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Forty-one-year-old congressman Daniel Nashima had represented what was now the twentieth congressional district of California for eight terms. He was a Democrat but a moderate one, advocating socially liberal positions like gay marriage and a woman's right to choose, but pushing for lower taxes on the wealthy. ("Most of the one percent got that way by working hard, not by inheriting their money.")
Nashima himself was a living example of that philosophy. He'd made a lot of money through Internet start-ups and real estate holdings. His goal of financial success, however, didn't vitiate his do-good attitude, of course. If anything, the altruism deflected attention from his capitalistic side. You tend not to think of a man's net worth when he's hauling forty-pound blocks of concrete off victims trapped in earthquake rubble.
Nashima's performance in Congress was stellar. He showed up for the majority of votes, he reached across the aisle, he served on the hardworking committees, Ethics and Homeland Security, without complaint. His term in office had never been tainted with the
least scandal; he'd gotten divorced before commencing a romantic liaison with a lobbyist (who had no connection with him professionally) and in the closest brush with crime it was discovered that his housekeeper had herself forged visas; he was duped like everyone else. Dance and O'Neil were accompanied by Albert Stemple and a Monterey County Sheriff's Office deputy. Dance had learned that Nashima was a hunter and had a conceal-carry permit.
They now arrived at his office in Santa Cruz. In a strip mall, next to a surfboard rental and sales shop, whose posters suggested you could walk to Maverick, site of the most righteous surfing on the West Coast (it was fifty miles north).
With Stemple remaining outside, lookout, the other three stepped inside. The congressman's assistant, a pretty, diminutive Japanese American woman, regarded them hostilely and then walked to the back of the suite. She returned a moment later and ushered them inside.
After introductions, Nashima calmly surveyed them all. "And what can I do for you?"
Shields were displayed, identifications offered.
Nashima was still examining hers when Dance took the lead. "Congressman, we'd like to ask about your connection with Solitude Creek."
"I don't understand." The man sat back, relaxed though stony-faced. His movement and gestures were precise.
"Please. It'll be easier for everybody if you cooperate."
"Cooperate? About what? You walk in here, accusation all over your face. Obviously, you think I did something wrong. I don't have any idea what. Give me a clue."
His indignation was credible. But that was common among the High Machiavellians--expert deceivers--when they were called on lies they'd just told.
Calmly she persisted, "Are you trying to purchase property on Solitude Creek north off Highway One, the building and the land the roadhouse is located on?"
He blinked. Was this the point where he would demand a lawyer?
"As a matter of fact, I'm not, no."
The first phrase was often a deception flag. Like: "I swear." Or "I'm not going to lie to you."
"Well, your attorney made an offer for the property."
A pause. It could mean a lie was coming and he was trying to figure out what they knew. Or that he was furious.
"Is that right? I wasn't aware of it."
"You're denying that Barrett Stone, your lawyer, talked to Sam Cohen and made an offer to buy the property?"
The congressman sighed and momentarily lowered his head. "You are, of course, investigating the terrible incident at the roadhouse." He nodded. "I remember you, Agent Dance. You were there the next day."
O'Neil said, "And you came back a few days later--to look over the property you wanted to buy."
He nodded. "You're thinking I orchestrated the attack to drive the property value down. Ah, and presumably the second attack at Cannery Row was to cover up the motives for the first attack. Make it look like some kind of psycho was involved. Oh, and the hospital too, sure."
He was sounding oddly confident. Still, what else was he going to say?
"I have alibis for one or all of the incidents...oh, but that's not what you're thinking, I'm sure. No. You're thinking I hired this psycho."
Dance remained silent. In the art of interrogation and interviewing, all too often the officer responds to comments or questions posed by the subject. Keep mum and let them talk. (Dance had once gotten a full confession by asking a suspected murderer, "So, you come to Monterey often?")
Daniel Nashima now rose. He looked both law enforcers over carefully. Then set his hands, palms down, on the desk. His face revealed no emotion whatsoever as he said, "All right. I'll confess. I'll confess to everything. But on one condition."
Chapter 75
Donnie and Wes were hanging on Mrs. Dance's back porch, huddling in the back, along with Nathan (Neo, from The Matrix) and Vince (Vulcan--no, not the race of the dudes from Star Trek but the X-Man.) Fritos and orange juice and a little smuggled Red Bull were the hors d'oeuvres and cocktails of the hour.
