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Another thought hit him. Had he seen the flyer for Maggie's event tonight? Dance had told him she had a hundred of them in her vehicle.
A school auditorium. A perfect venue for an attack.
He grabbed his phone and called central dispatch.
"Hello?"
"Sharon. Michael O'Neil. There's a possible two-four-five in progress at Pacific Heights Grade School. PG. Have units roll up silent. I'm going to get more info and I'll advise through you."
"Roger. I'll get 'em rolling. And await further."
They disconnected.
How to handle it? If he ordered an evacuation and the unsub had locked the doors already, that might result in the very stampede and crush that O'Neil had to avoid.
Or was it even too late to do anything?
He'd call Dance and warn her. She could see if there was a way to quietly get the parents and children out before the unsub made a move.
O'Neil grabbed his mobile and hit speed dial button one.
Chapter 71
Wes and Jon Boling were chowing down on green room goodies.
Not like at Madison Square Garden or MGM Grand, where, Dance suspected, Dom Perignon and caviar were the fare backstage. This was Ritz crackers, Doritos and juice boxes and milk (the school, like Dance's house, was a soda-free zone).
Then the audience grew silent; the show was about to get under way. Boling whispered they were going to find their seats and he and Wes left.
Dance remained, looking over her daughter as they stood together near the entrance to the stage. The girl gazed out at the audience, probably two hundred people.
Her poor face was taut, unhappy.
Dance's phone grew busy; it was on mute but she felt the vibration. She'd get it in a minute. She was now concentrating on her daughter.
"Maggie?"
The girl looked up. She seemed about to cry.
What on earth was going on? Weeks of angst about the performance. A roller coaster of emotion.
And then Dance made a sudden shift. She moved from mom to law enforcer. That had been her mistake, looking at her daughter's plight. Dance had been viewing the discomfort as a question of nerves, of typical preadolescent distress.
In fact, she should have been looking at the whole matter as a crime. She should have been thinking of plots, motives, modus operandi.
A to B to Z...
She knew instantly what was going on. So clear. All the pieces were there. She just hadn't thought to put them together. Now she understood the truth: Her daughter was being extorted.
By Bethany and the Secrets Club...
Dance guessed that the girl, so polite on the surface, was an expert at subtle bullying--using secrets as weapons. To join the club, you had to share a secret, something embarrassing: a wet bed, stolen money, a broken vase at home, a lie to a parent or teacher, something sexual. Then Bethany and her crew would have some leverage--to get the members of the club to do what they wanted.
Maggie's reluctance to perform was obvious now. She wasn't going to sing "Let It Go" at all. The girls in the club had probably forced her to learn a very different song, maybe something off-color, embarrassing--maybe ridiculing Mrs. Bendix, their teacher, a wonderful woman but heavyset, a careless dresser. An easy target for juvenile cruelty.
Dance recalled that when she agreed that Maggie didn't have to appear at the show, the girl was so relieved; Mom would back her up against the club. But comfort hadn't lasted long. The recent call from Bethany had been an ominous reminder that whatever her mother had agreed to, Maggie was going to sing.
Or the girl's secret would be revealed.
