The Sleeping Doll (41 page)

“They know about Jennie,” Rebecca said.

“I know. I saw it on the TV.” He grimaced. “She left something in the room. They tracked her down.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “She won’t be a problem.” Glanced down at the blood in his nails.

“Lovely, if you hadn’t called, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

Pell had left a message on Rebecca’s voice mail at home, giving her the name of the Sea View motel. The call he’d received there, supposedly from housekeeping, was from Rebecca, telling him in a frantic whisper that the police were on their way — Kathryn Dance had asked if the women would help out in the event Pell took hostages. He hadn’t wanted Jennie to know about Rebecca yet so he’d come up with the story about the maids.

“That was lucky,” Rebecca said, wiping a coating of mist from her face. Pell thought she did look pretty good. Jennie was fine in bed, but less of a challenge. Rebecca could keep you going all night. Jennie needed sex to validate herself; Rebecca simply needed sex. He got a twist inside him, the bubble expanding.

“How are my little gals holding up under the pressure?”

“Bickering and driving me fucking crazy. I mean, it’s like not a day’s gone by. Same as eight years ago. Except Linda’s a Bible–thumper and Sam isn’t Sam. Changed her name. And she’s got boobs too.”

“And they’re helping the cops, they’re actually doing that?”

“Oh, you bet. I tried to lead things off as best I could. But I couldn’t be too obvious about it.”

“And they don’t guess anything about you?”

“Nope.”

Pell kissed her again. “You’re the best, baby. I’m free only ‘cause of you.”

Jennie Marston had been just a pawn in the escape; it was Rebecca who’d planned everything. After his appeal was finally rejected, Pell had begun thinking about escape. He’d managed some unsupervised phone time in Capitola and spoken to Rebecca. For some time she’d been considering how to break Pell out. But there’d been no opportunities until recently, when Rebecca told him she’d come up with an idea.

She had read about the unsolved Robert Herron killing — which Pell had nothing to do with — and decided to make him the prime suspect so he’d be transferred to a lower–security facility for the indictment and trial. Rebecca had found some of his tools, which she’d had from the days of the Family in Seaside, and slipped them into his aunt’s garage in Bakersfield.

Pell had sifted through his fan letters to look for a candidate who’d help. He settled on Jennie Marston, a woman in Southern California who suffered from the disease of bad–boy worship. She seemed wonderfully desperate and vulnerable. Pell had limited access to computers, so Rebecca had set up an untraceable email address and masqueraded as Pell to win Jennie’s heart and work out the plan. One reason they’d picked her was that Jennie lived only an hour or so away from Rebecca, who could check her out and learn details of her life to make it seem that she and Pell had some spiritual connection.

Oh, you’re so much like me, honey, it’s like we’re two sides of the same coin.

The love of cardinals and hummingbirds, the color green, Mexican comfort food … It doesn’t take much, in this mean world, to make somebody like Jennie Marston your soul mate.

Finally Rebecca, as Pell, convinced Jennie that he was innocent of the Croyton killings and got her to agree to help him escape. Rebecca had come up with the idea for the gas bombs after scoping out the Salinas lockup and the delivery–service schedules at the You Mail It franchise. She’d sent the woman instructions: stealing the hammer, making up the fake wallet, planting them in Salinas. And then how to construct the gas bomb and where to buy the fire suit and bag. Rebecca had checked with Jennie, via email, and then, when everything seemed in order, posted the message on the “Manslaughter” bulletin board that everything was in place.

Pell now asked her, “That was Sam when I phoned, wasn’t it?”

The call — thirty minutes ago — purporting to be the guard checking up on them was Pell. The arrangement he’d made with Rebecca was that he’d ask whoever answered — if she didn’t — to check the window locks. That meant he’d be there soon and Rebecca was supposed to go to the shelter and wait for him.

“She didn’t catch on. The poor thing’s still a little mouse. She just doesn’t get it.”

“I want to get out of here as soon as possible, lovely. What’s our time like?”

“Won’t be long now.”

Pell said, “I’ve got her address. Dance’s.”

“Oh, one thing you’ll want to know. Her kids aren’t at home. She didn’t say where they are but I found a Stuart Dance — probably her father or brother — in the phone book. I’d guess they’re there. Oh, and there’s a cop guarding them. There’s no husband.”

“A widow, right?”

“How’d you know?”

“Just did. How old are the kids?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“No.”

Rebecca eased back and studied him. “For an undocumented alien you look pretty damn good. You really do.” Her arms looped him. The nearness of her body, bathed in air fragrant with ripe sea vegetation and pine, added to his already stoked arousal. He slipped his hand into the small of her back. The pressure inside him growing. He kissed her hungrily, tongue slipping into her mouth. “Daniel … not now. I have to get back.”

But Pell hardly heard the words. He led her farther into the forest, put his hands on her shoulders and started to push her down. She held up a finger. Then set her sketchpad on the wet ground, cardboard base down. She knelt on it. “They’d wonder how I got wet knees.” And began to unzip his jeans.

That was Rebecca, he reflected. Always thinking.

She was glad to hear his voice, though the tone was purely professional, and she knew he didn’t want to talk about their fight earlier. He was, she sensed, still angry. Which was odd for him. It bothered her, but there was no time to consider their grievances, given his news.

“Got a call from CHP,” O’Neil said. “Some hikers halfway to Big Sur found a purse and some personal effects on the beach. Jennie Marston’s. No body yet, but there was blood all over the sand. And blood and some hairs and scalp tissue on a rock that crime scene found. Pell’s prints’re on the rock. The Coast Guard has two boats out looking. There wasn’t anything helpful in the purse. ID and credit cards. If that’s where she kept what’s left of the ninety–two hundred dollars, Pell’s got it now.”

He killed her …

Dance closed her eyes. Pell had seen her picture on TV and knew she’d been identified. She’d become a liability to him.

A second suspect logarithmically increases the chances for detection and arrest …

“I’m sorry,” O’Neil said. He’d understand what she was thinking — that Dance never would have guessed releasing the woman’s picture would result in her death.

I believed it would be just another way to help find this terrible man.

The detective said, “It was the right call. We had to do it.”

We,
she noted. Not
you.

“How long ago?”

“Crime scene’s estimating an hour. We’re checking along One and the cross roads, but no witnesses.”

“Thanks, Michael.”

She said nothing more, waiting for him to say something else, something about their earlier discussion, something about Kellogg. Didn’t matter what, just some words that would give her a chance to broach the subject. But he said merely, “I’m making plans for a memorial service for Juan. I’ll let you know the details.”

“Thanks.”

“’Bye.”

Click.

She called Kellogg and Overby with the news. Her boss was debating whether it was good or bad. Someone else had been killed on his watch, but at least it was one of the perps. On the whole, he suggested, the press and public would receive the development as a score for the good guys.

“Don’t you think, Kathryn?”

Dance had no chance to formulate an answer, though, because just then the CBI’s front desk called on the intercom to tell her the news that Theresa Croyton, the Sleeping Doll, had arrived.

In baggy sweats, Theresa Croyton Bolling was tall and slim and wore her light brown hair long, to the middle of her back. The strands had a reddish sheen. Four metallic dots were in her left ear, five in the other, and the majority of her fingers were encircled by silver rings. Her face, free of makeup, was narrow and pretty and pale.

Morton Nagle ushered the girl and her aunt, a solid woman with short, gray hair, into Dance’s office. Mary Bolling was somber and cautious and it was obvious that this was the last place in the world she wanted to be. Hands were shaken and greetings exchanged. The girl’s was casual and friendly, if a bit nervous; the aunt’s stiff.

Nagle would want to stay, of course — talking to the Sleeping Doll had been his goal even before Pell’s escape. But some bargain had apparently been struck that he’d take a backseat for the time being. He now said he’d be at home if anybody needed him.

Dance gave him a sincere “Thank you.”

“Good–bye, Mr. Nagle,” Theresa said.

He nodded a friendly farewell to both of them — the teenager and the woman who’d tried to gun him down (she looked as if she’d like a second opportunity). Nagle gave one of his chuckles, tugged up his saggy pants and left.

“Thank you for coming. You go by ‘Theresa’?”

“Mostly Tare.”

Dance said to her aunt, “Do you mind if I talk to your niece alone?”

“It’s okay.” This was from the girl. The aunt hesitated. “It’s okay,” the girl repeated more firmly. A hit of exasperation. Like musicians with their instruments, young people can get an infinite variety of sounds out of their voices.

Dance had arranged a room at a chain motel near CBI headquarters. It was booked under one of the fictional names she sometimes used for witnesses.

TJ escorted the aunt to the office of Albert Stemple, who would take her to the motel and wait with her.

When they were alone, Dance came out from around the desk and closed her door. She didn’t know if the girl had hidden memories to be tapped, some facts that could help lead them to Pell. But she was going to try to find out. It would be difficult, though. Despite the girl’s strong personality and her gutsy foray here, she’d be doing what every other seventeen–year–old in the universe would do at a time like this: raising subconscious barriers to protect herself from the pain of recollection.

Dance would get nothing from her until those barriers were lowered. In her interrogations and interviews the agent didn’t practice classic hypnosis. She did, though, know that subjects who were relaxed and not focused on external stimuli could remember events that otherwise they might not. The agent directed Theresa to the comfortable couch and shut off the bright overhead light, leaving a single yellow desk lamp burning.

“You comfortable?”

“Sure, I guess.” Still, she clasped her hands together, shoulders up, and smiled at Dance with her lips taut. Stress, the agent noted. “That man, Mr. Nagle, said you wanted to ask me about what happened the night my parents and brother and sister were killed.”

“That’s right. I know you were asleep at the time, but —”

“What?”

“I know you were asleep during the murders.”

“Who told you that?”

“Well, all the news stories … the police.”

“No, no, I was awake.”

Dance blinked in surprise. “You were?”

The girl’s expression was even more surprised. “Like, yeah. I mean, I thought
that’s
why you wanted to see me.”

Dance felt her heart tapping fast. Was this the portal to an overlooked clue that might lead to Daniel Pell’s purpose here?

The girl tugged at her earlobe, the one with five dots of metal in it, and the top of her shoe rose slightly, indicating she was curling her toes.

Stress …

“I was asleep earlier, for a while. Yeah. I wasn’t feeling good. But then I woke up. I had a dream. I don’t remember what it was, but I think it was scary. I woke myself up with a noise, kind of moaning. You know how that happens?”

“Sure.”

“Or shouting. Only … ” Her voice faded, she was squeezing her ear again.

“You’re not sure it was
you
making the noise? It might’ve been somebody else?”

The girl swallowed. She’d be thinking that the sound had perhaps come from one of her dying family members. “Right.”

“Do you remember what time?” The TODs were between six thirty and eight, Dance recalled.

But Theresa couldn’t remember for sure. She guessed around seven.

“You stayed in bed?”

“Uh–huh.”

“Did you hear anything after that?”

“Yeah, voices. I couldn’t hear them real well. I was, you know, groggy, but I definitely heard them.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know, men’s voices. But definitely not my father or brother. I remember that.”

“Tare, did you tell anybody this back then?”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “But nobody was interested.”

How on earth had Reynolds missed it?

“Well, tell me now. What did you hear?”

“There were, like, a couple of things. First of all, I heard somebody mention money. Four hundred dollars. I remember that exactly.”

Pell had been found with more than that when he was arrested. Maybe he and Newberg were going through Croyton’s wallet and commenting on how much money was inside. Or was the phrase actually “four hundred thousand”?

“What else?”

“Okay, then somebody — a man, but somebody different — said something about Canada. And somebody else asked a question. About Quebec.”

“And what was the question?”

“He just wanted to know what Quebec was.”

Somebody not knowing about Quebec? Dance wondered if that was Newberg — the women had said that while he was a genius at woodworking, electronics and computers he was pretty damaged otherwise, thanks to drugs.

So, a Canadian connection. Is that where Pell wanted to escape to? A lot easier to get through that border than going south. A lot of mountaintops too.

Dance smiled and sat forward. “Go on, Tare. You’re doing great.”

“Then,” Theresa continued, “somebody was talking about used cars. Another man. He had a really low voice. He talked fast.”

Used–car dealerships were popular venues for money laundering. Or they might have been talking about getting a car for their escape. And it hadn’t been just Pell and Newberg. Somebody
else
was there. A third person.

“Did your father do business in Canada?”

“I don’t know. He traveled a lot. But I don’t think he ever mentioned Canada … I could never figure out why the police back then didn’t ask me more about it. But since Pell was in jail, it didn’t matter. But now that he’s out … Ever since Mr. Nagle said you needed help finding the killer, I’ve been trying to make sense out of what I heard. Maybe you can figure it out.”

“I hope I can.”

“Anything else?”

“No, it was about then that I guess I fell back asleep. And the next thing I knew … ” She swallowed again. “There was this woman in a uniform there. A policewoman. She had me get dressed and … that was it.”

Dance reflected: four hundred dollars, a car dealership, a French Canadian province.

And a third man.

Was Pell intent on heading north now? At the very least she’d call Homeland Security and Immigration; they could keep an eye on the northern border crossings.

Dance tried again, walking the girl through the events of that terrible night.

But the efforts were useless. She knew nothing more.

Four hundred dollars … Canada … What’s Quebec? … used cars … Did they contain the key to the Daniel Pell conspiracy?

And then Dance had a thought that, surprisingly, involved her own family: herself, Wes and Maggie. An idea occurred to her. She ran through the facts of the murder in her mind. Impossible … But then the theory grew more likely, though she didn’t like the conclusion.

She reluctantly asked, “Tare, you said this was around seven P.M. or so?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Where did your family eat?”

“Where? The den most of the time. We weren’t allowed to use the dining room. That was just for, like, formal things.”

“Did you watch TV while you were having dinner?”

“Yeah. A lot. Me and my brother and sister, at least.”

“And was the den near your bedroom?”

“Like, right down the stairs. How did you know?”

“Did you ever watch
Jeopardy!?
”

She frowned. “Yeah.”

“Tare, I’m wondering if maybe the voices you heard were from the show. Maybe somebody picking the category of geography for four hundred dollars. And the answer was ‘the French–speaking province of Canada.’ The question would be ‘What is Quebec?’ ”

The girl fell silent. Her eyes were still. “No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “No, that wasn’t it. I’m sure.”

“And the voice talking about the dealership — could it have been a commercial? Somebody talking fast in a low voice. Like they do on car ads.”

The girl’s face flushed with dismay. Then anger. “No!”

“But maybe?” Dance asked gently.

Theresa’s eyes closed. “No.” A whisper. Then: “I don’t know.”

That was why Reynolds hadn’t pursued the child’s testimony. He too had figured out she was talking about a TV show.

Theresa’s shoulders slumped forward, collapsing in on themselves. It was a very subtle movement but Dance could clearly read the kinesic signal of defeat and sorrow. The girl had been so certain that she’d remembered something helpful to find the man who’d killed her family. Now, she realized that her courageous trip here, defying her aunt … The efforts had been pointless. She was crestfallen. “I’m sorry … ” Tears pooled in her eyes.

Kathryn Dance smiled. “Tare, don’t worry. It’s nothing.” She gave the girl a Kleenex.

“Nothing? It’s terrible! I wanted to help so bad … ”

Another smile. “Oh, Tare, believe me, we’re just getting warmed up.”