She now told Michael O’Neil about the finale of the sting. She, of course, didn’t add that she believed she’d been right – that had she gone in armed, had she not maintained the sham of her suspension, Foster wouldn’t have bought the scam.
Then she noted: O’Neil was listening but not listening. He regarded the photographs on her desk – the one of her with the children and the dog. The eight-by-ten of her with her husband, Bill. Whatever happened in her personal life, she was never going to put those pictures in an attic box. Displayed, always.
She fell silent for a moment, then asked, ‘All right. What is it?’
‘Something happened today. I have to tell you.’ Then he turned his head, rose again and shut the door. As if he’d meant to do that when he walked in but had been so focused on what he wanted to say that any other thoughts had scattered, like dropped marbles.
Something happened …
‘The hate crime I’ve been working?’
‘Sure.’ Had there been another defacing? Was it an actual attack this time? Hate crimes often escalated from words to blood. Dragging to death gays, shootings of blacks or Jews.
‘Goldschmidt’s house again.’
‘The perps came back?’
‘They did. But it seems Goldschmidt wasn’t completely honest with us. Apparently he found their bikes and kept them. He wanted them to come back. He was using the bikes as bait.’
‘So, they were bikers.’
‘No, bicycles.’
‘Kids were doing it?’
‘That’s right.’
She looked at him levelly. ‘And what happened, Michael?’
‘Goldschmidt had a shotgun. Didn’t listen to you the other night.’
‘Goddamnit! Did he shoot anybody?’
‘He was going to,’ O’Neil said. ‘He denies it but – why else keep a loaded Beretta by the garage door?’
‘“Going to”?’
‘While they were on the street, getting closer, I got a call. It was from one of the perps, calling. He was warning me that something bad was going down. He was worried about weapons. I should get TAC and backup there immediately. He said TAC.’
‘One of the kids? Called you? And said that?’
‘Yep.’ He took a breath. ‘I called PG police and they had cars there in a minute or two. They secured everything. Kathryn, the one who called me was Wes.’
‘Who?’ Curious for a moment. And then the name settled. ‘But you said one of the perps!’
‘Wes, that’s right. The others were Donnie, his friend, and another boy. Nathan.’
She whispered. ‘A mistake. It has to be a mistake.’
He continued: ‘It was Donnie tagging the houses. Wes was with him. Nathan and another friend were doing other things. Stealing traffic signs, shoplifting.’
‘Impossible.’
O’Neil said, ‘That game they were playing?’
‘Defend and … I don’t know.’ Her mind was a whitewater rapid, swirling, out of control.
‘Defend and Respond Expedition Service.’
‘That’s it. What about it?’
‘It’s an acronym. D-A-R-E-S. There were teams. Each one dared the other side to do things that could land them in jail.’
Dance gave a cold laugh. She’d been so pleased that the boys were playing a game with paper and pen and avoiding the violence of the computer world, which had seduced Antioch March and helped turn him into a killer. And now the analog life had proven just as destructive.
A game you played with paper and pen? How harmful could that be? …
‘And Wes’s team was dared to commit the hate crimes?’
‘That’s right. Donnie has some juvie time under his belt. Troubled kid. And tonight? He had a weapon. His father’s gun. A thirty-eight.’
‘My God.’
‘He said at first he just brought it for protection but then he admitted he was going to rob Goldschmidt. Some dream of moving out of his home. I’ve spoken to his father. Frankly, hardly blame the boy. Whatever happens, he’ll be better off out of that household. I think he confessed so he didn’t have to go back home.’
Well, I’m not sure what to call you.
Mrs Dance …
‘Wes actually wrote those horrible things on the buildings and houses?’
‘No. He was just a lookout for Donnie.’
Still, that didn’t absolve him. Even if he hadn’t tagged the house himself he was a co-conspirator. An accessory. And with the gun? It could be conspiracy to commit armed robbery. And what if someone had been killed because of a stolen stop sign? Homicide.
‘I’m just setting the stage, Kathryn. There’s more.’
Seriously? How the hell much more bad can there be?
A cramp spidered through her right hand: she’d been gripping a pen furiously. She set it down. ‘I was concentrating on Maggie, who was upset about singing a damn song, and here was Wes committing felonies! I didn’t pay him any attention. His life could be over—’
‘Kathryn. Here.’ He set a mobile phone on her desk. And dug into his pocket and placed an envelope beside it.
She recognized the Samsung as Wes’s. She looked up, frowning.
‘There’re videos on the phone. And this’s a police report that Wes created.’ He pushed the envelope toward her.
‘A police report? What do you mean?’
‘Unofficial.’ O’Neil offered a rare smile. ‘He’s been working undercover for a month. That’s how he put it.’
She picked up the envelope, opened it. Pages of computer printouts, a diary, detailing times and dates.
28 April, 6.45 p.m. in the evening, I personally observed subject Donald, a.k.a. Donnie, Verso paint on the south-west wall of the Latino Immigration Rights Center, at 1884 Alvarado Drive, with a Krylon spray can the words: ‘Go back to Mexico you wetbacks.’ The color of the paint was dark red.
O’Neil took the boy’s phone and ran the camera app. He scrolled through until he found a video. It was shaking but it clearly showed Donnie tagging a building.