Dance glanced down to the crime-scene file. She said, ‘Oh, wanted to mention: Sorry we had to cancel the fishing.’
O’Neil lived for his boat, which he’d pilot out into Monterey Bay once a week at least. He often took his own children and Dance’s. She herself had been a few times but her inner ear and waves were bad co-conspirators. If the Dramamine and patch didn’t kick in, she’d end up hanging over the side, unpleasant for all involved. And the trip would be cut short. They’d talked about having a day on the water last weekend but before plans had been firmed up she and Boling had decided to take the children to San Francisco. Dance had not told O’Neil the reason they’d canceled. She suspected he’d guessed. But he didn’t ask.
They talked for a few minutes about their children, plans for spring break. Dance mentioned Maggie’s forthcoming talent show at school.
‘She playing violin?’
Maggie’s instrument. She was far more musical than her mother, who was comfortable with a guitar but didn’t have the ear for a fretless fingerboard. Dance told him, ‘No, she’s singing.’
O’Neil said, ‘She’s got a great voice. Remember, I took them to The Lego Movie. That song? “Everything Is Awesome”? She sang it all the way home. I know it by heart, by the way. I’ll sing it for you some time.’
‘She’s doing that song from Frozen.’
‘“Let It Go”. I know that one too.’ Being a single parent with custody could take the edge off the hardest major-crimes detective. Then O’Neil, studying her: ‘What’s wrong?’
Dance realized she’d been frowning. ‘She’s uneasy about the talent show. Usually you can’t keep her offstage but, for this, she’s reluctant.’
‘She ever sung before in public?’
‘Yep. A dozen times. And her voice’s never been better. I was going to start her in lessons but all of a sudden she decided she didn’t want to. It’s funny. They whipsaw, you know, their moods. For a while Wes was depressed and Maggie was flitting around like Bella. Happy as could be. Now it’s the other way round.’ She explained that it might be a post-traumatic reaction to her husband’s death.
He said softly, ‘I know Bill died around this time of year.’
O’Neil had known Bill Swenson well; they’d worked together occasionally.
‘I’ve thought of that. But when kids want to stonewall …’
O’Neil, whose children were close in age to Maggie, said, ‘Don’t I know. But – persistence.’
Dance nodded. ‘So, Sunday, at seven? You and the kids want to come?’ She dug through her purse. ‘Hm. Have a hundred flyers in the car for her show. Thought I had one with me.’ She snapped the Coach bag shut.
‘Can I let you know? We might have plans. Bring a friend?’
‘Of course.’
Had he been dating? she wondered. It had been a while since they’d talked socially. Well, personally. Why shouldn’t he be going out with somebody? He’d been divorced for a while now. He was good-looking, in great shape, with a fine job. He was funny, kind … and had two adorable children whom his ex, in San Francisco, had little interest in.
Dance’s mother called him ‘the Catch’, because he liked to fish … and because he was.
She glanced at the Timex. ‘I’ve got to get into the field.’
‘Our case?’
‘No. The other thing.’
He sighed, glanced at her hip, where her weapon would otherwise have resided. ‘I’ll go with you.’
‘Not for this. It’s all right. I’ll have backup. I have to handle it a particular way. This one’s tricky.’ She almost said, ‘It’s a thing,’ but from O’Neil’s concerned expression she knew he wouldn’t have appreciated the levity.
CHAPTER 22
Charles Overby tapped a roll of fat above his belt. He wasn’t alarmed but he knew he’d have to rein in the snacks that went down a little too easy at the Nineteenth Hole. Maybe go to red wine. He believed it had fewer calories than white.
No, a spritzer. After the martini, of course. And no artichoke dip. It was the devil.
On his desk were ordered stacks of documents – the sign of a sane mind and a productive body, he often said. The one that troubled him most was the pile that was topped with a sheet that read: ‘Incident Report: Joaquin Serrano’. The other words that jumped out from the grayish boxes were ‘Kathryn Dance’. He noted too: ‘Disciplinary recommendations’.
His phone hummed with a text, which he read, and shaking his head for no one’s benefit, he rose. He debated a jacket but decided no.
Down the hall, aware of the peculiar smell of a cleanser the staff had switched to recently. Why was he aware of that? he wondered. Because of the case. Small distractions dulled the concerns.
Serrano …
In the Guzman Connection task-force conference room, Carol Allerton sat alone, squeezing the life from a chamomile teabag. She leaned starboard, to make sure any spatter wouldn’t hit the dozens of papers in front of her. She, too, was well ordered when it came to the stacks of documents in her cases.
‘Charles.’
‘Where is everybody?’
‘The two Steves’re in Salinas. FBI had somebody in town from one of their Oakland task forces. They’re picking his brain.’
‘Meetings, meetings, meetings,’ Overby said, with the boredom of truth in his voice, though no contempt. ‘Jimmy?’
‘He said he had another case lead, something he was working on before we put Guzman together.’
‘Well, we caught a lead in Serrano.’ He held up his phone, on which he’d just gotten the text. She glanced at it, perhaps wondering why the show-and-tell. ‘We have to move fast.’
‘You’ve got Serrano’s location?’
‘Not that lucky. But TJ found this guy knows Serrano.’
‘Who?’