He sensed a wave of anger that the theater had been denied him as a perfect place for the second attack, which had been inspired by the “national disaster correspondent” he’d listened to on TV after sex with Calista.

“What this man did was akin to the classic situation of yelling ‘fire’ in a crowded movie theater.”

Angry, yes. But as he cruised through traffic he glanced into the rearview mirror. He spotted something. And decided that, improbably, there might be a silver lining to the debacle.

He circled around and pulled into a space near the movie theater; it was perfect for his purpose. And, it turned out, good for another, as well: Who doesn’t love a nice, salty Egg McMuffin and some steaming coffee this time of the morning?

Chapter 21

Kathryn Dance walked into the Gals’ Wing.

This was a portion of the CBI’s West-Central Division that, purely coincidentally, housed the four women who worked here: Dance, Connie Ramirez, the most decorated CBI agent in the office, and Grace Yuan, the office administrator, along with Maryellen Kresbach.

The name of the wing came from a male agent who, trying to impress a date on a tour of his workplace, referred to the area as such. It probably wasn’t the recurring vandalism of his office, including feminine hygiene products, that had driven him out of the CBI but Dance liked to think that it had helped.

Though, ironically, the women here decided unanimously to keep the designation. A badge of pride.

A warning too.

She now accepted the coffee from Maryellen, thanked her and, palming one of the woman’s incredible cookies, headed into her office.

“Nice shoes. Okay. Excellent.” Maryellen was eyeing Dance’s Stuart Weitzman Filigree sandals, brown leather (and, Dance was proud to say, purchased at less than half list price). They matched her long linen skirt, coffee colored. Her sweater today was a ribbed off-white, the sports coat black. Today’s concession to color was another bright elastic tie Maggie had twined at the end of Dance’s French braid. Red.

She acknowledged the compliment from her assistant—Maryellen was a woman who knew wicked shoes when she saw them.

In her office she dropped into her desk chair, thinking she’d have to tame the squeak but then, as always, forgetting about it.

She had just returned from the Marina Hills Cineplex, where there’d been a sighting of a man suspected of being the Solitude Creek unsub. The manager of the theater had spotted someone wearing the same clothes as the witness had described, about the same build. The suspect noted that he’d been recognized and fled, pretty much confirming that he was their perp.

Dance and the others had conducted a canvass but had found no other witnesses who’d seen the man. No vehicles and no further description. She’d been troubled to learn that one of the police cars on the lookout for the unsub had been stationed in front of the theater; she wondered if because of Steve Foster’s “accidental” release of the perp’s description, the manager had spooked him away before he got into view of the cop.