“Oh, that.”
The Peninsula had been largely immune to terrorist threats. There were no major seaports here, only fishing docks, and the airport was small and had good security. But a month or so ago a shipping container had been smuggled off a cargo ship from Indonesia docked in Oakland and loaded on a truck headed south toward L.A. A report suggested that it had gotten as far as Salinas, where, possibly, the contents had been removed, hidden and then transferred to other trucks for forward routing.
Those contents might’ve been contraband — drugs, weapons… or, as another credible intelligence report went, human beings sneaking into the country. Indonesia had the largest Islamic population in the world and a number of dangerous extremist cells. Homeland Security was understandably concerned.
“But,” O’Neil added, “I can put that on hold for a day or two.”
“Good,” Overby said, relieved that the Roadside Cross Case would be task-forced. He was forever looking for ways to spread the risk if an investigation went bad, even if it meant sharing the glory.
Dance was simply pleased she and O’Neil would be working together.
O’Neil said, “I’ll get the final crime scene report from Peter Bennington.”
O’Neil’s background wasn’t specific to forensic science, but the solid, dogged cop relied on traditional techniques for solving crimes: research, canvassing and crime scene analysis. Occasionally head-butting. Whatever his concoction of techniques, though, the senior detective was good at his job. He had one of the highest arrest — and more important — conviction records in the history of the office.
Dance glanced at her watch. “And I’ll go interview the witness.”
Overby was silent for a moment. “Witness? I didn’t know there was one.”
Dance didn’t tell him that that very information too was in the message she’d left her boss. “Yep, there is,” she said, and slung her purse over her shoulder, heading out of the door.
Chapter 4
“ OH, THAT’S SAD ,” the woman said.
Her husband, behind the wheel of their Ford SUV, which he’d just paid $70 to fill, glanced at her. He was in a bad mood. Because of the gas prices and because he’d just had a tantalizing view of Pebble Beach golf course, which he couldn’t afford to play even if the wife would let him.
One thing he definitely didn’t want to hear was something sad.
Still, he’d been married for twenty years, and so he asked her, “What?” Maybe a little more pointedly than he intended.
She didn’t notice, or pay attention to, his tone. “There.”
He looked ahead, but she was just gazing out of the windshield at this stretch of deserted highway, winding through the woods. She wasn’t pointing at anything in particular. That made him even more irritated.
“Wonder what happened.”
He was about to snap, “To what?” when he saw what she was talking about.
And he felt instantly guilty.
Stuck in the sand ahead of them, about thirty yards away, was one of those memorials at the site of a car accident. It was a cross, kind of a crude thing, sitting atop some flowers. Dark red roses.
“Is sad,” he echoed, thinking of their children — two teenagers who still scared the hell out of him every time they got behind the wheel. Knowing how he’d feel if anything happened to them in an accident. He regretted his initial snippiness.
He shook his head, glancing at his wife’s troubled face. They drove past the homemade cross. She whispered. “My God. It just happened.”
“It did?”
“Yep. It’s got today’s date on it.”
He shivered and they drove on toward a nearby beach that somebody had recommended for its walking trails. He mused, “Something odd.”
“What’s that, dear?”
“The speed limit’s thirty-five along here. You wouldn’t think somebody’d wipe out so bad that they’d die.”
His wife shrugged. “Kids, probably. Drinking and driving.”
The cross sure put everything in perspective. Come on, buddy, you could be sitting back in Portland crunching numbers and wondering what kind of insanity Leo will come up with at the next team rally meeting. Here you are in the most beautiful part of the state of California, with five days of vacation left.
And you couldn’t come close to par at Pebble Beach in a million years. Quit your moaning, he told himself.
He put his hand on his wife’s knee and drove on toward the beach, not even minding that fog had suddenly turned the morning gray.
DRIVING ALONG 68, Holman Highway, Kathryn Dance called her children, whom her father, Stuart, was driving to their respective day camps. With the early-morning meeting at the hotel, Dance had arranged for Wes and Maggie — twelve and ten — to spend the night with their grandparents.
“Hey, Mom!” Maggie said. “Can we go to Rosie’s for dinner tonight?”
“We’ll have to see. I’ve got a big case.”
“We made noodles for the spaghetti for dinner last night, Grandma and me. And we used flour and eggs and water. Grandpa said we were making them from scratch. What does ‘from scratch’ mean?”
“From all the ingredients. You don’t buy them in a box.”
“Like, I know that. I mean, what does ‘scratch’ mean?”
“Don’t say ‘like.’ And I don’t know. We’ll look it up.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you soon, sweetie. Love you. Put your brother on.”
“Hey, Mom.” Wes launched into a monologue about the tennis match planned for today.
Wes was, Dance suspected, just starting the downhill coast into adolescence. Sometimes he was her little boy, sometimes a distant teenager. His father had died two years ago, and only now was the boy sliding out from under the weight of that sorrow. Maggie, though younger, was more resilient.
“Is Michael still going out on his boat this weekend?”