“That’s good. Sure. And, if I recall, he’s not very expensive.”

Dance let that go.

Overby added, “Any thoughts about why our boy would travel all that way to kill him?”

O’Neil explained the theory that Prescott had brought unwanted federal scrutiny to the incident with the “terrorist” comments. “That’s all we can think of.”

They arranged a meeting tomorrow in Overby’s office, to review the crime scene reports from the sheriff’s office in Orange County.

Dance clicked the phone off. Then made another call.

“Hey, boss. You back from La-La Land?”

“Just landed,” she told TJ Scanlon. “Eleven tomorrow in Overby’s office. On Solitude Creek and Bay View.”

“Be there with bells on.”

She asked, “And Serrano? The second lead? What’s the name again?”

“Ah, Señorita Alonzo. The Oscar-winning role of Serrano’s former squeeze. Moss Landing tomorrow at nine? Good for you?”

“Yep. I’ll coordinate with Al.”

“Foster’ll be out. Steve Two and Jimmy’ll be there.”

“Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

They disconnected.

Silence for some moments.

“Look out,” she said sharply, pointing ahead.

Two flashes of yellow, close-set eyes.

“I got it,” O’Neil said, braking.

They cruised past the deer as it debated who would win the collision.

O’Neil hadn’t, however, seen the creature at first. He’d been distracted. Mind elsewhere, Dance could clearly read.

More silence. His body language revealed tension, too.

Another five minutes. Finally she’d had enough. She was going to pry the truth out of him—but just at that moment his phone rang. He unholstered it and hit Accept. He listened, his face morphing to grim. “Where?”

Her heart sank. Had the unsub returned so quickly and committed yet another mass attack?

“I’m headed in that direction now. I can be there in fifteen.”

He disconnected.

“Another one?”

“Not our unsub. A hate crime again.” He sighed, shaking his head.

“Anybody in custody?”

“No, the homeowner found his wall graffiti’d. I’m going to swing by and poke around the neighborhood. It’s in Pacific Grove, not far from you. I’ll take you home first.”

“No, I’ll go with you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He hit the flasher lights and sped up, though minding the slippery road.

She asked, “You think there’s a chance you’ll find the perp there?”

“He can’t be too far away. The graffiti? The paint’s still wet.”

Chapter 49

Well, there you have it. Welcome to Berlin, nineteen thirty-eight.”

Dance and O’Neil were standing next to David Goldschmidt, who ran one of the nicer furniture stores downtown. The slim, balding man was bundled in a navy watch coat and wore jeans. His sockless feet were in Top-Siders. They were in his side yard.

Goldschmidt was a bit of a celebrity in the area; the Monterey Herald had run an article on him last week. When Hamas began firing missiles from Gaza into Israel not long ago he’d volunteered to help. At forty, he was too old to serve in the Israeli army—the age limit was twenty-three—but he spent several months helping with medical and provisions support. She recalled that, according to the article, years before, when on a kibbutz outside Tel Aviv, Goldschmidt had, however, served in combat.