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A nod.
Dance told TJ to start canvassing the owners of light-colored Hondas.
In a half hour Dance and O'Neil were at the roadhouse. The club was still closed and the trucking company was also dark. But there was some activity. A couple was here, laying flowers at the front entrance. Dance and O'Neil approached and she asked them if they'd
been patrons the other night. They hadn't been; the husband's cousin had died, and they were paying respects.
There also were some workers about two hundred feet from the club, in the direction of the path she'd taken the other day to the witness's house. It was a team of surveyors, with their tripod and instruments set up. They were engrossed in the obscure art of reckoning longitudes and latitudes, or whatever it was surveyors did.
"Maybe?" O'Neil asked. His voice sounded optimistic.
"Sure, let's give it a try."
They approached and identified themselves.
The crew leader, a slim man, long hair under a cap, nodded. "Oh. Hey. Terrible, what happened."
Dance asked, "Were you working here the day of the incident?"
"No, ma'am, we weren't. Had another job."
O'Neil: "Anytime before that?"
"No, sir. We just got the contract the other day."
"Who're you working for?" Dance asked.
"Anderson Construction."
A big commercial real estate operation, based in Monterey.
"Know what the job is?"
"No, sir."
They thanked the crew and wandered back toward the driveway. She said, "We should talk to the company. They might've had other workers out on Tuesday. We'll see if they saw the Honda or anybody checking out the trucks or the club." She called TJ Scanlon and put him on the assignment to find out who'd hired Anderson and see if either the developer or the construction company had had workers here the day of the incident or before.
"Will do, boss."
She slipped the phone away.
O'Neil nodded. They continued past the roadhouse and headed down the driveway to the field where Michelle and Trish had seen the Honda.
Dance had wondered if she'd have to risk a call to Trish and find out exactly where the Honda had been parked but there was no need. It was clear from the trampled grass where the car had turned off the driveway and bounded over the field of short grass and flowers to a stand of trees. Drought-stricken in most of the region, the ground here was soggy from the creek, and the Honda's tires had left distinctive prints in the sandy mud. When the driver had reversed out, the tires had spun reaching for traction.
They stopped before they reached the tracks, however, and examined the ground carefully. And then surveyed the surrounding area. Dance dug into her purse and pulled out elastic hair ties, four of them. Divided them up and she and O'Neil put them around their shoes--a trick she learned from her friends in New York, Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs. It was to differentiate their shoe prints from those of the suspects when the forensic officers ran the scene.
"There," O'Neil said, pointing into the trees. "He got out of the car and walked back and forth to find a good route to circle around to the trucking company."
Several cars drove past on the highway. One turned in at the next driveway. O'Neil was distracted and followed it until the lights vanished.
"What?"
"Just keeping an eye out."
Guard dog. Because I don't have a weapon. Though the odds of their unsub charging out of the woods with blazing guns seemed rather narrow.
He turned back to the scene. They moved closer and Dance looked down, circling the area where the car had been, carefully so as not to disturb any evidence.
