The mayor of Monterey happened to arrive a few moments later. No limo. The tall Latino stepped from his personal vehicle—though a nice one, a Range Rover—and made it ten paces toward the spectators/mourners/victims before he too was approached by the media. Only a few local reporters, though. He glanced toward Nashima and managed, just, to keep a don’t-care visage, downplaying that he’d been upstaged by the congressman; the folks from Atlanta—and a woman with such perfect hair—knew their priorities.

Dance heard that the California state representative for this area—and a rumored contender for the U.S. Senate seat Nashima was considering next year—was out of town and not making the trip back from Vegas for a sympathy call here. This would be an oops for his career.

Nashima politely but firmly ended the interview he was giving and walked away, refusing other media requests. He was studying the scene and walking up to people who were leaving flowers or praying or simply standing in mournful poses. He spoke to them with head down, embraced them. Dance believed once or twice he too wiped tears from his cheek. This wasn’t for the camera. He was pointedly turned away from the media.

About thirty such grievers and spectators were present. With Bob Holly’s blessing, Dance made the rounds of them now, flashed her badge, as shiny and official in its Civ-Div mode as when she was a criminal investigator, and asked questions about the truck, about the fire in the oil drum, about anyone skulking about outside the club last night.

Negatives, all around.

Nor did she see anyone whose cautious posture suggested he or she was the perp, returning to the scene of the crime; yes, it happened.

She tried to identify anyone who’d been in the mob that morning but couldn’t. True, most had probably vanished. Still, she knew from her work that at harrowing times our powers of observation and retention fail us completely.

She noticed a car pulling into the lot and easing slowly to the police line, near the impromptu memorial of flowers and stuffed animals. The car was a fancy one, a new-model two-door Lexus, sleek, black.

There were two occupants, and, though Dance couldn’t see them clearly, they were having a serious discussion. Even in silhouette, the body radiates intent and mood. The driver, a man in his forties, climbed out, bent down, said a few more words through the car’s open door, and then flipped the seat forward and extracted a bouquet from the back. He said something else to the other occupant, in the front passenger seat, whose response must have been negative because the man shrugged and continued on his own to the memorial.

Dance walked up to him, showed her ID. “I’m Kathryn Dance. CBI.”

Distracted, the handsome man nodded.

“I assume you lost someone last night.”

“We did, yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

We…

A nod back to the Lexus. There was glare…and the automotive engineers were quite adept, it seemed, at tinting glass but Dance could see that the person occupying the passenger seat had long hair. A woman. His wife probably. But no ring on his finger. An ex-wife, perhaps. And she realized with a shock. My God. They’d lost a child here.