As they waited for the Orange County deputy to arrive, O'Neil took a call. He nodded and Dance noted he lifted an eyebrow. He had a brief conversation, then hung up,
"Otto Grant. Remember?"
Of course she did. The farmer whose land had been confiscated under eminent domain. The possible suicide.
"Santa Cruz police found a body in the water by the pier. Male. Same age and build. They'll run the scene and get me the report."
How sad, she reflected. "Did he have family?"
"He was a widower. Grown children. Farming must've been his whole life, maybe all he had left."
"A hard way to go. Drowning."
"I don't know," O'Neil mused. "In that water? You'd be numb after three, four minutes. Then...nothing. Worse ways to die than going to sleep in the bay."
Dance and O'Neil had to wait only a few minutes for the Orange County deputy. They waved him over. The stocky uniformed man's name was Rick Martinez.
"We've been following the wire, about your perp. The Solitude Creek thing. The other one too. The author signing. Last night. Man, that's terrible. I've never heard anything like this. This terror thing?" A nod toward the apartment. "Is Prescott your doer?"
Dance said, "We know he's not. But we're hoping there's a chance of some connection between him and our unsub."
"Sure. How do you want to handle it?" He was speaking to O'Neil.
"Agent Dance'll wait here. I'll go to the front door, you go around back, if you would. If everything's clear, Agent Dance'll do the interrogation."
Wait here. Her lips tightened.
"No warrants. He had a drunk and disorderly a few years ago, assault too, and he owns weapons, so we'll handle it cautiously."
"Sounds good, Detective."
The two men headed up the sidewalk, past a row of dying bushes and healthy succulents, another testament to the water problems suffered by the Golden State.
O'Neil waited near Prescott's door, out of sight of the peephole and side window, which was curtained. Martinez, bulky and imposing, continued around the side of the complex to the rear.
O'Neil gave it three or four minutes, then knocked. "Stanley Prescott? Sheriff's deputy. Please open the door."
Once more.
He tried the door. It was unlocked. He glanced back at Dance. Held her eye for a moment. Then pushed inside.
No more than a minute later she heard two stunning gunshots, followed by one more.
Chapter 40
Antioch March was running.
Full out, a sprint. He realized he was still holding his Glock and slipped it into his pocket. He pulled his gym bag up higher on his shoulder and kept going.
Ski mask? he wondered. No, that would definitely draw attention. Glancing back, he noticed that no one was in pursuit. Wouldn't last long. People would be calling in the incident all over the neighborhood. Tustin wasn't the sort of place where gunshots would be ignored.
And he knew one person who definitely was calling for backup at this moment: the woman he'd spotted outside the apartment, Kathryn Dance. She was here! She hadn't seen him as she sprinted fast to the front door of Prescott's apartment, cell phone in hand. He might've gotten closer to her, tried for a shot. But she was, of course, armed and, he imagined, good with a gun.
Huntress...
And there were probably other deputies nearby. Maybe dozens. And, now, more on the way.
Running faster. Gasping.