Solitude Creek (Kathryn Dance 4)

About thirty such grievers and spectators were present. With Bob Holly's blessing, Dance made the rounds of them now, flashed her badge, as shiny and official in its Civ-Div mode as when she was a criminal investigator, and asked questions about the truck, about the fire in the oil drum, about anyone skulking about outside the club last night.

Negatives, all around.

Nor did she see anyone whose cautious posture suggested he or she was the perp, returning to the scene of the crime; yes, it happened.

She tried to identify anyone who'd been in the mob that morning but couldn't. True, most had probably vanished. Still, she knew from her work that at harrowing times our powers of observation and retention fail us completely.

She noticed a car pulling into the lot and easing slowly to the police line, near the impromptu memorial of flowers and stuffed animals. The car was a fancy one, a new-model two-door Lexus, sleek, black.

There were two occupants, and, though Dance couldn't see them clearly, they were having a serious discussion. Even in silhouette, the body radiates intent and mood. The driver, a man in his forties, climbed out, bent down, said a few more words through the car's open door, and then flipped the seat forward and extracted a bouquet from the back. He said something else to the other occupant, in the front passenger seat, whose response must have been negative because the man shrugged and continued on his own to the memorial.

Dance walked up to him, showed her ID. "I'm Kathryn Dance. CBI."

Distracted, the handsome man nodded.

"I assume you lost someone last night."

"We did, yes."

"I'm sorry."

We...

A nod back to the Lexus. There was glare...and the automotive engineers were quite adept, it seemed, at tinting glass but Dance could see that the person occupying the passenger seat had long hair. A woman. His wife probably. But no ring on his finger. An ex-wife, perhaps. And she realized with a shock. My God. They'd lost a child here.

His name was Frederick Martin and he explained that, yes, his ex-wife, Michelle, had brought their daughter here last night.

She'd been right. Their child, probably a teen. How sad.

Dance's worst horror. Every mother's.

That had been the tension in the car. Ex-spouses, forced together at a time like this. Probably on the way to a funeral home to make arrangements. Dance's heart went out to them both.

"We're investigating the incident," she said, a version of the truth. "I have a few questions."

"Well, I don't know anything. I wasn't here." Martin was edgy. He wanted to leave.

"No, no. I understand. But if I could have a few words with your ex-wife."

"What?" he said, frowning broadly.

Then a voice behind them, a girl's voice. Nearly a whisper. "She's gone."

Dance turned to see a teenager. Pretty but with a face puffy from crying. Her hair had been carelessly herded into place with fingers, not brush.

"Mommy's gone."

Oh. The ex was the fatality.

"Trish, go back to the car."

Staring at the club. "She was trapped. Against the door. I saw her. I can't--we looked at each other and then I fell. This big man, he was crying like a baby, he climbed on my back and I went down. I thought I was going to die but I got picked up by somebody. Then the people I was with went through another door, not the fire exits. The crowd she was in--"

"Trish, honey, no. I told you this was a bad idea. Let's go. We've got your grandparents to meet at the airport. We've got plans to make."

Martin took his daughter's arm. She pulled away. He grimaced.

To the girl: "Trish, I'm Kathryn Dance, California Bureau of Investigation. I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."