Worse ways to die than going to sleep in the bay…

He handed O’Neil a manila envelope and the detective extracted the contents, copies of handwritten notes and some photos.

Dance glanced at the crime scene photos. Hard to make an ID from them alone; he’d been in the water for some time and, though the chill would otherwise preserve flesh, critters had been dining. Much of the remains had been reduced to bone.

“I haven’t contacted the family yet,” Rivera said. “We’ve got a DNA sample from them and the lab’s running it now. Should be about twenty-four hours.” A nod at a close-up of the corpse’s hands. “No fingerprints, of course.”

O’Neil squinted at one image. “Not Grant.”

“It’s—”

“Not him. Grant had a knee replacement. Two of ’em. That man’s got both knees intact. Maybe homeless, maybe a drifter, fell asleep on the beach and got washed out to sea. Anyway, it’s not him.”

“Okay, Detective. I’ll let everybody know.”

“Oh, Gabriel?”

“Yessir?”

“Saves time to learn everything you can about whoever you’re searching for.”

“I’ll remember that, sir.” The deputy took the envelope back and returned to his squad car.

Dance and O’Neil walked to short-term parking and collected his vehicle. The fog was back, and the evening promised chill.

“Solitude Creek… Bay View… What on earth is he up to?” Dance mused.

O’Neil remained silent. A mood seemed to be on him. Understandable, of course; a deputy had been shot, a witness killed and their suspect had escaped. Yet she sensed there was something else on O’Neil’s mind.

His window was down and cold air streamed into the car. She thought about asking him to roll it up but chose not to, for some reason. She turned the heater up higher.

Well, if he wanted to talk, fine; it wasn’t her role to pry anything out of him, unlike with her daughter. She pulled out her phone to call Bo­ling but somehow the idea of having a cheerful conversation with him didn’t appeal; it also seemed a bit passive-aggressive, a subtle payback for O’Neil’s mood. She texted instead, saying she’d be home soon.

Almost immediately her phone dinged with a reply. Miss you. WDYWFD?

She answered back that leftovers were good, and asked about the kids.

He sent another one saying Maggie was Skyping with Bethany and Cara (Secrets Club teleconference); Wes was out with Donnie, biking (back @ 7, promised).

She typed:

C U soon. XO

Dance did make a voice call—to Charles Overby. “You’re on speaker with me and Michael,” she told him.

Her boss called out, “Michael, hello.”

“Charles.”

She had, of course, called in from time to time to let him know how the incident in Orange County was proceeding. She now said, “No indication that Prescott was anything more than an oddball—a redneck, if they have rednecks in Orange County—stirring up anti-Islamic sentiment. Our office down there’ll canvass his friends and family, coworkers but I’m sure that the profile’ll be just that. We’ve got custody of his computer and one of the perp’s phones and I’d like to have Jon Boling crack the passcodes and take a peek.”