnapping a man who doesn’t have any money. I’ve got a team out trying to find him. Or his body.’

O’Neil offered another grimace. ‘Then there’re the hate crimes. That’s on my plate too.’

Dance knew this story. Everybody in town did. Over the past few weeks, vandals had defaced buildings associated with minorities. They’d tagged an African-American church with graffiti of the KKK and a burning cross. Then a gay couple’s house had been tagged with ‘Get Aids and Die’. Latinos had been targeted too.

‘Who do you think? Neo-Nazis?’

Such groups were rare in the Monterey area. But not unheard of.

‘Closest are some biker and redneck white social clubs in Salinas and Seaside. Fits their worldview but graffiti’s not their MO. They tend to bust heads in bars. I’ve talked to a few of them. They were actually insulted I was accusing them.’

‘Guess there are degrees of bigotry.’

‘Amy Grabe’s considering sending a team down. But for now it’s mine.’

FBI. Sure. The crimes he was referring to would probably fall into the category of civil-rights violations, which meant the feds would be involved.

He continued, ‘But no physical violence so it’s not a top priority. I can work Solitude Creek okay.’

‘I’m glad,’ Dance said.

O’Neil let out a sigh and stretched. She was standing close enough to smell his aftershave or soap. A pleasant, complicated scent. Spicy. She eased away.

He explained, ‘Crime Scene should have their report tomorrow from around the roadhouse and the jobbing company.’

She told him in detail exactly what had happened that day from the moment of her arrival at Solitude Creek. He took notes. Then she handed him the printouts of the interviews she’d conducted. He flipped through them.

‘I’ll read these tonight.’

She summarized: ‘You might find something I didn’t see. But there’re no employees, former ones, or patrons who might have been motivated to organize the attack. No competitor wanting to take Sam out of commission.’

‘Was wondering. Any pissed-off husband wanted to get even with somebody on a date at the club that night?’

‘Or wife,’ Dance pointed out. The second-most-popular motive for arson – after insurance fraud – was a woman burning down the house, apartment or hotel room with a cheating lover inside. ‘That was in the battery of questions. No hints, though.’

He riffled the many pages. ‘Been busy.’

‘Wish I’d been productive.’ She shook her head.

O’Neil finished his beer. Looked through the pictures again. ‘One thing I don’t get, though.’

‘Why didn’t he just burn the place?’

He gave a smile. ‘Yep.’

‘That’s the key.’

O’Neil’s phone hummed once. He looked at the text. ‘Better be getting home.’

‘Sure.’

They walked to the door.

‘Night.’

Then he was going down the front steps of the porch, which creaked under his weight. He turned back and waved.

Dance checked the house, securing it, as always. She’d made enemies in her job over the years, and now, in particular, she could be in the sights of any of the gangs being targeted by Operation Pipeline. From Oakland to LA.

And by the Solitude Creek unsub too. A man who had used panic as a weapon to murder in a horrific way.

Then into and out of the bathroom quickly, change to PJs, then lugging her gun safe from floor to bedside table. A true Civ-Div officer, she couldn’t pack on the job but in her own home nothing was going to stop her triple-tapping an intruder with her Glock 26.

She lay back in bed, lights out. Refusing to let the images of the crime scene affect her, though that was difficult. They returned on their own. The bloodstain in the shape of a heart. The brown pool outside the exit door where, perhaps, the girl had lost her arm.

Really talented …

Tough images reeling through her mind. Dance called this ‘assault by memory’.

She listened to the wind and could just hear a whisper of the ocean.