“Anyway, this guy, he was tall, over six feet, wearing shorts, sunglasses and a hat—I think he was blond though, you could see that. He was looking around and he went to a car, this SUV and looked in and opened the door. And I could see he was looking through a woman’s purse. I thought he was going to steal something. But he just put it back. So he wasn’t a thief.”

“What kind of SUV was it?”

“Oh, it was a Nissan Pathfinder. Gray. And I think the reason he didn’t steal anything was that it had to be a police car. It had flashing blue lights on the dashboard.”

O’Neil froze. He scooted back in his chair. No! Oh, hell. The unsub had been through Dance’s car. He’d gotten her ID, knew where she lived. Had followed her. And had seen her and Jon Boling together. That’s how he’d known to target Boling, tamper with his bike. And—

Another thought hit him. Had he seen the flyer for Maggie’s event tonight? Dance had told him she had a hundred of them in her vehicle.

A school auditorium. A perfect venue for an attack.

He grabbed his phone and called central dispatch.

“Hello?”

“Sharon. Michael O’Neil. There’s a possible two-four-five in progress at Pacific Heights Grade School. PG. Have units roll up silent. I’m going to get more info and I’ll advise through you.”

“Roger. I’ll get ’em rolling. And await further.”

They disconnected.

How to handle it? If he ordered an evacuation and the unsub had locked the doors already, that might result in the very stampede and crush that O’Neil had to avoid.

Or was it even too late to do anything?

He’d call Dance and warn her. She could see if there was a way to quietly get the parents and children out before the unsub made a move.

O’Neil grabbed his mobile and hit speed dial button one.

Chapter 71

Wes and Jon Boling were chowing down on green room goodies.

Not like at Madison Square Garden or MGM Grand, where, Dance suspected, Dom Perignon and caviar were the fare backstage. This was Ritz crackers, Doritos and juice boxes and milk (the school, like Dance’s house, was a soda-free zone).

Then the audience grew silent; the show was about to get under way. Boling whispered they were going to find their seats and he and Wes left.

Dance remained, looking over her daughter as they stood together near the entrance to the stage. The girl gazed out at the audience, probably two hundred people.

Her poor face was taut, unhappy.

Dance’s phone grew busy; it was on mute but she felt the vibration. She’d get it in a minute. She was now concentrating on her daughter.

“Maggie?”

The girl looked up. She seemed about to cry.

What on earth was going on? Weeks of angst about the performance. A roller coaster of emotion.

And then Dance made a sudden shift. She moved from mom to law enforcer. That had been her mistake, looking at her daughter’s plight. Dance had been viewing the discomfort as a question of nerves, of typical preadolescent distress.