Solitude Creek (Kathryn Dance 4)

"Took the late shift, filling in. Just me tonight."

Dance headed into the bedroom, washed up and changed into black jeans, a silk T-shirt and burgundy wool sweater. The Central Coast, after sunset, could get downright cold and dinner tonight would be on the Deck.

As she walked down the stairs and into the hallway a man stepped through the front door. Jon Boling, forties, wasn't tall. A few inches above Dance but lean--thanks mostly to biking and a bit of occasional free weights (twenty-five-pounders at his place and a pair of twelves at hers). His straight hair, thinning, was a shade similar to Dance's, though a little darker than chestnut, and with none of her occasional gray strands (which coincidentally disappeared after a trip to Rite Aid or Save Mart).

"Look, I'm bearing Greek gifts." He held up two large bags from a Mediterranean restaurant in Pacific Grove.

They kissed and he followed her into the kitchen.

Boling was a professor at a college nearby, teaching the undergrad Literature of Science Fiction, as well as a class called Computers and Society. In the graduate school, Boling taught what he described as some boring technical courses. "Sort of math, sort of engineering." He also consulted for Silicon Valley firms. He was apparently a minor genius in the world of boxes--computers. She'd had to learn about this from the press and Wes's assessment of his skill in coding; modesty was hardwired into Boling's genes. He wrote script the way Richard Wilbur or Jim Tilley wrote poetry. Fluid, brilliant and captivating.

They'd been going out for a while now, ever since she'd hired him to assist on a CBI case involving computers.

As he off-loaded containers of moussaka, octopus, taramasalata and the rest, he noted her arm. "What happened there?"

She frowned and followed his gaze. "Oh." Her watch, crystal shattered. "The Serrano thing." Dance explained about the run-in at CBI, when the young man had fled after the interview.

"You all right?" His gentle eyes narrowed.

"No danger. I just didn't fall as elegantly as I should have."

She grimaced as she examined the broken glass. The watch had been a Christmas present from friends in New York, the famed criminalist Lincoln Rhyme and his partner, Amelia Sachs. She'd helped them out on a case a few years ago, involving a brilliant for-hire criminal known as the Watchmaker. She undid the dark-green leather strap and set the damaged watch on the mantel. She'd look into getting it repaired soon.

Boling called, "Mags?"

Dance saw her daughter leap up and run to the doorway. The girl wrinkled her brow. Then called, "Geia!"

Boling nodded. "Kalos!"

Dance laughed.

He said, "Thought we should learn a little Greek in honor of dinner. Where's Wes?"

"Outside with Donnie."

Boling did a fair amount of babysitting too; his teaching load was light and as a consultant he could work here, there, anywhere. He knew as much about the children's schedules and friends as Dance did. "Seems like a nice boy. Donnie. Year older, right?"

"Thirteen, yes."

"His parents picked him up once. Mother's sweet. Dad doesn't say much." Boling frowned. "Was wondering: Whatever happened to Rashiv? He and Wes seemed pretty tight for a while. He was brilliant. Math, phew."

"Don't know. Kids move on." Wes, who Dance had always thought was mature for his age, had recently gravitated to Donnie and an older crowd. Rashiv, she recalled, was a year younger than her son. Maggie, who'd always been a bit of a loner, had started hanging out with a group of four girls in her grade school (to Dance's further surprise, the popular ones, two contestants in National American Miss pageants, one a would-be cheerleader).

Boling opened some wine and passed out glasses to the adults.

A doorbell.

"I'll get it!" Maggie charged forward.

"Hold on, Mags." Boling knew that Dance was involved in several potentially dangerous cases and quickly walked there with the girl, peeked out. He let Maggie unlock the door.

The guests were dear family friends. Steven Cahill, about Boling's age, was wearing a poncho. His salt-and-pepper ponytail dangled and he'd recently grown a David Crosby droopy mustache. Beside him was Martine Christensen. Despite the name she bore no Scandinavian blood. She was dark complexioned and voluptuous, descended in part from the original inhabitants of the area: Ohlone Indian, the loose affiliation of tribelets hunting and gathering from Big Sur to San Francisco Bay.

Steve and Martine's children, twin boys a year younger than Maggie, followed them up the front steps, one toting his mother's guitar case, the other a batch of brownies.

Maggie shepherded the twins and the two dogs down to the backyard, behind the Deck. Dance smiled, noting the girl had shot a fast aside to her brother, undoubtedly a snipe at male-exclusive games. The older boys ignored her.

The younger children and the canines struck up an impromptu and chaotic game of Frisbee football.