Solitude Creek (33 page)

He unstrapped his almond-shaped helmet and slung it over the handlebars. He leaned the bike up against a nearby fence. Didn’t bother with the lock. Nobody was going to steal a bike in daylight in downtown Carmel. That would be like trying to run a gun show in Berkeley.

Jon Boling had done some research on By the Sea Jewelry, the store he was walking toward now. It was just what he needed. Glancing at the beautiful antique engagement and wedding rings in the window, he pushed inside. The door opened with a jingle from a cowbell, both incongruous and perfectly apt.

Five minutes later he was outside once again.

Do Kathryn and Jon have a future?

Boling opened the By the Sea Jewelry bag and peered into the box inside. Good. He slipped it into his jacket pocket. He found himself smiling.

Helmet on. Time to head back to her house.

There were several ways to get there. The shorter was to go back up Ocean Avenue. But that was a steep hill, made for the thighs of a twenty-year-old. The other option, longer, was to bike downhill toward the beach, then meander along Seventeen Mile Drive back to Pacific Grove.

Pretty and, yes, far easier.

A glance at his watch. He’d be back to Dance’s in thirty minutes this way. He turned the bike down the steep hill and caught a glimpse of the ocean, beach, rocks, shrouded in mist.

What a view.

He pushed off, keeping tension on the rear brake mostly – the incline was so severe that hitting the front one alone would catapult him head over heels if he had to stop fast. It seemed to him that the rear responded slowly, wobbling with some vibration. It felt different from when he’d biked there, just minutes ago. But the sensation was simply a rough patch of asphalt, he guessed. Or maybe even his imagination. Now, no traffic in front, he let up on the brake handles. The speed increased and Boling enjoyed the wind streaming against his face, enjoyed the hum it made in his helmet. Thinking of the bag inside his pocket.

The Kathryn Dance Situation has been resolved.

Dance and her father were on the Deck that warm Sunday afternoon, pleasant, though under gray skies – overcast for a change, no fog. Natives knew the difference. As often on the Peninsula, the sky promised rain but deceived. The drought grew worse every year. Solitude Creek, for instance, had at one point been eight, nine feet deep, she’d learned. Now it was a quarter that. Less in some places.

She thought again about the reeds and grass, the decaying buildings behind the parking lot on the shores of the creek.

Annette, the sobbing witness.

Trish, the motherless child.

The bodies in the roadhouse, the blood. The stain in the shape of a heart.

She was talented …

Picturing Solitude Creek itself, the gray expanse of water, bordered by reeds and grasses.

It was then that she had a thought. ‘Excuse me a sec,’ she said to Stuart.

‘Sure, honey.’

She pulled out her phone and texted Rey Carreneo with yet another assignment.

He responded as crisply as his shirts were starched.

K, Kathryn. On it right now.

She put her phone away.

‘When’s brunch?’ Maggie asked, poking her head out of the door.

‘Jon’ll be home anytime.’ She looked at her Timex. He was ten minutes late. It wasn’t like him not to call.

‘K.’ The girl vanished.

Her phone hummed.

Maybe that’s him. But no.

‘TJ.’

He and several MCSO deputies had been systematically contacting venues with public performances or large social events and asking them to cancel.

‘I think we’ve got most of the big ones. Concerts, church services, plays, sports events – praise the Lord it’s not March Madness or we’d have riots on our hands. By the way, boss, I am not the most popular man on the Peninsula – in the eyes of the Chamber of Commerce and assorted wedding parties,
persona non grata
. The Robertsons are
not
inviting me to the rescheduled reception.’

Dance thanked him and they disconnected.

Stuart asked, ‘How’s it going?’

She shrugged. ‘Ruining people’s Sunday.’

‘So, Maggie’s not singing in the talent show?’

‘No, she didn’t want to. I was going to push it but …’ A shrug.

Stuart smiled. ‘Sometimes you let it go.’ He knew he’d made a pun on the song his granddaughter was going to have sung. Dance laughed, reflecting that the song title had become a theme of hers over the past few days.

‘When’s brunch?’ Wes called from the doorway, echoing his sister.

Dance glanced at her phone. Still no word from Boling. ‘We’ll get things started.’

She and Stuart walked into the kitchen. She Keuriged some coffee for them both and prowled through the fridge.

She glanced toward her son.

‘No texting at the table.’

‘We’re not eating yet.’

A look from Mom. The mobile disappeared into his back pocket.

‘So, what’s on the wish list for brunch?’

Maggie: ‘Waf—’

‘—cakes,’ her brother chimed in.

‘Wafcakes. Good.’

Maggie poured an orange juice and sipped. ‘When are you going to get married?’ she asked, like a father to a pregnant daughter.

Stuart chuckled.

Dance froze. Then: ‘I’m too busy to be thinking about getting married.’

‘Excuses, excuses, excuses … Are you marrying Jon or Michael?’

‘What? Maggie!’

Then the phone was ringing. Wes was closest and he answered. ‘Hello?’

They weren’t supposed to answer with their name or ‘Dance residence’. Security starts early in a law-enforcement household.

‘Sure.’ He looked at his sister. ‘For you. Bethany.’

Maggie took the cordless phone and wandered off. Dance checked her own cell for updates. Nothing from Jon. She called him and the line went right to voice mail.

‘Hey, it’s me. You on your way? Just checking.’

Dance disconnected and happened to glance toward her daughter on the phone. Bethany Meyer, the future secretary of state, was a precocious eleven-year-old, polite enough, though Dance thought of her as over-assembled. She believed kids that age should wear jeans or shorts and T-shirts most of the time, not dress up as if they were going for movie auditions every day. Her parents were well off, true, but they sank way too much money into the girl’s clothes. And such fastidious makeup? On a girl her age? In a word, no.

Suddenly she noticed Maggie’s body language change abruptly. Her shoulders rose and her head drooped. One knee went forward – a sign of a subconscious, if not physical, desire to flee or fight. She was getting troubling news. Her daughter continued to talk a bit more, then disconnected. She returned to the kitchen.

‘Mags, everything all right?’

‘Yeah, it’s fine. Why not?’ Jittery.

Dance looked at her sternly.

‘Everything’s, like, fine.’

‘Watch the “like”. What did Bethany have to say?’

‘Nothing. Just stuff.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Uh-uh.’

Dance gave her a probing look, which was conspicuously ignored, and began to assemble the ingredients for the meal. ‘Blueberries?’

Maggie didn’t answer.

Dance repeated the question.

‘Yeah, sure.’

Dance tried the proven tactic of diversion. ‘Hey, you all looking forward to the concert? Neil Hartman?’

The new Dylan …

‘I guess,’ Maggie said, less than enthusiastic.

A glance at Wes, who was, in turn, sneaking a look at his phone. He put it away fast. ‘Yeah, yeah … can’t wait.’ More enthusiastic but more distracted, as well. Dance at least was looking forward to seeing Hartman. She reminded herself to check the tickets to see where the seats were. She’d left Kayleigh’s envelope in the glove compartment of the Pathfinder.

A moment later, Wes: ‘Hey, Mom,’ Wes said. ‘Can I go meet Donnie?’

‘What about brunch?’

‘Can I do Starbucks instead? Please, please?’ He was cheerful, almost silly. She debated, extracted a five from her purse and handed it over.

‘Thanks.’

‘Can I go too?’ Maggie asked.

‘No,’ Wes said.

‘Mom!’

‘Come on, honey,’ Stuart said. ‘I want to have brunch with you.’

Maggie glanced at her brother darkly, then said, ‘Okay, Grandpa.’

‘Bye, Mom,’ Wes said.

‘Wait!’

He stopped and looked at her with small alarm in his face.

‘Helmet.’ She pointed.

‘Oh.’ He stared at it. ‘Well, we’re walking. I’ve still got that flat.’

‘All the way downtown?’

‘Yeah.’

‘All right.’

‘Yeah. Bye, Grandpa.’

Stuart said, ‘Don’t get a double shot of espresso. Remember what happened last time.’

Dance hadn’t heard about that incident. And didn’t want to know.

The door closed. Dance started to call Boling again when she noted that Maggie’s face was still troubled. ‘You wouldn’t’ve had any fun with them.’

‘I know.’

Dance began to say something to her, make a joke, when her cell rang again. She answered. ‘Michael.’

‘Listen. May have our Solitude Creek unsub. A PG patrolman spotted a silver Honda Accord at the Del Monte View Inn.’

Dance knew it, a big luxury non-chain hotel not far from where she lived.

‘It’s parked right behind the building. The driver was tall. Sunglasses. Hat but maybe he has a shaved head. Worker’s jacket. He’s inside now.’

‘Tag?’

‘Delaware. But how’s this? It’s registered to layers of shell corporations, including an offshore.’

‘Really? Interesting.’

‘I’ve got teams on the way there. Rolling up silent.’

‘You know the place? There’re two lots. Have the teams stage in the bottom one.’

‘Already ordered it,’ he said.

‘I’m ten minutes, Michael. I’m moving.’

She turned to her father and daughter, to see Stuart already on his feet, reading the recipe on the back of the Bisquick box.

She laughed. He looked as serious as an engineer about to power up a nuclear reactor. ‘Thanks, Dad. Love you both.’

As he walked to Starbucks to meet Wes, Donnie Verso was thinking about their friendship.

The kid wasn’t like Nathan or Lann or Vince or Peter. Not
that
stand-up. And wasn’t quite thinking right, the way he ought to if he wanted to hang with the Defend and Respond crew. Not muting his phone and alerting the bitch cop just as Donnie was about to crack her skull open and get her gun. Your phone, dude? Seriously? (Though, afterward, he thought maybe that
had
worked out for the best.)

Yeah, yeah, he was good backup, a good lookout – he’d saved Donnie’s ass a couple of times, warning him that somebody was about to see him tagging a church or stealing a watch from Rite Aid.

But Donnie just couldn’t get Wes to go the extra step.

Oh, he wanted to. That was obvious. Because Wes was mad. Oh, yeah. Totally mad. Wes was as pissed off at his father for being dead as Donnie was at his for being alive. That kind of anger usually pushed you dark really fast. But the dude was hanging back.

He was sure the kid could do it, if he wanted to, even though they’d known each other only a month. Donnie had seen the twelve-year-old Wes around middle school from time to time, and hadn’t thought anything of him. A church humper? Probably. Science club? Probably. Another time, Donnie might’ve wailed on him. (Or Donnie and Nathan together, since Wes wasn’t small.) But there were other, easier, targets at school.

He was thinking of the first time they’d really spoken. One day after school Donnie and Nathan had gotten this pussy grade-schooler down by Asilomar and fucked him up a little, nothing bad. While they were doing it Donnie had looked up and seen Wes standing there. Like he was curious was all.

Wes had watched then pedalled off, not fast, not scared, like no worries.

The next day at school, Donnie’d cornered him and said, ‘The fuck you were looking at yesterday?’

And Wes said, ‘Nobody special.’

‘Fuck you,’ Donnie’d said. Not being able to think of anything better. ‘You tell anybody what you saw and you’re fucked.’

Wes said, ‘I coulda told somebody but I didn’t. ’Cause, duh, you’re here and not behind bars.’

‘Fuck off.’

Wes just walked away slow, like he’d biked away the day before.

No cares …

Then a couple days later Wes came up to Donnie in the hall and gave him a copy of
Hitman
, the video game where you could go around fucking people up, killing them for assignments and even strangling girls. He said, ‘My mom won’t let me play. But it’s a good game. You want it?’

Then a week later Wes was sitting outside and Donnie came by and said, ‘I couldn’t play it, I don’t have Xbox, but I got
Call of Duty
. I traded it at Games Plus. You want to play sometime?’

‘My mom won’t let me play that either. At your house, yeah.’

It took a couple weeks of games and pizza and just hanging out before Wes said, ‘My father’s dead.’

Donnie, who’d heard, said, ‘Yeah, I heard. Sucks.’

Nothing more for another week. Then Donnie sat down at the lunch table and they talked about shit for a while and asked, ‘I heard your dad was FBI. Somebody killed him?’

‘Accident.’

‘Like a car?’

‘A truck.’

Wes sounded as calm as Donnie’s mother after she took her little white pills.

‘You want to fuck up the driver?’

‘Yeah, but he’s gone. Didn’t even live here.’

‘Wish somebody’d run into my father. Don’t you want to fuck things up sometimes?’

‘Explode, yeah,’ Wes had said. ‘And my mom’s going out with this guy. A computer guy. He’s okay. He hacks code real good. But it’s like my dad never even existed, you know. And I can’t say anything.’