The Deck was where they’d had his memorial service.
It was also a gathering-place for friends both inside and outside the law enforcement community on the Peninsula. Kathryn Dance enjoyed her friendships but after Bill’s death she’d chosen to spend her free time with her children. Not wanting to take them to bars or restaurants with her adult friends, she brought the friends into their world.
There was beer and soda in the outdoor fridge, and usually a bottle or two of basic Central Coast Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio and Cabernet. A stained, rusty but functional barbecue grill sat here as well, and there was a bathroom downstairs, accessible from the backyard. It wasn’t unusual for Dance to come home and find her mother or father, friends or colleagues from the CBI or MCSO, enjoying a beer or coffee.
All were welcome to stop by whether she was home or away, whether the visitors announced their intentions or not, though even if she was home she might not join them. A tacit but well-understood rule held that, while people were always welcome anytime outside, the house itself was off limits, except for planned parties; privacy, sleep and homework were sacred.
Dance now climbed the steep stairs from her side yard and walked onto the Deck, carrying the box of photocopies and tapes, on top of which was perched a prepared chicken dinner she’d bought at Albertsons. The dogs greeted her, a black flat-coated retriever and a black-and-tan German shepherd.
She rubbed ears and flung a few mangy stuffed toys, then continued on to two men sitting in plastic chairs.
“Hi, honey.” Stuart Dance looked younger than his seventy years. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a full head of unruly white hair. His hours at sea and on the shore had taken a toll on his skin; a few scars from the dermatologist’s scalpel and laser were evident too. Technically he was retired but he still worked at the aquarium several days a week, and nothing in the universe could keep him from the rocky shoals of the coast.
He and his daughter brushed cheeks.
“Hnnn.” From Albert Stemple, another Major Crimes agent with the CBI. The massive man, with a shaved head, wore boots, jeans, a black T-shirt. There were scars on his face as well, and others he’d alluded to—in places that didn’t see much sunlight, though a dermatologist had nothing to do with them.
He was drinking a beer, feet sticking out in front of him. The CBI was not known for its cowboys, but Albert Stemple was your basic, make-my-own-rules Wild Bill Hickok. He had more collars than any other agent, as well as more official complaints (he was most proud of the latter).
“Thanks for keeping an eye on things, Al. Sorry it’s later than I’d planned.” Thinking of Pell’s threats during the interrogation—and of his remaining in the area—Dance had asked Stemple to babysit until she
returned home. (O’Neil too had arranged for local officers to keep an eye on her house as long as the escapee was at large.) Stemple grunted. “Not a problem. Overby’ll buy me dinner.”
“Charles said that?”
“Naw. But he’ll buy me dinner. Quiet here. I walked around a couple times. Nothin’ strange.”
“You want a soda for the road?”
“Sure.” The big man helped himself to two Anchor Steams from the fridge. “Don’t worry. I’ll finish ’em ’fore I get in the car. So long, Stu.” He clomped along the Deck, which creaked under his weight.
He disappeared and she heard the Crown Victoria start up fifteen seconds later and peel away, the open beers undoubtedly resting between his massive thighs.
Dance glanced through the streaked windows into the living room. Her eyes settled on a book sitting on the coffee table in the living room. It jogged her memory. “Hey, did Brian call?”
“Oh, your friend? The one who came to dinner?”
“Right.”
“What was his last name?”
“Gunderson.”
“The investment banker.”
“That’s the one. Did he call?”
“Not that I know. You want to ask the kids?”
“No, that’s okay. Thanks again, Dad.”
“No worries.” An expression from his days in New Zealand. He turned away, rapping on the window.
“’Bye!”
“Grandpa, wait!” Maggie ran outside, her chestnut braid flapping behind her. She was clutching a book.
“Hi, Mom,” she said enthusiastically. “When’d you get home?”
“Just now.”
“You didn’tsay anything!” exclaimed the ten-year-old, poking her glasses up on her nose.
“Where’s your brother?”
“I don’t know. His room. When’s dinner?”
“Five minutes.”
“What’re we having?”
“You’ll see.”
Maggie held the book up to her grandfather and pointed out a small gray-purple, nautilus-like seashell.
“Look. You were right.” Maggie didn’t try to pronounce the words.
“A Columbian Amphissa,” he said and pulled out the pen and notebook he was never without. Jotted.
Three decades older than his daughter and he needed no glasses. Most of her genetic proclivities derived from her mother, Dance had learned.
“A tide-drift shell,” he said to Dance. “Very rare here. But Maggie found one.”
“It was justthere, ” the girl said.
“Okay, I’m headed home to the staff sergeant. She’s fixing dinner and my presence is required. ’Night, all.”
“’Bye, Grandpa.”
Her father climbed down the stairs, and Dance thanked fate or God or whatever might be, as she often did, for a good, dependable male figure in the life of a widow with children.