The Sleeping Doll (37 page)

Dance still wasn’t sure about the wisdom of a tactical operation here, but once the decision had been made, certain rules fell automatically into place. And one of those was that she had to take a backseat. This wasn’t her expertise and there was little for her to do but be a spectator.

Albert Stemple and TJ would represent the CBI on the takedown teams, which were made up mostly of SWAT deputies from Monterey County and several Highway Patrol officers. The eight men and two women were gathered beside a nondescript truck, which held enough weapons and ammunition to put down a modest riot.

Pell was still inside the room that the woman had rented; the lights were off but a surveillance officer, on the back side of the motel, clapped a microphone on the wall and reported sounds coming from their room. He couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like they were having sex.

That was good news, thought Dance. A naked suspect is a vulnerable suspect.

On the phone with the manager, she asked about the rooms next to Pell’s. The one to his left was empty; the guests had just left with fishing tackle, which meant they wouldn’t be back until much later. Unfortunately, though, as for the room on the other side, a family appeared to be still inside.

Dance’s initial reaction was to call them and tell them to get down on the floor in the back. But they wouldn’t do that, of course. They’d flee, flinging open the door, the parents rushing the children outside. And Pell would know exactly what was going on. He had the instincts of a cat.

Imagining them, the others in the rooms nearby and the housekeeping staff, Kathryn Dance thought suddenly, Call it off. Do what your gut tells you. You’ve got the authority. Overby wouldn’t like it — that would be a battle — but she could handle him. O’Neil and the MCSO would back her up.

Still, she couldn’t trust her instinct at the moment. She didn’t know people like Pell; Winston Kellogg did.

He happened to arrive just then, walking up to the tactical officers, shaking hands and introducing himself. He’d changed outfits yet again. But there was nothing country club about his new look. He was in black jeans, a black shirt and a thick bulletproof vest, the bandage on his neck visible.

TJ’s words came back to her.

He’s a bit of a straight arrow but he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty …

In this garb, with his attentive eyes, he reminded her even more of her late husband. Bill had spent most of his time doing routine investigations, but occasionally he’d dressed for tactical ops. She’d seen him once or twice looking like this, confidently holding an elaborate machine gun.

Dance watched Kellogg load and chamber a round in a large silver automatic pistol.

“Now that’s some weapon of mass destruction,” TJ said. “Schweizerische Industries Gesellschaft.”

“What?” Impatient.

“
S–I–G
as in SIG–Sauer. It’s the new P220. Forty–five.”

“It’s forty–five caliber?”

“Yup,” TJ said. “Apparently the bureau’s adopted a let’s–make–sure–they’re–never–getting–up–ever–ever–again philosophy. One I’m not necessarily opposed to.”

Dance and all the other agents at the CBI carried only 9mm Glocks, concerned that a higher caliber could cause more collateral damage.

Kellogg pulled on a windbreaker advertising him as an FBI agent and joined her and O’Neil, who was today in his khaki chief deputy uniform — body armor too.

Dance briefed them about the rooms next to Pell’s. Kellogg said when they did the kick–in, he’d simultaneously have somebody enter the room next door and get the family down, under cover.

Not much, but it was something.

Rey Carraneo radioed in; he was in a surveillance position on the far side of the parking lot, out of sight, behind a Dumpster. The lot was empty of people at the moment — though there were a number of cars — and the housekeepers were going about their business, as Kellogg had instructed. At the last minute, as the tac teams were on their way, other officers would pull them to cover.

In five minutes the officers had finished dressing in armor and checking weapons. They were huddled in a small yard near the main office. They looked at O’Neil and Dance but it was Kellogg who spoke first. “I want a rolling entry, one team through the door, the second backup, right behind.” He held up a sketch of the room, which the manager had drawn. “First team, here to the bed. Second, the closets and bathroom. I need some flash–bangs.”

He was referring to the loud, blinding hand grenades used to disorient suspects without causing serious injury.

One of the MCSO officers handed him several. He put them in his pocket.

Kellogg said, “I’ll take the first team in. I’m on point.”

Dance wished he wouldn’t; there were far younger officers on the Monterey SWAT team, most of them recent military discharges with combat experience.

The FBI agent continued, “He’ll have that woman with him, and she may appear to be a hostage but she’s just as dangerous as he is. Remember, she’s the one who lit up the courthouse and that’s what killed Juan Millar.”

Acknowledging nods from them all.

“Now, we’ll circle around the side of the building and move in fast along the front. Those going past his window, stay on your
bellies.
Don’t crouch. As close to the building as you can get. Assume he’s looking out. I want people in armor to pull the housekeepers behind cars. Then we go in. And don’t assume there are only two perps in there.”

His words put in mind Dance’s conversation with Rebecca Sheffield.

Structure the solution …

He said to Dance, “That sound okay to you?”

Which wasn’t really the question he was asking.

His query was more specific: Do I have authority here?

Kellogg was being generous enough to give her one last chance to pull the plug on the op.

She debated only a moment and said, “It’s fine. Do it.” Dance started to say something to O’Neil but couldn’t think of any words that conveyed her thoughts — she wasn’t sure what those thoughts were, in any case. He didn’t look at her, just drew his Glock and, along with TJ and Stemple, moved out with a backup team.

“Let’s get into position,” Kellogg said to the tactical officers.

Dance joined Carraneo by the Dumpster and plugged in her headset and stalk mike.

A few minutes later her radio crackled. Kellogg, saying, “On my five, we move.”

Affirmative responses came in from the leaders of the various teams.

“Let’s do it. One … two … ”

Dance wiped her palm on her slacks and closed it around the grip of her weapon.

“ … three … four … five, go!”

The men and women dashed around the corner and Dance’s eyes flipped back and forth from Kellogg to O’Neil.

Please, she thought. No more deaths …

Had they structured it right?

Had they recognized the patterns?

Kellogg got to the door first, giving a nod to the MCSO officer carrying a battering ram. The big man swung the weighty tube into the fancy door and it crashed open. Kellogg pitched in one of the grenades. Two officers rushed into the room beside Pell’s and others pulled the maids behind parked cars. When the flash–bang detonated with a stunning explosion Kellogg’s and O’Neil’s teams raced inside.

Then: silence.

No gunshots, no screams.

Finally she heard Kellogg’s voice, lost in a staticky transmission, ending with “ … him.”

“Say again,” Dance transmitted urgently. “Say again, Win. Do you have him?”

A crackle. “Negative. He’s gone.”

As they drove, fast but not over the limit, away from the motel, Jennie Marston looked back.

No squad cars yet, no lights, no sirens.

Angel songs, she recited to herself. Angel songs, protect us.

Her Daniel was a genius.

Twenty minutes ago, as they’d started to make love, he’d frozen, sitting up in bed.

“What, honey?” she’d asked, alarmed.

“Housekeeping. Have they ever called about making up the room?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why would they today? And it’s early. They wouldn’t call until later. Somebody wanted to see if we were in. The police! Get dressed. Now.”

“You want —”

“Get dressed!”

She leapt from bed.

“Grab what you can. Get your computer and don’t leave anything personal.” He’d put a porn movie on TV, looked outside, then walked to the adjoining door, held the gun up and kicked it in, startling two young men inside.

At first she thought he’d kill them but he just told them to stand up and turn around, tied their hands with fishing line and taped washcloths in their mouths. He pulled their wallets out and looked them over. “I’ve got your names and addresses. You stay here and be quiet. If you say anything to anybody, your families’re dead. Okay?”

They nodded and Daniel closed the adjoining door and blocked it with a chair. He dumped out the contents of the fishermen’s cooler and tackle boxes and put their own bags inside. They dressed in the men’s yellow slickers and, wearing baseball caps, they carried the gear and the fishing rods outside.

“Don’t look around. Walk right to our car. But slow.” They headed across the parking lot. He spent some minutes loading the car, trying to look casual. They then climbed in and drove away, Jennie struggling to keep calm. She wanted to cry, she was so nervous.

But excited too. She had to admit that. The escape had been a total high. She’d never felt so alive, driving away from the motel. She thought about her husband, the boyfriends, her mother … nothing she’d experienced with any of them approached what she felt at this moment.

They passed four police cars speeding toward the motel. No sirens.

Angel songs …

Her prayer worked. Now, they were miles from the inn and no one was after them.

Finally he laughed and exhaled a long breath. “How about that, lovely?”

“We did it, sweetie!” She whooped and shook her head wildly as if she were at a rock concert. She pressed her lips against his neck and bit him playfully.

Soon they were pulling into the parking lot of the Butterfly Inn, a small dump of a motel on Lighthouse, the commercial strip in Monterey. Daniel told her, “Go get a room. We’ll be finished up here soon, but it might not be till tomorrow. Get it for a week, though; it’ll be less suspicious. In the back again. Maybe that cottage there. Use a different name. Tell the clerk you left your ID in your suitcase and you’ll bring it later.”

Jennie registered and returned to the car. They carried the cooler and boxes inside.

Pell lay on the bed, arms behind his neck. She curled up next to him. “We’re going to have to hide out here. There’s a grocery store up the street. Go get some food, would you, lovely?”

“And more hair dye?”

He smiled. “Not a bad idea.”

“Can I be a redhead?”

“You can be green if you want. I’d love you anyway.”

God, he was perfect …

She heard the crackle of the TV coming on as she stepped out of the door, slipping the cap on. A few days ago she’d never have thought she’d be okay with Daniel hurting people, giving up her house in Anaheim, never seeing the hummingbirds and wrens and sparrows in her backyard again.

Now, it seemed perfectly natural. In fact, wonderful.

Anything for you, Daniel. Anything.

Stashing the blame
…

“Must’ve sensed something about the hotel was different, maybe the staff were acting strange,” Kellogg replied. “Like in the restaurant at Moss Landing. He’s got the instincts of a cat.”

Echoing Dance’s thoughts earlier.

“And I thought your people heard him inside, Michael.”

“Porn,” Dance said.

The detective explained, “He had porn on pay–per–view. That was what surveillance heard.”

The postmortem was discouraging, if not embarrassing. It turned out that the manager had, without knowing it, seen Pell and the woman leaving — pretending to be the two fishermen in the adjoining room — headed off for squid and salmon in Monterey Bay. The two men, bound and gagged in the next room, were reluctant to talk; Dance pried out of them that Pell had gotten their addresses and threatened to kill their families if they called for help.

Patterns … goddamn patterns.

Winston Kellogg was upset about the escape, but not apologetic. He’d made a judgment call, like Dance’s at Moss Landing. His plan could have worked, but fate had intervened, and she respected that he wasn’t bitter or whiny about the outcome; he was focused on the next steps.

Overby’s assistant joined them. She told her boss he had a call from Sacramento, and SAC Amy Grabe, from the FBI, was holding on two. She wasn’t happy.

An angry grunt. The CBI chief turned and followed her back to his office.

Carraneo called to report that the canvass he and several other officers were conducting had so far yielded nothing. A cleaning woman thought she’d seen a dark car driving toward the back of the lot before the raid. No tag number. No one had seen anything else.

Dark sedan. The same useless description they’d gotten at James Reynolds’s house. A Monterey Sheriff’s deputy arrived with a large packet. He handed it to O’Neil. “Crime scene, sir.” The detective set out photos and a list of the physical evidence. There was no doubt; the fingerprints revealed that the two occupants of the room were indeed Pell and his accomplice. Clothes, food wrappers, newspapers, personal hygiene items, some cosmetics. Also clothespins, what looked like a whip made out of a coat hanger, dotted with blood, panty hose that had been tied to the bedposts, dozens of condoms — new and used — and a large tube of K–Y lubricant.

Kellogg said, “Typical of cult leaders. Jim Jones in Guyana? He had sex three or four times a day.”

“Why is that?” Dance asked.

“Because they
can.
They can do pretty much whatever they want.”

O’Neil’s phone rang and he took the call. He listened for a few moments. “Good. Scan it and send it to Agent Dance’s computer. You have her email? … Thanks.”

He looked at Dance. “Crime scene found an email in the pocket of the woman’s jeans.”

A few minutes later Dance called up the message on the screen. She printed out the .pdf attachment.

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re:
Jennie, my lovely —
Bargained my way into the office to write this. I had to. There’s something I want to say. I woke up thinking about you — our plans to go out to the beach, and the desert, and watching the fireworks every night in your backyard. I was thinking, you’re smart and beautiful and romantic — who could ask for anything more in a girl? We’ve danced around it a lot and haven’t said it but I want to now. I love you. There’s no doubt in my mind, you’re unlike anybody I’ve ever met. So, there you have it. Have to go now. Hope these words of mine haven’t upset you or “freaked” you out.
Soon, Daniel

So Pell
had
sent emails from Capitola — though prior to Sunday, Dance noted, probably why the tech hadn’t found them.

Dance noted that Jennie was her first name. Last or middle initial M.

JMSUNGIRL.

O’Neil added, “Our tech department’s contacting the ISP now. Foreign servers aren’t very cooperative but we’ll keep our fingers crossed.”

Dance was staring at the email. “Look at what he said: beach, desert and fireworks every night. All three near her house. That ought to give us some ideas.”

Kellogg said, “The car was stolen in Los Angeles … She’s from Southern California somewhere: beach and desert. But fireworks every night?”

“Anaheim,” Dance said.

The other parent present nodded. O’Neil said, “Disneyland.”

Dance met O’Neil’s eye. She said, “Your idea earlier: the banks and withdrawals of ninety–two hundred dollars. All of L.A. County — okay, maybe that was too much. But Anaheim? Much smaller. And now, we know her first name. And possibly an initial. Can your people handle this one, Win?”

“Sure, that’d be a more manageable number of banks,” he said agreeably. He picked up the phone and called the request in to the L.A. field office.

Dance called the Point Lobos Inn. She explained to the women what had happened at the motel.

“He got away again?” Samantha asked.

“I’m afraid so.” She gave her the details of the email, including the screen name, but none of them could recall anybody with that name or initials.

“We also found evidence of S and M activity.” She described the sexual gear. “Could that’ve been Pell, or would it’ve been the woman’s idea? Might help us narrow down a search, if it was hers. A professional, a dominatrix maybe.”

Samantha was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I, ah … That would’ve been Daniel’s idea. He was kind of that way.” Embarrassed.

Dance thanked her. “I know you’re anxious to leave. I promise I won’t keep you much longer.”

It was only a few minutes later that Winston Kellogg received a call. His eyes flashed in surprise. He looked up. “They’ve got an ID. A woman named Jennie Marston withdrew nine thousand two hundred dollars — virtually her whole savings account — from Pacific Trust in Anaheim last week. Cash. We’re getting a warrant, and our agents and Orange County deputies’re going to raid her house. They’ll let us know what they find.”

Sometimes you
do
get a break.

O’Neil grabbed the phone and in five minutes a jpeg image of a young woman’s driver’s license photo was on Dance’s computer. She called TJ into her office.

“Yo?”

She nodded at the screen. “Do an EFIS image. Make her a brunette, redhead, long hair, short hair. Get it to the Sea View. I want to make sure it’s her. And if it is, I want a copy sent to every TV station and newspaper in the area.”

“You bet, boss.” Without sitting, he typed on her keyboard, then hurried out, as if he were trying to beat the picture’s arrival to his office.

Charles Overby stepped into the doorway. “That call from Sacramento is —”

“Hold on, Charles.” Dance briefed him on what had happened and his mood changed instantly.

“Well, a lead. Good. At last … Anyway, we’ve got another issue. Sacramento got a call from the Napa County Sheriff’s Office.”

“Napa?”

“They’ve got someone named Morton Nagle in jail.”

Dance nodded slowly. She hadn’t told Overby about enlisting the writer’s aid to find the Sleeping Doll.

“I talked to the sheriff. And he’s not a happy camper.”

“What’d Nagle do?” Kellogg asked, lifting an eyebrow to Dance.

“The Croyton girl? She lives up there somewhere with her aunt and uncle. He apparently wanted to talk her into being interviewed by you.”

“That’s right.”

“Oh. I didn’t hear about it.” He let that linger for a moment. “The aunt told him no. But this morning he snuck onto their property and tried to convince the girl in person.”

So much for uninvolved, objective journalism.

“The aunt took a shot at him.”

“
What?
”

“She missed but if the deputies hadn’t shown up, the sheriff thinks she would’ve taken him out on the second try. And nobody seemed very upset about that possibility. They think we had something to do with it. This’s a can of worms.”

“I’ll handle it,” Dance told him.

“We weren’t involved, were we? I told him we weren’t.”

“I’ll handle it.”

Overby considered this, then gave her the sheriff’s number and headed back to his office. Dance called the sheriff and identified herself. She told him the situation.

The man grunted. “Well, Agent Dance, I appreciate the problem, Pell and all. Made the news up here, I’ll tell you. But we can’t just release him. Theresa’s aunt and uncle went forward with the complaint. And I have to say we all keep a special eye out for that girl around here, knowing what she went through. The magistrate set bail at a hundred thousand and none of the bailbondsmen’re interested in handling it.”

“Can I talk to the prosecutor?”

“He’s on trial, will be all day.”

Morton Nagle would have to spend a little time in jail. She felt bad for him, and appreciated his change of mind. But there was nothing she could do. “I’d like to talk to the girl’s aunt or uncle.”

“I don’t know what good it’d do.”

“It’s important.”

A pause. “Well, now, Agent Dance, I really don’t think they’d be inclined. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee it.”

“Will you give me their number? Please?” Direct questions are often the most effective.

But so are direct answers. “No. Good–bye now, Agent Dance.”