The Sleeping Doll (28 page)

It’s the site of a museum featuring many works of Eduard Muybridge, the nineteenth–century photographer credited with inventing moving pictures (and — a lot more interesting than his art — he was a man who murdered his wife’s lover, admitted it in court and got off scot–free).

Another draw is the local vineyards, which produce a particularly fine strain of the Merlot grape — one of the three most famous used to make red wine. Contrary to a bad rap generated by a movie of a few years ago, Merlot isn’t your Yugo of grapes. Just look at Pétrus, a wine from the Pomerol section of Bordeaux, made almost entirely from Merlot and perhaps the most consistently expensive wine in the world.

Morton Nagle was now crossing the town limits because of Vallejo Springs’s third attraction, albeit one that was known to very few people.

Theresa Croyton, the Sleeping Doll, and her aunt and uncle lived here.

Nagle had done his homework. A month of tracking down twisty leads had turned up a reporter in Sonoma, who’d given him the name of a lawyer, who’d done some legal work for the girl’s aunt. He’d been reluctant to give Nagle any information but did offer the opinion that the woman was over–bearing and obnoxious — and cheap. She’d dunned him on a bill. Once he was convinced that Nagle was a legitimate writer he gave up the town the family lived in and their new name on a guarantee of anonymity. (“Confidential source” is really just a synonym for spineless.)

Nagle had been to Vallejo Springs several times, meeting with the Sleeping Doll’s aunt in an attempt to get an interview with the girl (the uncle didn’t figure much in the equation, Nagle had learned). She was reluctant, but he believed that she would eventually agree.

Now, back in this picturesque town, he parked near the spacious house, waiting for the opportunity to talk to the woman alone. He could call, of course. But Nagle felt that phone calls — like email — were a very ineffective way of communicating. On a telephone people you’re speaking to are your equals. You have much less control and power of persuasion than if you see them in person.

They can also just hang up.

He had to be careful. He’d noticed the police cruising past the house of the Bollings, the surname the family had adopted, at frequent intervals. This in itself meant nothing — Vallejo Springs was a rich town and had a large, well–endowed constabulary — but Nagle noticed that the squad cars seemed to slow when they drove by.

He noticed too that there were far more police cars out and about now than last week. Which suggested to him what he already suspected: that Theresa was a town sweetheart. The cops would be on high alert to make sure nothing happened to her. If Nagle overstepped, they’d escort him to the town line and dump him in the dust, like an unwelcome gunslinger in some bad western.

He sat back, eyes on the front door, and thought about opening lines for his book.

Carmel–by–the–Sea is a village of contradictions, a mecca for tourists, the jewel in the crown of the Central Coast, yet beneath the pristine and the cute you’ll find the secretive world of the rich and ruthless from San Francisco, Silicon Valley and Hollywood …

Hm. Work on that.

Nagle chuckled.

And then he saw the SUV, a white Escalade, pulling out of the Bollings’ driveway. The girl’s aunt, Mary, was behind the wheel, alone in the car. Good. He’d never get close if Theresa was with her.

Nagle started his car, a Buick worth the price of the SUV’s transmission alone, and followed. Theresa’s aunt made a stop at a gas station, filled the tank with premium. She chatted with a woman at a nearby pump, driving a red Jaguar S–type. The aunt seemed harried. Her gray hair wasn’t brushed and she looked tired. Even from the edge of the parking lot, Nagle could make out dark circles under her eyes.

Pulling out of Shell, she drove through the quaint, unmistakably Californian downtown: a street adorned with plants and flowers and quirky sculptures and lined with coffee shops, understated restaurants, a garden center, an independent bookstore, a yoga place and small retail operations selling wine, crystals, pet supplies and L.L. Bean–style clothing.

A few hundred yards along the road was the strip mall where the locals shopped, anchored by an Albertsons grocery and a Rite Aid drugstore. Mary Bolling parked in the lot and walked inside the grocery store. Nagle parked near her SUV. He stretched, longing for a cigarette, though he hadn’t smoked in twenty years.

He continued the endless debate with himself.

So far he hadn’t transgressed. Hadn’t broken any rules.

He could still head home, no moral harm done.

But should he?

He wasn’t sure.

Morton Nagle believed he had a purpose in life, which was to expose evil. It was an important mission, one he felt passionate about. A noble mission.

But the goal was to
reveal
evil, and let people make their own judgments. Not to fight it himself. Because once you crossed the line and your purpose became seeking justice, not illuminating it, there were risks. Unlike the police, he didn’t have the Constitution telling him what he could and couldn’t do, which meant there was a potential for abuse.

By asking Theresa Croyton to help find a killer, he was exposing her and her family — himself and his too — to very real dangers. Daniel Pell obviously had no problem killing youngsters.

It was so much better to
write
about human beings and their conflicts than to make judgments about those conflicts. Let the readers decide what was good or bad, and act accordingly. On the other hand, was it right for him to sit back and let Pell continue his slaughter, when he could do more?

The time for his slippery debate ended, though. Mary Bolling was walking out of Albertsons, wheeling a cart filled with groceries.

Yes or no?

Morton Nagle hesitated only a few seconds, then pulled open the door, stepped out and hitched up his pants. He strode forward.

“Excuse me. Hi, Mrs. Bolling. It’s me.”

She paused, blinked and stared at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I —”

“I haven’t agreed to let you talk to Theresa.”

“I know, I know … That’s not —”

“How dare you show up here like this? You’re stalking us!”

Her cell phone was in her hand.

“Please,” Nagle said, feeling a sudden desperation to sway her. “This is something different. I’m here doing a favor for someone. We can talk about the book later.”

“A favor?”

“I drove up from Monterey to ask you something. I wanted to see you in person.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know about Daniel Pell.”

“Of
course
I know.” She said this as if he were the village idiot.

“There’s a policewoman who’d like to talk to your niece. She thinks maybe Theresa can help her find Pell.”

“
What?
”

“Don’t worry. There’s no risk. She —”

“No risk? Are you mad? You could’ve led him here!”

“No. He’s somewhere in Monterey.”

“Did you tell them where we are?”

“No, no! This policewoman’ll meet her wherever you like. Here. Anywhere. She just wants to ask Theresa —”

“No one is going to talk to her. No one is going to see her.” The woman leaned forward. “There will be very serious consequences if you don’t leave immediately.”

“Mrs. Bolling, Daniel Pell has killed —”

“I watch the fucking news. Tell that policewoman, whoever she is, that there’s not a single thing Theresa can tell her. And
you
can forget about ever talking to her for your goddamn book.”

“No, wait, please —”

Mary Bolling turned and ran back to the Escalade, as her abandoned shopping cart ambled in the opposite direction down the shallow incline. By the time a breathless Nagle had grabbed the cart just before it slammed into a Mini Cooper, the aunt’s SUV was spinning tires as it vanished from the lot.

He was referring to that portion of the Monterey headquarters that happened to be the home of two female investigative agents — Dance and Connie Ramirez — as well as Maryellen Kresbach and the no–nonsense office manager, Grace Yuan.

The unfortunate utterer was a fiftyish agent, one of those fixtures in offices all over the world who wake up counting the days to retirement, and who’ve done so since their twenties. He’d had his share of collars at the Highway Patrol some years back, but his move to the CBI had been a mistake. He wasn’t up to the challenges of the job.

He also apparently lacked any sense of survival.

“And this is the Gals’ Wing,” he’d said, loud enough for everyone to hear, during a lunch–hour tour of HQ with a young woman he was wooing.

Dance and Connie Ramirez made eye contact.

That night they went on a panty–hose–buying mission and when the poor agent came to work the next day he found his entire office spiderwebbed in mesh, fishnet and glittery synthetic leg wear. Some personal hygiene products also figured in the decor. He ran whining to then–CBI head Stan Fishburne, who, bless him, could hardly keep a straight face during the inquisition. “What do you mean you
only
said, ‘Gals’ Wing,’ Bart? You actually
said
that?”

He threatened a complaint to Sacramento, but he didn’t last long enough in the CBI to see the matter through. Ironically, after the offender’s departure, the population of that portion of the office adopted the moniker instantly and the hallway was now known to everyone in the CBI as “GW.”

Whose undecorated hallway Kathryn Dance was walking down at the moment.

“Maryellen, hi.”

“Oh, Kathryn, I’m sorry to hear about Juan. We’re all going to make a donation. You know where his parents would like it to go?”

“Michael’ll let us know.”

“Your mother called. She’s going to stop by with the kids later, if that’s okay.”

Dance made sure to see her children whenever she could, even during business hours, if a case was taking up a lot of time and she’d be working late. “Good. How’s the Davey situation?”

“It’s taken care of,” said the woman firmly. The person in question was Maryellen’s son, Wes’s age, who’d been having trouble in school because of some issues with what amounted to a preteen gang. Maryellen now relayed the news of the resolution with a look of happy malice, which told Dance that extreme measures had been used to get the offenders transferred or otherwise neutralized.

Dance believed that Maryellen Kresbach would make a great cop.

In her office she dropped her jacket onto a chair, hitched the awkward Glock to the side and sat. She looked through her email. Only one was relevant to the Pell case. His brother, Richard Pell, was replying from London.

Officer Dance:
I received your forwarded email from the U.S. embassy here. Yes, I heard of the escape, it has made the news here. I have not had any contact with my brother for 12 years, when he came to visit my wife and me in Bakersfield at the same time my wife’s twenty–three–year–old sister was visiting us from New York. One Saturday we got a call from the police that she’d been detained at a jewelry store downtown for shoplifting.
The girl had been an honor’s student in college and quite involved in her church. She’d never been in any trouble in her life before that.
It seemed that she’d been “hanging out” with my brother and he’d talked her into stealing a “few things.” I searched his room and found close to $10,000 worth of merchandise. My sister–in–law was given probation and my wife nearly left me as a result.
I never had anything to do with him again. After the murders in Carmel in ‘99, I decided to move my family to Europe.
If I hear from him, I will certainly let you know, though that is unlikely. The best way to describe my relationship now is this: I’ve contacted the London Metropolitan Police and they have an officer guarding my house.

So much for that lead.

Her mobile rang. The caller was Morton Nagle. In an alarmed voice he asked, “He killed someone else? I just saw the news.”

“I’m afraid so.” She gave him the details. “And Juan Millar died, the officer who was burned.”

“I’m so sorry. Are there other developments?”

“Not really.” Dance told him that she’d spoken with Rebecca and Linda. They’d shared some information that might prove to be helpful, but nothing was leading directly to Pell’s doorstep. Nagle had come across nothing in his research about a “big score” or a mountaintop.

He had news of his own efforts, though they weren’t successful. He’d talked to Theresa Croyton’s aunt, but she was refusing to let him, or the police, see the girl.

“She threatened me.” His voice was troubled and Dance was sure that there would be no sparkle in his eyes at the moment.

“Where are you?”

He didn’t say anything.

Dance filled in, “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

She glanced at the caller ID, but he was on his mobile, not a hotel or pay phone.

“Is she going to change her mind?”

“I really doubt it. You should’ve seen her. She abandoned a hundred dollars’ worth of groceries and just ran.”

Dance was disappointed. Daniel Pell was a mystery and she was now obsessed with learning everything she could about him. Last year when she’d assisted on that case in New York with Lincoln Rhyme, she’d noted the criminalist’s obsessive fascination with every detail of the physical evidence; she was exactly the same — though with the human side of crime.

But there’re compulsions like double–checking every detail of a subject’s story, and there are compulsions like avoiding sidewalk cracks when you’re walking home. You have to know which are vital and which aren’t.

She decided they’d have to let the Sleeping Doll lead go.

“I appreciate your help.”

“I did try. Really.”

After hanging up, Dance talked to Rey Carraneo again. Still no luck on the motels and no reports of boats stolen from local marinas.

Just as she hung up, TJ called. He’d heard back from the DMV. The car that Pell had been driving during the Croyton murders hadn’t been registered for years, which meant it’d probably been sold for scrap. If he had stolen something valuable from the Croytons’ the night of the murders, it was most likely lost or melted into oblivion. TJ had also checked the inventory from when the car was impounded. The list was short and nothing suggested that any of the items had come from the businessman’s house.

She gave him the news about Juan Millar too, and the young agent responded with utter silence. A sign that he was truly shaken.

A few moments later her phone rang again. It was Michael O’Neil with his ubiquitous, “Hey. It’s me.” His voice was laden with exhaustion, sorrow too. Millar’s death was weighing on him heavily.

“Whatever’d been on the pier where we found the Pemberton woman was gone — if there was anything. I just talked to Rey. He tells me there’re no reports of any stolen craft so far. Maybe I was off base. Your friend find anything the other way — toward the road?”

She noted the loaded term “friend” and replied, “He hasn’t called. I assume he didn’t stumble across Pell’s address book or a hotel key.”

“And negative on sources for the duct tape, and the pepper spray’s sold in ten thousand stores and mail–order outlets.”

She told O’Neil that Nagle’s attempt to contact Theresa had failed.

“She won’t cooperate?”

“Her aunt won’t. And she’s first base. I don’t know how helpful it’d be anyway.”

O’Neil said, “I liked the idea. She’s the only nexus to Pell and that night.”

“We’ll have to try harder without her,” Dance said.

“How’re you doing?”

“Fine,” he answered.

Stoic …

A few minutes after they disconnected, Winston Kellogg arrived and Dance asked him, “Any luck at the Pemberton crime scene, the road?”

“Nope. The scene itself — we searched for an hour. No tread marks, no discarded evidence. Maybe Michael was right. Pell
did
get away by boat from that pier.”

Dance laughed to herself. The chest–bumping males had each just conceded the other might’ve been right — though she doubted they’d ever admit it to each other.

She updated him on the missing files from Susan Pemberton’s office and Nagle’s failure to arrange an interview with Theresa Croyton. TJ, she explained, was looking for the client Susan had met with just before Pell had killed her.

Dance glanced at her watch. “Got an important meeting. Want to come?”

“Is it about Pell?”

“Nope. It’s about snack time.”