Solitude Creek

Almost immediately her phone dinged with a reply. Miss you. WDYWFD?

She answered back that leftovers were good, and asked about the kids.

He sent another, saying Maggie was Skyping with Bethany and Carrie (Secrets Club teleconference), Wes was out with Donnie, biking (back @ 7, promised).

She typed: C U soon. XO

Dance did make a voice call — to Charles Overby. ‘You’re on speaker with me and Michael,’ she told him.

Her boss called, ‘Michael, hello.’

‘Charles.’

She had, of course, called in from time to time to let him know how the incident in Orange County was proceeding. She now said, ‘No indication that Prescott was anything more than an oddball — a redneck, if they have rednecks in Orange County — stirring up anti-Islamic sentiment. Our office down there’ll canvass his friends and family, coworkers but I’m sure that the profile’ll be just that. We’ve got custody of his computer and a phone the unsub dropped. I’d like to have Jon Boling crack the passcodes and take a peek.’

‘That’s good. Sure. And, if I recall, he’s not very expensive.’

Dance let that go.

Overby added, ‘Any thoughts about why our boy would travel all that way to kill him?’

O’Neil explained the theory that Prescott had brought unwanted federal scrutiny to the incident with the ‘terrorist’ comments. ‘That’s all we can think of.’

They arranged a meeting tomorrow in Overby’s office, to review the crime-scene reports from the sheriff’s office in Orange County.

Dance clicked the phone off. Then made another call.

‘Hey, boss. You back from La-La Land?’

‘Just landed,’ she told TJ Scanlon. ‘Eleven tomorrow in Overby’s office. On Solitude Creek and Bay View.’

‘Be there with bells on.’

She asked, ‘And Serrano? The second lead? What’s the name again?’

‘Ah, Señorita Alonzo. Serrano’s former squeeze. Moss Landing tomorrow at nine? Good for you?’

‘Yep. I’ll coordinate with Al.’

‘Foster’ll be out. Steve Two and Jimmy’ll be there.’

‘Thanks. See you tomorrow.’

They disconnected.

Silence for some moments.

‘Look out,’ she said sharply, pointing ahead.

Two flashes of yellow, close-set eyes.

‘I got it,’ he said, braking.

They cruised past the deer as it debated who would win the collision.

O’Neil hadn’t, however, seen the creature at first. He’d been distracted. Mind elsewhere.

More silence. His body language revealed tension.

Another five minutes. Finally she’d had enough. She was going to pry a confession out of him, but just at that moment his phone rang. He unholstered it and hit accept. He listened, grim. ‘Where?’

Her heart sank. Had the unsub returned so quickly and committed yet another mass attack?

‘I’m headed in that direction now. I can be there in fifteen.’

He disconnected.

‘Another one?’

‘Not our unsub. A hate crime again.’ He sighed, shaking his head.

‘Anybody in custody?’

‘No, a homeowner found his wall graffitied. I’m going to swing by and poke around the neighborhood. It’s in Pacific Grove, not far from you. I’ll take you home first.’

‘No, I’ll go with you.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’

He hit the flasher lights and sped up, though minding the slippery road.

She asked, ‘You think there’s a chance you’ll find the perp there?’

‘He can’t be too far away. The graffiti? The paint’s still wet.’

CHAPTER 49

‘Well, there you have it. Welcome to Berlin, nineteen thirty-eight.’

Dance and O’Neil were standing next to David Goldschmidt, who ran one of the nicer furniture stores downtown. The slim, balding man was bundled into a navy watch coat and wore jeans. His sockless feet were in Topsiders. They were in his side yard.

Goldschmidt was a bit of a celebrity in the area: the Monterey Herald had run an article on him last week. When Hamas had begun firing missiles from Gaza into Israel not long ago he’d volunteered to help. At forty, he was too old to serve in the Israeli army — the age limit was twenty-three — but he had spent several months helping with medical and provisions support. However, she recalled that, according to the article, while on a kibbutz outside Tel Aviv years before, Goldschmidt had served in combat.

The publicity was probably why he’d been targeted.

And what a cruel attack it was.

On the side of his beautiful Victorian house there was a swastika in bright red paint and below it: ‘Die Jew.’

The paint dripped from the symbol and words like blood from deep wounds.

The three stood in his side yard surrounded by a foggy dusk, the air fragrant with mulch from the Goldschmidts’ beautiful garden.

‘In all my years,’ he muttered.

‘Did you catch a glimpse of anyone?’

‘No, I didn’t know about it until I heard the shout from across the street — ah, here.’

A woman, mid-fifties, in jeans and a leather jacket, approached. ‘Dave, I’m so sorry. Hello.’

O’Neil and Dance introduced themselves.

‘I’m Sara Peabody. I saw them. I’m the one who called the police. I shouted. I guess I shouldn’t have. I should’ve just called you first. Maybe they’d be in jail now. But I just, you know, lost it.’

‘Them?’ O’Neil asked.