Five-thousand-dollar shoes…

O’Neil said, “Brilliant. He’s targeted a couple of venues to make it look like this’s the work of a psycho. But no, he’s got a specific venue in mind. He was hired to destroy it.”

“Or a person,” Dance said after a moment. “He could’ve been hired to destroy a location. But also to kill somebody specific.”

O’Neil nodded. “Sure. Makes sense. But if it’s an individual, then who?”

Dance offered, “At the hospital, no one in the elevator could be the intended victim.”

“Because how could he know who’d be in that car at that time and that they’d die? And at the Bay View Center—that venue wouldn’t’ve worked either.”

“No,” O’Neil said. “The people who died all drowned. He couldn’t be sure he’d get a specific target there. How’d he know who’d jump into the bay? No, it was Solitude Creek. His target was there, in the audience.”

O’Neil: “The panic starts. The unsub’s changed out of his workman’s clothes. He’s in the audience. He gets close to the victim and kills him or her. Trips them maybe, crushes their throat, breaks a rib that pierces their lung.”

“He’d be in the mob too. But, no—”

“Right.” O’Neil carried through on her thought: “He’s a big guy. He can survive a bit of jostling.”

“Besides, remember, there was no fire. It wasn’t like he was going to burn to death. He knew most people would get out okay.”

O’Neil was scrolling through his mobile. “There were three deaths at Solitude Creek. Guess we’ll have to look at all the victims.”

It was then that she had one of those moments.

A to B to Z…

“Let’s go for a drive,” said Kathryn Dance.

“Me?” Boling asked.

She smiled.

“No. Better if it’s just Michael and me.”

Chapter 68

Oh. Hi, Mrs. Dance. I mean, Agent Dance.”

“Hello, Trish. This is Detective O’Neil with the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office.”

Nervous. Naturally.

“Hi.”

The detective nodded down to her. “Hello, Trish. I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Yeah. Thanks. It’s, you know, tough.”

“I’m sure it is.”

The three stood on the front porch of one of the nicest houses Dance had ever seen. Easily seven thousand square feet. Stone and glass and chrome. A Beverly Hills house, a Malibu house. A rich producer’s or movie star’s house.

Dance asked, “Is your father home?”

“No. He’s taking my aunt and uncle to the airport. But he could be back soon.”

A conspiratorial smile. “We won’t be long. I know he’s not a big fan of mine. Do you mind if we ask you a few more questions?”

“You want to come in?”

“Thank you.”

They walked into the entryway—bigger than Dance’s living room and kitchen combined—and then entered a study. Sumptuous leather and metal furniture. The couch alone could have been traded in for a new Pathfinder. They all sat.

“Uhm, the thing is, I didn’t tell my father we talked, you and me,” the girl said.

“We’ll play along.” Dance gave a smile. “If he comes back.”