“Oh, your friend? The one who came to dinner?”
“Right.”
“What was his last name?”
“Gunderson.”
“The investment banker.”
“That’s the one. Did he call?”
“Not that I know. You want to ask the kids?”
“No, that’s okay. Thanks again, Dad.”
“No worries.” An expression from his days in New Zealand. He turned away, rapping on the window. “ ’Bye!”
“Grandpa, wait!” Maggie ran outside, her chestnut braid flapping behind her. She was clutching a book. “Hi, Mom,” she said enthusiastically. “When’d you get home?”
“Just now.”
“You didn’t say anything!” exclaimed the ten-year-old, poking her glasses up on her nose.
“Where’s your brother?”
“I don’t know. His room. When’s dinner?”
“Five minutes.”
“What’re we having?”
“You’ll see.”
Maggie held the book up to her grandfather and pointed out a small gray-purple, nautilus-like seashell. “Look. You were right.” Maggie didn’t try to pronounce the words.
“A Columbian Amphissa,” he said and pulled out the pen and notebook he was never without. Jotted. Three decades older than his daughter and he needed no glasses. Most of her genetic proclivities derived from her mother, Dance had learned.
“A tide-drift shell,” he said to Dance. “Very rare here. But Maggie found one.”
“It was just there,” the girl said.
“Okay, I’m headed home to the staff sergeant. She’s fixing dinner and my presence is required. ’Night, all.”
“ ’Bye, Grandpa.”
Her father climbed down the stairs, and Dance thanked fate or God or whatever might be, as she often did, for a good, dependable male figure in the life of a widow with children.
On her way to the kitchen her phone rang. Rey Carraneo reported that the Thunderbird at Moss Landing had been stolen from the valet parking lot of an upscale restaurant on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles the previous Friday. There were no suspects. They were expecting the report from LAPD but, like most car thefts, there were no forensics. Also he’d had no luck finding the hotel, motel or boardinghouse the woman might’ve checked into. “There’re a lot of them,” he confessed.
Welcome to the Monterey Peninsula. “We’ve got to stash the tourists somewhere, Rey. Keep at it. And say hi to your wife.”
Dance began unpacking dinner.
A lean boy with sandy hair wandered into the sunroom beside the kitchen. He was on the phone. Though only twelve, Wes was nearly as tall as his mother. She wiggled a finger at him and he wandered over to her. She kissed him on the forehead and he didn’t cringe. Which was the same as “I love you very much, Mother dear.”
“Off the phone,” she said. “Dinnertime.”
“Like, gotta go.”
“Don’t say ‘like.’ ”
The boy hung up. “What’re we having?”
“Chicken,” Maggie said dubiously.
“You like Albertsons.”
“What about bird flu?”
Wes snickered. “Don’t you know anything? You get it from live chickens.”
“It was alive once,” the girl countered.
From the corner where his sister had backed him, Wes said, “Well, it’s not an Asian chicken.”
“Hell-o. They migrate. And how you die is you throw up to death.”
“Mags, not at dinnertime!” Dance said.
“Well, you do.”
“Oh, like chickens migrate? Yeah, right. And they don’t have bird flu here. Or we would’ve heard.”
Sibling banter. But there was a little more to it, Dance believed. Her son remained deeply shaken by his father’s death. This made him more sensitive to mortality and violence than most boys his age. Dance steered him away from those topics—a tough job for a woman who tracked down felons for a living. She now announced, “As long as the chicken’s cooked, it’s fine.” Though she wasn’t sure that this was right and wondered if Maggie would dispute her.
But her daughter was lost in her seashell book.
The boy said, “Oh, mashed potatoes too. You rock, Mom.”
Maggie and Wes set the table and laid the food out, while Dance washed up.
When she returned from the bathroom, Wes asked, “Mom, aren’t you going to change?” He was looking at her black suit.
“I’m starving. I can’t wait.” Not sharing that the real reason she’d kept the outfit on was as an excuse to wear her weapon. Usually the first thing she did upon coming home was to put on jeans and a T-shirt and slip the gun into the lockbox beside her bed.
Yeah, it’s a tough life being a cop. The little ones spend a lot of time alone, don’t they? They’d probably love some friends to play with. . . .
Wes glanced once more at her suit as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.
But then they turned to the food, eating and talking about their day—the children’s at least. Dance, of course, said nothing about hers. Wes was in a tennis camp in Monterey, Maggie at a music camp in Carmel. Each seemed to be enjoying the experience. Thank goodness neither of them asked about Daniel Pell.
When dinner was over, the trio cleared the table and did the dishes—her children always had a share of the housework. When they were through, Wes and Maggie headed into the living room to read or play video games.
Dance logged onto her computer and checked email. Nothing about the case, though she had several about her other “job.” She and her best friend, Martine Christensen, ran a website called “American Tunes,” after the famous Paul Simon song from the 1970s.
Kathryn Dance was not a bad musician, but a brief attempt at a full-time career as a singer and guitarist had left her dissatisfied (which, she was afraid, was how she’d left her audiences). She decided that her real talent was listening to music and encouraging other people to, as well.
On her infrequent vacations or on long weekends, she’d head off in search of homemade music, often with the children and dogs in tow. A “folklorist” was the name of the avocation or, more popularly, “song catcher.” Alan Lomax was perhaps the most famous, collecting music from Louisiana to the Appalachians for the Library of Congress throughout the midtwentieth century. While his taste ran to black blues and mountain music, Dance’s scavenger hunt took her farther afield, to places reflecting the changing sociology of North America: music grounded in Latino, Caribbean, Nova Scotian, Canadian, urban African-American and Native American cultures.
She and Martine helped the musicians copyright their original material, posted the taped songs and distributed to them the money that listeners paid for downloads.
When the day came when Dance was no longer willing or able to track down criminals, she knew music would be a good way to spend retirement.
Her phone rang. She looked at the caller ID number.
“Well, hello.”
“Hey there.” Michael O’Neil asked, “How’d it go with Reynolds?”
“Nothing particularly helpful. But he’s checking his old files from the Croyton case.” She added that she’d picked up Morton Nagle’s material too, but hadn’t had a chance to look through it yet.
O’Neil told her that the Focus stolen from Moss Landing hadn’t been located, and they’d discovered nothing else helpful at Jack’s Seafood. The techs had lifted fingerprints from the T-bird and the utensils: Pell’s and others that were common to both locations, presumably the woman’s. A search through state and federal databases revealed she had no record.
“We did find one thing we’re a little troubled about. Peter Bennington—”
“Your crime lab guy.”
“Right. He said there was acid on the floorboard of the T-bird, driver’s seat side, the part that didn’t burn. It was recent. Peter said it was a corrosive acid—pretty diluted but Watsonville Fire soaked the car to cool it, so it cou
ld’ve been pretty strong when Pell left it there.”
“You know me and evidence, Michael.”
“Okay, the bottom line is that it was mixed with the same substance found in apples, grapes and candy.”
“You think Pell was . . . what? Poisoning something?”
Food was the raison d’etre of Central California. There were thousands of acres of fields and orchards, a dozen big wineries and other food processors all within a half-hour drive.
“It’s a possibility. Or maybe he’s hiding out in an orchard or vineyard. We scared him at Moss Landing and he gave up on staying in a motel or boardinghouse. Think about the Pastures. . . . We ought to get some people searching.”
“Have you got anybody available?” she asked.
“I can shift some troops. Get CHP too. Hate to pull them off the search downtown and along One, but I don’t think we have any choice.”
Dance agreed. She relayed to him Carraneo’s information about the T-bird.
“Not racing forward at the speed of light, are we?”
“Nup,” she agreed.
“What’re you up to?”
“Schoolwork.”
“I thought the kids were out for the summer.”
“My schoolwork. On the manhunt.”
“I’m headed your way right now. Want some help sharpening your pencils and cleaning the blackboard?”
“Bring an apple for the teacher, and you’re on.”
Chapter 20
“Hi, Michael,” Wes said, slapping him five.
“Hey there.”
They talked about the boy’s tennis camp—O’Neil played too—and about restringing rackets. Her lean, muscular son was skillful at most sports he tried, though he was now concentrating on tennis and soccer. He wanted to try karate or aikido, but Dance deflected him from martial arts. Sometimes the boy boiled over with anger—its source his father’s death—and she didn’t like encouraging fighting as a sport.
O’Neil had undertaken a mission to keep the boy’s mind occupied with healthy diversions. He’d introduced him to two activities that were polar opposites: collecting books and spending time on O’Neil’s favorite spot on earth, Monterey Bay. (Dance sometimes thought the detective had been born in the wrong era and could easily picture him as the captain of an old-time sailing ship, or a fishing vessel in the 1930s.) Sometimes, while Dance had a mother/daughter outing with Maggie, Wes would spend the afternoon on O’Neil’s boat fishing or whale watching. Dance was violently seasick unless she popped Dramamine, but Wes had been born with sea legs.
They talked now about a fishing trip in a few weeks, then Wes said good night and wandered off to his room.
Dance poured some wine. He was a red wine drinker and preferred Cabernet. She had a Pinot Grigio. They walked into the living room, sat on the couch. O’Neil happened to be on the cushion that was directly beneath Dance’s wedding picture. The detective and Bill Swenson had been good friends and had worked together a number of times. There had been a brief window before his death during which Dance, her husband and O’Neil were all active law enforcers; they’d even worked on a case together. Bill, federal. Dance, state. O’Neil, county.
With a loud snap, the detective opened the plastic box of take-out sushi he’d brought. The crackle was a modern-day Pavlovian bell, and the two dogs leapt up and bounded toward him: Dylan, the German shepherd, named for the singer-songwriter, of course, and Patsy, the flat-coated retriever, dubbed in honor of Ms. Cline, Dance’s favorite C&W singer.
“Can I give them—?”
“Not unless you want to brush their teeth.”
“Sorry, guys,” O’Neil said. He held the tray open for her. “Forgot the apple, Teach. How’s tuna?”
She laughed and declined his offer. He started to eat, not bothering to open the soy sauce or wasabi. He looked very tired. Maybe it was just too much trouble to wrestle with the packets.
“One thing I wanted to ask,” Dance said. “Is the sheriff okay with CBI running the manhunt?”
O’Neil set down the chopsticks and ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Well, I’ll tell you. When my father was in Nam his platoon sometimes had to take out Vietcong tunnels. Sometimes they’d find booby traps. Sometimes they’d find VC. It was the most dangerous job in the war. Dad developed this fear that stayed with him all his life.”
“Claustrophobia?”
“No. Volunteerphobia. He cleared one tunnel, then never raised his hand again. Nobody can quite figure out why exactly you stepped forward on this one.”
She laughed. “You’re assuming I did.” She told him about Overby’s gambit to seize control of the case before CHP and O’Neil’s own office.
“Wondered about that. Just for the record, we miss the Fish as much as you do.”
Stanley Fishburne, the former head of CBI.
“No, not as much as we do,” Dance said definitively.
“Okay, probably not. But in answer to your question, everybody’s de-lighted you’re on point here. God bless and more power to you.”
Dance moved aside piles of magazines and books, then spread Morton Nagle’s material out in front of them. Maybe the sheets represented only a small percentage of the books, clippings and notes filling Nagle’s study, but it was still a daunting quantity.
She found an inventory of the evidence and other items removed from Pell’s house in Seaside after the Croyton murders. There were a dozen books about Charles Manson, several large files and a note from the crime-scene officer: Item No. 23. Found in the box where the Manson books were kept: Trilby, novel by George du Maurier. Book had been read numerous times. Many notes in margins. Nothing relevant to case.
“You ever heard of it?” she asked.
O’Neil read a huge amount and his large collection, filling his den, contained just about every genre of book that existed. But this was one he hadn’t heard of.
Dance got her laptop, went online and looked it up. “This is interesting. George du Maurier was Daphne du Maurier’s grandfather.” She read several synopses and reviews of the book. “Seems like Trilby was a huge best seller, a Da Vinci Code of the time. Svengali?”
“Know the name—a mesmerizer—but nothing else.”
“Interesting. The story’s about a failed musician, Svengali, who meets a young and beautiful singer—her first name’s Trilby. But she wasn’t very successful. Svengali falls in love with her but she won’t have anything to do with him, so he hypnotizes her. Her career’s successful, but she becomes his mental slave. In the end, Svengali dies and—because du Maurier believed a robot can’t survive without its master—she dies too.”
“Guess there was no sequel.” O’Neil flipped through a stack of notes. “Nagle have any thoughts about what he’s up to?”
“Not really. He’s writing us a bio. Maybe there’ll be something in it.”
For the next hour they sifted through the photocopies, looking for references to any place or person in the area that Pell might’ve had an interest in, some reason for him to stay on the Peninsula. There was no reference to Alison or Nimue, from the killer’s Google search.
Nothing.
Most of the videotapes were feature TV magazine reports about Pell, the Croyton murders or about Croyton himself, the flamboyant, larger-than-life Silicon Valley entrepreneur.
“Sensationalist crap,” O’Neil announced.
“Superficial sensationalist crap.” Exactly what Morton Nagle objected to in the coverage of crime and conflict.
But there were two others, police interview tapes that Dance found more illuminating. One was for a burglary bust, thirteen years ago.
“Who are your next of kin, Daniel?”
“I don’t have any. No family.”
“Your parents?”
“Gone. Long gone. I’m an orphan, you could say.”
“When did they die?”
“When I was seventeen. But my dad’d left before that.”
“You and your father get along
?”
“My father . . . That’s a hard story.”
Pell gave the officer an account of his abusive father, who had forced young Daniel to pay rent from the age of thirteen. He’d beat the boy if he didn’t come up with the money—and beat the mother as well if she defended her son. This, he explained, was why he’d taken to stealing. Finally the father had abandoned them. Coincidentally, his separated parents had died the same year—his mother of cancer, his father in a drunk-driving accident. At seventeen Pell was on his own.
“And no siblings, hm?”
“No, sir . . . I always thought that if I had somebody to share that burden with, I would’ve turned out differently. . . . And I don’t have any children myself, either. That’s a regret, I must say. . . . But I’m a young man. I’ve got time, right?”
“Oh, if you get your act together, Daniel, there’s no reason in the world you couldn’t have a family of your own.”
“Thank you for saying that, Officer. I mean that. Thank you. And what about you, Officer? You a family man? I see you’re wearing a wedding ring.”
The second police tape was from a small town in the Central Valley twelve years ago, where he’d been arrested for petty larceny.
“Daniel, listen here, I’m gonna be askin’ you a few questions. Don’t go and lie to us now, okay? That’ll go bad for you.”
“No, sir, Sheriff. I’m here to be honest. Tell God’s truth.”
“You do that and you and me’ll get along just fine. Now, how come was it you was found with Jake Peabody’s TV set and VCR in the back of your car?”
“I bought ’em, Sheriff. I swear to you. On the street. This Mexican fellow? We was talking, and he said he needed some money. Him and his wife had a sick kid, he told me.”
“See what he’s doing?” Dance asked.
O’Neil shook his head.
“The first interviewer’s intelligent. He speaks well, uses proper grammar, syntax. Pell responded exactly the same way. The second officer? Not as well educated as the first, makes grammatical mistakes. Pell picks up on that and echoes him. ‘We was talking,’ ‘Him and his wife.’ It’s a trick High Machiavellians use.” A nod at the set. “Pell is in total control of both interrogations.”
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 57
