The Sleeping Doll (43 page)

It certainly made her feel comfortable, with an escaped killer somewhere in the area, and she appreciated the fact that Katie was looking out for them.

Still, it wasn’t Daniel Pell who occupied her thoughts, but Juan Millar.

Edie was tired, the old bones not behaving, and she was grateful she’d decided not to work overtime — it was always available for any nurse who wanted it. Death and taxes weren’t the only certain aspects of life; the need for health care was a third, and Edie Dance would have a career for as long as she wished, anywhere she wished. She couldn’t understand her husband’s preference for marine, over human, life. People were so fascinating, helping them, reassuring them, taking away their pain.

Kill me …

Stuart would be back with the children soon. She loved her grandchildren, of course, but she also truly enjoyed their company. Edie knew how lucky she was that Katie lived nearby; so many of her friends had children hundreds, even thousands, of miles away.

Yes, she was happy Wes and Mags were staying here, but she’d be a lot happier when that terrible man was arrested again and thrown back in jail. Katie’s becoming a CBI agent had always bothered her a lot — Stu actually seemed pleased, which irritated her all the more. Edie Dance would never suggest a woman give up a career — she’d worked all her life — but, my God, carrying around a gun and arresting murderers and drug dealers?

Edie would never say it, but her secret desire was that her daughter would meet another man, remarry and abandon police work. Katie had been a successful jury consultant. Why not go back to that? And she and Martine Christensen had that wonderful website, which actually made a little money. If the women devoted themselves to it full–time, think how successful it could be.

Edie had loved her son–in–law dearly. Bill Swenson was sweet, funny, a great father. And the accident that had taken his life was a true tragedy. But that was several years ago. Now it was time for her daughter to move on.

Too bad Michael O’Neil wasn’t available; he and Katie were a perfect match (Edie couldn’t see why on earth he was with that prima donna Anne, who seemed to treat her children like Christmas decorations and cared more about her gallery than her home). Then that FBI agent at Stu’s party, Winston Kellogg, seemed pretty nice too. He reminded Edie of Bill. And then there was Brian Gunderson, the man Katie’d dated recently.

Edie never worried about her daughter’s good sense when it came to picking partners. Her problem was like the one plaguing Edie’s golf swing — the follow–through. And she knew the source. Katie’d told her about Wes, his unhappiness at his mom’s dating. Edie had been in nursing for a long time, both pediatric and adult. She’d seen how controlling children can be, how clever and manipulative, even subconsciously. Her daughter
had
to approach the subject. But she simply wouldn’t. Her approach was duck and cover …

But it wasn’t Edie’s role to talk to the boy directly. Grandparents have the unqualified joy of children’s company, but the price for that is abdicating much of the right to parental intervention. Edie’d said her piece to Katie, who’d agreed but, apparently, ignored her completely by breaking up with Brian and —

The woman cocked her head.

A noise from outside, the backyard.

She glanced up to see if Stu had arrived. No, the carport was empty, except for her Prius. Looking out the front window she saw the police officer was still there.

Then she heard the sound again … The clatter of rocks.

Edie and Stu lived off Ocean, on the long hill descending from downtown to Carmel Beach. Their backyard was a stepped series of gardens, boarded by rock walls. Walking the short path to or from the neighbor’s adjoining backyard sometimes set loose a tiny spill of gravel down the face of those walls. That’s what the noise sounded like.

She walked to the back deck and opened the door, stepped outside. She couldn’t see anyone and heard nothing else. Probably just a cat or a dog. They weren’t supposed to run free; Carmel had strict pet laws. But the town was also very animal friendly (the actress Doris Day owned a wonderful hotel here, where pets were welcome), and several cats and dogs roamed the neighborhood.

She closed the door and, hearing Stu’s car pull into the driveway, forgot all about the noise. Edie Dance walked to the refrigerator to find a snack for the children.

Back in her office, Dance called and checked up on the girl and her aunt, both safely ensconced in the motel and protected by a 250–pound monolith of a CBI agent who carried two large weapons. They were fine, Albert Stemple reported, then added, “The girl’s nice. I like her. The aunt you can keep.”

Dance read over the notes she’d taken in the interview. Then read them again. Finally she called TJ.

“Your genie awaits, boss.”

“Bring me what we’ve got so far on Pell.”

“The whole ball of wax? Whatever that means.”

“All the wax.”

Dance was reviewing James Reynolds’s notes from the Croyton murder case when TJ arrived — only three or four minutes later, breathless. Maybe her voice had sounded more urgent than she’d realized.

She took the files he carted and spread them out until they covered her desk an inch thick. In a short time they’d accumulated an astonishing amount of material. She began riffling through the pages.

“The girl, was she helpful?”

“Yep,” the agent replied absently, staring at a particular sheet of paper.

TJ made another comment but she wasn’t paying any attention. Flipping through more reports, more pages of handwritten notes, and looking over Reynolds’s time line and his other transcriptions. Then returning to the piece of paper she held.

Finally she said, “I’ve got a computer question. You know a lot about them. Go check this out.” She circled some words on the sheet.

He glanced down. “What about it?”

“It’s fishy.”

“Not a computer term I’m familiar with. But I’m on the case, boss. We never sleep.”

Dance was addressing Charles Overby, Winston Kellogg and TJ. They were in Overby’s office and he was playing with a bronze golf ball mounted on a wooden stand, like a gearshift in a sports car. She wished Michael O’Neil were here.

Dance then dropped the bomb. “Rebecca Sheffield’s working with Pell.”

“What?” Overby blurted.

“It gets better. I think she was behind the whole escape.”

Her boss shook his head, the theory troubling him. He was undoubtedly wondering if he’d authorized something he shouldn’t have.

But Winston Kellogg encouraged her. “Interesting. Go on.”

“Theresa Croyton told me a few things that made me suspicious. So I went back and looked over the evidence so far. Remember that email we found in the Sea View? Supposedly Pell sent it to Jennie from prison. But look.” She showed the printout. “The email address says Capitola Correctional. But it has a ‘dot com’ extension. If it was really a Department of Corrections address it would’ve had ‘dot ca dot gov.’ ”

Kellogg grimaced. “Hell, yes. Missed that completely.”

“I just had TJ check out the address.”

The young agent explained, “The company’s a service provider in Denver. You can create your own domain, as long as the name’s not taken by somebody else. It’s an anonymous account. But we’re getting a warrant to look at the archives.”

“Anonymous? Then why do you think it was Rebecca?” Overby asked.

“Look at the email. That phrase. ‘Who could ask for anything more in a girl?’ It’s not that common. It stuck with me because it echoes a line in an old Gershwin song.”

“Why is that important?”

“Because Rebecca used the exact expression the first time I met her.”

Overby said, “Still —”

She pushed forward, not in the mood to be obstructed. “Now, let’s look at the facts. Jennie stole the Thunderbird from that restaurant in L.A. on Friday and checked into the Sea View on Saturday. Her phone and credit card records show she was in Orange County all last week. But the woman who checked out the You Mail It office near the courthouse was there on
Wednesday.
We faxed a warrant to Rebecca’s credit card companies. She flew from San Diego to Monterey on Tuesday, flew back on Thursday. Rented a car here.”

“Okay,” Overby allowed.

“Now, I’m guessing that in Capitola it wasn’t Jennie that Pell was talking to; it was Rebecca. He must’ve given her Jennie’s name and street and email address. Rebecca took over from there. They picked her because she lived near Rebecca, at least close enough to check her out.”

Kellogg added, “So she knows where Pell is, what he’s doing here.”

“Has to.”

Overby said, “Let’s pick her up. You can work your magic, Kathryn.”

“I want her in custody, but I need some more information before I interrogate her. I want to talk to Nagle.”

“The writer?”

She nodded. Then said to Kellogg, “Can you bring Rebecca in?”

“Sure, if you can get some backup for me.”

Overby said he’d call the MCSO and have another officer meet Kellogg outside the Point Lobos Inn. The agent in charge surprised Dance by pointing out something she hadn’t thought of: They had no reason to think Rebecca was armed, but since she’d driven from San Diego and not gone through airport security she could have a weapon with her.

Dance said, “Good, Charles.” Then, a nod at TJ. “Let’s go see Nagle.”

“Hello?”

Winston Kellogg said in an uncharacteristically urgent voice, “Kathryn, she’s gone.”

“Rebecca?”

“Yes.”

“Are the others okay?”

“They’re fine. Linda said Rebecca wasn’t feeling well, went to lie down. Didn’t want to be disturbed. We found her bedroom window open but her car’s still at CBI.”

“So Pell picked her up?”

“I’m guessing.”

“How long ago?”

“She went to bed an hour ago. They don’t know when she slipped out.”

If Rebecca had wanted to hurt the other women, she could’ve done it herself or snuck Pell in through the window. Dance decided they weren’t at immediate risk, especially with the guards.

“Where are you now?” she asked Kellogg.

“Going back to CBI. I think Pell and Rebecca are making a run for it. I’ll talk to Michael about getting roadblocks set up again.”

When they hung up, she called Morton Nagle.

“Hello?” he answered.

“It’s Kathryn. Listen, Rebecca’s with Pell.”

“What? He kidnapped her?”

“They’re working together. She was behind the escape.”

“No!”

“They might be headed out of town but there’s a chance you’re in danger.”

“Me?”

“Lock your doors. Don’t let anybody in. We’re on our way. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

It took them closer to ten, even with TJ’s aggressive — he called it “assertive” — driving; the roads were crowded with tourists getting an early start on the weekend. They skidded to a stop in front of the house and walked to the front door. Dance knocked. The writer answered a moment later. He glanced past her at TJ, then scanned the street. The agents stepped inside.

Nagle closed the door. His shoulders slumped.

“I’m sorry.” The writer’s voice broke. “He told me if I gave anything away on the phone, he’d kill my family. I’m so sorry.”

Daniel Pell, standing behind the door, touched the back of her head with a pistol.

Nagle continued, “When you phoned, your number came up on caller ID. He made me tell him who it was. I had to say everything was fine. I didn’t want to. But my children. I —”

“It’s all right —” she began.

“Shhhhh, Mr. Writer and Ms. Interrogator. Shush.”

In the bedroom to the left, Dance could see Nagle’s family lying belly–down on the floor, their hands on top of their heads. His wife, Joan, and the children — teenage Eric and young, round Sonja. Rebecca was sitting on the bed over them, holding a knife. She gazed at Dance without a fleck of emotion.

The only reason the family weren’t dead, Dance knew, was that Pell was controlling Nagle through them.

Patterns …

“Come on out here, baby, lend a hand.”

Rebecca slid off the bed and joined them.

“Get their guns and phones.” Pell held the gun to Dance’s ear while Rebecca took her weapon. Then Pell told her to cuff herself.

She did.

“Not tight enough.” He squeezed the bracelets and Dance winced.

They did the same with TJ and pushed both of them down on the couch.

“Watch it,” TJ muttered.

Pell said to Dance, “Listen to me. You listening?”

“Yes.”

“Is anybody else coming?”

“I didn’t call anyone.”

“That’s not what I asked. You, being the ace interrogator, ought to know that.” The essence of calm.

“As far as I know, no. I was coming here to ask Morton some questions.”

Pell set their phones on a coffee table. “If anybody calls you, tell them that everything’s fine. You’ll be back at your headquarters in an hour or so. But you can’t talk now. We clear on that? If not, I pick one of the kiddies in there and —”

“Clear,” she said.

“Now, no more words from anybody. We’ve —”

“This is not smart,” TJ said.

No, no, Dance thought. Let him control you! With Daniel Pell you can’t be defiant.

Pell stepped up to him and, almost leisurely, touched his gun to the man’s throat. “What did I tell you?”

The young man’s flippancy was gone. “Not to say a word.”

“But you did say something. Why would you do that? What a stupid, stupid thing to do.”

He’s going to kill him, Dance thought. Please, no. “Pell, listen to me —”

“You’re talking too,” the killer said, and swung the gun toward her.

“I’m sorry,” TJ whispered.

“That’s more words.”

Pell turned to Dance. “I’ve got a few questions for you and your little friend here. But in a minute. You sit tight, enjoy the scene of domestic bliss.” Then he said to Nagle, “Keep going.”

Nagle returned to what was apparently the task Dance and TJ had interrupted: It seemed he was burning all of his notes and research material.

Pell watched the bonfire and added absently, “And if you miss something and I find it, I will cut your wife’s fingers off. Then start on your kids’. And quit crying. It’s not dignified. Have some control.”