“Yeah, I met you. I remember. How did you know I was here?”

Odd question.

“I didn’t. I was calling for Trish. It’s important that I talk to her. I’m hoping—”

“Why?”

“There’s been a development in the investigation. The doors at Solitude Creek were blocked intentionally. Your ex-wife’s death, the others, they were homicides, not accidental.”

A pause. “I heard. It was on the news. Some guy they’re looking for. A workman or something.”

“That’s right. And we’re canvassing to see if anybody might’ve seen him. Your daughter seems intelligent, perceptive. I’m hoping—”

“She’s too upset.”

“I understand it’s a difficult time for her, for your whole family. But it’s important that we understand exactly what happened there.”

“Well, you’ll have to do that without my daughter.” A voice from nearby. He said, away from the phone, “It’s nobody. Keep at it, honey.”

That would be Trish. She’d be moving in with her father, Dance guessed. She was probably packing.

“Mr. Martin, my specialty is interviewing people. I’ve spoken to hundreds of teenagers, often in traumatic situations. I promise you, I’ll be very sensitive to Trish’s frame of mind. I—”

He growled, “And if you call us again, I’ll get a restraining order against you.”

Dance said, “Hmm, well, Mr. Martin, there really isn’t a mechanism for doing that. Why don’t we just take a step back and—”

He hung up on her.

Dance wondered if one of the grounds for divorce had been mental cruelty against his ex, in addition to cheating on her.

She dropped the phone into the cradle. TJ was looking at her.

“Scratch her off the list.” Dance explained about Trish’s father. A shrug. “Probably didn’t see anything anyway. Still—”

“You hate itches, boss.”

True, she did.

“Anything helpful on the canvassing?”

TJ had continued to talk to those who’d been at the club, sifting for insights and possible motives and suspects. “Nothing more on revenge by disgruntled employees, or patrons. I thought I’d check to see if there was a motive to hurt anyone in the band, or destroy careers.”

“Good.” She hadn’t thought about that.

“But I don’t think so. The music world’s fragile nowadays; the margins weren’t big enough to murder anyone to get ahead. Hey, boss, was wondering. Does gruntled mean you’re happy?”

She rummaged in her drawer and found an old Timex, battery powered. She strapped it on and glanced at the time. Then lowered her voice. “How’s the Serrano situation?”

He said, “About an hour. It’s set up. I just talked to Al Stemple.”

Stemple, big and quiet and rather scary, was the closest thing the CBI had to a cowboy. Well, to a John Wayne. An investigative agent like any other, he specialized in tactical situations. Given the unstable nature of the Serrano situation, it was thought best to have a CBI strongman involved.

He rose and left and in his wake she was sure she detected a waft of patchouli aftershave or cologne.

Far-out…

A few minutes later Dance happened to be looking at her office doorway when Michael O’Neil appeared. He was in a dark plaid sports coat, navy blue shirt and jeans. Dance believed his clothes were better pressed now that he was divorced than when he’d been married to Anne, who was not known as the queen of domesticity. Though this could be her imagination, she allowed.