‘Do you own a gun?’
‘I do, yes. Here’s where you ask me if it’s registered. Surely you know, in California you don’t have to register guns you owned before January first. You may have to jump through hoops to get a conceal/carry permit. Which I don’t have. But the shotgun that I own does not have to be registered.’
‘I’m just telling you that the self-defense right is much more limited than most people think.’
‘Most people maybe. But I’m quite versed in the law of the land. Nancy Grace, as I was saying.’ His smile was assured, his light eyes narrow. ‘Goodnight, Agent Dance. And thank you again.’
CHAPTER 52
Michael O’Neil pulled up to Dance’s house and braked to a
stop.
She read texts. ‘From our office in LA. Orange County’ll upload the crime-scene and canvassing reports to you early tomorrow.’
He grunted. ‘Good.’
She flipped the lever and pushed open the door, then stepped outside, as O’Neil popped the trunk. He didn’t get out. Dance walked back to get her suitcase and her laptop bag.
A wedge of light filled the front yard and Jon Boling was stepping out.
As if O’Neil suddenly felt he was being rude, or inconsiderate, he glanced at Boling, then Dance. He climbed out of the car.
To Boling, O’Neil said, ‘Jon. Sorry it’s late. I kidnapped her for an operation on the way home.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘Another hate crime. Not too far from here.’
‘Oh, no. Anyone hurt?’
‘No. The perps got away, though.’
‘Sorry.’
Dance carried her wheelie to the porch and Boling took it from her.
‘Just to let you know,’ he said, ‘Wes came in about forty minutes late.’
She sighed. ‘I’ll talk to him.’
‘I think a girl said no to his invite to the graduation dance or something. He was in a mood. I tried to get him to help me hack some code. But he wasn’t interested – how ’bout that? So has to be love sickness.’
‘Well, we have something official I’m hoping you can help us with,’ she said.
‘Sure. What can I do?’
She reminded him of the clip that had been posted last night – of the Solitude Creek tragedy.
‘Right.’ To Michael: ‘What you were telling us this morning, breakfast.’
O’Neil nodded. Dance explained what Stan Prescott had done and that he’d been killed in Orange County – by the Solitude Creek unsub – without going into the part when she and O’Neil had both been in the line of fire.
‘Killed? Why?’
‘We aren’t sure yet. Now, there may be a connection between the unsub and this Prescott. Not likely, but possible. I’ve got his computer and the unsub’s phone. Can you crack the passcodes and run a forensic analysis?’
‘What kind of box is it?’
‘Asus laptop. Nothing fancy. Windows password protected. And a Nokia.’
‘Be happy to. I like playing deputy. I want a badge some day. Or, like on Castle, one of those windbreakers. Mine could say, Geek.’
O’Neil laughed.
She handed the items over. Without prompting from her, Boling signed the chain-of-custody card.
‘It’s been dusted for prints but—’
‘I’ll wear my Playtex Living gloves. I’ll take a peek now but I’ll probably need the big guns to crack it. I’ll start first thing in the morning.’
‘Thanks,’ she said.
O’Neil added, ‘Oh, and it’s been swept for explosives.’
‘Always a plus.’
‘Thanks, Jon.’
‘The kids’ve eaten. We’ve got plenty of leftover leftovers. Why don’t you stay for dinner?’
‘No, thanks,’ O’Neil said. ‘We’ve got plans at home.’
‘Sure.’
Boling gave a friendly nod. ‘See you later, Michael.’
‘Night.’
O’Neil said to Dance, ‘Overby’s at eleven. See you then.’ He walked back to the car.
Dance put her hand on the door knob. Released it. Turned and strode to the car before he’d gotten in. She looked up into his dark eyes; she was not a short woman but O’Neil was six inches taller.
‘Anything else?’ O’Neil asked.
Which was exactly the wrong thing to say.
‘Actually, Michael, there is.’
They rarely used each other’s first names. This was a shot across the bow. ‘I want to know what’s on your mind. And if you say, “Nothing,” I’m probably going to scream.’
‘Been a long day.’
‘That’s as much of a screamer as a man saying, “Nothing.”’
‘Didn’t know that’s a gender issue.’
‘You’re right. But you’re the one acting out here.’
‘Acting out.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, if I’m pissed off, it’s because this hasn’t been the most successful operation on record. Losing the perp is one thing. But we also got an officer wounded down there.’
‘And that was unfortunate. But we didn’t get him shot. He got himself shot by not being aware of his surroundings. Basic street procedures, and I’m not even a street cop. But come on. No bullshit. Tell me.’
The jaw and tongue form an obvious configuration to make the nasal occlusive sound – that is, a word beginning with the consonant n. O’Neil’s face was clearly forming it, a preface to the word nothing. Instead he said, ‘You’re making a mistake.’
‘Mistake?’
‘Okay. The truth?’
As opposed to what? she thought, and lifted an ironic eyebrow.
‘The Guzman Connection, Serrano.’
This surprised her. She was sure he’d been upset to find Jon Boling had spent the night.
‘How do you mean? What about Serrano?’
‘I don’t like you involved, not the way you’re handling it.’
This was news to her. O’Neil wasn’t involved in either Operation Pipeline or the subset, the Guzman Connection and the Serrano matter.
‘Why?’
‘I just don’t.’
As if that told her anything. She sighed.
‘Let somebody else run it.’
‘Who? I’m the only one.’
This wasn’t completely accurate, and his silence called her on the matter. She was angry that she felt defensive. ‘I want to run it.’