“I’d appreciate that.”

“I can’t talk here. My father’ll be back soon. I’m at my mother’s house. He’ll be back and he doesn’t want me to talk to you. Well, to anybody.”

“You’re in Pebble Beach, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You drive?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Meet me at the Bagel Bakery on Forest. You know it?”

“Sure I have to go he’s coming back bye.” Spoken in one breath.

Click.

Chapter 28

She’d been crying.

Dance gave her credit for not trying to hide it. No makeup, no averted eyes. Tears and streaks present.

Trish Martin was sitting in the corner of the Bagel Bakery, toward the back, under a primitive but affecting acrylic painting of a dog carefully regarding a turtle. It was one of a dozen for sale on the walls, this batch by students, a card reported. Dance and the children came here regularly and she’d bought a few of the works from time to time. She really liked the dog and turtle.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” the girl said.

“How you doing?”

“Okay.”

“What do you want? I’ll get it.”

Dance was tempted to suggest cocoa but that smacked of condescension; Trish wasn’t a child. She picked a compromise. “I’m doing cappuccino.”

“Sure.”

“Cinnamon?”

“Sure.”

“Anything to eat?”

“No. Not hungry.” As if she’d never be again.

Dance placed the order and returned. Sat down. Automatically reaching for the plastic holster that held her Glock, which usually needed adjusting upon sitting. Her hand went to nothing and she remembered.

Then she was concentrating on the girl. Trish wore jeans and scuffed but expensive brown boots. Dance, a lover of footwear, guessed Italian. A black, scoop-neck sweater. A stocking cap, beige, pulled down over her hair. The sleeves of the sweater met her knuckles.

“Thanks for calling me. I appreciate it. I know what you’re going through.”

“Totally.” Her keen eyes stabbed at Dance’s. “You have any idea who it is? Who killed my mother and those other people?”

And nearly you, Dance thought.

“Not much. It’s not like any case I’ve ever seen.”

“He’s a fucking sadist, whoever he is.”

Not technically but that would do.

Dance opened a small grocery store notebook.

“Your father doesn’t know you’re here?”

“He’s not so bad. This, like, freaked him out too. He’s just being protective of me. You know.”

“I understand.”

“But I don’t have much time. He’s packing up stuff at his house now. He’ll be back at Mom’s soon.”

“Then let me get right to the questions.”

The drinks came, cardboard cups. They both sipped.

“Can you tell me what you remember?” Dance asked.

“The band had just started. I don’t know, maybe the second or third song. And then…” After a deep breath she gave much the same story as the other witnesses. The smell of smoke, though not seeing much. Then, almost as if somebody had flipped a switch, everyone in the audience rose, knocking over tables, scattering drinks, pushing others aside and rushing for the exits.

Her expression mystified, she repeated, “But there was no fire and still, you know, everybody went crazy. Five seconds, ten, from the first person who stood up. That was all it took.” She sighed. “I think it was Mom. The first. She panicked. Then this bright light came on, pointed at the exit doors, you know, to show everybody where they were. I guess that was good but it made some of us panic more. They were so bright.”