So, whoever she was, it wasn’t Mrs Dance.
Okay. He moved a bit closer, then paused, kneading the rock. He crouched and got ready to sprint up behind her and take the bitch out. In less than a minute he’d have his gun.
CHAPTER 51
Kathryn Dance continued toward the large Victorian house on the far edge of the park.
She was disappointed to see that while the porch lights were on the rest of the house seemed dark. Too bad. Despite O’Neil’s assessment she was still inclined to lay the crime at the feet of a biker gang. The family here might have heard the throaty clatter of a ’cycle engine, maybe peeked out of the front window and gotten a good view. Make and model of the bike possibly, descriptions.
Still, someone might be home. That a lead was unlikely was no reason to ignore it.
Unleashed …
As she approached the large, rustic yard surrounding the house, she paused once more. Now she heard footsteps. Two sets, in fact. One in front of her some distance away; others, closer, to her right, moving behind. She squinted into the darkness but could see nothing. Deer, most likely. The population of the critters around here was huge.
Of course, she wondered, too, if she’d been too hasty in dismissing the possibility that the perps were still here. True, an ordinary perp would be long gone. Hey, let’s get the hell out of here. We’ve done the deed. Enough. But this wasn’t a burglary or mugging or ‘Let’s torch the Porta Potti for the hell of it’ kind of vandalism. This was different. And it wasn’t unreasonable to think that the perps in this case would remain to watch the reaction, the dismay of the victims.
Deer?
She heard a branch snap not far away, but couldn’t tell exactly where it had come from.
Okay. Time to leave, she told herself. Now.
A crackle of underbrush.
And then—
A mobile phone started to ring – from about thirty feet in front of her.
‘Shit!’ a voice called from behind – close. Jesus, somebody’d been flanking her. One of the perps.
‘Run, run!’ A male voice, from the direction of the ringtone.
And she heard two sets of sprinting footsteps, heading away from her. She saw no one. She thought about ordering them to stop but, unarmed, she didn’t want to give her position away.
Dance lifted her phone and hit a speed-dial button.
‘Kathryn.’
‘Michael. They’re here, east at the end of the road. Junipero Drive.’
‘The perps? From Goldschmidt’s?’
‘Right. What I’m saying.’
‘What were you doing?’
What the hell was he asking this for? She snapped, ‘Call it in. They split up. One headed toward town. The other to Asilomar.’
‘Where are you?’
Why was he asking? ‘Where I just said. East, end of the road. A three-story Victorian.’
‘I’ll make the call.’ Then he grumbled, ‘Now get back here.’
A half-hour later Dance and O’Neil were with the crime-scene unit at Goldschmidt’s house.
A Pacific Grove Police Department car pulled up and two officers got out.
O’Neil nodded. ‘Anything?’
‘Nope. We locked down Sunset, Asilomar, Ocean View and Lighthouse. But they must’ve gotten to their car before we set up the roadblocks.’
‘Footprints?’
The wry smile on the face of one of the officers attested to the fact that they all knew: the ground here was mostly sand, and if you expected footprints for the electrostatic impression machine, you were going to be disappointed.
David Goldschmidt approached, carrying a roller and a can of paint. He set them down. He was interested to learn that Dance had had an encounter with the perps near the house up the street, Junipero Manor.
He said, ‘You were close to them, sounds like.’
‘Fairly. They’d split up. One was probably twenty feet away, the other fifty.’
‘What did they look like?’ His gray eyes narrowed. He focused intently, as if he wanted to learn all he could about those who had defiled his home.
She explained, ‘Too dark to see much.’ Pacific Grove was not known for abundant street lighting.
‘Twenty feet, you said? And you saw nothing?’
A nod toward the park. ‘Dark, I was saying.’
‘Ah.’ His eyes returned to the defiled side of his house.
‘I’m sorry for this, Mr Goldschmidt.’
‘Well, thank you for your prompt response.’ His mind was elsewhere.
Dance nodded and handed him one of her cards. ‘If you can think of anything else, please let me know.’
‘Oh, I will.’ He looked over the streets, eyes keen.
She watched him put the card into his back pocket, then walked to O’Neil’s car. The detective started the engine.
Dance started to get in. Then paused, said, ‘Give me a minute.’ And returned to the house. ‘Mr Goldschmidt?’
‘Agent Dance. Yes?’
‘A word?’
‘Sure.’
‘The law on self-defense in California is very clear.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes. And there are very few circumstances that will justify killing someone.’
‘I watch Nancy Grace. I know that. Why do you bring it up?’
‘You seemed interested in getting a clear description of the perps who committed this crime. Clearer than what you might’ve seen on a security video.’ She glanced at the camera under his eaves.
‘Like I told you, I didn’t see them on the monitor. No, no, I was just thinking: what if I see them in town, or in the neighborhood? I could call the police. If I had a good description.’
‘I’m simply telling you that it is a crime to harm an individual unless you truly believe yourself or another to be in danger. And damage to property is not a justifiable reason to use force.’
‘I imagine these people are willing to do a lot more than paint messages. But why are we even having this conversation? There’s no reason for them to come back, now, is there? They’ve already done the damage.’