‘Brother. After all these years,’ Goldschmidt muttered angrily. ‘Sometimes I think we’re not making any progress at all.’ Dance looked him over, his body language of defiance, determination, his still eyes as he took in the obscene symbol and words.

O’Neil asked Dance if she’d take his and the neighbor’s statements.

‘Sure.’

He wandered up the street to interview other neighbors who might have seen the vandalism.

Dance looked over the yard. No footsteps in the grass, of course. Maybe the CS team could pull a print from the fence the perp had vaulted but that would be a long shot. Ah, but a moment of hope. Nestled under the eaves was a video security camera.

But Goldschmidt shook his head. ‘It’s on but it doesn’t record. The monitor’s in the bedroom and I was in the den when they were here. We only use it after we’re in bed. In case there’s a noise.’

Dance texted Boling that she’d be a bit later than she’d planned. He replied that Maggie was still Skyping and Wes had not returned yet – but he had ten minutes until the promised deadline. Leftovers were heating.

Michael O’Neil was up the street and Dance had nothing more to do there. She started her own canvass, going the other way. The houses had no view of Goldschmidt’s but the vandals might have parked in front of one. Those who were home, however, had seen nothing and Dance spotted no deception. As horrific as vandalism is, there’s not much risk of physical assault and witnesses are more eager to come forward than if they’ve seen a murder, rape or assault.

Two more houses, dark and unoccupied.

She was about to return to the crime scene when she noticed one more house – it was on the other side of a city park, which was a known migration stop for monarch butterflies. The tree-filled park was about two acres in size.

The house bordered Asilomar, the conference area, and beyond that was the coastal park at Spanish Bay. It also overlooked a sandy shoulder, a perfect place for the perps to leave their car and hike through the park to get to Goldschmidt’s. Maybe these homeowners had seen them.

She waded into the park now, moving slowly: the place hadn’t been trimmed recently – budget issues, she supposed – and underbrush might trip her.

Any risk? she wondered, pausing. No. The perps would have headed off as soon as they’d finished. If not, surely they’d done so when they’d seen the blue-and-white flashing lights on O’Neil’s car.

She started through the dark preserve once more.

CHAPTER 50

‘Dude, somebody’s coming. I’m like sure.’

Wolverine was saying this.

‘Sssh.’ Darth waved him quiet.

‘Let’s just go. Yo.’

Darth ignored him and scanned the dusk-lit scene. The two boys remained motionless, still as snipers, in the large backyard of the house that the owners, weird, had named Junipero Manor or something, nestled in mossy trees like something out of The Hobbit, all bent and gnarly. A house with a name. Weird.

The ocean was not far away and Darth could hear the water smashing on the rocks, the seals, gulls. Good. It covered up the noise of their movement.

‘I’m saying, we should book.’ Wolverine was in a navy jacket. Baseball cap, black, backward. Darth was wearing jeans, a black shirt and hoodie. Darth liked to think of him and his friend by their code names when they were out fucking up somebody’s house or a church. Felt like soldiers, felt like superheroes.

They were both slim, young. Darth was bigger, older by a year and change, though they were in the same grade. The two hid behind a bush that smelled of pee, and his knees felt moisture from the fog-damp sand.

‘Dude?’ Wolverine whispered more desperately. ‘Now! Let’s history, man. We gotta get out of here.’

Darth shifted. And: clink, clink.

‘Jesus, quiet!’

Darth set the backpack down carefully and rearranged the cans of red spray paint, put a T-shirt between them. Hoisted the canvas satchel once more.

‘Really, man.’ Wolverine wasn’t exactly living up to his nickname. But Darth was patient with his friend. The bitch got freaked a lot. And, church, Darth was a little tweaked at the moment too, with some asshole prowling around, getting closer.

But he was leader of the crew and he now commanded, ‘Chill.’

Wolverine nodded.

Okay, he was a pussy but he also was the one who’d spotted somebody coming through the park. Sure, they ought to leave. Darth didn’t have any hassle with that idea. But they fucking couldn’t because the fucking Jew had found the bikes and rolled them into his garage. Just after they’d tagged the wall, and got over the fence out of the yard, some bitch from across the street had come out and started screaming, stop, what’re you doing, how hateful and who did they think they were …

Blah, blah …

They didn’t want to get seen so they’d run in this direction and hidden in some bushes, watching Goldshit come out, spot the bikes, cart them away and – fucker – throw them into the garage.

Then the flashing lights.

And now the footsteps.

Who? Goldshit? The woman who’d snitched?

But why would they be here? No, it probably was a cop. And if so they’d be armed with a Taser and a Glock and one of those big fucking flashlights that could cave your head in. When Darth had been in juvie, he’d celled with a kid whose head’d been caved in by one of those.

Footsteps getting closer but still half a basketball court away.

‘Why’re we waiting?’

The why was something Darth didn’t have the time – or the inclination – to explain: that if Darth’s dad found out his bike was gone, out would come the branch and Darth’d get bloody.

Closer. The probably cop was moving slow but headed in their exact direction.

Darth nodded toward a garden shack at the back of Junipero Manor.

They slipped closer to the lopsided structure and crouched between it and a tangled bush. The cop didn’t have a flashlight out. Just was walking slowly, stopping, listening. Playing it cautious, as if the dudes he was after were stone cold. Anybody who’d sneak up to a house and write, Die Jew with a fat-ass swastika on it, probably was.

And, yeah, Darth thought, guess what? We are.

Totally stone cold …

Darth whispered, ‘Got an idea. I’m going to lead ’em off.’

‘But you’ll … What’re you gonna do?’

‘I’ll head that way into the park, make some noise or something and then you can run.’

‘Yeah? What’ll happen to you?’

‘Nobody can touch me,’ Darth whispered, mouth close to ear. ‘Track and field, remember? I’ll be fine.’ Darth’s father had made sure he’d gotten trophies in every event he could in T and F (it’d be the branch if he didn’t).

‘You cool?’

‘Yeah.’ His friend’s green eyes looked uncertain.

‘Okay, just stay here and … give me sixty seconds to get into position. When you count sixty, run – that way. Asilomar. And just keep going. They’ll start after you but I’ll make a shitload of noise and lead ’em off.’

‘Okay. Sixty.’

Then Darth gave a smile. ‘Yo. We did good tonight.’

A nod. A fist bump.

‘Start counting.’ Darth moved as quietly as he could into the woods away from the shed. As he did so he looked around. Ah, there, excellent. He found a perfect weapon. A rock about ten inches long, sharp at one end. He picked it up and hefted it. Good, good.

Darth had no intention of running. He was pissed off that they’d been pushed into a corner and pissed that the Jew had taken his bike. What he was going to do as soon as Wolverine took off was come up behind the cop, distracted by the noise of his friend’s footsteps.

Then Darth’d slam the rock into the cop’s head, knock him out.

And get the asshole’s gun, which would be a slick and smooth Glock or Beretta or something.