‘You look tired,’ Boling said. He was infinitely supportive but he lived in a very different world from hers and she was reluctant to share too much about her impossible line of work. Still, she owed him honesty. ‘I am. It’s a mess. Not Serrano so much as Solitude Creek. That somebody’d do that on purpose. It just doesn’t make sense. It’s not like any case I’ve ever worked. It’s already exhausting.’
She hadn’t told him about the run-in with the mob outside Henderson Jobbing. And chose not to now. She was still spooked – and sore – from the encounter. And, to be honest to herself, she just didn’t want to relive it. She could still hear the rock shattering Billy Culp’s jaw. And still see the animal eyes of the mob as it bore down on them.
Fuck you, bitch …
The doorbell rang.
Boling frowned.
Dance hesitated. Then: ‘Oh, that’d be Michael. He’s running Solitude Creek with me. Didn’t I tell you he was coming over?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Been a crazy day, sorry.’
‘No worries.’
She opened the door and Michael O’Neil walked in.
‘Hey, Michael.’
‘Jon.’ The men shook hands.
‘Have some food. Greek. Got plenty left.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Come on,’ Boling persisted. ‘Kathryn can’t eat moussaka for a week.’
She noted that he didn’t say, ‘We can’t eat moussaka,’ though he might have. But Boling wasn’t a chest-thumping territory-staker.
O’Neil said, ‘Sure, it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Wine?’
‘Beer.’
‘Done.’
Boling prepared a plate and passed him a Corona. O’Neil lifted the bottle in thanks, then hung his sports jacket on a hook. He rarely wore a uniform and tonight was in khaki slacks and a light gray shirt. He sat on a kitchen chair, adjusting his Glock.
Dance had known and worked with O’Neil for years. The chief deputy and senior detective for the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office had been a mentor when Dance had joined the Bureau. Her background wasn’t law enforcement: she’d been a for-hire kinesics expert, helping attorneys and prosecutors pick juries and providing expert testimony. After her husband’s death – Bill Swenson had been an FBI agent – she’d decided to become a cop.
O’Neil had been with the MCSO for years and, with his intelligence and dogged nature (not to mention enviable arrest and conviction record), he could have gone anywhere but had chosen to stay local. O’Neil’s home was the Monterey Peninsula and he had no desire to be anywhere else. Family kept him close and so did the Bay. He loved boats and fishing. He could easily have been a protagonist in a John Steinbeck novel: quiet, solid of build, strong arms, brown eyes beneath dipping lids. His hair was thick and cut short, brown with abundant gray.
He waved to Wes.
‘Hey, Michael!’
Donnie, too, turned. The boy exhibited the fascination youngsters always did with the armament on the hip of a law officer. He whispered something to Wes, who nodded with a smile, and they turned their attention to the game.
O’Neil took the plate, ate some. ‘Thanks. Okay, this is excellent.’
They tapped bottle and glasses. Dance wasn’t hungry but gave in to a few bits of pita with tzatziki.
She said, ‘I didn’t know if you could make it tonight. With the kids.’ O’Neil had two children from a prior marriage, Amanda and Tyler, nine and ten. They were good friends with Dance’s youngsters – though Maggie more, because of the age proximity.
‘Somebody’s watching them,’ he said.
‘New sitter?’
‘Sort of.’
Footsteps approached. It was Donnie. He nodded to O’Neil and said to Dance, ‘Um, I really better be getting home. I didn’t know it was this late.’
Boling said, ‘I’ll drive you.’
‘The thing is I’ve got my bike. I can’t leave it, you know.’
‘I’ve got a rack on the back.’
‘Excellent!’ He looked relieved. Dance believed the bike was new, probably a present for his birthday a few weeks ago. ‘Thanks, Mr Boling. Night, Mrs Dance.’
‘Anytime, Donnie.’
Boling got his jacket and kissed Dance. She leaned into him, ever so slightly.
The boys bumped fists. ‘Later,’ Wes called, and headed for his room.
Boling shook O’Neil’s hand. ‘Night.’
‘Take care.’
The door closed. Dance watched Boling and Donnie walk to the car. She believed Jon Boling looked back to see her wave but she couldn’t tell for certain.
CHAPTER 18
After checking on the kids (‘Teeth! No texting!’), Dance joined O’Neil on the Deck. He was finishing up the food. He glanced at her and said, ‘All right. Solitude Creek. You’re sure you want to handle it this way?’
She sat beside him. ‘How do you mean?’
‘You’re Civ Div?’
‘Right.’
‘No weapon?’
‘Nope. Busted down to rookie. I’d be, quote, “briefing” on the roadhouse case. I boosted that up to “advising”, then I did an end run and—’
‘And blustered your way into running it.’
She’d been smiling at her joke but, at his interruption, the smile faded. ‘Well, with you.’
‘Look, I’m happy to handle it solo.’
‘No, I want it.’
A pause. O’Neil said, ‘This unsub. I profile he’s armed. Or could be. You think?’
It was fairly easy to do a preliminary profiling of an unknown subject. One of the easiest determinations was an affinity to commit a crime with a weapon.
‘Probably. He’s not going into a situation like this clean.’
He shrugged.
She said, ‘You’ll look out for me.’
O’Neil grimaced. He almost said something, which she suspected was, ‘I can’t babysit.’
Her level gaze told him, though, she wasn’t going to be a spectator. She was going to run the case shoulder to shoulder with him. He nodded. ‘Okay, then, that’s the way it is.’
Dance asked, ‘What do you have going on? Busy now?’
‘A couple of cases is all. You hear about Otto Grant?’
‘Sounds familiar.’