Solitude Creek

A pause. ‘I heard. It was on the news. Some guy they’re looking for. A workman or something.’

‘That’s right. And we’re canvassing to see if anybody might’ve seen him. Your daughter seems intelligent, perceptive. I’m hoping—’

‘She’s too upset.’

‘I understand it’s a difficult time for her, for your whole family. But it’s important that we understand exactly what happened there.’

‘Well, you’ll have do that without my daughter.’ A voice from nearby. He said, away from the phone, ‘It’s nobody. Keep at it, honey.’

That would be Trish. She’d be moving in with her father, Dance guessed. She was probably packing.

‘Mr Martin, my specialty is interviewing people. I’ve spoken to hundreds of teenagers, often in traumatic situations. I promise you, I’ll be very sensitive to Trish’s frame of mind. I—’

He growled. ‘And if you call us again, I’ll get a restraining order against you.’

Dance said, ‘Hmm, well, Mr Martin, there really isn’t a mechanism for doing that. Why don’t we just take a step back and—’

He hung up on her.

Dance wondered if one of the grounds for divorce had been mental cruelty against his ex, in addition to cheating on her.

She dropped the phone into the cradle. TJ was looking at her. ‘Scratch her off the list. Probably didn’t see anything anyway. Still—’

‘You hate itches, boss.’

True, she did.

‘Anything helpful on the canvassing?’

TJ had continued to talk to those who’d been at the club, sifting for insights, possible motives and suspects. ‘Nothing more on revenge by disgruntled employees or patrons. I thought I’d check to see if there was a motive to hurt anyone in the band, or destroy careers.’

‘Good.’ She hadn’t thought about that.

‘But I don’t think so. The music world’s fragile nowadays — the margins aren’t big enough to murder anyone to get ahead. Hey, boss, was wondering. Does “gruntled” mean you’re happy?’

She rummaged in her drawer and found an old Timex, battery-powered. She strapped it on and glanced at the time. Then lowered her voice. ‘How’s the Serrano situation?’

He said, ‘About an hour. It’s set up. I just talked to Al Stemple.’

Stemple, big and quiet and rather scary, was the closest thing the CBI had to a cowboy. Well, to a John Wayne. An investigative agent, like any other, he specialized in tactical situations. Given the unstable nature of the Serrano situation, it was thought best to have a CBI strongman involved.

He rose and left. In his wake she was sure she detected a waft of patchouli aftershave or cologne.

Far out …

A few minutes later Dance happened to be looking into the doorway as Michael O’Neil appeared. He was in a dark plaid sports coat, navy blue shirt and jeans. Dance believed his clothes were better pressed now that he was divorced than when he’d been married to Anne, who was not known as the queen of domesticity. Though this might be her imagination, she allowed.

‘Saw TJ. He was saying nothing turned up on the canvass?’

‘No. We’ve talked to probably seven-eighths of the people who were at the club. No one spotted any potential perps.’ She told him TJ had looked into jealous musicians too.

‘Good call.’

‘But nothing.’ She asked him, ‘Anything more on the theater?’

‘Nope. Full canvass, security-video review. No vehicle. Nothing further. What was that about? Releasing the descrip of our boy? Overby?’

She puffed air from her lips. ‘Came from Steve Foster. He’s with us — CBI — in Sacramento. He’s claiming it was an accident. Blaming, quote, “somebody” in his office. But he let it leak. Power play, I’m sure.’

‘Brother.’

‘It’s not his case. He doesn’t care.’

‘You think our boy’s rabbited?’

‘I’d be gone,’ she said. ‘But then I didn’t set up a stampede and kill three people. I don’t know what makes him tick. He might be in Missouri or Washington State by now. He might be planning to attack the aquarium.’

Nodding, O’Neil extracted from his briefcase a thin manila folder with a metal fixture on top. Inside were a dozen sheets of paper. ‘Crime Scene. Had them working non-stop. No surprise — our unsub’s good. He wore cloth gloves.’

Latex gloves prevent a transfer of the perp’s fingerprints to what he touches at a scene but nothing prevents a transfer of prints to the inside of those latex gloves. Careless perps often discard them, without considering that. Cloth gloves, however, neither transfer nor retain prints.

He continued, ‘Prints on the Peterbilt truck key fob but none identifiable except the manager’s and the driver’s. The drop-box was negative too. No footprints. Nothing in the oil drum, with the fire, that’s any use forensically.’

Dance said, ‘I was thinking. It’s got to be hard to drive a truck that big. Can we use that to narrow the field? Find anybody who’s taken courses lately?’

‘I thought the same thing. But checked it out online. Would take about a half-hour to learn to drive one, even if you had no experience. Probably couldn’t back up or drive with a full load without practice but he basically just had to drive straight down the hill to the roadhouse.’