“Even if what?”

“Nothing.” The girl beamed. “Thanks, Mommy! Love you, love you!” She ran off, back to breakfast, happier than Dance had seen her in weeks.

Whatever was motivating her not to sing, Dance knew she’d made the right decision. As a mother, she knew you had to prioritize. And forcing her daughter to sing in a sixth-grade talent show was not an important issue. She called the girl’s teacher and left a message, relaying the news. If there were any problem, Mrs. Bendix could call her back. Otherwise, they’d be at the school at six thirty tomorrow, violin in hand.

Dance returned to the kitchen table and just as she ate a bite of toast O’Neil’s phone beeped. He took a look at the screen. “Got it.”

“The address of the guy who posted?”

“His service area.” He scooted back in the chair. “They’re still working on his name and exact address.”

“Jon,” Dance began.

“I’ll get the gang to practices,” he said, smiling. “No worries.”

Wes for tennis. Maggie’d taken up gymnastics—something she hadn’t been interested in until her friend Bethany, the cheerleader, had suggested she try it.

“And Quiznos after,” Boling told the kids. “Only be sure you don’t tell your mother. Oh, oops!”

Maggie laughed. Wes gave a thumbs-up.

“Thanks.” Dance kissed him.

O’Neil was on the phone now. “Really, okay. Good. Can you get a state plane?”

Plane?

He disconnected. “Got it.”

“Where’re we headed?” Dance wiped some honey from her finger.

“L.A. Well, south. Orange County.”

“I’ll go pack.”

Chapter 37

Antioch March opened his eyes and tried to recall where he was.

Oh. Right.

A motel off the 101.

After getting the Google alert on his phone, he’d tried to make it all the way to his destination last night. But there’d been delays. He’d needed to steal a car—an old black Chevy, it turned out—from the long-term lot at Monterey Airport. He’d thought there was a possibility he’d have to abandon his wheels when he arrived at the destination and he wasn’t prepared to lose the Honda just yet.

There were better ways to get an untraceable car than theft, much better, but this matter was urgent and he’d had no choice but to steal the vehicle. Hot-wiring, it turned out, was really quite simple: Pull the ignition harness bundle out, gang together everything but the—in this case—blue wire. Rig a toggle and then touch the blue wire to the bound leads (let go right away or you’d ruin the starter). Then pop the cover off the lock assembly and knock out the steering wheel pin. Easy.

Still, he hadn’t hit the road until about 2:00 a.m.

Several hours later fatigue had caught up with him here, near Oxnard, and he’d had to stop for some rest. He imagined what would have happened if he’d dipped to snoozing and run off the road. The Highway Patrol, suspecting drinking, would have possibly found the Glock 9 mm and a car registration that had someone else’s name on it. And the evening would not have gone well.