Free Solitude Creek by Jeffery Deaver Page B

terrible tragedy.’ He promised that he would work with his colleague to make sure a full investigation got to the root of it. If there had been any negligence at all on the part of the club and its owner he would make sure that criminal charges were brought.
    The mayor of Monterey happened to arrive a few moments later. No limo. The tall Latino stepped from his personal vehicle – a nice one, a Range Rover – and made it ten steps toward the spectators/mourners/victims before he, too, was approached by the media. Only a few local reporters, though. He glanced toward Nashima and managed, just, to keep a don’t-care visage, downplaying that he’d been upstaged by the Congressman; the folks from Atlanta – and a woman with such perfect hair – knew their priorities.
    Dance heard that the California state representative for this area – and a rumored competitor for the US Senate seat Nashima was considering next year – was out of town and not making the trip back from Vegas for a sympathy call. This would be an oops for his career.
    Nashima politely but firmly ended the interview he was giving and walked away, refusing other media requests. He was studying the scene and walking up to people who were leaving flowers or praying or simply standing in mournful poses. He spoke to them with head down, embraced them. Dance believed once or twice he wiped tears from his cheek. That wasn’t for the camera. He was pointedly turned away from the media.
    About thirty such grievers and spectators were present. With Bob Holly’s blessing, Dance made the rounds of them now, flashed her badge, as shiny and official in its Civ-Div mode as when she was a criminal investigator, and asked questions about the truck, about the fire in the oil drum, about anyone skulking about outside the club last night.
    Negatives, all around.
    She tried to identify anyone who’d been in the mob that morning but couldn’t. True, most had probably vanished. Still, she knew from her work that at harrowing times our powers of observation and retention fail us completely.
    She noticed a car pulling into the lot and easing slowly to the police line, near where the impromptu memorial of flowers and stuffed animals was growing. The car was a fancy one, a new-model two-door Lexus, sleek, black.
    There were two occupants, and, though Dance couldn’t see them clearly, they were having a serious discussion. Even in silhouette, the body radiates intent and mood. The driver, a man in his forties, climbed out, bent down, said a few more words through the car’s open door, then flipped the seat forward and extracted a bouquet from the back. He said something else to the other occupant, in the front passenger seat, whose response must have been negative because the man shrugged and continued on his own to the memorial.
    Dance walked up to him, showed her ID. ‘I’m Kathryn Dance. CBI.’
    Distracted, the handsome man nodded.
    ‘I assume you lost someone last night.’
    ‘We did, yes.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    We
…
    A nod back to the Lexus. There was a glare … and the Japanese engineers were quite adept, it seemed, at tinting glass but Dance could see that the person occupying the passenger seat had long hair. A woman. His wife, probably. But no ring on his finger. An ex-wife, perhaps. And she realized with a shock. My God. They’d lost a child here.
    His name was Frederick Martin and he explained that, yes, his ex-wife, Michelle, had brought their daughter here last night.
    She’d been right. Their child, probably a teen. How sad. And, given the flowers resting on the memorial, she hadn’t been merely injured. She’d died.
    Dance’s worst horror. Every mother’s.
    That had been the tension in the car. Ex-spouses, forced together at a time like this. Probably on the way to a funeral home to make arrangements. Dance’s heart went out to them both.
    ‘We’re investigating the incident,’ she said, a version of the truth. ‘I have a few