Solitude Creek: Kathryn Dance Book 4 Page 4

  ‘I’m sorry, Kathryn. I didn’t have a choice. I tried. I really did.’

  Going to bat for her …

  Foster now regarded Overby with a neutral gaze that Dance, however, read as contempt for her boss’s backpedaling.

  ‘I told him body language isn’t an exact science. You did

  the best you could with Serrano. I saw you. We all did. It looked to me like he was telling the truth. Right, Steve? Who could

  tell?’

  Dance could see that Foster was thinking, But it’s not our area of expertise to sit across from a perp and pick apart the entrails of his words, poses and gestures to get to the truth.

  Overby continued, ‘But no one was hurt. Not badly. No weapons were discharged.’

  The redhead in the parking lot had not been run over after all. She’d rolled out of the way, under an SUV, as the Altima had sped out of the parking space. Her Dell computer and her lunch had not survived; their loss was what the horrific-sounding crunch had signaled.

  ‘Charles, Serrano is High Mach. I missed it, I admit. But you see those one in every hundred cases.’

  ‘What’s that? High what?’ Foster asked.

  ‘A category of liars’ personalities. The most ruthless and, yeah, slick –’ she threw the word back at Foster ‘– are the “High Machiavellians”. High Machs love to lie. They lie with impunity. They see nothing wrong with it. They use deceit like a smartphone or search engine, a tool to get what they want. Whether it’s in love, business, politics – or crime.’ She added that there were other types, which included social liars, who lied to entertain, and adaptors, who were insecure people lying to make a positive impression. Another common type was the ‘actor’, someone for whom control was an important issue. ‘They don’t lie regularly, only when necessary. But Serrano, he just didn’t present like any of them. Sure not a High Mach. All I picked up was what I said, some small evasions. Social lies.’

  ‘Social?’

  ‘Everybody lies.’ The statistics were that every human being lied at least once or twice a day. Dance shot a glance to Foster. ‘When did you lie last?’

  He rolled his eyes. She thought, Maybe when he said, ‘Good to see you,’ this morning.

  She continued, ‘But I was getting to know him. I’m the only one here, or in any other agency, who’s spent time with him. And now we know he could be a key to the whole operation. I don’t need to lead it. Just don’t take me off the case.’

  Overby ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘Kathryn, you want to make it right. I understand. Sure you do. But I don’t know what to tell you. It’s been decided. Peter’s already signed off on the reassignment.’

  ‘Already.’

  Foster: ‘More efficient, when you think about it. We didn’t really need two agents from this office. Jimmy Gomez is good. Don’t you agree, Kathryn?’

  A junior agent at the CBI, one of the two others on the Guzman Connection task force. Yes, he was good. That wasn’t the point. She ignored Foster. She stood and, to Overby, said, ‘So?’

  He looked at her with one raised eyebrow.

  Her shoulders rose and fell impatiently. ‘I’m not suspended. I’m Civ Div. So, what’s on my roster?’

  He looked blank for a moment. Then scoured his desk. He noted a Post-it, bright yellow, glaring as a rectangle of sun fell on it. ‘Here’s something. Got a memo on the wire from MCFD a little while ago. About that Solitude Creek incident?’

  ‘The fire at the roadhouse.’

  ‘That’s right. The county’s investigating but somebody from the state is supposed to make sure the club’s tax and insurance certificates’re up to date.’

  ‘Tax? Insurance?’

  ‘CHP didn’t want to handle it.’

  Who would? Dance thought.

  Foster’s absence of gloat was the biggest gloat she had ever seen.

  ‘Take care of that. Then I’ll see what else needs doing.’

  With Dance ‘tasked’ to take on the fine print of California insurance regulations and tacitly dismissed, Overby turned to Steve Foster to discuss the manhunt for Joaquin Serrano.

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘First, this is interesting – there was no fire.’

  ‘No fire?’ Dance asked. She was standing in front of the Solitude Creek club, which was encircled with yellow police tape. The man in front of her was stocky, forties, with an odd patch on his face; it looked like a birthmark but, she knew, was a scar from a blaze years ago that had attacked the newly commissioned firefighter before he snuffed it dead.

  She’d worked with Monterey County fire marshal Robert Holly several times and found him low-key, smart, reasonable.

  He continued, ‘Well, there was, technically. Only it was outside. The club itself was never on fire. There, that oil drum.’

  Dance noted the rusty fifty-five-gallon vessel, the sort used to collect trash in parking lots and behind stores and restaurants. It rested near the club’s air-conditioning unit.

  ‘We ran a prelim. Discarded cigarette in the drum, along with some rags soaked in motor oil and gasoline. That was all it took.’

  ‘Accelerant, then,’ Dance said. ‘The oil and gas.’

  ‘That was the effect, though there’s no evidence it was intentional.’

  ‘So people thought there was a fire. Smelled smoke.’

  ‘And headed to the fire exits. And that was the problem. They were blocked.’

  ‘Locked? The doors were locked?’

  ‘No, blocked. The truck?’

  He pointed to a large tractor-trailer parked against the west side of the club. It, too, was encircled with yellow tape. ‘It’s owned by that company there. Henderson Jobbing and Warehouse.’ Dance regarded the one-story sprawling structure. There were a half-dozen similar tractor-trailers sitting at the loading dock and nearby. Several men and women, in work clothes, a few in suits, stood on the dock or in front of the office and looked over at the club, as if staring at a beached whale.

  ‘The driver parked it there?’

  ‘Claims he didn’t. But what’s he going to say? There’ve been other incidents of trucks blocking the roadhouse parking lot. Never a fire exit.’

  ‘Is he here today?’

  ‘He’ll be in soon. I called him at home. He’s pretty upset. But he agreed to come in.’

  ‘Why would he park there, though? Anybody can see the signs: “No Parking, Fire Exit”. Tell me the scenario. What happened exactly?’

  ‘Come on inside.’

  Dance followed the burly man into the club. The place had apparently not been straightened up after the tragedy. Chairs and tables – lowand high-tops – were scattered everywhere, broken glasses, bottles, scraps of cloth, snapped bracelets, shoes. Musical instruments lay on the stage. One acoustic guitar was in pieces. A Martin D-28, Dance observed. An old one. Two thousand dollars’ worth of former resonance.

  There were many smears of old blood on the floor, brown footsteps too.

  Dance had been there dozens of times. Everybody on the Peninsula knew Solitude Creek. The club was owned by a balding, earringed restaurateur and former hippie from (where else?) Haight-Ashbury named Sam Cohen, who had been to the Monterey Pop Festival in ’67 and reportedly not slept for three days. So moved by the show had the young man been that he had devoted his early life to promoting rock concerts, not so successfully, then given up and opened a steakhouse near the Presidio. He’d sold it for a profit and pocketed enough to buy an abandoned seafood restaurant on the small tributary that had become the club’s name.

  Solitude Creek was a vein of gray-brown water running to the nearby Salinas River. It was navigable by any vessel with a draft no deeper than two or three feet, which left it mostly for small boats, though there wasn’t much reason to sail that way. The club squatted in a large parking lot between the creek and the trucking company, north of Monterey, off Highway One, the same route that wound through majestic Big Sur; the views were very different, there and here.

  ‘How m
any deaths?’

  ‘Three. Two female, one male. Compressive asphyxia in two cases – crushed to death. One had her throat closed up. Somebody stepped on it. Dozens of badly injured. Bone breaks, ribs piercing lungs. Like people were stuck in a huge vise.’

  Dance couldn’t imagine the pain and panic and horror.

  Holly said, ‘The club was pretty full but it was under the limit. We checked, first thing. Occupancy is two hundred, most owners pretend that means two-twenty. But Sam’s always been buttoned up about that. Doesn’t fool around. Everything looked in order, all the county documentation – that’s the safety issues. I saw the tax- and insurance-compliance certs on file in the office. They’re current too. That’s what Charles said you were here about.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ll need copies.’

  ‘Sure.’ Holly continued, ‘Fire inspector gave him a clean bill of health last month and Sam’s own insurance company inspected the place a couple of days ago and gave it an A-plus. Extinguishers, sprinklers, lights, alarms and exits.’

  Except the exits hadn’t opened.

  ‘So, crowded but up to code.’

  ‘Right,’ Holly said. ‘Just after the show started – eight, little after – the fire broke out in the oil drum. The smoke got sucked into the HVAC system and spread throughout the club. Wasn’t real thick but you could smell it. Wood and oil smoke, you know, that’s particularly scary. People went for the closest doors – most, of course, for the exits along the east wall. They opened a little – you can see the truck’s about a foot away so nobody could fit through. Worse, some people reached out through the opening. Their arms or hands got stuck and … well, the crowd kept moving. Three or four arms and shoulders were shattered. Two arms had to be amputated.’ His voice grew distant. ‘Then there was this young woman, nineteen or so. It more or less got torn off. Her arm.’ He was looking down. ‘I heard later she was studying classical piano. Really talented. God.’

  ‘What happened when they realized the doors wouldn’t open?’

  ‘Everybody in the front was pressed against the doors, screaming for the people behind them to turn around. But nobody heard. Or if they did they didn’t listen. Panic. Pure panic. They should’ve gone back toward the other exits, the front, the stage door. Hell, the kitchen had a double door. But for some reason everybody ran the other way – toward the fire doors, the blocked ones. I guess they saw the exit signs and just headed for them.’

  ‘Not much smoke, you said. But visibility?’

  ‘Somebody hit the house lights and people could see everything fine.’

  Sam Cohen appeared in the doorway. In his sixties, dressed in filthy jeans and a torn work shirt, blue. His remaining curly gray hair was a mess, and he had not slept that night, Dance estimated. He walked through the club slowly, picking up items from the floor, putting them into a battered cardboard box.

  ‘Mr Cohen.’

  The owner of Solitude Creek made his way unsteadily toward Dance and Holly. His eyes were red: he’d been crying. He walked up, noting a smear of blood on the floor; cruelly, it was in the shape of a heart.

  ‘I’m Kathryn Dance, Bureau of Investigation.’

  Cohen looked at, without seeing, the ID card. She slipped it away. He said to no one, ‘I just called the hospital again. They’ve released three. The critical ones – there were four of those – are unchanged. One’s in a coma. They’ll probably live. But the hospitals, the doctors don’t tell you much. The nurses never do. Why’s that a rule? It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Can I ask you a few questions, Mr Cohen?’

  ‘Bureau of Investigation? FBI?’

  ‘California.’

  ‘Oh. You said that. Is this … I mean, is it a crime?’

  Holly said, ‘We’re still doing the preliminary, Sam.’

  Dance said, ‘I’m not a criminal investigator. I’m in the Civil Division.’

  Cohen looked around, breathing heavily. His shoulders sagged. ‘Everything …’ he said, in a whisper.

  Dance had no idea what he’d been about to say. She was looking at a face marred by indelible sorrow. ‘Could you tell me what you recall about last night, sir?’ She asked this automatically. Then, remembering the fire marshal was in charge, ‘Okay with you, Bob?’

  ‘You can help me out anytime you want, Kathryn.’

  She wondered why she was even asking these questions. This wasn’t her job. But sometimes you just can’t leash yourself.

  Cohen didn’t answer.

  ‘Mr Cohen?’ She repeated the question.

  ‘Sorry.’ Whispering. ‘I was at the front door, checking receipts. I heard the music start. I smelled smoke, pretty strong, and I freaked out. The band stopped in the middle of a tune. Just then I got a call. Somebody was in the parking lot and they said there was a fire in the kitchen. Or backstage. They weren’t sure. They must’ve seen the smoke and thought it was worse than it was. I didn’t check. I just thought, Get everybody out. So I made the announcement. Then I could hear voices. Swelling. The voices, I mean, getting louder and louder. Then a scream. And I smelled more smoke. I thought, No, no, not a fire. I was thinking of the Station in Rhode Island a few years ago. They had fireworks. Illegal ones. But in, like, six minutes the entire club was engulfed. A hundred people died.’

  Choking. Tears. ‘I went into the club itself. I couldn’t believe it, I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was like they weren’t people at all – it was just one big creature, staggering around, squeezing toward the doors. But they weren’t opening. And there were no flames. Anywhere. Not even very thick smoke. Like in the fall, when I was growing up. People burning leaves. Where I grew up. New York.’

  Dance had spotted a security camera. ‘Was there video? Security video?’

  ‘Nothing outside. Inside, yes, there’s a camera.’

  ‘Could I see it, please?

  This was her Crim-Div mind working.

  Sometimes you can’t leash yourself …

  Cohen cast a last look around the room, then stepped into the lobby, clutching the box of survivors’ tokens he’d collected. He held it gingerly, as if a tight grip would mean bad luck for the hospitalized owners. She saw wallets, keys, shoes, a business card in his grasp.

  Dance followed, Holly behind. Cohen’s office was decorated with posters about the appearances of obscure performers – and many from the Monterey Pop Festival – and was cluttered with the flotsam of a small entertaining venue: crates of beer, stacks of invoices, souvenirs (T-shirts, cowboy hats, boots, a stuffed rattlesnake, dozens of mugs given away by radio stations). So many items. The accumulation set Dance’s nerves vibrating.

  Cohen went to the computer and sat down. He stared at the desk for a moment, a piece of paper; she couldn’t see what was written on it. She positioned herself in front of the monitor. She steeled herself. In her job as investigator with the CBI, most of her work was backroom. She talked to suspects after the deeds had been done. She was rarely in the field and never tactical. Yes, one could analyze the posture of a dead body and derive forensic insights but Dance had rarely been called on to do so. Most of her work involved the living. She wondered what her reaction to the video would be.

  It wasn’t good.

  The quality of the tape was so-so and a pillar obscured a portion of the image. She recalled the camera and thought it had been positioned differently but apparently not. At first she was looking at a wide-angle slice of tables and chairs and patrons, servers with trays. Then the lights dimmed, though there was still enough light to see the room.

  There was no sound. Dance was grateful for that.

  At 8:11:11 on the time stamp, people began to move. Standing up, looking around. Pulling out phones. At that point the majority of the patrons were concerned, that was obvious, but their facial expressions and body language revealed only that. No panic.

  But at 8:11:17, everything changed. Merely six seconds later. As if they’d all been programed to act at the same instant, the patrons surged en m
asse toward the doors. Dance couldn’t see the exits: they were behind the camera, out of the frame. She could, however, see people slamming against each other and the wall, desperate to escape from the unspeakable fate of burning to death. Pressing against each other, harder, harder, in a twisting mass, spiraling like a slow-moving hurricane. Dance understood: those at the front were struggling to move clockwise to get away from the people behind them. But there was no place to go.

  ‘My,’ Bob Holly, the fire marshal, whispered.

  Then, to Dance’s surprise, the frenzy ended fast. It seemed that sanity returned, as if a spell had been sloughed off. The masses broke up and patrons headed for the accessible exits – this would be the front lobby, the stage and the kitchen.

  Two bodies were visible on the floor, people huddled over them. Trying pathetically ineffective revival techniques. You can hardly use CPR to save someone whose chest has been crushed, their heart and lungs pierced.

  Dance noted the time stamp.

  8:18:29.

  Seven minutes. Start to finish. Life to death.

  Then a figure stumbled back into view.

  ‘That’s her,’ Bob Holly whispered. ‘The music student.’

  A young woman, blonde and extraordinarily beautiful, gripped her right arm, which ended at her elbow. She staggered back toward one of the partially open doors, perhaps looking for the severed limb. She got about ten feet into view, then dropped to her knees. A couple ran to her, the man pulling his belt off, and together they improvised a tourniquet.

  Without a word, Sam Cohen stood and walked back to the doorway of his office. He paused there. Looked out over the debris-strewn club, realized he was holding a Hello Kitty phone and put it in his pocket. He said, to no one, ‘It’s over with, you know. My life’s over. It’s gone. Everything … You never recover from something like this. Ever.’