The young agent reminded Overby that he was trying to track down officials from the Nevada corporation hiring Anderson to do some construction work in the Solitude Creek area. In hopes of finding some witnesses. “They’re taking their sweet time getting back to me. Weekend-itis maybe. I’ll definitely squeeze them tomorrow. And I’m keeping up canvassing of people who were at the roadhouse that day. But, same old. No leads.”

Overby nodded and looked at O’Neil, who was opening his briefcase and extracting a file folder.

“Crime scene report from Orange County?” Overby asked.

“That’s it. Not much. Some trace elements. Footprints that probably are the Louis Vuitton. They have good security video at the Global Adventure theme park but all it shows is the crash, then our man jumping over the car through the gate. The teams down there canvassed a hundred people but nobody saw anybody who could’ve been him.”

He added, “And some OC detectives looked over Prescott, fine-tooth comb. Talked to most of his friends, bosses, coworkers. All his redneck buddies. No connection to our unsub. He just randomly pulled the picture of Solitude Creek off the Web and posted it in his rant.”

Dance said, “So, he just had the bad luck to pick our boy’s attack to use in his post.”

O’Neil continued, “That’s the best conclusion. Now, there were nearly four thousand texts and voice calls out of the park, once the rumors started to spread. A handful of those would be his prepaid mobiles—one of them, or maybe two, would be his new phone. But Orange County can’t devote manpower to go through every one and try to narrow it down.”

Overby said, “He caused all that chaos by a few phone calls?”

“Pretty much that’s it. But he was smart. He spread the rumors verbally in the park too. And the patrons helped him out, of course, when they texted and Tweeted. Online media and TV picked up the story in seconds, and then those who weren’t at the park would text their family members and friends who were inside.”

Overby nodded. “Chain reaction.”

Dance said, “Flash mob at its worst.”

“No prints on anything, not even shell casings—at either scene, Prescott’s apartment or the theme park. And the car he stole from the airport here?”

O’Neil explained: It had been a sloppy theft, suggesting that the unsub wasn’t a pro at the art.

But, she reflected, it had worked.

Overby’s cheek twitched up. “So, nothing.”

O’Neil said, “Not in OC, other than his phone, though. I’ve found something else. Not really a lead. But it’s something to throw into the mix about our unsub.”

“What’s that?” TJ asked.

“Remember that Jane Doe?” He spread out photos that Dance had seen. “The asphyx?”

O’Neil explained about the homicide he was working, the attractive young woman found in a seedy motel, the bag rubber-banded over her head.

Never rains but it pours…

“Could have been consensual sex gone wrong, could have been intentional. We don’t know for sure. Except for this.”