The Sleeping Doll (20 page)

She said, “He’s got the best doctors in the area here. And Mom’ll keep an eye on him. You know her. She’ll manhandle the chief of the department into his room if she thinks he needs special attention.”

A stoic smile. Michael O’Neil was good at that.

“They can do pretty miraculous things,” she said. Not having any idea what doctors could or couldn’t do. She and O’Neil had had a number of occasions on which to reassure each other over the past few years, mostly professionally, sometimes personally, like her husband’s death or O’Neil’s father’s deteriorating mental state.

Neither of them did a very good job expressing sympathy or comfort; platitudes seemed to diminish the relationship. Usually the other’s simple presence worked much better.

“Let’s hope.”

As they approached the exit she took a call from FBI Agent Winston Kellogg, in his temporary quarters at CBI. Dance paused and O’Neil continued on into the lot. She told Kellogg about Millar. And she learned from him that a canvass by the FBI in Bakersfield had located no witnesses who’d seen anybody break into Pell’s aunt’s toolshed or garage to steal the hammer. As for the wallet bearing the initials
R.H.,
found in the well with the hammer, the federal forensic experts were unable to trace it to a recent buyer.

“And, Kathryn, I’ve got the jet tanked up in Oakland, if Linda Whitfield gets the okay from on high. One other thing? That third woman?”

“Samantha McCoy?”

“Right. Have you called her?”

At that moment Dance happened to look across the parking lot.

She saw Michael O’Neil pausing, as a tall, attractive blonde approached him. The woman smiled at O’Neil, slipped her arms around him and kissed him. He kissed her back.

“Kathryn,” Kellogg said. “You there?”

“What?”

“Samantha McCoy?”

“Sorry.” Dance looked away from O’Neil and the blonde. “No. I’m driving up to San Jose now. If she’s gone to this much trouble to keep her identity quiet I want to see her in person. I think it’ll take more than a phone call to convince her to help us out.”

She disconnected and walked up to O’Neil and the woman he was embracing.

“Kathryn.”

“Anne, good to see you,” Dance said to Michael O’Neil’s wife. The women smiled, then asked about each other’s children.

Anne O’Neil nodded toward the hospital. “I came to see Juan. Mike said he’s not doing well.”

“No. It’s pretty bad. He’s unconscious now. But his parents are there. They’d be glad for some company, I’m sure.”

Anne had a small Leica camera slung over her shoulder. Thanks to the landscape photographer Ansel Adams and the
f
64 Club, Northern and Central California made up one of the great photography meccas in the world. Anne ran a gallery in Carmel that sold collectible photographs, “collectible” generally defined as those taken by photographers no longer among the living: Adams, Alfred Stieglitz, Edward Weston, Imogen Cunningham, Henri Cartier–Bresson. Anne was also a stringer for several newspapers, including big dailies in San Jose and San Francisco.

Dance said, “Michael told you about the party tonight? My father’s birthday.”

“He did. I think we can make it.”

Anne kissed her husband again and headed into the hospital. “See you later, honey.”

“’Bye, dear.”

Dance nodded good–bye and climbed into her car, tossing the Coach purse onto the passenger seat. She stopped at Shell for gas, coffee and a cake doughnut and headed onto Highway 1 north, getting a beautiful view of Monterey Bay. She noted that she was driving past the campus of Cal State at Monterey Bay, on the site of the former Fort Ord (probably the only college in the country overlooking a restricted area filled with unexploded ordnance). A large banner announced what seemed to be a major computer conference this weekend. The school, she recalled, was the recipient of much of the hardware and software in William Croyton’s estate. She reflected that if computer experts were still doing research based on the man’s contributions from eight years ago, he must’ve been a true genius. The programs that Wes and Maggie used seemed to be outdated in a year or two tops. How many brilliant innovations had Daniel Pell denied the world by killing Croyton?

Dance flipped through her notebook and found the number of Samantha McCoy’s employer, called and asked to be connected, ready to hang up if she answered. But the receptionist said she was working at home that day. Dance disconnected and had TJ text–message her Mapquest directions to the woman’s house.

A few minutes later the phone rang, just as she hit play on the CD. She glanced at the screen.

Coincidentally, the Fairfield Four resumed their gospel singing as Dance said hello to Linda Whitfield, who was calling from her church office.

“
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound …
”

“Agent Dance —”

“Call me Kathryn. Please.”

“
… that saved a wretch like me …
”

“I just wanted you to know. I’ll be there in the morning to help you, if you still want me.”

“Yes, I’d love for you to come. Somebody from my office will call about the arrangements. Thank you so much.”

“
… I once was lost, but now am found …
”

A hesitation. Then she said in a formal voice, “You’re welcome.”

Two out of three. Dance wondered if the reunion might work after all.

He’d managed some access to computers at the Q and at Capitola, but he hadn’t had time to sit down and really get to know how they worked. He’d been pounding away on Jennie’s portable all morning. Ads, news, porn … it was astonishing.

But even more seductive than the sex was his ability to get information, to find things about people. Pell had ignored the smut and been hard at work. First he’d read everything he could on Jennie — recipes, emails, her bookmarked pages, making sure she was essentially who she claimed to be (she was). Then he searched for some people from his past — important to find them — but he didn’t have much luck. He then tried tax records, deeds offices, vital statistics. But you needed a credit card for almost everything, he learned. And credit cards, like cell phones, left obvious trails.

Then he had a brainstorm and searched through the archives of the local newspapers and TV stations. That proved much more helpful. He jotted information, a lot of it.

Among the names on his list was “Kathryn Dance.”

He enjoyed doodling a funereal frame around it.

The search didn’t give him all the information he needed, but it was a start.

Always aware of his surroundings, he noticed a black Toyota Camry pull into the lot and pause outside the window. He gripped the gun. Then he smiled as the car parked exactly seven spaces away.

She climbed out.

That’s my girl.

Holding fast …

She walked inside.

“You did it, lovely.” Pell glanced at the Camry. “Looks nice.”

She kissed him fast. Her hands were shaking. And she couldn’t control her excitement. “It went great! It really did, sweetie. At first he was kind of freaked and I didn’t think he was going to do it. He didn’t like the thing about the license plates but I did everything you told me and he agreed.”

“Good for you, lovely.”

Jennie had used some of her cash — she’d withdrawn $9,200 to pay for the escape and tide them over for the time being — to buy a car from a man who lived in Marina. It would be too risky to have it registered in her real name so she’d persuaded him to leave his own plates on it. She’d told him that her car had broken down in Modesto and she’d have the plates in a day or two. She’d swap them and mail his back. This was illegal and really stupid. No man would ever do that for some other guy, even one paying cash. But Pell had sent Jennie to handle it — a woman in tight jeans, a half–buttoned blouse and red bra on fine display. (Had it been a woman selling the car, Pell would have dressed her down, lost the makeup, given her four kids, a dead soldier for a husband and a pink breast cancer ribbon. You can never be
too
obvious, he’d learned.)

“Nice. Oh, can I have the car keys?”

She handed them over. “Here’s what else you wanted.” Jennie set two shopping bags on the bed. Pell looked through them and nodded approvingly.

She got a soda from the minifridge. “Honey, can I ask you something?”

His natural reluctance to answer questions — at least truthfully — surfaced again. But he smiled. “You can, anything.”

“Last night, when you were sleeping, you said something. You were talking about God.”

“God. What’d I say?”

“I couldn’t tell. But it was definitely ‘God.’ ”

Pell’s head turned slowly toward her. He noticed his heart rate increase. He found his foot tapping, which he stopped.

“You were really freaking out. I was going to wake you up but that’s not good. I read that somewhere.
Reader’s Digest.
Or
Health.
I don’t know. When somebody’s having a bad dream, you should never wake them up. And you said, like, ‘Fuck no.’ ”

“I said that?”

Jennie nodded. “Which was weird. ‘Cause you never swear.”

That was true. People who used obscenities had much less power than people who didn’t.

“What was your dream about?” she asked.

“I don’t remember.”

“Wonder why you were dreaming about God.”

For a moment he felt a curious urge to tell her about his father. Then: What the hell’re you thinking of?

“No clue.”

“I’m
kinda
into religion,” she said uncertainly. “A little. More spiritual stuff than Jesus, you know.”

“Well, about Jesus, I don’t think he was the son of God or anything, but I’ll tell you, I respect Him. He could get anybody to do whatever He wanted. I mean, even now, you just mention the name and, bang, people’ll hop to in a big way. That’s power. But all those religions, the organized ones, you give up too much to belong to them. You can’t think the way you want to. They control you.”

Pell glanced at her blouse, the bra … The swelling began again, the or something high–pressure center growing in his belly.

He tried to ignore it and looked back at the notes he’d taken from his online searches and the map. Jennie clearly wanted to ask what he had in mind but couldn’t bring herself to. She’d be hoping he was looking for routes out of town, roads that would lead ultimately to Orange County.

“I’ve got a few things to take care of, baby. I’ll need you to give me a ride.”

“Sure, just say when.”

He was studying the map carefully, and he looked up to see that she’d stepped away.

Jennie returned a moment later, carrying a few things, which she’d gotten from a bag in the closet. She set these on the bed in front of him, then knelt on the floor. It was like a dog bringing her master a ball, ready to play.

Pell hesitated. But then he reminded himself that it’s okay to give up a little control from time to time, depending on the circumstances.

He reached for her but she lay down and rolled over on her belly all by herself.

Or you can just take the Highway 156 cutoff to the 101 and, if you’ve got government tags, burn however much gas you want to get up to the city in an hour.

Kathryn Dance chose the second.

Gospel was gone and she was listening to Latin music — the Mexican singer Julieta Venegas. Her soulful “
Verdad
” was pounding from the speakers.

The Taurus was doing ninety as she zipped through Gilroy, the garlic capital of the world. Not far away was Castroville (ditto, artichokes) and Watsonville, with its sweeping pelt of berry fields and mushroom farms. She liked these towns and had no patience for detractors who laughed at the idea of crowning an artichoke queen or standing in line for the petting tanks at Monterey’s own Squid Festival. After all, these chicer–than–thou urbanites were the ones who paid obscene prices for olive oil and balsamic vinegar to cook those very artichokes and calamari rings in.

These burgs were homey and honest and filled with history. And they were also her turf, falling within the west–central region of the CBI.

She saw a sign luring tourists to a vineyard in Morgan Hill, and had a thought.

Dance called Michael O’Neil.

“Hey,” he said.

“I was thinking about the acid they found in the Thunderbird at Moss Landing. Any word?”

“Peter’s techs’ve been working on it but they still don’t have any specific leads.”

“How many bodies we have searching the orchards and vineyards?”

“About fifteen CHP, five of our people, some Salinas uniforms. They haven’t found anything.”

“I’ve got an idea. What is the acid exactly?”

“Hold on.”

Eyes slipping between the road and the pad of paper resting on her knee, she jotted the incomprehensible terms as he spelled them.

“So kinesics isn’t enough? You have to master forensics too?”

“A wise woman knows her limitations. I’ll call you in a bit.”

Dance then hit speed dial. She listened to a phone ring two thousand miles away.

A click as it answered. “Amelia Sachs.”

“Hi, it’s Kathryn.”

“How’re you doing?”

“Well, been better.”

“Can imagine. We’ve been following the case. How’s that officer? The one who was burned?”

Dance was surprised that Lincoln Rhyme, the well–known forensic scientist in New York City, and Amelia Sachs, his partner and a detective with the NYPD, had been following the story of Pell’s escape.

“Not too good, I’m afraid.”

“We were talking about Pell. Lincoln remembers the original case. In ninety–nine. When he killed that family. Are you making headway?”

“Not much. He’s smart. Too smart.”

“That’s what we’re gathering from the news. So, how are the kids?”

“Fine. We’re still waiting for that visit. My parents too. They want to meet you both.”

Sachs gave a laugh. “I’ll get him out there soon. It’s a … let’s say challenge.”

Lincoln Rhyme didn’t like to travel. This wasn’t owing to the problems associated with his disability (he was a quadriplegic). He simply didn’t like to travel.

Dance had met Rhyme and Sachs last year when she’d been teaching a course in the New York area and had been tapped to help them on a case. They’d stayed in touch. She and Sachs in particular had grown close. Women in the tough business of policing tend to do that.

“Any word on our other friend?” Sachs asked.

This reference was to the perp they’d been after in New York last year. The man had eluded them and vanished, possibly to California. Dance had opened a CBI file but then the trail grew cold and it was possible that the perp was now out of the country.

“I’m afraid not. Our office in L.A.’s still following up on the leads. I’m calling about something else. Is Lincoln available?”

“Hold on a minute. He’s right here.”

There was a click and Rhyme’s voice popped into her phone.

“Kathryn.”

Rhyme was not the sort for chitchat, but he spent a few minutes conversing — nothing about her personal life or the children, of course. His interest was the cases she was working. Lincoln Rhyme was a scientist, with very little patience for the “people” side of policing, as he put it. Yet, on their recent case together, he’d grown to understand and value kinesics (though being quick to point out that it was based on scientific methodology and not, he said contemptuously, gut feeling). He said, “Wish you were here. I’ve got a witness we’d love for you to grill on a multiple homicide case. You can use a rubber hose if you want.”

She could picture him in his red motorized wheelchair, staring at a large flat screen hooked up to a microscope or computer. He loved evidence the same way she loved interrogation.

“Wish I could. But I’ve got my hands full.”

“So I hear. Who’s doing the lab work?”

“Peter Bennington.”

“Oh, sure. I know him. Cut his teeth in L.A. Took a seminar of mine. Good man.”

“Got a question about the Pell situation.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“We’ve got some evidence that might lead to what he’s up to — maybe tainting food — or where he’s hiding. But either one’s taking a lot of manpower to check out. I have to know if it makes sense to keep them committed. We could really use them elsewhere.”

“What’s the evidence?”

“I’ll do the best I can with the pronunciation.” Eyes shifting between the road and her notebook. “Carboxylic acid, ethanol and malic acid, amino acid and glucose.”

“Give me a minute.”

She heard his conversation with Amelia Sachs, who apparently went online into one of Rhyme’s own databases. She could hear the words clearly; unlike most callers, the criminalist was unable to hold his hand over the phone when speaking to someone else in the room.

“Okay, hold on, I’m scrolling through some things now … ”

“You can call me back,” Dance said. She hadn’t expected an answer immediately.

“No … just hold on … Where was the substance found?”

“On the floor of Pell’s car.”

“Hm. Car.” Silence for a moment, then Rhyme was muttering to himself.

Finally he asked, “Any chance that Pell had just eaten in a restaurant? A seafood restaurant or a British pub?”

She laughed out loud. “Seafood, yes. How on earth did you know?”

“The acid’s vinegar — malt vinegar specifically, because the amino acids and glucose indicate caramel coloring. My database tells me it’s common in British cooking, pub food and seafood. Thom? You remember him? He helped me with that entry.”

Rhyme’s caregiver was also quite a cook. Last December he’d served her a boeuf bourguignon that was the best she’d ever had.

“Sorry it doesn’t lead to his front door,” the criminalist said.

“No, no, that’s fine, Lincoln. I can pull the troops off the areas we had them searching. Send them to where they’ll be better used.”

“Call anytime. That’s one perp I wouldn’t mind a piece of.”

They said good–bye.

Dance disconnected, called O’Neil, and told him it was likely that the acid had come from Jack’s restaurant and wouldn’t lead them to Pell or his mission here. It was probably better for the officers to search for the killer according to their original plan.

She hung up and continued her drive north on the familiar highway, which would take her to San Francisco, where the eight–lane Highway 101 eventually funneled into just another city street, Van Ness. Now, eighty miles north of Monterey. Dance turned west and made her way into the sprawl of San Jose, a city that stood as the antithesis of Los Angeles narcissism in the old Burt Bacharach/Hal David tune “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” Nowadays, of course, thanks to Silicon Valley, San Jose flexed an ego of its own.

Mapquest led her through a maze of large developments until she came to one filled with nearly identical houses; if the symmetrically planted trees had been saplings when they’d gone in, Dance estimated the neighborhood was about twenty–five years old. Modest, nondescript, small — still, each house would sell for well over a million dollars.

She found the house she sought and passed it by, parking across the street a block away. She walked back to the address, where a red Jeep and a dark blue Acura sat in the driveway and a big plastic tricycle rested on the lawn. Dance could see lights inside the house. She walked to the front porch. Rang the bell. Her cover story was prepared in case Samantha McCoy’s husband or children answered the door. It seemed unlikely that the woman had kept her past a secret from her spouse, but it would be better to start out on the assumption that she had. Dance needed the woman’s cooperation and didn’t want to alienate her.

The door opened and she found herself looking at a slim woman with a narrow, pretty face, resembling the actress Cate Blanchett. She wore chic, blue–framed glasses and had curly brown hair. She stood in the doorway, head thrust forward, bony hand gripping the doorjamb.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Starkey?”

“That’s right.” The face was very different from that in the pictures of Samantha McCoy eight years ago; she’d had extensive cosmetic surgery. But her eyes told Dance instantly that there was no doubt of her identity. Not their appearance, but the flash of horror, then dismay.

The agent said quietly, “I’m Kathryn Dance. California Bureau of Investigation.” The woman’s glance at the ID, discreetly held low, was so fast that she couldn’t possibly have read a word on it.

From inside, a man’s voice called, “Who is it, honey?”

Samantha’s eyes firmly fixed on Dance’s, she replied, “That woman from up the street. The one I met at Safeway I told you about.”

Which answered the question about how secret her past was.

She also thought: Smooth. Good liars are always prepared with credible answers, and they know the person they’re lying to. Samantha’s response told Dance that her husband had a bad memory of casual conversation and that Samantha had thought out every likely situation in which she’d need to lie.

The woman stepped outside, closed the door behind her and they walked halfway to the street. Without the softening filter of the screen door, Dance could see how haggard the woman looked. Her eyes were red and the crescents beneath them were dark, her facial skin dry, lips cracked. A fingernail was torn. It seemed she’d gotten no sleep. Dance understood why she was “working at home” today.

A glance back at the house. Then she turned to Dance and, with imploring eyes, whispered, “I had
nothing
to do with it, I swear. I heard he had somebody helping him, a woman. I saw that on the news, but —”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m here about. I checked you out. You work for that publisher on Figueroa. You were there all day yesterday.”

Alarm. “Did you —”

“Nobody knows. I called about delivering a package.”

“That … Toni said somebody tried to deliver something, they were asking about me. That was you.” The woman rubbed her face then crossed her arms. Gestures of negation. She was steeped in stress.

“That was your husband?” Dance asked.

She nodded.

“He doesn’t know?”

“He doesn’t even suspect.”

Amazing, Dance reflected. “Does
anyone
know?”

“A few of the clerks at the courthouse, where I changed my name. My parole officer.”

“What about friends and family?”

“My mother’s dead. My father couldn’t care less about me. They didn’t have anything to do with me before I met Pell. After the Croyton murders, they stopped returning my phone calls. And my old friends? Some stayed in touch for a while but being associated with somebody like Daniel Pell? Let’s just say they found excuses to disappear from my life as fast as they could. Everybody I know now I met after I became Sarah.” A glance back at the house, then she turned her uneasy eyes to Dance. “What do you want?” A whisper.