The Sleeping Doll (38 page)

She’d learned from the Orange County Sheriff’s Department that Jennie Marston’s father was dead and her mother had a history of petty crime, drug abuse and emotional disabilities. There was no record of the mother’s whereabouts; she had a few relatives on the East Coast but no one had heard from Jennie in years.

Dance learned that Jennie had gone to community college for a year, studying food management, then dropped out, apparently to get married. She’d worked for a Hair Cuttery for a year and then went into food service, employed by a number of caterers and bakeries in Orange County, a quiet worker who would arrive on time, do her job and then leave. She led a solitary life, and deputies could find no acquaintances, no close friends. Her ex–husband hadn’t talked to her in years but said that she deserved whatever happened to her.

Not surprisingly, police records revealed a history of difficult relationships. Deputies had been summoned by hospital workers at least a half–dozen times on suspicion of domestic abuse involving the ex and at least four other partners. Social Services had started files, but Jennie had never pursued any complaints, let alone sought restraining orders.

Just the sort to fall prey to someone like Daniel Pell.

Dance mentioned this to O’Neil. The detective nodded. He was looking out Dance’s window at two pine trees that had grafted themselves to each other over the years, producing a knuckle–like knot at eye level. Dance would often stare at the curious blemish when the facts of a case refused to coalesce into helpful insights.

“So, what’s on your mind?” she asked.

“You want to know?”

“I asked, didn’t I?” In a tone of good humor.

It wasn’t reciprocated. He said testily, “You were right. He was wrong.”

“Kellogg? At the motel?”

“We should’ve followed your initial plan. Set up a surveillance perimeter the minute we heard about the motel. Not spent a half–hour assembling Tactical. That’s how he caught on. Somebody gave something away.”

Instincts of a cat …

She hated defending herself, especially to someone she was so close to. “A takedown made sense at the time; a lot was going on and it was happening fast.”

“No, it didn’t make sense. That’s why you hesitated. Even at the end, you weren’t sure.”

“Who knows anything in situations like this?”

“Okay, you
felt
it was the wrong approach and what you feel is usually right.”

“It was just bad luck. If we’d moved in earlier, we probably would’ve had him.” She regretted saying this, afraid he’d take her words as a criticism of the MCSO.

“And people would’ve died. We’re just goddamn lucky nobody was hurt. Kellogg’s plan was a prescription for a shootout. I think we’re lucky Pell
wasn’t
there. It could’ve been a bloodbath.” He crossed his arms — a protective gesture, which was ironic because he still had on the bulletproof vest. “You’re giving up control of the operation.
Your
operation.”

“To Winston?”

“Yes, exactly. He’s a consultant. And it seems like he’s running the case.”

“He’s the specialist, Michael. I’m not. You’re not.”

“He is? I’m sorry, he talks about the cult mentality, he talks about profiles. But I don’t see
him
closing in on Pell. You’re the one who’s been doing that.”

“Look at his credentials, his background. He’s an expert.”

“Okay, he’s got some insights. They’re helpful. But he wasn’t enough of an expert to catch Pell an hour ago.” He lowered his voice. “Look, at the hotel, Overby backed Winston. Obviously — he’s the one who wanted him on board. You got the pressure from the FBI
and
your boss. But we’ve handled pressure before, the two of us. We could’ve backed them down.”

“What exactly are you saying? That I’m deferring to him for some other reason?”

Looking away. An aversion gesture. People feel stress not only when they lie; sometimes they feel it when they tell the truth. “I’m saying you’re giving Kellogg too much control over the operation. And, frankly, over yourself.”

She snapped, “Because he reminds me of my husband? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.
Does
he remind you of Bill?”

“This is ridiculous.”

“You brought it up.”

“Well, anything other than professional judgment’s none of your business.”

“Fine,” O’Neil said tersely. “I’ll stick to professional judgment. Winston was off base. And you acquiesced to him, knowing he was wrong.”

“‘Knowing?’ It was fifty–five, forty–five on the tac approach at the motel. I had one opinion at first. I changed it. Any good officer can be swayed.”

“By
reason.
By logical
analysis.
”

“What about your judgment? How objective are you?”

“Me? Why aren’t I objective?”

“Because of Juan.”

A faint recognition response in O’Neil’s eyes. Dance had hit close to home, and she supposed the detective felt responsible in some way for the young officer’s death, thinking perhaps that he hadn’t trained Millar enough.

His protégés …

She regretted her comment.

Dance and O’Neil had fought before; you can’t have friendship and a working relationship without wrinkles. But never with an edge this sharp. And why was he saying what he did, his comments slipping over the bounds into her personal life? This was a first.

And the kinesics read almost as jealousy.

They fell silent. The detective lifted his hands and shrugged. This was an emblem gesture, which translated: I’ve said my piece. The tension in the room was as tight as that entwined pine knot, thin fibers woven together into steel.

They resumed their discussion of the next steps: checking with Orange County for more details about Jennie Marston, canvassing for witnesses and following up on the crime scene at the Sea View Motel. They sent Carraneo to the airport, bus station and rental–car offices armed with the woman’s picture. They kicked around a few other ideas too, but the climate in the office had dropped significantly, summer to fall, and when Winston Kellogg came into the room, O’Neil retreated, explaining that he had to check in with his office and brief the sheriff. He said a perfunctory good–bye that was aimed at neither of them.

The big Latino reciprocated with a cold gaze.

Apparently Nagle had committed
the
number–one offense in Vallejo Springs — not the technical infractions of trespass and assault (where the hell had they got
that?
) but the far more troubling crime of upsetting their local daughter.

“I have a right to make a phone call.”

No response.

He wanted to reassure his wife that he was okay. But mostly he wanted to get word to Kathryn Dance about where Theresa was. He’d changed his mind and given up on his book and journalistic ethics. Goddamn it, he was going to do everything in his power to make sure that Daniel Pell got caught and flung back into Capitola.

Not illuminating evil, but attacking it himself. Like a shark. Seeing Theresa in person was what had swayed him: a dear, attractive, vivacious girl who deserved to be leading the normal life of a teenager, and pure evil had destroyed the hope for that. Telling people her story wasn’t enough; Morton Nagle personally wanted Pell’s head.

But apparently they were going to keep him incommunicado for as long as they possibly could.

“I really would like to make a phone call.”

The guard looked at him as if he’d been caught selling crack to kids outside Sunday school and said nothing.

He stood up and paced. The look from the guard said, Sit down. Nagle sat.

Ten long, long minutes later he heard a door open. Footsteps approached.

“Nagle.”

He gazed at another guard. Bigger than the first one.

“Stand up.” The guard pushed a button and the door opened. “Hold out your hands.”

It sounded ridiculous, like someone offering a child some candy. He lifted them and watched the cuffs clatter around his wrists.

“This way.” The man took him by the arm, strong fingers closing around his biceps. Nagle smelled garlic and cigarette smoke residue. He almost pulled away but didn’t think it would be a smart idea. They walked like this, the chains clinking, for fifty feet down a dim corridor. They continued to interview room A.

The guard opened it and gestured Nagle inside.

He paused.

Theresa Croyton, the Sleeping Doll, sat at a table, looking up at him with dark eyes. The guard pushed him forward and he sat down across from her.

“Hello again,” he said.

The girl looked over his arms and face and hands, as if searching for evidence of prisoner abuse. Or maybe hoping for it. She noticed the bandage on his hand, squinted and then must have remembered that he’d cut it vaulting the fence.

He knew she was only seventeen but there was nothing young about her, except the white delicacy of her skin. She didn’t die in Daniel Pell’s attack, Nagle thought. But her childhood did. His anger at the killer burned hotter yet.

The guard stepped back. But he remained close; Nagle could hear his large body absorbing sounds.

“You can leave us alone,” Theresa said.

“I have to be here, Miss. Rules.” He had a moveable smile. Polite to her, hostile to Nagle.

Theresa hesitated, then focused on the writer. “Tell me what you were going to say in my backyard. About Daniel Pell.”

“He’s staying in the Monterey area for some reason. The police can’t figure out why.”

“And he tried to kill the prosecutor who sent him to jail?”

“James Reynolds, that’s right.”

“He’s okay?”

“Yes. The policewoman I was telling you about saved him.”

“Who are you exactly?” she asked. Direct questions, unemotional.

“Your aunt didn’t tell you anything?”

“No.”

“I’ve been speaking to her for a month now about a book I wanted to write. About you.”

“Me? Like, why would you want to write that? I’m nobody interesting.”

“Oh, I think you are. I wanted to write about somebody who’s been hurt by something bad. How they were beforehand, how they are after. How their life changes — and how things might’ve gone without the crime.”

“No, my aunt didn’t tell me any of that.”

“Does she know you’re here?”

“Yeah, I told her. She drove me here. She won’t let me have a driver’s license.”

She glanced up at the guard, then back to Nagle. “They didn’t want me to talk to you either, the police here. But there was nothing they could do about it.”

“Why did you come to see me, Theresa?” he asked.

“That policewoman you mentioned?”

Nagle was astonished. “You mean, it’s all right if she comes to see you?”

“No,” the girl said adamantly, shaking her head.

Nagle couldn’t blame her. “I understand. But —”

“I want to go see
her.
”

The writer wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “You want to what?”

“I want to go down to Monterey. Meet her in person.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

She nodded firmly. “Like, yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Which Nagle thought was as good a response as any.

“I’ll have my aunt drive me down there now.”

“She’ll do that?”

“Or I’ll take the bus. Or hitchhike. You can come with us.”

“Well, there’s one problem,” Nagle said.

The girl frowned.

He chuckled. “I’m in jail.”

She looked toward the guard, surprise in her eyes. “Didn’t you tell him?”

The guard shook his head.

Theresa said, “I bailed you out.”

“You?”

“My father was worth a lot of money.” She now gave a laugh, a small one, but genuine and from her heart. “I’m a rich girl.”