The guard – his name was Bob – was present there too. He continued, ‘Then he asked about the tunnels. I didn’t want to tell him but he had the gun. He was right beside me. It was … terrible.’

Dance said, ‘I’m sure it was. Of course.’

Bob, miserable, continued in a choked voice: ‘He took my wallet and called somebody. Gave my address. Told his friend to go there and keep an eye on my family. I had to do exactly what he told me.’

Ralston added to Dance and O’Neil, ‘We’ve got somebody on the house already.’

O’Neil said, ‘There’s no evidence anybody’s working with him. I think that was a sham.’

‘I didn’t want to help,’ the shaken employee said.

‘It’s all right, Bob,’ Southern said, ‘There was a panic and some injuries ’cause of it but nobody badly hurt. You did what you had to. I would’ve done the same thing.’

‘I was supposed to go down in the tunnel and give it five minutes, then he’d fire the gun. He promised me he wasn’t going to shoot anybody. He was just doing it to escape. If I thought he was going to shoot anybody, really was, I wouldn’t’ve done it. I—’

‘It’s okay, Bob.’

The man swallowed. ‘And I did what he wanted. I grabbed the microphone and said what I was supposed to.’

Dance shook her head, looking over the milling crowd, now easily three thousand people. As at Solitude Creek, in the snap of a finger they’d calmed, once they were out of the park and police on loudspeakers had reassured them there were no terrorists.

Their unsub had walked right out in the midst of escaping attendees. He didn’t even need a disguise. He could’ve had a black hood on and been carrying a machine-gun and nobody would’ve spotted him.

O’Neil took a call. ‘That’s right … Yes … They’re set up?’ He thanked the caller and disconnected. He looked at the others. ‘Highway Patrol. All the roadblocks’re up. They worked fast. Not every exit route, but the main ones. And random stops, traffic headed away from the park.’

Officers were checking out the bus lines too. And taxis.

No sign of a six-foot-plus man, solid build, blond hair, holding a white gym bag (or Global Adventure World shopping bag holding a gym bag).

Finally the staff who’d been manning the security video reported that there was nothing on any of the many minutes of tape that might help them. The crowds had been too thick.

Dance looked over the masses and didn’t even bother canvassing.

O’Neil said, ‘Back to Prescott’s?’

‘Sure.’

In a half-hour they were there – the traffic was, of course, thick as honey; even the lights and siren in Deputy Martinez’s cruiser couldn’t speed them along very much. They arrived just as the crime-scene crew was finishing up.

A tech said, ‘Your man knew what he was doing. Cloth gloves.’

‘I know.’

‘Didn’t find much.’

Looking down at Prescott, on his back, suffocated with duct tape. The image was stark and clear: he was under a bright floor lamp.

O’Neil asked, ‘Why was he killed?’

Dance speculated, ‘Something in that picture of Solitude Creek he included in the post? Clues?’

The rant had been taken down but O’Neil had made a copy earlier. They looked it over again, carefully. The Vidster post was a video but the image from Solitude Creek was a still. It was a news photo, taken of the aftermath of the tragedy, when the bodies had been removed from the floor, which was covered with litter, purses, scraps of clothing, overturned furniture.

Neither of the officers could see anything revealing.

O’Neil offered, ‘Maybe our unsub just didn’t want any attention drawn to Solitude Creek.’

Dance nodded. ‘It got him noted by the feds.’

Both the CBI and MCSO had received calls from Homeland Security, since the incident was linked to potential terrorism, though agents reviewed the matter and decided it wasn’t terrorist-related – wasn’t even a federal crime.

‘That could be.’ She examined the body again, seeing the face, clear under the bright lamp. The look of horror, eyes wide. She supposed it would have taken him four or five minutes to die. The unsub’d used this means of death for the quiet, she guessed.

An officer appeared in the doorway. He nodded to those inside and said, ‘Detective O’Neil?’

‘Yes?’

‘We did a canvass of the neighborhood, following the route your unsub escaped down. And found this.’ He held up a plastic evidence bag containing a Nokia phone. ‘Guy walking a dog said he saw it fall out of the perp’s pocket when he was running to the Chevy, the getaway vehicle.’

Dance and O’Neil shared a look. Guardedly optimistic. The phone was clearly a prepaid burner – they were invariably cheap, like this model. So it was unlikely they could trace it back to the man. But it might have helpful information inside.

‘Can we get the prints from the man who found it?’

The uniform smiled. ‘He never touched it. He used a plastic bag. He watches all the crime-scene shows, he said.’

Dance took the phone and, through the plastic, tried the keys. ‘Passcode protected. Well, one way or the other, we’ll get inside.’ She said to the Orange County detective, ‘I’ll want to take his computer and the unsub’s phone into custody. You all right with that?’

‘Sure.’

O’Neil couldn’t have done this, not without Orange County’s okay, since the crime had occurred there and Monterey had no jurisdiction. The CBI, however, trumped county public-safety departments and she could take the evidence. Her intention, however, was not to deliver the phone and victim’s computer to the CBI’s small forensic department – they actually farmed out physical-evidence work to the Monterey lab most of the time – but to have Jon Boling analyze them. The former wonder boy in Silicon Valley, occasionally consulted for the CBI, FBI and other law-enforcement groups that needed IT or computer assistance. Computer forensic science is an art and he was good at it.

A woman officer with Crime Scene handed the computer over to Dance, who signed a chain-of-custody card for it and the phone. She stepped outside and slipped the plastic bags into her suitcase.

They arranged with the lead detective for the reports from there and the theme park to be sent to Monterey. In silence they walked to the rental car and headed for the airport. After a day like that, the idea of flying commercial, with the many hassles, had no appeal whatsoever; Dance reminded herself to do something nice for Charles Overby, thanking him for the pricey state jet.

Maybe she’d bake him a cake.

CHAPTER 48

Dance and O’Neil’s flight from John Wayne Airport in Orange County to Monterey landed at six. A young uniformed officer with the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office greeted them.

Dance knew him well. Gabriel Rivera was a young deputy who worked frequently with O’Neil. The round, cheerful man, with a well-tended mustache that rivaled Steve Foster’s, wanted to be a detective, like his mentor, and was known for putting in long hours.

‘Detective, Agent Dance.’

She shook his hand.

‘I’ve got the preliminary from the scene in Santa Cruz. Otto Grant.’

Dance recalled O’Neil had received the phone call about the discovery of a body in the Bay.

Worse ways to die than going to sleep in the Bay …

He handed O’Neil a manila envelope and the detective extracted the contents, copies of handwritten notes and some photos.

Dance glanced at the crime-scene photos. Hard to make an ID from them alone: he’d been in the water for some time and, though the chill would otherwise preserve flesh, critters had been dining. Much of the remains had been reduced to bone.

‘I haven’t contacted the family yet,’ Rivera said. ‘We’ve got a DNA sample from them and the lab’s running it now. Should be about twenty-four hours.’ A nod at a close-up of the corpse’s hands. ‘No fingerprints, of course.’