The Sleeping Doll (23 page)

“I have to get home,” Dance said, after Nagle had left. Her mother and the children would be anxiously awaiting her for her father’s party.

Kellogg tossed the comma of hair off his forehead. It fell back. He tried again. She glanced at the gesture and noticed something she hadn’t seen before — a bandage protruding above the collar of his shirt.

“You hurt?”

A shrug. “Got winged. A takedown in Chicago the other day.”

His body language told her he didn’t want to talk about it, and she didn’t push. But then he said, “The perp didn’t make it.” In a certain tone and with a certain glance. It was how she told people that she was a widow.

“I’m sorry. You handling it okay?”

“Fine.” Then he added, “Okay, not fine. But I’m handling it. Sometimes that’s the best you can do.”

On impulse she asked, “Hey, you have plans tonight?”

“Brief the SAC, then a bath at the hotel, a scotch, a burger and sleep. Well, okay, two scotches.”

“Have a question.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

“You like birthday cake?”

After only a brief pause he said, “It’s one of my favorite food groups.”

Dance kissed her daughter. “Mags, that’s funny.”

She knew the girl had been bursting, waiting to share the pun.

The Deck did look nice. The kids had been busy all afternoon getting ready for the party. Banners, Chinese lanterns, candles everywhere. (They’d learned from their mom; when it came to entertaining, Kathryn Dance’s guests might not get gourmet food, but they were treated to great atmosphere.)

“When can Grandpa open his presents?” Both Wes and Maggie had saved up allowance money and bought Stuart Dance outdoor gear — waders and a net. Dance knew her father’d be happy with anything his grandchildren got him but those particular items he would definitely use.

“Presents after the cake,” Edie Dance announced. “And that’s after dinner.”

“Hi, Mom.” Dance and her mother didn’t always hug but tonight Edie clasped her close as an excuse to whisper that she wanted to talk to her about Juan Millar.

The women walked into the living room.

Dance saw immediately that her mother was troubled.

“What is it?”

“He’s still hanging in there. He’s come to a couple of times.” A glance around to make sure, presumably, that the children were nowhere nearby. “Only for a few seconds each time. He couldn’t possibly give you a statement. But … ”

“What, Mom?”

She lowered her voice further. “I was standing near him. Nobody else was in earshot. I looked down and his eyes were open. I mean the one that’s not bandaged. His lips were moving. I bent down. He said … ” Edie glanced around again. “He said, ‘Kill me.’ He said it twice. Then he closed his eyes.”

“Is he in that much pain?”

“No, he’s so medicated he can’t feel a thing. But he could look at the bandages. He could see the equipment. He’s not a stupid man.”

“His family’s there?”

“Most of the time. Well, that brother of his, round the clock. He watches us like a hawk. He’s convinced we’re not giving Juan good treatment because he’s Latino. And he’s made a few more comments about you.”

Dance grimaced.

“Sorry, but I thought you should know.”

“I’m glad you told me.”

Very troubling. Not Julio Millar, of course. She could handle him. It was the young detective’s hopelessness that upset her so deeply.

Kill me …

Dance asked, “Did Betsey call?”

“Ah, your sister can’t be here,” Edie said in a breezy tone, whose subtext was irritation that their younger daughter wouldn’t make the four–hour drive from Santa Barbara for her father’s birthday party. Of course, with the Pell manhunt ongoing, Dance probably wouldn’t’ve driven
there,
had the situation been reversed. According to an important rule of families, though, hypothetical transgressions aren’t offenses, and that Dance was present, even by default, meant that, this time, Betsey earned the black mark.

They returned to the Deck and Maggie asked, “Mom, can we let Dylan and Patsy out?”

“We’ll see.” The dogs could be a little boisterous at parties. And tended to get too much human food for their own good.

“Where’s your brother?”

“In his room.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Stuff.”

Dance locked the weapon away for the party — an MCSO deputy on security detail was parked outside. She showered fast and changed.

She found Wes in the hallway. “No, no T–shirt. It’s your grandfather’s birthday.”

“Mom. It’s clean.”

“Polo. Or your blue–and–white button–down.” She knew the contents of his closet better than he did.

“Oh, okay.”

She looked closely at his downcast eyes. His demeanor had nothing to do with a change of shirt.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, spill.”

“Spill?”

“It’s from my era. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Nothing.”

“Go change.”

Ten minutes later she was setting out mounds of luscious appetizers, offering a silent prayer of thanks to Trader Joe’s.

In a dress shirt, cuffs buttoned and tails tucked, Wes strafed past and grabbed a handful of nuts. A whiff of aftershave followed. He looked good. Being a parent was a challenge, but there was plenty to be proud of too.

“Mom?” He tossed a cashew into the air. Caught it in his mouth.

“Don’t do that. You could choke.”

“Mom?”

“What?”

“Who’s coming tonight?”

Now the eyes fished away and his shoulder was turned toward her. That meant another agenda lay behind the question. She knew what was bothering him — the same as last night. And now it was time to talk.

“Just us and a few people.” Sunday evening there’d be a bigger event, with many of Stuart’s friends, at the Marine Club near the aquarium in Monterey. Today, her father’s actual birthday, she’d invited only eight or so people for dinner. She continued, “Michael and his wife, Steve and Martine, the Barbers … that’s about it. Oh, and somebody who’s working with us on a case. He’s from Washington.”

He nodded. “That’s all? Nobody else?”

“That’s all.” She pitched him a bag of pretzels, which he caught with one hand. “Set those out. And make sure there’re some left for the guests.”

A much–relieved Wes headed off to start filling bowls.

What the boy had been worried about was the possibility that Dance had invited Brian Gunderson.

The Brian who was the source of the book sitting prominently nearby, the Brian whose phone call to Dance at CBI headquarters Maryellen Kresbach had so diligently reported.

Brian called …

The forty–year–old investment banker had been a blind date, courtesy of Maryellen, who was as compulsive about, and talented at, matchmaking as she was baking, brewing coffee and running the professional life of CBI agents.

Brian was smart and easy–going and funny too; on their first date the man had listened to her description of kinesics and promptly sat on his hands. “So you can’t figure out my intentions.” That dinner had turned out to be quite enjoyable. Divorced, no children (though he wanted them). Brian’s investment–banking business was hectic, and with his and Dance’s busy schedules, the relationship had by necessity moved slowly. Which was fine with her. Long married, recently widowed, she was in no hurry.

After a month of dinners, coffee and movies, she and Brian had taken a long hike and found themselves on the beach at Asilomar. A golden sunset, a slew of sea otters playing near shore … how could you resist a kiss or two? They hadn’t. She remembered liking that. Then feeling guilty for liking. But liking it more than feeling guilty.

That
part of your life you can do without for a while, but not forever.

Dance hadn’t had any particular plans for the future with Brian and was happy to take it easy, see what developed.

But Wes had intervened. He was never rude or embarrassing, but he made clear in a dozen ways a mother could clearly read that he didn’t like anything about Brian. Dance had graduated from grief–counseling but she still saw a therapist occasionally. The woman told her how to introduce a possible romantic interest to the children, and she’d done everything right. But Wes had outmaneuvered her. He grew sullen and passive–aggressive whenever the subject of Brian came up or when she returned from seeing him.

That’s what he’d been wanting to ask about last night when he was reading
Lord of the Rings.

Tonight, in his casual question about attendance at the party, the boy really meant, Is Brian coming?

And the corollary: Have you guys
really
broken up?

Yes, we have. (Though Dance wondered if Brian felt differently. After all, he’d called several times since the breakup.)

The therapist had said his behavior was normal, and Dance could work it out if she remained patient and determined. Most important, though, she couldn’t let her son control her. But in the end she decided she wasn’t patient or determined enough. And so, two weeks ago, she’d broken it off. She’d been tactful, explaining that it was just a little too soon after her husband’s death; she wasn’t ready. Brian had been upset but had taken the news well. No parting shots. And they’d left the matter open.

Let’s just give it some time …

In truth the breakup was a relief; parents have to pick their battles, and, she’d decided, skirmishing over romance wasn’t worth the effort just now. Still, she was pleased about his calls and had found herself missing him.

Carting wine outside onto the Deck, she found her father with Maggie. He was holding a book and pointing to a picture of a deep–sea fish that glowed.

“Hey, Mags, that looks tasty,” Dance said.

“Mom, gross.”

“Happy birthday, Dad.” She hugged him.

“Thank you, dear.”

Dance arranged platters, dumped beer into the cooler, then walked into the kitchen and pulled out her mobile. She checked in with TJ and Carraneo. They’d had no luck with the physical search for Pell, nor come across any leads to the missing Ford Focus, anyone with the names or screen names Nimue or Alison, or hotels, motels or boardinghouses where Pell and his accomplice might be staying.

She was tempted to call Winston Kellogg, thinking he might be shying, but she decided not to. He had all the vital statistics; he’d either show or not.

Dance helped her mother with more food and, returning to the Deck, greeted the neighbors, Tom and Sarah Barber, who brought with them wine, a birthday present and their gangly mixed–breed dog, Fawlty.

“Mom, please!” Maggie called, her meaning clear.

“Okay, okay, let ‘em out of doggy jail.”

Maggie freed Patsy and Dylan from the bedroom and the three canines galloped into the backyard, knocking one another down and checking out new scents.

A few minutes later another couple appeared on the Deck. Fortyish Steven Cahill could’ve been a Birkenstock model, complete with corduroy slacks and salt–and–pepper ponytail. His wife, Martine Christensen, belied her surname; she was sultry, dark and voluptuous. You’d have thought the blood in her veins was Spanish or Mexican but her ancestors predated all the Californian settlers. She was part Ohlone Indian — a loose affiliation of tribelets, hunting and gathering from Big Sur to San Francisco Bay. For hundreds, possibly thousands, of years, the Ohlone were the sole inhabitants of this region of the state.

Some years ago Dance had met Martine at a concert at a community college in Monterey, a descendant of the famed Monterey Folk Festival, where Bob Dylan had made his West Coast debut in 1965, and that a few years later morphed into the even more famous Monterey Pop Festival, which brought Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin to the world’s attention.

The concert where Dance and Martine had met was less culture–breaking than its predecessors, but more significant on a personal level. The women had hit it off instantly and had stayed out long after the last act finished, talking music. They’d soon become best friends. It was Martine who’d practically broken down Dance’s door on several occasions following Bill’s death. She’d waged a persistent campaign to keep her friend from sinking into the seductive world of reclusive widowhood. While some people avoided her, and others (her mother, for instance) plied her with exhausting sympathy, Martine embarked on a campaign that could be called ignoring sorrow. She cajoled, joked, argued and plotted. Despite Dance’s reticence, she realized that, damn it, the tactic had worked. Martine was perhaps the biggest influence in getting her life back on track.

Steve’s and Martine’s children, twin boys a year younger than Maggie, followed them up the stairs, one toting his mother’s guitar case, the other a present for Stuart. After greetings, Maggie herded the boys into the backyard.

The adults gravitated to a rickety candlelit table.

Dance saw that Wes was happier than he’d been in a long time. He was a natural social director and was now organizing a game for the children.