On TV: acid reflux remedies and insurance ads.

Please…

“And now an update on the Solitude Creek tragedy in Central California. With me is James Harcourt, our national disaster correspondent.”

Seriously? That was a job title?

“It didn’t take much at all for the panic to set in.”

No, March reflected. A little smoke. Then a phone call to whoever was on duty in the club’s lobby: “I’m outside. Your kitchen’s on fire! Backstage too! I’ve called the fire department, but evacuate. Get everybody out now.”

He’d wondered if he would have to do more to get the horror started. But, nope, that was all it took. People could erase a million years of evolution in seconds.

Back to the workout, enjoying the occasional images of the interior of the club.

After thirty minutes, sweating, Antioch March rose, opened his locked briefcase and pulled out a map of the area. He was inspired by something the national disaster correspondent had said. He went online and did some more research. He scrawled some notes. Good. Yes, thank you, he thought to the newscaster. Then he paused, replaying Ca­lista’s breathy voice.

“So you having a successful trip?”

“Real successful, yeah.”

Soon to be even more so.

Chapter 12

The politicos had started to arrive at Solitude Creek.

Always happened at incidents like this. The bigwigs appearing, those in office or those aspiring, or those, like her boss, Charles Overby, who simply wanted a few minutes in the limelight because they enjoyed a few minutes in the limelight. They’d show up and talk to the press and be seen by the mourners or the spectators.

That is, by the voters and the public.

And yes, occasionally they really would step up and help out. Occasionally. Sometimes. Possibly. (A state government employee, Kathryn Dance struggled constantly against cynicism.)

There were more news crews than grandstanders here at the moment; so the biggest networks were targeting the most newsworthy subjects, like sportsmen on a party boat in Monterey Bay going for the fattest salmon.

Networks. Nets. Fish. Dance liked the metaphor.

The U.S. congressman representing the district Solitude Creek fell within was Daniel Nashima, a third- or fourth-generation Japanese American who’d held office for several terms. The congressman, in his mid-forties, was accompanied by an aide, a tall, vigilant young man, resembling the actor Josh Brolin, in an unimpeachable if anachronistic three-piece suit.

Nashima was wealthy, family business, but he himself usually dressed down. Today, typical: chino slacks and a blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up—a Kiwanis pancake breakfast outfit. Nashima, a handsome man with tempered Asian features—his mother was white—looked over the exterior of the Solitude Creek club with dismay. Dance wasn’t surprised. He had a reputation for being responsive to natural disasters, like the earthquake that struck Santa Cruz not long ago. He arrived at that one at 3:00 a.m. and helped lift rubble off survivors and search for the dead.

The anchor from CNN, a striking blonde, was on Nashima in a San Francisco instant. The congressman said, “My heart goes out to the victims of this terrible tragedy.” He promised that he would work with his colleague to make sure a full investigation got to the root of it. If there was any negligence at all on the part of the club and its owner he would make sure that criminal charges were brought.