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pictures. Most of them were of people walking into the courthouse, a few artistic shots of the front of the building in the fog.
    Then the detective and the agent simultaneously said, “Wait.” The image they were looking at depicted the driveway that led to where the fire had occurred. They could make out someone behind a car, just the back visible, wearing a blue jacket, a baseball cap and sunglasses.
    “Look at the arm.”
    Dance nodded. It seemed the person’s arm trailed behind, as if wheeling a suitcase.
    “Is that time stamped?”
    Nagle called up the readout. “Nine twenty-two.”
    “That’d work out just right,” Dance said, recalling the fire marshal’s estimate of the time the gas bomb had been planted. “Can you blow up the image?”
    “Not in the camera.”
    TJ said he could on his computer, though, no problem. Nagle gave the memory card to him, and Dance sent TJ back to CBI headquarters, reminding him, “And Samantha McCoy. Track her down. The aunt too. Bakersfield.”
    “You bet, boss.”
    Rey Carraneo was still outside, canvassing for witnesses. But Dance believed that the accomplice had fled too; now that Pell had probably eluded the roadblocks there was no reason for the partner to stay around. She sent him back to headquarters as well.
    Nagle said, “I’ll get started on the copies. . . . Oh, don’t forget.” He handed her the autographed paperback. “I know you’ll like it.”
    When he was gone Dance held it up. “In all my free time.” And gave it to O’Neil for his collection.

Chapter 9
    At lunch hour a woman in her midtwenties was sitting on a patio outside the Whole Foods grocery store in Monterey’s Del Monte Center.
    A disk of sun was slowly emerging as the blanket of fog melted.
    She heard a siren in the distance, a dove cooing, a horn, a child crying, then a child laughing.
    Jennie Marston thought, Angel songs.
    The scent of pine filled the cool air. No breeze. Dull light. A typical California day on the coast, but everything about it was intensified.
    Which is what happens when you’re in love and about to meet your boyfriend.
    Anticipation  . . .
    Some old pop song, Jennie thought. Her mother sang it from time to time, her smoker’s voice harsh and off-key, often slurred.
    Blond, authentic California blond, Jennie sipped her coffee. It was expensive but good. This wasn’t her kind of store (the twenty-four-year-old part-time caterer was an Albertsons girl, a Safeway girl) but Whole Foods was a good meeting place.
    She was wearing close-fitting jeans, a light pink blouse and, underneath, a red Victoria’s Secret bra and panties. Like the coffee, the lingerie was a luxury she couldn’t afford. But some things you had to splurge on. (Besides, Jennie reflected, the garments were really a gift in a way: for her boyfriend.)
    Which made her think of other indulgences. Rubbing her nose, flick, flick , on the bump.
    Stop it, she told herself.
    But she didn’t. Another two flicks.
    Angel songs  . . .
    Why couldn’t she have met him a year later? She’d’ve had the cosmeticwork done by then and be beautiful. At least she could do something about the nose and boobs. She only wished she could fix the toothpick shoulders and boyish hips but fixing those was beyond the talents of talented Dr. Ginsberg.
    Skinny, skinny, skinny . . . And the way you eat! Twice what I do and look at me. God gave me a daughter like you to test me .
    Watching the unsmiling women wheeling their grocery carts to their mommy vans, Jennie wondered, Do they love their husbands? They couldn’t possibly be as much in love as she was with her boyfriend. She felt sorry for them.
    Jennie finished her coffee and returned to the store, looking at massive pineapples and bins of grain and heads of funny-shaped lettuce and perfectly lined up steaks and chops. Mostly she studied the pastries—the way one painter examines another’s canvas. Good. . . . Not so good. She didn’t want to buy