The lawyer added, “Apparently no fingerprints or significant trace.”
Dance said, “The perp planted it.”
“Which is what we’ll try to prove. Either he or she intended to kill Millar, or did it by mistake. In either case, they hid the bottle and syringe in your garage to shift the blame.”
Edie was frowning. She looked at her daughter. “Remember earlier in the month, just after Juan died, I told you I heard a noise outside. It was coming from the garage. I’ll bet somebody was there.”
“That’s right,” Dance agreed, though she couldn’t actually recall it — the manhunt for Daniel Pell had occupied all her thoughts then.
“Of course…” Dance fell silent.
“What?”
“Well, one thing we’ll have to work around. I’d stationed a deputy outside their house — for security. Harper will want to know why he didn’t see anything.”
“Or,” Edie said, “we should find out if he did see the intruder.”
“Right,” Dance said quickly. She gave Sheedy the name of the deputy.
“I’ll check that out too.” He added, “The only other thing we have is a report that the patient told you, ‘Kill me.’ And you told several people that. There are witnesses.”
“Right,” Edie said, sounding defensive, her eyes slipping to Dance.
The agent suddenly had a terrible thought: Would she be called to testify against her mother? She felt physically ill at this idea. She said, “But she wouldn’t tell anybody that if she were really intent on killing somebody.”
“True. But remember, Harper is going for splash. Not for logic. A quote like that… well, let’s hope Harper doesn’t find out about it.” He rose. “When I hear from the experts and get details of the autopsy report, I’ll let you know. Are there any questions?”
Edie’s face revealed that, yes, she had about a thousand. But she merely shook her head.
“It’s not hopeless, Edie. The evidence in the garage is troublesome but we’ll do the best we can with that.” Sheedy gathered up his papers, organized them and put them into his briefcase. He shook everyone’s hand and gave reassuring smiles to them all. Stuart saw him to the door, the floor creaking under his solid weight.
Dance too rose. She said to her mother, “Are you sure the kids won’t be too much? I can take them back to Martine’s.”
“No, no. I’ve been looking forward to seeing them.” She pulled on a sweater. “In fact, I think I’ll go outside and visit.”
Dance briefly embraced her, feeling stiffness in her mother’s shoulders. For an awkward moment the women held each other’s eyes. Then Edie stepped outside.
Dance hugged her father too. “Why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow?” she asked him.
“We’ll see.”
“Really. It’d be good. For Mom. For you, everybody.”
“I’ll talk to her about it.”
Dance headed back to the office where she spent the next few hours coordinating stakeouts of the possible victims’ houses and of the Brighams’ residence, deploying the manpower as best she could. And running the frustratingly hopeless search for the boy, who was proving to be as invisible as the electrons making up the vicious messages that had sent him on his deadly quest.
COMFORT.
Pulling up to her house in Pacific Grove at 11:00 p.m., Dance felt a tiny shiver of relief. After this long, long day she was so glad to be home.
The classic Victorian was dark green with gray banisters, shutters and trim — it was in the northwestern part of Pacific Grove; if the time of year, the wind and your attitude about leaning over a shaky railing coincided, you could see the ocean.
Walking into the small entryway, she flicked the light on and locked the door behind her. The dogs charged up to greet her. Dylan, a black-and-tan German shepherd, and Patsy, a dainty flat-coat retriever. They were named respectively for the greatest folk-rock songwriter and for the greatest country-western vocalist in the past hundred years.
Dance reviewed emails but there were no new developments in the case. In the kitchen, spacious but equipped with appliances from a different decade, she poured a glass of wine and foraged for some leftovers, settling on half a turkey sandwich that hadn’t been resident in the fridge for too long.
She fed the dogs and then let them out into the back. But as she was about to return to her computer she jumped at the raucous fuss they made, barking and charging down the stairs. They did this sometimes when a squirrel or cat had had the poor judgment to come for a visit. But that was rare at this time of night. Dance set the wineglass down and, tapping the butt of her Glock, walked out onto the deck.
She gasped.
A cross lay on the ground about forty feet away from the house.
No!
Drawing the gun, she grabbed a flashlight, called the dogs to her and swept the beam into the backyard. It was a narrow space, but extended for fifty feet behind the house and was filled with monkey flowers, scrub oak and maple trees, asters, lupine, potato vines, clover and renegade grass. The only flora that did well here thrived on sandy soil and shade.
She saw no one, though there were places where an intruder could remain hidden from the deck.
Dance hurried down the stairs into the dimness and looked around at the dozen of unsettling shadows cast by branches rocking in the wind.
Pausing, then moving slowly, her eyes on the paths and the dogs, which tracked around the yard, edgy, wary.
Their tense gait and Dylan’s raised hackles were unsettling.
She approached the corner of the yard slowly. Looking for movement, listening for footsteps. When she heard and saw no signs of an intruder, she shined the flashlight onto the ground.
It seemed to be a cross, but up close Dance couldn’t tell if it had been left intentionally or been created by falling branches. It wasn’t bound with wire and there were no flowers. But the back gate was a few feet away, which, though locked, could easily have been vaulted by a seventeen-year-old boy.