‘Nashima. Daniel Nashima. He must’ve come back to examine the club after the police released the scene.’
Boling said, ‘If it’s an election year, he’ll be talking about reforms in fire codes and all that. Not to be cynical.’
Dance said, ‘Really appreciate all this. Thanks, Jon.’
‘Wish I’d been more helpful.’
‘That’s the thing about policing,’ O’Neil said. ‘Even when it doesn’t pan out, you’ve got to do the work anyway.’
So Prescott’s computer was a bust. But then Dance asked, ‘What about the unsub’s phone?’
The burner he’d dropped during the pursuit in Orange County.
‘It’s a prepaid from a Chicago exchange.’
‘Like the one he used at the site of the Bay View Center disaster to lead police into thinking the killer was headed toward Fisherman’s Wharf.’
Boling added, ‘My guess is he goes through a phone every few days. This one has only a few texts on it. To and from a prepaid with a California exchange.’ He consulted his notes. ‘Incoming: “Very pleased so far. Second installment en route.” Outgoing: “Good. Thanks.” Incoming: “What’s next?” Outgoing: “Cleaning up. All will be good. Will be in touch.”’
‘Well,’ Dance whispered.
O’Neil was nodding. ‘There’s our answer.’
She said, ‘Sure is.’
Boling said, ‘Sorry? What do you mean?’
She explained, ‘Our unsub is a pro. He’s working for somebody.’
Dance then placed a call to TJ Scanlon, gave him the number of the California phone and asked him to contact the service provider and see if it was still active.
‘On it, boss.’
Then a thought occurred to her. She considered it. Interesting idea. She said to O’Neil. ‘Do you have the pictures of your Jane Doe, the one we think our unsub killed?’
‘Sure.’
He went onto the MCSO secure server and called them up.
On her computer she accessed the images of Stan Prescott.
O’Neil said, ‘Right. Like we were saying: Same sort of MO. Strangled or asphyxia. On their backs.’
‘And,’ she said, ‘look. They’re both under lights.’
‘Maybe they just fell there.’
‘No. I don’t think so. I think he moved the lamps so he could get pictures on his cell phone. It occurred to me when I was looking at the crime-scene pictures on that website – those bodies were all well-lit too.’
O’Neil nodded, now understanding. ‘Proof of death.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What do you mean?’ Boling asked.
‘He needed clear pictures to prove that the witnesses’d been eliminated. That line in the text about “cleaning up”. He’s making a lot of money on this job and he wants to be sure the man who’s hired him is confident he’s not leaving any traces.’
Five-thousand-dollar shoes …
O’Neil said, ‘Brilliant. He’s targeted a couple of venues to make it look like this’s the work of a psycho. But, no, he’s got a specific venue in mind. He was hired to destroy it.’
‘Or a person,’ Dance said, after a moment. ‘He could’ve been hired to destroy a location, sure. But also to kill somebody specific.’
O’Neil nodded. ‘Sure. Makes sense. But if it’s an individual, then who?’
Dance offered, ‘At the hospital, no one in the elevator could have been the intended victim.’
‘Because how could he know who’d be in that car at that time? And at the Bay View Center – that venue wouldn’t’ve worked either.’
‘No,’ O’Neil said. ‘The people who died all drowned. He couldn’t be sure he’d get a specific target there. How’d he know who’d jump into the bay? No, it was Solitude Creek. His target was there, in the audience.’
O’Neil: ‘The panic starts. The unsub’s changed out of his workman’s clothes. He’s in the audience. He gets close to the victim and kills him or her. Trips them maybe, crushes their throat, breaks a rib that pierces their lung.’
‘He’d be in the mob too. But no—’
‘Right.’ O’Neil carried through on her thought: ‘He’s a big guy. He can survive a bit of jostling.’
‘Besides, remember, there was no fire. It wasn’t like he was going to burn to death. He knew most people would get out okay.’
O’Neil was scrolling through his mobile. ‘There were three deaths at Solitude Creek. Guess we’ll have to look at all the victims.’
It was then that she had one of those moments.
A to B to Z …
‘Let’s go for a drive,’ said Kathryn Dance.
‘Me?’ Boling asked.
She smiled.
‘No. Better if it’s just Michael and me.’
CHAPTER 68
‘Oh. Hi, Mrs Dance. I mean, Agent Dance.’
‘Hello, Trish. This is Detective O’Neil with the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office.’
Nervous. Naturally.
‘Hi.’
The detective nodded down to her. ‘Hello, Trish. I’m sorry about your mother.’
‘Yeah. Thanks. It’s, you know, tough.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
The three stood on the front porch of one of the nicest houses Dance had ever seen. Easily seven thousand square feet. Stone and glass and chrome. A Beverly Hills house, a Malibu house. A rich producer’s or film star’s house.
A moving company truck was parked by the garage. The workers were carrying boxes and furniture into the house, not out.
She’d known Frederick was moving back in but she appreciated this physical evidence regarding who had hired the Solitude Creek unsub.
Dance asked, ‘Is your father home?’
‘No. He’s taking my aunt and uncle to the airport. But he could be back soon.’
A conspiratorial smile. ‘We won’t be long. I know he’s not a big fan of mine. Do you mind if we ask you a few more questions?’
‘You want to come in?’
‘Thank you.’
They walked into the entryway – bigger than Dance’s living room and kitchen combined – then entered a study. Sumptuous leather and metal furniture. The couch alone could have been traded in for a new Pathfinder. They all sat.
‘Uhm, the thing is, I didn’t tell my father we talked, you and me,’ the girl said.