Solitude Creek (36 page)

‘No,’ she’d muttered. The inn was one story and, though built into a hill, the incline was minimal. To escape, all you had to do was pitch a chair through a window and step outside, safe as long as you minded the broken glass.

Then she’d noted the smoke wafting into the woods and had seen, behind them, the hospital.

She’d said to O’Neil, ‘I don’t think it’s the inn that’s his target.’

‘What then?’

‘Hospital.’

He’d considered this. ‘A lot of exits.’

She’d suggested that he might hit a closed-off interior area. ‘Surgical suite?’

‘There wouldn’t be enough people for a stampede. Good security. And—’

‘Cafeteria? Waiting room.’ Then: ‘Elevator.’

O’Neil’d said, ‘That’s it.’

And they’d started jogging along the quarter-mile path that led to the hospital.

Now, in the third-floor lobby by the elevator, a nurse wandered up the hall. ‘You’re Special Agent Dance?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You wanted to know. You asked earlier? The baby’s fine. A girl. Mother has a broken arm – somebody stepped on it – but she’ll be okay. She asked for your name. I think she wants to thank you. Can I give it to her?’

Dance handed her a card, wondering if the newborn was about to get a different given name than Mom and Dad had originally planned.

‘And the orderly?’

‘Heimlich didn’t work – not with cloth stuck in the windpipe. But we did a tracheotomy. Looks like he swallowed it himself. Attempted suicide. He’ll be okay. He’s pretty shaken up. Claustrophobia’s his big fear.’

A doctor, a tall African American, approached. He examined her cheek. ‘Not too bad.’ He offered her an antiseptic pad. She thanked him, tore it open and pressed the cloth against the cut, wincing at the brief pain. ‘I’ll bandage it up, you want.’

‘I’ll see. Maybe I’ll come by the ER later. Thanks.’

O’Neil’s phone rang. He took the call. After disconnecting, he said, ‘Downstairs. Crime Scene’s released the basement. There isn’t much. But I’m going to take a look. You want to come?’

Just then her phone hummed. She glanced at it. ‘You go on. I’ll be a minute.’ She answered. ‘Mags.’

‘Mom.’

‘Everything all right?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Fine. I finished the book report. It’s five pages.’

‘Good. We’ll go over it when I’m home.’

‘Mom.’

Of course she’d known there was another agenda. No child calls about book reports. No hurry. Give her time.

‘What, hons?’

‘Mom, I was thinking?’

‘Yes, wonderful child?’

‘I think I’ll sing at the show, the talent show. I think I want to.’

Dance gave it a moment. ‘Do you really want to?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Why’d you change your mind?’

‘I don’t know. I just did.’

‘And this’s something you really want to do?’

‘Cross my heart.’

Those words tend to be an indicator of deception. But the fact that she was going to sing even if she didn’t want to wasn’t necessarily bad. It’s a positive developmental step toward adulthood to take on a challenge even if you’d rather not.

‘That’s great, honey. Everybody’ll love to hear you. All right, good. I’m proud of you.’

‘I’m going to go practice now.’

‘Don’t overdo your voice. You probably know the song backwards by now. Hey, honey, is Jon there?’

‘No, just Grandpa and me.’

‘Okay. I’ll see you soon.’

‘Bye.’

‘Love you.’

Where was Boling? Lost in the world of supercomputers, she guessed, still trying to crack the code of Stan Prescott’s computer and the mobile that the unsub had dropped in Orange County. But his not calling? That was odd.

Dance turned to see her mother walking quickly toward
her.

‘Katie! You’re all right?’ she called, when she was still some distance away. Heads turned at the urgent words, as the stocky woman with short salt-and-pepper hair strode forward.

‘Sure. Fine.’ They hugged.

Edie Dance was a cardiac nurse here. She surveyed the elevator car. The blood, vomit, metal battered by fists. Edie shook her head, then hugged her daughter. ‘How horrible,’ she whispered. ‘Somebody did this on purpose?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are— Oh, your face.’

‘Nothing. Got scratched a little, getting into the car.’

‘I can’t imagine what it would be like to be trapped in there. How many people?’

‘About fifteen. Pregnant woman. She’ll be okay. Baby’s fine. One close call.’

‘No!’

‘He tried to kill himself. He couldn’t take the panic.’

Edie Dance looked around. ‘Is Michael here?’

‘He’s meeting with his crime-scene people. They’re running scenes in the basement and next door, at the inn.’

‘Ah.’ Edie’s eyes remained down the hall. ‘How’s he doing? Haven’t seen him for a while.’

‘Michael? Fine.’

Body-language skill is such a blessing … and a curse. Her mother had something to say, and Dance wondered if she was supposed to pry it out of her. That was often the case with Edie Dance.

But she didn’t have to.

Her mother said, ‘I saw Anne O’Neil the other day.’

‘You did?’

‘She was with the kids. At Whole Foods. Or does she go by her maiden name now?’

Dance touched her sore face. ‘No, she kept O’Neil.’

‘Thought she was living in San Francisco.’

‘Last I heard she was.’

‘So Michael hasn’t mentioned anything about it?’

‘No. But we haven’t had much of chance for personal conversation.’ She nodded at the elevator. ‘The case and all.’

‘I suppose not.’

Dance sometimes wondered where her mother’s loyalties lay. Recently Edie had been fast to tell her that Boling appeared to be moving away – without having mentioned anything to Dance. As it turned out, he only had a business trip and was planning to take Dance and the children with him for part of it – a mini-vacation in Southern California. True, Edie had her daughter’s and grandchildren’s interests at heart but Dance thought she’d been a bit too fast to relay what turned out to be a misunderstanding.

Now she was telling Dance that the man who’d once been a potential partner might not be as divorced as he seemed to be. But Edie was not a gossip or a sniper. So, Dance speculated, this would have to do with protecting her daughter’s heart, as any good parent would do. Though the information was irrelevant, of course. She was Jon Boling’s partner now.

Edie expected her to say something more on the topic, she sensed. But Dance chose to deflect: ‘Maggie’s going to sing in the show after all.’

‘Really? Wonderful. What changed her mind?’

‘I don’t know.’

Children were mysteries and you could go nuts trying to figure out patterns.

‘Your dad and I’ll be there. What time is it again?’

‘Seven.’

‘Dinner after?’

‘I think that should work.’

Her mother was looking at her critically. ‘And, Katie, I’d really get that face taken care of.’

‘A lift?’ Dance asked.

Mother and daughter smiled.

Her phone buzzed. Ah, at last.

‘Jon, where’ve you been? We—’

‘Is this Kathryn?’ A man’s voice. Not Boling’s.

Her heart went cold. ‘Yes. Who’s this?’

‘I’m Officer Taylor, Carmel Police. I found you on Mr Boling’s speed-dial list. You’re a friend, a co-worker?’

‘Yes. Friend. I’m Kathryn Dance. Special agent with the CBI.’

A pause. Then: ‘Oh. Agent Dance.’

‘What’s happened?’ Dance whispered. She was deluged with an ice-cold memory – of the trooper calling her after her husband had been killed.

‘I’m afraid I have to tell you that Mr Boling’s been in an accident.’

Antioch March was back in his suite at the Cedar Hills Inn.

He’d finished the workout at the inn’s luxurious health club and was enjoying a pineapple juice in his room, watching the news reports of the event at the hospital.

Not a single fatality.

Antioch March was mildly disappointed but the Get was satisfied. For the time being. Always for the time being.

Somebody’s not happy …

His phone rang. Both caller and callee were on new burner phones. But he knew who it was: his boss. Christopher Jenkins ran the Hand to Heart website. He gave March his assignments to travel to non-profit humanitarian groups, who would then sign up for the site. Jenkins also arranged for March’s other jobs, which were the real moneymakers for the company.

‘Hi,’ he said.

No names, of course.

‘Just wanted to tell you, the client’s extremely satisfied.’

‘Good.’ What else was there to say? March had done what he’d been contracted to do in the Monterey area. He’d also eliminated evidence and witnesses and cut all ties that could potentially link the incident to the client, who was paying Jenkins a great deal of money for March’s services. The client wasn’t the nicest guy in the world – in fact, he could be quite a prick – but one thing about him: he paid well and on time.

‘He’s sent eighty percent. It’s gone through proper channels.’

Bitcoin and the other weird new payment systems were clever in theory as a mechanism to pay anonymously for the sort of work that March performed but they were coming under increasing scrutiny. So Jenkins – the businessman in the operation – had decided to resort to good old-fashioned cash. ‘Channels’ meant he’d received a FedEx box containing ‘documents’, which in a way it did, though each document would have a picture of Benjamin Franklin on it.

Antioch March had eight safe-deposit boxes around the country, each with about a million inside it.

Jenkins continued, ‘Wanted to tell you. Found a restaurant we have to try.
Foie gras
is the best. I mean, the best. And they serve the Château d’Yquem in Waterford. Oh, and the red wine? Pétrus.’ A chuckle. ‘We had two bottles.’

March didn’t know the wines but he assumed they were expensive. Maybe Jenkins had even poured some for him in the past. The two men had worked together for about six years, and from day one, Jenkins had treated March to fancy dinners, like the one he was describing now. They were okay. But the elaborate meals didn’t really move March, in the same way the Vuitton and the Coach and the Italian suits didn’t. He accepted the gifts but was forever surprised that Jenkins didn’t notice his indifference. Or maybe he did but didn’t care. Just like March’s lethargy at certain other times, in his connection with Jenkins.

His boss now added, ‘Just had a proposal. I’ll tell you about it when I’m out.’

They were always vague when they were on the phone. Yes, these were prepaid mobiles but listenable to if one were inclined to listen, and traceable if one were inclined to trace.

And people like Kathryn Dance would be more than happy to do both.

‘I’ll be in tomorrow night,’ Jenkins said.

‘Good.’ March tried to be enthusiastic. There was another reason Jenkins was coming to the inn, of course. Which March could have done without. But he could live with it: anything for the Get.

‘Thanks again for all your work. This is a good one. This’s a winner. And it’ll open up a lot of doors for us. Well, think we’ve been talking long enough. Night.’

They hung up.

March checked the news, but there was nothing yet about Jon Boling’s death due to a bicycle malfunction. He supposed that with both brakes out the bike would have been doing fifty or sixty when Dance’s boyfriend had slammed into the traffic or rocks at Carmel Beach. March wasn’t sure exactly how close Dance was to Boling but he knew he was more than a casual date; in her Pathfinder, at the Bay View Center, he’d found a card he’d sent her. A silly thing, funny. Signed,
Love, J.
March had noted the return address and driven there straight from the scene of the attack.

Motivated by both a need to distract the huntress and a bit of jealousy (he found he desired Kathryn even more than Calista), he’d waited outside Boling’s house, planning to beat him to death, a robbery gone wrong. Or coma him, at the least. But the man still hadn’t returned when March got the text about foolish Stan Prescott down in Orange County and he’d had to leave.

He’d followed Boling later and decided he liked the idea of a bike accident better than an obvious attack.

March looked at his shaved scalp in the mirror. He didn’t like it. He looked a bit like Chris Jenkins, now he thought about it. And reflected that it was ironic that Jenkins – former military, crack shot, familiar with all sorts of weapons, with friends among the security and mercenary crowd – was the businessman who never got out into the field to run the assignments.

And Antioch March, who was essentially a misplaced academic, was the one fulfilling them.

But it worked to everybody’s advantage. Jenkins lacked the finesse to set up the deaths the way March did, the intellect to foresee what the police and witnesses would do.

March, on the other hand, had no talent for dealing with clients. Negotiating, vetting to make sure they were not law, structuring payment terms, maintaining the Hand to Heart website.

March finished his juice.

The client is extremely satisfied …

Which, March thought, was the ultimate goal of his father, the salesman, as well.

He flopped down in the sumptuous bed. He had many plans to make. But at the moment he preferred his thoughts to dwell upon … who else? The captivating Kathryn Dance.

At CBI headquarters once more.

Dance had hit the restroom to scrub the face wound but she assessed it as minor. A little sting. There’d be a bruise. Nothing more.

She turned the corner to the Gals’ Wing. It being the weekend, the office wasn’t staffed with assistants. She walked past Maryellen Kresbach’s station and into her own office.

‘Hey.’ Jon Boling, sitting in the chair across the desk, smiled.

‘Jon!’ She strode to him fast and started to throw her arms around his shoulders, then saw him wince in anticipation. She stopped. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine. Relatively speaking. But sore. Really sore.’ His face was bruised and he had two bandages, on his cheek and neck. His wrist was wrapped in beige elastic.