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

by Deaver, Jeffery

  “I’m Kathryn Dance with the CBI. Your brother might know something helpful about the man who caused this.”

  “Well, he’s not going to be very fucking helpful if you kill him.”

  “I’ll call security if you don’t close the door this minute,” the nurse snapped.

  Julio held his ground. Dance and O’Neil stepped out of the room and into the hallway, closing the door behind them. They took off the gowns and masks.

  In the corridor the brother got right into her face. “I can’t believe it. You have no respect—”

  “Julio,” Millar’s father said, stepping toward his son. His stocky wife, her jet black hair disheveled, joined him.

  Julio ignored everyone but Dance. “That’s all you care about, right? He tells you what you want to know and then he can die?”

  She remained calm, recognizing a young man out of control. She didn’t take his anger personally. “We’re very anxious to catch the man who did this to him.”

  “Son, please! You’re embarrassing us.” His mother touched his arm.

  “Embarrassing you?” he mocked. Then turned to Dance again. “I asked around. I talked to some people. Oh, I know what happened. You sent him down into the fire.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You sent him downstairs at the courthouse to the fire.”

  She felt O’Neil stiffening but he restrained himself. He knew Dance wouldn’t let other people fight her battles. She leaned closer to Julio. “You’re upset, we’re all upset. Why don’t we—”

  “You picked him. Not Mikey here. Not one of your CBI people. The one Chicano cop—and you sent him.”

  “Julio,” his father said sternly. “Don’t say that.”

  “You want to know something about my brother? Hm? Do you know he wanted to get into CBI? But they didn’t let him in. Because of who he was.”

  This was absurd. There was a high percentage of Latinos in all California law enforcement agencies, including the CBI. Her best friend in the bureau, Major Crimes agent Connie Ramirez, had more decorations than any agent in the history of the west-central office.

  But his anger wasn’t about ethnic representation in state government, of course. It was about fear for his brother’s life. Dance had a lot of experience with anger; like denial and depression, it was one of the stress response states exhibited by deceitful subjects. When somebody’s throwing a tantrum, the best approach is simply to let him tire himself out. Intense rage can be sustained only for a short period.

  “He wasn’t good enough to get a job with you, but he was good enough to send to get burned up.”

  “Julio, please,” his mother implored. “He’s just upset. Don’t listen to him.”

  “Don’t do that, Mama! You let them get away with shit every time you say things like that.”

  Tears slipped down the woman’s powdered cheeks, leaving fleshy trails.

  The young man turned back to Dance. “It was Latino Boy you sent, it was the chulo.”

  “That’s enough,” his father barked, taking his son’s arm.

  The young man pulled away. “I’m calling the papers. I’m going to call KHSP. They’ll get a reporter here and they’ll find out what you did. It’ll be on all the news.”

  “Julio—” O’Neil began.

  “No, you be quiet, you Judas. You two worked together. And you let her sacrifice him.” He pulled out his mobile phone. “I’m calling them. Now. You’re going to be so fucked.”

  Dance said, “Can I talk to you for a moment, just us?”

  “Oh, now you’re scared.”

  The agent stepped aside.

  Ready for battle, Julio faced her, holding the phone like a knife, and leaned into Dance’s personal proxemic zone.

  Fine with her. She didn’t move an inch, looked into his eyes. “I’m very sorry for your brother, and I know how upsetting this is to you. But I won’t be threatened.”

  The man gave a bitter laugh. “You’re just like—”

  “Listen to me,” she said calmly. “We don’t know for sure what happened but we do know that a prisoner disarmed your brother. He had the suspect at gunpoint, then he lost control of his weapon and of the situation.”

  “You’re saying it was his fault?” Julio asked, eyes wide.

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. Not my fault, not Michael’s fault. Your brother’s. It didn’t make him a bad cop. But he was at fault. And if you turn this into a public issue, that fact is going to come out in the press.”

  “You threatening me?”

  “I’m telling you that I won’t have this investigation jeopardized.”

  “Oh, you don’t know what you’re doing, lady.” He turned and stormed down the corridor.

  Dance watched him, trying to calm down. She breathed deeply. Then joined the others.

  “I’m so sorry about that,” Mr. Millar said, his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  “He’s upset,” Dance said.

  “Please, don’t listen to him. He says things first and regrets them later.”

  Dance didn’t think that the young man would be regretting a single word. But she also knew he wasn’t going to be calling reporters anytime soon.

  The mother said to O’Neil, “And Juan’s always saying such nice things about you. He doesn’t blame you or anybody. I know he doesn’t.”

  “Julio loves his brother,” O’Neil reassured them. “He’s just concerned about him.”

  Dr. Olson arrived. The slight, placid man briefed the officers and the Millars. The news was pretty much the same. They were still trying to stabilize the patient. As soon as the dangers from shock and sepsis were under control he’d be sent to a major burn and rehab center. It was very serious, the doctor admitted. He couldn’t say one way or the other if he’d survive but they were doing everything they could.

  “Has he said anything about the attack?” O’Neil asked.

  The doctor looked over the monitor with still eyes. “He’s said a few words but nothing coherent.”

  The parents continued their effusive apologies for their younger son’s behavior. Dance spent a few minutes reassuring them, then she and O’Neil said good-bye and headed outside.

  The detective was jiggling his car keys.

  A kinesics expert knows that it’s impossible to keep strong feelings hidden. Charles Darwin wrote, “Repressed emotion almost always comes to the surface in some form of body motion.” Usually it’s revealed as hand or finger gestures or tapping feet—we may easily control our words, glances and facial expressions but we exercise far less conscious mastery over our extremities.

  Michael O’Neil was wholly unaware that he was playing with his keys.

  She said, “He’s got the best doctors in the area here. And Mom’ll keep an eye on him. You know her. She’ll manhandle the chief of the department into his room if she thinks he needs special attention.”

  A stoic smile. Michael O’Neil was good at that.

  “They can do pretty miraculous things,” she said. Not having any idea what doctors could or couldn’t do. She and O’Neil had had a number of occasions on which to reassure each other over the past few years, mostly professionally, sometimes personally, like her husband’s death or O’Neil’s father’s deteriorating mental state.

  Neither of them did a very good job expressing sympathy or comfort; platitudes seemed to diminish the relationship. Usually the other’s simple presence worked much better.

  “Let’s hope.”

  As they approached the exit she took a call from FBI Agent Winston Kellogg, in his temporary quarters at CBI. Dance paused and O’Neil continued on into the lot. She told Kellogg about Millar. And she learned from him that a canvass by the FBI in Bakersfield had located no witnesses who’d seen anybody break into Pell’s aunt’s toolshed or garage to steal the hammer. As for the wallet bearing the initials R.H., found in the well with the hammer, the federal forensic experts were unable to trace it to a recent buyer.

  “And, K
athryn, I’ve got the jet tanked up in Oakland, if Linda Whitfield gets the okay from on high. One other thing? That third woman?”

  “Samantha McCoy?”

  “Right. Have you called her?”

  At that moment Dance happened to look across the parking lot.

  She saw Michael O’Neil pausing, as a tall, attractive blonde approached him. The woman smiled at O’Neil, slipped her arms around him and kissed him. He kissed her back.

  “Kathryn,” Kellogg said. “You there?”

  “What?”

  “Samantha McCoy?”

  “Sorry.” Dance looked away from O’Neil and the blonde. “No. I’m driving up to San Jose now. If she’s gone to this much trouble to keep her identity quiet I want to see her in person. I think it’ll take more than a phone call to convince her to help us out.”

  She disconnected and walked up to O’Neil and the woman he was embracing.

  “Kathryn.”

  “Anne, good to see you,” Dance said to Michael O’Neil’s wife. The women smiled, then asked about each other’s children.

  Anne O’Neil nodded toward the hospital. “I came to see Juan. Mike said he’s not doing well.”

  “No. It’s pretty bad. He’s unconscious now. But his parents are there. They’d be glad for some company, I’m sure.”

  Anne had a small Leica camera slung over her shoulder. Thanks to the landscape photographer Ansel Adams and the f64 Club, Northern and Central California made up one of the great photography meccas in the world. Anne ran a gallery in Carmel that sold collectible photographs, “collectible” generally defined as those taken by photographers no longer among the living: Adams, Alfred Stieglitz, Edward Weston, Imogen Cunningham, Henri Cartier-Bresson. Anne was also a stringer for several newspapers, including big dailies in San Jose and San Francisco.

  Dance said, “Michael told you about the party tonight? My father’s birthday.”

  “He did. I think we can make it.”

  Anne kissed her husband again and headed into the hospital. “See you later, honey.”

  “ ’Bye, dear.”

  Dance nodded good-bye and climbed into her car, tossing the Coach purse onto the passenger seat. She stopped at Shell for gas, coffee and a cake doughnut and headed onto Highway 1 north, getting a beautiful view of Monterey Bay. She noted that she was driving past the campus of Cal State at Monterey Bay, on the site of the former Fort Ord (probably the only college in the country overlooking a restricted area filled with unexploded ordnance). A large banner announced what seemed to be a major computer conference this weekend. The school, she recalled, was the recipient of much of the hardware and software in William Croyton’s estate. She reflected that if computer experts were still doing research based on the man’s contributions from eight years ago, he must’ve been a true genius. The programs that Wes and Maggie used seemed to be outdated in a year or two tops. How many brilliant innovations had Daniel Pell denied the world by killing Croyton?

  Dance flipped through her notebook and found the number of Samantha McCoy’s employer, called and asked to be connected, ready to hang up if she answered. But the receptionist said she was working at home that day. Dance disconnected and had TJ text-message her Mapquest directions to the woman’s house.

  A few minutes later the phone rang, just as she hit play on the CD. She glanced at the screen.

  Coincidentally, the Fairfield Four resumed their gospel singing as Dance said hello to Linda Whitfield, who was calling from her church office.

  “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound . . .”

  “Agent Dance—”

  “Call me Kathryn. Please.”

  “ . . . that saved a wretch like me . . .”

  “I just wanted you to know. I’ll be there in the morning to help you, if you still want me.”

  “Yes, I’d love for you to come. Somebody from my office will call about the arrangements. Thank you so much.”

  “ . . . I once was lost, but now am found . . .”

  A hesitation. Then she said in a formal voice, “You’re welcome.”

  Two out of three. Dance wondered if the reunion might work after all.

  Chapter 23

  Sitting in front of the open window of the Sea View Motel, Daniel Pell typed awkwardly on the computer keyboard.

  He’d managed some access to computers at the Q and at Capitola, but he hadn’t had time to sit down and really get to know how they worked. He’d been pounding away on Jennie’s portable all morning. Ads, news, porn . . . it was astonishing.

  But even more seductive than the sex was his ability to get information, to find things about people. Pell had ignored the smut and been hard at work. First he’d read everything he could on Jennie—recipes, emails, her bookmarked pages, making sure she was essentially who she claimed to be (she was). Then he searched for some people from his past—important to find them—but he didn’t have much luck. He then tried tax records, deeds offices, vital statistics. But you needed a credit card for almost everything, he learned. And credit cards, like cell phones, left obvious trails.

  Then he had a brainstorm and searched through the archives of the local newspapers and TV stations. That proved much more helpful. He jotted information, a lot of it.

  Among the names on his list was “Kathryn Dance.”

  He enjoyed doodling a funereal frame around it.

  The search didn’t give him all the information he needed, but it was a start.

  Always aware of his surroundings, he noticed a black Toyota Camry pull into the lot and pause outside the window. He gripped the gun. Then he smiled as the car parked exactly seven spaces away.

  She climbed out.

  That’s my girl.

  Holding fast . . .

  She walked inside.

  “You did it, lovely.” Pell glanced at the Camry. “Looks nice.”

  She kissed him fast. Her hands were shaking. And she couldn’t control her excitement. “It went great! It really did, sweetie. At first he was kind of freaked and I didn’t think he was going to do it. He didn’t like the thing about the license plates but I did everything you told me and he agreed.”

  “Good for you, lovely.”

  Jennie had used some of her cash—she’d withdrawn $9,200 to pay for the escape and tide them over for the time being—to buy a car from a man who lived in Marina. It would be too risky to have it registered in her real name so she’d persuaded him to leave his own plates on it. She’d told him that her car had broken down in Modesto and she’d have the plates in a day or two. She’d swap them and mail his back. This was illegal and really stupid. No man would ever do that for some other guy, even one paying cash. But Pell had sent Jennie to handle it—a woman in tight jeans, a half-buttoned blouse and red bra on fine display. (Had it been a woman selling the car, Pell would have dressed her down, lost the makeup, given her four kids, a dead soldier for a husband and a pink breast cancer ribbon. You can never be too obvious, he’d learned.)

  “Nice. Oh, can I have the car keys?”

  She handed them over. “Here’s what else you wanted.” Jennie set two shopping bags on the bed. Pell looked through them and nodded approvingly.

  She got a soda from the minifridge. “Honey, can I ask you something?”

  His natural reluctance to answer questions—at least truthfully—surfaced again. But he smiled. “You can, anything.”

  “Last night, when you were sleeping, you said something. You were talking about God.”

  “God. What’d I say?”

  “I couldn’t tell. But it was definitely ‘God.’ ”

  Pell’s head turned slowly toward her. He noticed his heart rate increase. He found his foot tapping, which he stopped.

  “You were really freaking out. I was going to wake you up but that’s not good. I read that somewhere. Reader’s Digest. Or Health. I don’t know. When somebody’s having a bad dream, you should never wake them up. And you said, like, ‘Fuck no.’ ”

  “I said that?”
<
br />   Jennie nodded. “Which was weird. ’Cause you never swear.”

  That was true. People who used obscenities had much less power than people who didn’t.

  “What was your dream about?” she asked.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Wonder why you were dreaming about God.”

  For a moment he felt a curious urge to tell her about his father. Then: What the hell’re you thinking of?

  “No clue.”

  “I’m kinda into religion,” she said uncertainly. “A little. More spiritual stuff than Jesus, you know.”

  “Well, about Jesus, I don’t think he was the son of God or anything, but I’ll tell you, I respect Him. He could get anybody to do whatever He wanted. I mean, even now, you just mention the name and, bang, people’ll hop to in a big way. That’s power. But all those religions, the organized ones, you give up too much to belong to them. You can’t think the way you want to. They control you.”

  Pell glanced at her blouse, the bra. . . . The swelling began again, the high-pressure center growing in his belly.

  He tried to ignore it and looked back at the notes he’d taken from his online searches and the map. Jennie clearly wanted to ask what he had in mind but couldn’t bring herself to. She’d be hoping he was looking for routes out of town, roads that would lead ultimately to Orange County.

  “I’ve got a few things to take care of, baby. I’ll need you to give me a ride.”

  “Sure, just say when.”

  He was studying the map carefully, and he looked up to see that she’d stepped away.

  Jennie returned a moment later, carrying a few things, which she’d gotten from a bag in the closet. She set these on the bed in front of him, then knelt on the floor. It was like a dog bringing her master a ball, ready to play.

  Pell hesitated. But then he reminded himself that it’s okay to give up a little control from time to time, depending on the circumstances.

  He reached for her but she lay down and rolled over on her belly all by herself.

  • • •

  There are two routes to San Jose from Monterey. You can take Highway 1, which winds along the coast through Santa Cruz, then cut over on vertigo-inducing Highway 17, through artsy Los Gatos, where you can buy crafts and crystals and incense and tie-dyed Janis Joplin dresses (and, okay, Roberto Cavalli and D&G).