Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217)

by Deaver, Jeffery

  She lifted the Motorola and reported what she’d found, then gestured an MCSO crime scene officer over and gave him the evidence.

  Carraneo called her to a patch of earth not far away. “Footprints.” Several impressions, about four feet apart—left by someone running. They were clearly Pell’s; he’d left distinctive prints outside the fire door of the courthouse. The two CBI agents started jogging in the direction they led.

  Pell’s footsteps ended at a nearby street, San Benito Way, along which were vacant lots, a liquor store, a dingy taqueria, a quick-copy and shipping franchise, a pawnshop and a bar.

  “So here’s where the partner picked him up,” Carraneo said, looking up and down San Benito.

  “But there’s another street on the other side of the courthouse. It’s two hundred feet closer. Why here?”

  “More traffic there?”

  “Could be.” Dance squinted as she scanned the area, coughing again. Finally she caught her breath and her eyes focused across the street. “Come on, let’s move!”

  • • •

  The man, in his late twenties, wearing shorts and a Worldwide Express uniform shirt, drove his green panel truck through the streets of downtown Salinas. He was intensely aware of the gun barrel resting on his shoulder and he was crying. “Look, mister, I don’t know what this is about, really, but we don’t carry cash. I’ve got about fifty on me, personal money, and you’re welcome—”

  “Give me your wallet.” The hijacker wore shorts, a windbreaker and an Oakland A’s cap. His face was streaked with soot and part of his beard was burned off. He was middle-aged but thin and strong. He had weird light blue eyes.

  “Whatever you want, mister. Just don’t hurt me. I’ve got a family.”

  “Wal-let?”

  It took stocky Billy a few moments to pry the billfold out of his tight shorts. “Here!”

  The man flipped through it. “Now, William Gilmore, of three-four-three-five Rio Grande Avenue, Marina, California, father of these two fine children, if the photo gallery’s up to date.”

  Dread unraveled inside him.

  “And husband of this lovely wife. Look at those curls. Natural, I’ll bet any money. Hey, keep your eyes on the road. Swerved a bit there. And keep going where I told you.” Then the hijacker said, “Hand me your cell phone.”

  His voice was calm. Calm is good. It means he’s not going to do anything sudden or stupid.

  Billy heard the man punch in a number.

  “ ’Lo. It’s me. Write this down.” He repeated Billy’s address. “He’s got a wife and two kids. Wife’s real pretty. You’ll like the hair.”

  Billy whispered, “Who’s that you’re calling? Please, mister . . . Please. Take the truck, take anything. I’ll give you as much time as you want to get away. An hour. Two hours. Just don’t—”

  “Shhhh.” The man continued his phone conversation. “If I don’t show up, that’ll mean I didn’t make it through the roadblocks because William here wasn’t convincing enough. You go visit his family. They’re all yours.”

  “No!” Billy twisted around and lunged for the phone.

  The gun muzzle touched his face. “Keep driving, son. Not a good time to run off the road.” The hijacker snapped the phone shut and put it into his own pocket.

  “William . . . You go by Bill?”

  “Billy mostly, sir.”

  “So, Billy, here’s the situation. I escaped from that jail back there.”

  “Yessir. That’s fine with me.”

  The man laughed. “Well, thank you. Now you heard me on the phone. You know what I want you to do. You get me through any roadblocks, I’ll let you go and no harm’ll come to your family.”

  Face fever hot, belly churning with fear, Billy wiped his round cheeks.

  “You’re no threat to me. Everybody knows my name and what I look like. I’m Daniel Pell and my picture’ll be all over the noon news. So I don’t have any reason to hurt you, long as you do what I say. Now, summon up some calm. You’ve got to stay focused. If the police stop you I want a cheerful and curious deliveryman, frowning and asking about what happened back in town. All that smoke, all that mess. My, my. You get the idea?”

  “Please, I’ll do anything—”

  “Billy, I know you were listening to me. I don’t need you to do anything. I need you to do what I asked. That’s all. What could be simpler?”

  Chapter 6

  Kathryn Dance and Carraneo were in the You Mail It franchise on San Benito Way, where they’d just learned that a package delivery company, Worldwide Express, had made its daily morning drop-off moments after the escape.

  A to B to X . . .

  Dance realized that Pell could commandeer the truck to get past the roadblocks and called the Worldwide Express Salinas operations director, who confirmed that the driver on that route had missed all remaining scheduled deliveries. Dance got the tag number of his truck and relayed it to the MCSO.

  They returned to Sandy Sandoval’s office, coordinating the efforts to find the vehicle. Unfortunately, there were twenty-five Worldwide trucks in the area, so Dance told the director to order the other drivers to pull over immediately at the nearest gas station. The truck that kept moving would contain Daniel Pell.

  This was taking some time, though. The director had to call them on their cell phones, since a radio broadcast would alert Pell that they knew about his means of escape.

  A figure walked slowly through the doorway. Dance turned to see Michael O’Neil, the senior MCSO chief deputy she’d called earlier. She nodded at him with a smile, greatly relieved he was here. There was no better law enforcer in the world with whom to share this tough burden.

  O’Neil had been with the MCSO for years. He’d started as a rookie deputy and worked his way up, becoming a solid, methodical investigator with a stunning arrest—and more important, conviction—record. He was now a chief deputy and detective with the Enforcement Operations Bureau of the MCSO’s Investigations Division.

  He’d resisted offers to go into lucrative corporate security or to join bigger law-enforcement ops like the CBI or FBI. He wouldn’t take a job that required relocation or extensive travel. O’Neil’s home was the Monterey Peninsula and he had no desire to be anywhere else. His parents still lived there—in the ocean-view house he and his siblings had grown up in. (His father was suffering from senility; his mother was considering selling the house and moving the man into a nursing facility. O’Neil had a plan to buy the homestead just to keep it in the family.)

  With his love of the bay, fishing and his boat, Michael O’Neil could be the unwavering, unobtrusive hero in a John Steinbeck novel, like Doc in Cannery Row. In fact, the detective, an avid book collector, owned first editions of everything Steinbeck had written. (His favorite was Travels with Charley, a nonfiction account of the writer’s trip around America with his Standard Poodle, and O’Neil intended to duplicate the journey at some point in his life.)

  Last Friday, Dance and O’Neil had jointly collared a thirty-year-old known as Ese, head of a particularly unpleasant Chicano gang operating out of Salinas. They’d marked the occasion by sharing a bottle of Piper Sonoma sparkling wine on the deck of a tourist-infested Fisherman’s Wharf restaurant.

  Now it seemed as if the celebration had occurred decades ago. If at all.

  The MCSO uniform was typical khaki, but O’Neil often dressed soft, and today he was in a navy suit, with a tieless dark shirt, charcoal gray, matching about half the hair on his head. The brown eyes, beneath low lids, moved slowly as they examined the map of the area. His physique was columnar and his arms thick, from genes and from playing tug of war with muscular seafood in Monterey Bay when time and the weather allowed him to get out his boat.

  O’Neil nodded a greeting to TJ and Sandoval.

  “Any word on Juan?” Dance asked.

  “Hanging in there.” He and Millar worked together frequently and went fishing once a month or so. Dance knew that on the drive here he’d been in constant
touch with the doctors and Millar’s family.

  The California Bureau of Investigation has no central dispatch unit to contact radio patrol cars, emergency vehicles or boats, so O’Neil arranged for the Sheriff’s Office central communications operation to relay the information about the missing Worldwide Express truck to its own deputies and the Highway Patrol. He told them that within a few minutes the escapee’s truck would be the only one not stopped at a gas station.

  O’Neil took a call and nodded, walking to the map. He tucked the phone between ear and shoulder, picked up a pack of self-adhesive notes featuring butterflies and began sticking them up.

  More roadblocks, Dance realized.

  He hung up. “They’re on Sixty-Eight, One-Eighty-Three, the One-oh-One. . . . We’ve got the back roads to Hollister covered, and Soledad and Greenfield. But if he gets into the Pastures of Heaven, it’ll be tough to spot a truck, even with a chopper—and right now fog’s a problem.”

  The “Pastures of Heaven” was the name given by John Steinbeck in a book of the same title to a rich, orchard-filled valley off Highway 68. Much of the area around Salinas was flat, low farmland, but you didn’t have to go far to get into trees. And nearby too was the rugged Castle Rock area, whose cliffs, bluffs and trees would be excellent hiding places.

  Sandoval said, “If Pell’s partner didn’t drive the getaway wheels, where is he?”

  TJ offered, “Rendezvous point somewhere?”

  “Or staying around,” Dance said, nodding out the window.

  “What?” the prosecutor asked. “Why’d he do that?”

  “To find out how we’re running the case, what we know. What we don’t know.”

  “That sounds a little . . . elaborate, don’t you think?”

  TJ laughed, pointing toward the smoldering cars. “I’d say that’s a pretty good word for this whole shebang.”

  O’Neil suggested, “Or maybe he wants to slow us up.”

  Dance said, “That makes sense too. Pell and his partner don’t know we’re on to the truck. For all they know we still think he’s in the area. The partner could make it look like Pell’s nearby. Maybe take a shot at somebody up the street, maybe even set off another device.”

  “Shit. Another firebomb?” Sandoval grimaced.

  Dance called the security chief and told him there was a possibility the partner was still around and could be a threat.

  But, as it turned out, they had no time to speculate about whether or not the partner was nearby. The plan about the Worldwide Express trucks had paid off. A radio call to O’Neil from MCSO dispatch reported that two local police officers had found Daniel Pell and were presently in pursuit.

  • • •

  The dark green delivery truck kicked up a rooster tail of dust on the small road.

  The uniformed officer who was driving the Salinas Police squad car, a former jarhead back from the war, gripped the wheel of the cruiser as if he were holding on to the rudder of a ten-foot skiff in twelve-foot seas.

  His partner—a muscular Latino—gripped the dashboard in one hand and the microphone in the other. “Salinas Police Mobile Seven. We’re still with him. He turned onto a dirt road off Natividad about a mile south of Old Stage.”

  “Roger . . . Central to Seven, be advised, subject is probably armed and dangerous.”

  “If he’s armed, of course he’s dangerous,” the driver said and lost his sunglasses when the car caught air after a run-in with a massive bump. The two officers could hardly see the road ahead; the Worldwide truck was churning up dust like a sandstorm.

  “Central to Seven, we’ve got all available units en route.”

  “Roger that.”

  Backup was a good idea. The rumors were that Daniel Pell, the crazed cult leader, this era’s Charles Manson, had gunned down a dozen people at the courthouse, had set fire to a bus filled with schoolchildren, had slashed his way through a crowd of prospective jurors, killing four. Or two. Or eight. Whatever the truth, the officers wanted as much help as they could get.

  The jarhead muttered, “Where’s he going? There’s nothing up here.”

  The road was used mostly for farm equipment and buses transporting migrant workers to and from the fields. It led to no major highways. There was no picking going on today but the road’s purpose, and the fact it probably led to no major highways, could be deduced from its decrepit condition and from the drinking water tanks and the portable toilets on trailers by the roadside.

  But Daniel Pell might not know that and would assume this was a road like any other. Rather than one that ended, as this did, abruptly in the middle of an artichoke field. Ahead of them, thirty yards or so, Pell braked fast in panic and the truck began to skid. But there was no way to stop in time. The truck’s front wheels dropped hard into a shallow irrigation ditch, and the rear end lifted off the ground, then slammed back with a huge crash.

  The squad car braked to a stop nearby. “This is Seven,” the Latino cop called in. “Pell’s off the road.”

  “Roger, is he—”

  The officers leapt out of the car with their pistols drawn.

  “He’s going to bail, he’s going to bail!”

  But nobody exited the truck.

  They approached it. The back door had flown open in the crash and they could see nothing but dozens of packages and envelopes littering the floor.

  “There he is, look.”

  Pell lay stunned, facedown, on the floor of the vehicle.

  “Maybe he’s hurt.”

  “Who gives a shit?”

  The officers ran forward and cuffed and dragged him out of the space where he was wedged

  They dropped him on to his back on the ground. “Nice try, buddy, but—”

  “Fuck. It’s not him.”

  “What?” asked his partner.

  “Excuse me, does that look like a forty-three-year-old white guy?”

  The jarhead bent down to the groggy teenager, a gang teardrop tat on his cheek, and snapped “Who’re you?” in Spanish, a language that every law enforcer in and around Salinas could speak.

  The kid avoided their eyes, muttering in English, “I no saying nothing. You can go fuck youself.”

  “Oh, man.” The Latino cop glanced into the cab, where the keys were dangling from the dash. He understood: Pell had left the truck on a city street with the engine on, knowing it’d be stolen—oh, in about sixty seconds—so the police would follow it and give Pell a chance to escape in a different direction.

  Another thought. Not a good one. He turned to Jarhead. “You don’t think, when we said we had Pell and they called all availables for backup . . . I mean, you don’t think they pulled ’em off the roadblocks, do you?”

  “No, they wouldn’t do that. That’d be fucking stupid.”

  The men looked at each other.

  “Christ.” The Latino officer raced to the squad car and grabbed the microphone.

  Chapter 7

  “A Honda Civic,” TJ reported, hanging up from a call with DMV. “Five years old. Red. I’ve got the tags.” They knew Pell was now in the Worldwide Express driver’s personal car, which was missing from the company’s lot in Salinas.

  TJ added, “I’ll let the roadblocks know.”

  “When they get back on site,” Dance muttered.

  To the dismay of the agents and O’Neil, some local dispatcher had ordered the nearby roadblocks abandoned for the pursuit of the Worldwide Express truck. His placid face registering what for O’Neil was disgust—a tightening of the lips—he’d sent the cars back on site immediately.

  They were in a meeting room up the hall from Sandoval’s office. Now that Pell was clearly not near the courthouse, Dance wanted to return to CBI headquarters, but Charles Overby had told them to remain at the courthouse until he arrived.

  “Think he wants to make sure no press conferences escape either,” TJ said, to which Dance and O’Neil gave sour laughs. “Speaking of which,” came TJ’s whisper. “Incoming! . . . Hit the decks.”<
br />
  A figure strode confidently through the door. Charles Overby, a fifty-five-year-old career law enforcer.

  Without any greetings, he asked Dance, “He wasn’t in the truck?”

  “No. Local gangbanger. Pell left the truck running. He knew somebody’d snatch it, and we’d focus on that. He took off in the delivery driver’s own car.”

  “The driver?”

  “No sign.”

  “Ouch.” Brown-haired, sunburned Charles Overby was athletic in a pear-shaped way, a tennis and golf player. He was the newly appointed head of the CBI’s west-central office. The agent in charge he replaced, Stan Fishburne, had taken early retirement on a medical, much to the CBI staff’s collective dismay (because of the severe heart attack on Fishburne’s account—and because of who had succeeded him on theirs).

  O’Neil took a call and Dance updated Overby, adding the details of Pell’s new wheels and their concern that the partner was still nearby.

  “You think he’s really planted another device?”

  “Unlikely. But the accomplice staying around makes sense.”

  O’Neil hung up. “The roadblocks’re all back in place.”

  “Who took them down?” Overby asked.

  “We don’t know.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t us or you, Michael, right?” Overby asked uneasily.

  An awkward silence. Then O’Neil said, “No, Charles.”

  “Who was it?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  “We should find that out.”

  Recrimination was such a drain. O’Neil said he’d look into it. Dance knew he’d never do anything though, and with this comment to Overby the finger pointing came to a close.

  The detective continued, “Nobody’s spotted the Civic. But the timing was just wrong. He could’ve gotten through on Sixty-eight or the One-Oh-One. I don’t think Sixty-eight though.”

  “No,” Overby agreed. The smaller Highway 68 would take Pell back to heavily populated Monterey. The 101, wide as an interstate, could get him to every major expressway in the state.