A gull strafed and Dance instinctively lifted her arm. The big bird landed clumsily near a scrap of cardboard, probably thinking it was food. It seemed angry the prize held aroma only, and it catapulted off into the sky once more, heading toward the bay.

Dance returned to the club and had a second, difficult conversation with Sam Cohen, still bordering on the comatose, and then spoke with other employees. No one could come up with any patrons or former club workers who might have had gripes with Cohen or anyone there. Nor did competitors seem behind the incident—anyone who might want to drive the man out of business or get revenge for something Cohen had done professionally in the past.

Heading back outside, Dance pulled her iPhone from her pocket and phoned Jon Boling, asking if he could pick up the children at school.

“Sure,” he replied. She enjoyed hearing his calm voice. “How’s your Civ-Div going?”

He knew about the Serrano situation.

“Awkward,” she said, eyes on Bob Holly, interviewing some of the same people she just had. “I’m at Solitude Creek.”

A pause.

“Aren’t you handling soda bottle deposits?”

“Supposed to be.”

Boling said, “It’s terrible, on the news. They’re saying a truck driver parked behind the club to smoke some dope. Then he panicked when the fire started and left the truck beside the doors. Nobody could get out.”

Reporters…

She looked at her iPhone for the time, now that her watch was out of commission. It was two thirty. “I’ll be another three, four hours, I’d guess. Mom and Dad are coming over tonight. Martine, Steven…”

“The kids and I’ll take care of dinner.”

“Would you? Oh, thanks.”

“See you soon.”

She disconnected. Her eyes did a sweep of the club, then the jobbing company, then the parking lot.

Finally the bordering vegetation. At the eastern end of the lot was what seemed to be a tramped-down area leading through a line of scrub oak, Australian willow, pine, magnolia. She wandered that way and found herself beside Solitude Creek itself. The small dark tributary—thirty feet wide here—was framed by salt and dune grass, thistle and other sandy-soil plants whose identity she couldn’t guess at.

She followed the path away from the parking lot, through a head-high tangle of brush and grass. Here, overgrown with vegetation and dusted with sand, were the remnants of old structures: concrete foundations, portions of rusting chain-link fences and a few columns. They had to be seventy-five years old, a hundred. Quite extensive. Maybe back then Solitude Creek was deeper and this was part of the seafood industry. The site was fifteen miles north of Cannery Row but back then fishing was big business all along this portion of the coast.

Or possibly developers had started to build a project here—​apartments or a hotel or restaurant. Still would be a good spot for an inn, she reflected: near the ocean, situated amid rolling, grassy hills. The creek itself was calming and the grayish water didn’t necessarily mean bad fishing.