He explained that the woman had slipped into the hospital by pretending to be applying for a job as a nurse.
“The job applications,” Dance said, nodding, recalling what Connie’s investigation had found. “There wasn’t any connection between them and Millar, though, so we didn’t pay any attention.”
“Witnesses said that she was wearing a nurse’s uniform. As if she’d just gotten off a shift at another hospital and had come over to MBH to apply for a job.” The deputy continued, “I had her computer examined and found that she’d searched for drug interactions on Google.”
“The evidence in the garage?”
“She planted it. I had Pete Bennington take the garage apart. A CS team found some hairs—that Harper’s people had missed, by the way. They were hers. DNA match. I’m sure she’ll take a plea.”
“I feel so bad, Michael. I almost believed she’d . . .” Dance couldn’t even bring herself to say the words. “I mean, Mom looked so upset when she told me that Juan asked her to kill him. And then she claimed she wasn’t on the ICU floor when Juan was killed, but she let slip that she knew the place was deserted except for some nurses.”
“Oh, she’d talked to one of the ICU doctors and he commented to your mother that all the visitors had left. Edie was never on the wing at all.”
A miscommunication and an assumption. Not much excuse for that in her line of work, she thought wryly. “And Harper? He’s going forward with the case?”
“Nope. He’s packing up and going home to Sacramento. He’s handed off to Sandy.”
“What?” Dance was shocked.
O’Neil laughed, noting her expression. “Yep. Not much interested in justice. Only interested in a high-profile conviction, the mother of a government agent.”
“Oh, Michael.” She squeezed his arm again. And he put his hand on hers, then was looking away. She was struck by his countenance. What was she seeing? A vulnerability, a hollowness?
O’Neil started to say something and then didn’t.
Maybe to apologize for lying to her and withholding the truth about his investigation. He looked at his watch. “Got a few things to take care of.”
“Hey, you okay?”
“Just tired.”
Alarm bells sounded within Dance. Men are never “just tired.” What they mean is, no, they’re not okay at all but they don’t want to talk.
He said, “Oh, almost forgot. I heard from Ernie, the L.A. case? The judge refused to push off the immunity hearing. It’s starting in about a half hour.”
Dance displayed crossed fingers. “Let’s hope.” She then hugged him, hard.
O’Neil fished his car keys out of his pocket and headed up the stairs, apparently in too much of a hurry to wait for the elevator.
Dance glanced into the cafeteria. She noted that her mother was no longer at the table. Her shoulders slumped. Damnit. She’s gone.
But then she heard a woman’s voice behind her. “Katie.”
Edie Dance had come out the side door and presumably waited to join her daughter until O’Neil left.
“Michael told me, Mom.”
“After the charges were dismissed, I came by here to see the people who supported me, to thank them.”
The people who supported me . . .
There was silence for a moment. The PA system gave an incomprehensible announcement. Somewhere a baby cried. The sounds faded.
And from Edie’s expression and words, Kathryn Dance knew the complete weave of what had happened between mother and daughter in the past few days. The difficulty had nothing to do with her leaving the courthouse early the other day. The issue was more fundamental. She blurted, “I didn’t think you’d done it, Mom. Really.”
Edie Dance smiled. “Ah, and coming from you, from a kinesics expert, Katie? Tell me what to look for to see if you’re telling a fib.”
“Mom—”
“Katie, you thought it was possible I’d killed that young man.”
Dance sighed, wondered how big the vacuum in her soul was at the moment. The denial died in her mouth and she said in a shaky voice, “Maybe, Mom. Okay, maybe. I didn’t think less of you. I still loved you. But, okay, I thought you might have.”
“Your face, in the courtroom at the bail hearing. Just looking at your face, I knew you were considering it. I knew you were.”
“I’m so sorry,” Dance whispered.
Then Edie Dance did something completely uncharacteristic. She took her daughter by the shoulders, firmly, more firmly than Dance believed she’d ever been held by the woman, even as a child. “Don’t you dare say that.” Her words were harsh.
Dance blinked and began to speak.
“Shhhhh, Katie. Listen. I was up all night after the bail hearing. Thinking about what I’d seen in your eyes, what you suspected about me, let me finish. I was up all night, hurt, furious. But then, finally I understood something. And I felt so proud.”
A warm smile softened the round contours of the woman’s face. “So proud.”
Dance was confused.
Her mother continued, “You know, Katie, a parent never knows if they get it right. I’m sure you’ve wrestled with that.”
“Oh, only about ten times a day.”
“You always hope, you pray, that you give your children the resources they need, the attitude, the courage. That’s what it’s all about, after all. Not fighting their battles, but getting them prepared to fight on their own. Teaching them to make judgments, to think for themselves.”
The tears were streaming down Dance’s cheeks.
“And when I saw you questioning what I might’ve done, looking at what had happened, I knew that I’d got it one hundred percent right. I raised you not to be blind. You know, prejudice blinds people, hate blinds people. But loyalty and love blind people too. You looked past everything, for the truth.” Her mother laughed. “Of course, you got it wrong. But I can’t fault you for that.”
The women embraced and Edie Dance said, “Now, you’re still on duty. Go on back to the office. I’m still mad at you. But I’ll get over it in a day or two. We’ll go shopping and then have dinner at Casanova. Oh, and Katie, you’re picking up the check.”
Chapter 46
KATHRYN DANCE RETURNED to her office at CBI and wrote up the final disposition on the case.
She sipped the coffee that Maryellen Kresbach had brought her and looked over the pink phone message slips that the assistant had stacked beside a plate containing a very thick cookie.
She considered the messages at length and returned none of the calls but ate 100 percent of the cookie.
Her phone beeped. A text from Michael O’Neil:
K—judge has ruled in L.A. Will release decision in next few hours. Keep your fingers crossed. Lot going on today, but will talk to you soon.—M.
Please, please, please . . .
A final sip of coffee and Dance printed out the report for Overby and took it down to his office. “Here’s the disposition, Charles.”
“Ah. Good.” The man added, “That was a surprise, the direction the case took.” He read the report fast. She noticed a gym bag, tennis racket and small suitcase behind his desk. It was late afternoon on a summer Friday, and he was probably leaving directly from the office for his weekend place.
She detected a certain chilliness in his posture, attributable undoubtedly to her flying off the handle with Hamilton Royce.
And so she was looking forward to what was coming next. Sitting opposite her boss, she said, “There’s one final thing, Charles. It’s about Royce.”
“What’s that?” He looked up, began smoothing her memo, as if wiping off dust.
She explained what TJ had uncovered about Royce’s mission—to stop the blog not to save victims, but to derail Chilton’s exposé about the state representative’s being wined and dined by the nuclear plant developer. “He used us, Charles.”
“Ah.” Overby continued to fiddle with some papers.
“He bills his time to the N
uclear Facilities Planning Committee—which is headed by the representative Chilton was writing about in the ‘Power to the People’ thread of the blog.”
“I see. Royce, hmm.”
“I want to send a memo to the AG. It’s probably not a crime, what Royce did, but it’s definitely unethical—using me, using us. It’ll cost him his job.”
More fiddling. Overby was considering this.
“Are you okay with my doing that?” She asked this because it was clear he wasn’t.
“I’m not sure.”
She laughed. “Why not? He went through my desk. Maryellen saw him. He used state police for his own agenda.”
Overby’s eyes dipped to the papers on his desk. They were as ordered as could be. “Well, it’ll take up our time and resources. And it could be . . . awkward for us.”
“Awkward?”
“Bring us into that interagency crap. I hate that.”
This was hardly an argument. Life in state government is all about interagency crap.
At the end of a chewy silence, Overby seemed to come up with a thought. His eyebrow lifted a bit. “Besides, I think you might not have time to pursue it.”
“I’ll fit it in, Charles.”
“Well, the thing is, there’s this. . . .” He found a file on his credenza and extracted a stapled document several pages long.
“What’s that?”
“Matter of fact”—the second eyebrow joined in—“it’s from the AG’s office.” He pushed the papers forward across the desk. “It seems there was a complaint made against you.”
“Me?”
“Apparently you made racist remarks to a county employee.”
“Charles, that’s crazy.”
“Ah, well, it went all the way to Sacramento.”
“Who complained?”
“Sharanda Evans. County Social Services.”
“I’ve never met her. It’s a mistake.”
“She was at Monterey Bay Hospital when your mother was arrested. She was looking after your children.”
Oh, the woman who’d collected Wes and Maggie from the hospital play area.
“Charles, she wasn’t ‘looking after’ them. She was taking them into custody. She didn’t even try to call me.”
“She claims you uttered racist comments.”
“Jesus Christ, Charles, I said she was incompetent. That’s all.”
“She didn’t interpret it that way. Now, since you generally have a good reputation and no history of problems in the past, the AG’s not inclined to open a formal complaint. Still, it’s got to be looked into.”
He seemed torn about this dilemma.
But not that torn.
“He wanted some input from people on the ground about how to proceed.”
From Overby himself, he meant. And she understood too exactly what was going on here: Dance had embarrassed Overby in front of Royce. Maybe the ombudsman had gotten the impression that the man couldn’t control his employees. A CBI-instigated complaint against Royce would call Overby’s leadership into question.
“Of course you’re not racist. But the woman’s pretty hot under the collar about it, this Ms. Evans.” He stared at the inverted letter in front of Dance the way one would gaze at autopsy photos.
How long’ve you had this job? . . . Either not long enough, or way too long.
Kathryn Dance realized that her boss was negotiating: If she didn’t go any further with the complaint about Royce’s impropriety, Overby would tell the AG that the social worker’s claim had been fully investigated and that there was no merit to it.
If Dance did pursue the Royce matter, she might lose her job.
This sat between them for a moment. Dance was surprised that Overby was showing no kinesic evidence that he was feeling stress. She, on the other hand, observed her foot bobbing like a piston.
I think I have the big picture, Dance thought cynically. She came close to saying it, but didn’t.
Well, she had a decision to make.
Debating.
He tapped the complaint report with his fingers. “A shame when things like this happen. We have our core work, then other stuff intrudes.”
After the Roadside Cross Case, after the roller-coaster with the J. Doe case in Los Angeles, after the harrowing days worrying about her mother, Dance decided she didn’t have the heart for a fight, not over this.
“If you think a complaint against Royce would be too distracting, Charles, I’ll respect that, of course.”
“It’s best probably. Let’s get back to work—that’s what we need to do. And this we’ll just put away too.” He took the complaint and slipped it into the file.
How blatant can we be, Charles?
He smiled. “No more distractions.”
“Back to work,” Dance echoed.
“Okay, I see it’s late. Have a good weekend. And thanks for wrapping the case, Kathryn.”
“Good night, Charles.” Dance rose and left the office. She wondered if he felt as unclean as she did.
She doubted it very, very much.
Dance returned to the Gals’ Wing and was just at her office door when a voice behind her called, “Kathryn?”
She turned to see somebody she didn’t recognize at first. Then it struck her—it was David Reinhold, the young deputy from the sheriff’s office. He wasn’t in uniform, but was wearing jeans, a polo shirt and jacket. He smiled and glanced down. “Off duty.” He approached her and stopped a few feet away. “Hey, I heard about the Roadside Cross Case.”
“Kind of a surprise,” she said.
His hands were jammed in his pockets. He seemed nervous. “I’ll say. That boy’ll be okay, though?”
“He’ll be fine.”
“And Chilton? Did he confess?”
“I bet he doesn’t need to. We’ve got him on witnesses and PE. Cold.” She nodded toward her office, lifting an eyebrow, inviting him inside.
“I have some things to take care of. . . . I stopped by earlier and you were out.”
A curious thing to say. And she noted that he seemed even more nervous now. His body language was giving off high amperage of stress.
“I just wanted to say, I’ve really enjoyed working with you.”
“Appreciate your help.”
“You’re a very special person,” Reinhold stammered.
Uh-oh. Where was this going?
Reinhold was avoiding her eyes. He cleared his throat. “I know you don’t really know me very well.”
He’s at least a decade younger than I am, she thought. He’s a kid. Dance was struggling to keep from smiling or looking too maternal. She wondered where he was going to invite her on a date.
“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is . . .”
But he said nothing, just pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.
“What I’m trying to say is that I hope you’ll consider my application to join the CBI.” Reinhold added, “Most older people in police work aren’t very good mentors. I know you’d be different. I’d appreciate the chance to learn from you.”
Struggling not to laugh, Dance said, “Well, David, thanks. I don’t think we’re hiring right at the moment. But I promise you, when we do, I’ll make sure to get this to the top of the list.”
“Really?” He beamed.
“You bet. You have a good night now, David. And thanks again for your help.”
“Thanks, Kathryn. You’re the best.”
For an older person . . .
Smiling, she walked into her office and dropped heavily into her chair. She sat, staring at the entwined tree trunks outside her window. Her cell phone chimed. Not much in the mood to talk to anybody, she looked down at the Caller ID window.
After three rings of debate she hit “Answer.”
Chapter 47
A BUTTERFLY EASED along the fence and vanished into the neighbor’s yard. It wasn’t the time of year for monarchs, the migratory lepidoptera that gave Pacific Grove its subtitle of “Butte
rfly Town, U.S.A.,” and Kathryn Dance wondered what kind it was.
She was sitting on the Deck, which was slick from the late-afternoon fog. It was quiet now, she was alone. The children and the dogs were at her parents’. She wore faded jeans, a green sweatshirt, stylish Wish shoes, from the Brown company’s Fergie line—a treat she’d allowed herself after the conclusion of the case. She sipped white wine.
Her laptop was open in front of her. Dance had logged on as a temporary administrator to The Chilton Report after she’d found the access pass codes in one of James Chilton’s files. She consulted the book she’d been reading from, finished typing the text and uploaded it.
Http://www.thechiltonreport.com/html/final.html
Dance read the results. Gave a faint smile.
Then logged off.
She heard heavy footsteps on the stairs leading up from the side of the house and turned to see Michael O’Neil.
“Hey.” He smiled.
She had been expecting a phone call about the magistrate’s ruling in Los Angeles as to whether the J. Doe case would proceed; he’d seemed so preoccupied at the hospital, she hadn’t expected him to show up here in person. No matter, Michael O’Neil was always welcome. She tried to read his expression. She was usually good at this—she knew him so well—but he still had on a poker face.
“Wine?”
“Sure.”
She retrieved a second glass from the kitchen and poured him his favorite red.
“I can’t stay long.”
“Okay.” Dance could barely control herself. “Well?”
The smile escaped. “We won. Got the word twenty minutes ago. The judge blew the defense out of the water.”
“For real?” Dance asked, slipping into adolescent-speak.
“Yep.”
She rose and hugged him hard. His arms slid around her back and pressed her to his solid chest.
They stepped apart and clinked glasses.
“Ernie presents to the grand jury in two weeks. There’s no doubt they’ll return a bill. They want us down there on Tuesday, nine a.m., to plan out the testimony. You up for a trip?”
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 41
