“What makes shoes rare?” Overby asked.

“Ones that cost about five thousand dollars a pair.”

“What?”

“The toolmark people’re ninety percent sure. Louis Vuitton. I’m having somebody run sales throughout the country but, well, there’s rare and then there’s rare. They sell about four hundred pairs a year. And I’m betting our boy paid cash for those too. And the tire evidence for the Honda? Wheelbase, track and tires mean it’s an Accord. Within the last four years.”

“Why’s a man with five-thousand-dollar shoes driving a Honda?” Overby mused. Then obvious answer: “Because it’s the most common vehicle on the face of the earth.” The CBI head laughed. “Jesus. Five-thousand-dollar shoes? Who on earth is this guy?” He began to say something else but then glanced at his computer screen. “Well. Oh.”

“What, Charles?”

He read for a moment. “This’s from the Pipeline wire—Oakland task force. Two bangers burned down one of the G-Eight-twos’ warehouses. The one on Everly Street.”

“Burned it down?” Dance grimaced. She explained to O’Neil, “We found the warehouse was a front—about a month ago. We could’ve taken the place down but we decided to keep it running to get the IDs of trucks headed south. And ID anybody we spotted there.” She sighed. “Now the G-Eight-twos’ll find someplace else and we’ll have no idea where. This’ll set us back.”

Overby continued to read. “Was loaded with about ten thousand rounds of ammo. Quite the fireworks display.”

Dance said, “I don’t get it. The ’house was neutral territory. All the crews knew that. Doesn’t make sense to take the place out.”

“Well, somebody didn’t go along with the neutrality part,” O’Neil said. “Maybe renegade outfit from the South. Or here.”

Overby continued to read. Then looked up. “Except, it’s odd. The guys who torched the place were white. At least that’s what the video showed. All the crews involved in Pipeline’re black or Lat. But maybe they stepped on the wrong toes.”

“And the owner wouldn’t do it for the insurance. Not with ammo inside,” Dance said. “He’d wait till it was empty.”

Overby added, “Oakland PD and DEA have a partial on the arsonists’ license tag. Checking now. And video in the area, witnesses.” Shaking his head, he turned from the screen.

Just then TJ Scanlon appeared in the office. He nodded to everyone.

“Just want to keep you in the loop. I got some info on Anderson Construction.”

Ah. She explained to Overby that they’d found a crew of surveyors near the roadhouse. She’d hoped a construction worker might have seen the unsub near Solitude Creek.

“Anderson’s been approached by a company in Nevada to do some development in the area. Nobody from Anderson has been at the site in two weeks. But they think the Nevada company’s had some people over there recently. I’ve left messages.”

“Thanks, TJ. Get on home now.”

“See you in the a.m. ’Night, all.”

Overby left as well, then Michael O’Neil after him.

Dance noted the time: It was nearly 11:00 p.m. As she ordered files on her desk, she glanced at her computer, on which was streaming a local TV news account of the Bay View incident, the sound down. Who was on but Brad Dannon—the Hero Firefighter. He hadn’t been the first on the scene this time but he was a close second or third. She watched the stark images. The blood on the doorway and the shards of glass from the shattered windows and the rocks, the huddled survivors who’d been fished from the water and wrapped in thin, efficient hypothermia blankets. People stumbling through the parking lot and among the crowd of onlookers, calling out, pathetic, for their missing relatives or friends.