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

by Deaver, Jeffery

  “No, apparently he considered Oswald a loser. He thought he was too pliable and simpleminded. But what he admired was the fact that one man, with one act, could affect so much. Could make so many people cry, change the entire course of a country—well, the world.

  “Now, Joseph Pell, his father, was a salesman, mother a receptionist when she could keep a job. Middle-class family. Mom—Elizabeth—drank a lot, have to assume she was distant, but no abuse, no incarceration. Died of cirrhosis when Daniel was in his midteens. With his wife gone, the father did what he could to raise the boy but Daniel couldn’t take anyone else being in charge. Didn’t do well with authority figures—teachers, bosses and especially his old man.”

  Dance mentioned the tape she and Michael O’Neil had watched, the comments about his father charging rent, beating him, abandoning the family, his parents dying.

  Nagle said, “All a lie. But his father was undoubtedly a hard character for Pell to deal with. He was religious—very religious, very strict. He was an ordained minister—some conservative Presbyterian sect in Bakersfield—but he never got a church of his own. He was an assistant minister but finally was released. A lot of complaints that he was too intolerant, too judgmental about the parishioners. He tried to start his own church but the Presbyterian synod wouldn’t even talk to him, so he ended up selling religious books and icons, things like that. But we can assume that he made his son’s life miserable.”

  Religion was not central to Dance’s own life. She, Wes and Maggie celebrated Easter and Christmas, though the chief icons of the faith were a rabbit and a jolly fellow in a red suit, and she doled out to the children her own brand of ethics—solid, incontrovertible rules common to most of the major sects. Still, she’d been in law enforcement long enough to know that religion often played a role in crime. Not only premeditated acts of terrorism but more mundane incidents. She and Michael O’Neil had spent nearly ten hours together in a cramped garage in the nearby town of Marina, negotiating with a fundamentalist minister intent on killing his wife and daughter in the name of Jesus because the teenage girl was pregnant. (They saved the family but Dance came away with an uneasy awareness of what a dangerous thing spiritual rectitude can be.)

  Nagle continued, “Pell’s father retired, moved to Phoenix and remarried. His second wife died two years ago and Joseph died last year, heart attack. Pell apparently had never stayed in touch. No uncles on either side and one aunt, in Bakersfield.”

  “The one with Alzheimer’s?”

  “Yes. Now, he does have a brother.”

  Not an only child, as he’d claimed.

  “He’s older. Moved to London years ago. He runs the sales operation of a U.S. importer/exporter. Doesn’t give interviews. All I have is a name. Richard Pell.”

  Dance said to Kellogg, “I’ll have somebody track him down.”

  “Cousins?” the FBI agent asked.

  “Aunt never married.”

  Tapping the bio he’d written. “Now, Pell’s later teens, he was constantly in and out of juvenile detention—mostly for larceny, shoplifting, car theft. But he has no long history of violence. His early record was surprisingly peaceful. There’s no evidence of street brawling, no violent assaults, no signs he ever lost his temper. One officer suggested that it seemed Pell would only hurt somebody if it was tactically useful, and that he didn’t enjoy—or hate—violence. It was a tool.” The writer looked up. “Which, you ask me, is scarier.”

  Dance thought of her earlier assessment, killing emotionlessly whenever it was expedient.

  “Now, no history of drugs. Pell apparently’s never been a user. And he doesn’t—or didn’t—drink any alcohol.”

  “What about education?”

  “Now that’s interesting. He’s brilliant. When he was in high school he tested off the charts. He got A’s in independent study classes, but never showed up when attendance was required. In prison he taught himself law and handled his own appeal in the Croyton case.”

  She thought of his comment during the interview, about Hastings Law School.

  “And he took it all the way to the California Supreme Court—just last year they ruled against him. Apparently it was a big blow. He thought for sure he’d get off.”

  “Well, he may be smart but not smart enough to stay out of jail.” Kellogg tapped a paragraph of the bio that described maybe seventy-five arrests. “That’s a rap sheet”

  “And it’s the tip of the iceberg; Pell usually got other people to commit the crimes. There’re probably hundreds of other offenses he was behind that somebody else got nailed for. Robbery, burglary, shoplifting, pickpocketing. That’s how he survived, getting people around him to do the dirty work.”

  “Oliver,” Kellogg said.

  “What?”

  “Charles Dickens. Oliver Twist . . . You ever read it?”

  Dance said, “Saw the movie.”

  “Good comparison. Fagin, the guy who ran the gang of pickpockets. That was Pell.”

  “ ‘Please, sir, I want some more,’ ” Kellogg said in a Cockney accent. It was lousy. Dance laughed and he shrugged.

  “Pell left Bakersfield and moved to L.A., then San Francisco. Hung out with some people there, was arrested for a few things, nothing serious. No word for a while—until he’s picked up in Northern California in a homicide investigation.”

  “Homicide?”

  “Yep. The murder of Charles Pickering in Redding. Pickering was a county worker. He was found stabbed to death in the hills outside of town about an hour after he was seen talking to somebody who looked like Pell. Vicious killing. He was slashed dozens of times. Bloodbath. But Pell had an alibi—a girlfriend swore he was with her at the time of the killing. And there was no physical evidence. The local police held him for a week on vagrancy, but finally gave him a pass. The case was never solved.

  “Then he gets the Family together in Seaside. A few more years of theft, shoplifting. Some assaults. An arson or two. Pell was suspected in the beating of a biker who lived nearby, but the man wouldn’t press charges. A month or so after that came the Croyton murders. From then on—well, until yesterday—he was in prison.”

  Dance asked, “What does the girl have to say?”

  “Girl?”

  “The Sleeping Doll. Theresa Croyton.”

  “What could she tell you? She was asleep at the time of the murders. That was established.”

  “Was it?” Kellogg asked. “By who?”

  “The investigators at the time, I assume.” Nagle’s voice was uncertain. He’d apparently never thought about it.

  “She’d be, let’s see, seventeen now,” Dance calculated. “I’d like to talk to her. She might know some things that’d be helpful. She’s living with her aunt and uncle, right?”

  “Yes, they adopted her.”

  “Could I have their number?”

  Nagle hesitated. His eyes swept the desktop; they’d lost their sparkle.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Well, I promised the aunt I wouldn’t say anything to anybody about the girl. She’s very protective of her niece. Even I haven’t met her yet. At first the woman was dead set against my talking to her. I think she might agree eventually but if I gave you her number, I doubt very much she’d talk to you, and I suspect I’d never hear from her again.”

  “Just tell us where she lives. We’ll get the name from Directory Assistance. I won’t mention you.”

  He shook his head. “They changed their last name, moved out of the area. They were afraid somebody in the Family would come after them.”

  “You gave Kathryn the names of the women,” Kellogg pointed out.

  “They were in the phone book and in public records. You could’ve gotten them yourself. Theresa and her aunt and uncle are very unpublic.”

  “You found them,” Dance said.

  “Through some confidential sources. Who, I guarantee, want to stay even more confidential now that Pell’s escaped. But I know this’s important. . . . I’ll te
ll you what I’ll do. I’ll go see the aunt in person. Tell her you want to talk to Theresa about Pell. I’m not going to try to persuade them. If they say no, that’s it.”

  Kellogg nodded. “That’s all we’re asking. Thanks.”

  Looking over the bio, Dance said, “The more I learn about him, the less I know.”

  The writer laughed, the sparkle returning to his face. “Oh, you want to know the why of Daniel Pell?” He dug through his briefcase, found a stack of papers and flipped to a yellow tab. “Here’s a quote from one of his prison psych interviews. For once he was being candid.” Nagle read:

  “Pell: You want to analyze me, don’t you? You want to know what makes me tick? You surely know the answer to that one, Doctor. It’s the same for everybody: family, of course. Daddy whipped me, Daddy ignored me, Mommy didn’t breastfeed me, Uncle Joe did who knows what. Nature or nurture, you can lay everything at your family’s feet. But if you think too much about ’em, next thing you know, every single relative and ancestor you ever had is in the room with you and you’re paralyzed. No, no, the only way to survive is to let ’em all go and remember that you’re who you are and that’s never going to change.

  “Interviewer: Then who are you, Daniel?

  “Pell (laughing): Oh, me? I’m the one tugging the strings of your soul and making you do things you never thought you were capable of. I’m the one playing my flute and leading you to places you’re afraid to go. And let me tell you, Doctor, you’d be astonished at how many people want their puppeteers and their Pied Pipers. Absolutely astonished.”

  • • •

  “I have to get home,” Dance said, after Nagle had left. Her mother and the children would be anxiously awaiting her for her father’s party.

  Kellogg tossed the comma of hair off his forehead. It fell back. He tried again. She glanced at the gesture and noticed something she hadn’t seen before—a bandage protruding above the collar of his shirt.

  “You hurt?”

  A shrug. “Got winged. A takedown in Chicago the other day.”

  His body language told her he didn’t want to talk about it, and she didn’t push. But then he said, “The perp didn’t make it.” In a certain tone and with a certain glance. It was how she told people that she was a widow.

  “I’m sorry. You handling it okay?”

  “Fine.” Then he added, “Okay, not fine. But I’m handling it. Sometimes that’s the best you can do.”

  On impulse she asked, “Hey, you have plans tonight?”

  “Brief the SAC, then a bath at the hotel, a scotch, a burger and sleep. Well, okay, two scotches.”

  “Have a question.”

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  “You like birthday cake?”

  After only a brief pause he said, “It’s one of my favorite food groups.”

  Chapter 26

  “Mom, look. We deck-orated it! D-E-C-K.”

  Dance kissed her daughter. “Mags, that’s funny.”

  She knew the girl had been bursting, waiting to share the pun.

  The Deck did look nice. The kids had been busy all afternoon getting ready for the party. Banners, Chinese lanterns, candles everywhere. (They’d learned from their mom; when it came to entertaining, Kathryn Dance’s guests might not get gourmet food, but they were treated to great atmosphere.)

  “When can Grandpa open his presents?” Both Wes and Maggie had saved up allowance money and bought Stuart Dance outdoor gear—waders and a net. Dance knew her father’d be happy with anything his grandchildren got him but those particular items he would definitely use.

  “Presents after the cake,” Edie Dance announced. “And that’s after dinner.”

  “Hi, Mom.” Dance and her mother didn’t always hug but tonight Edie clasped her close as an excuse to whisper that she wanted to talk to her about Juan Millar.

  The women walked into the living room.

  Dance saw immediately that her mother was troubled.

  “What is it?”

  “He’s still hanging in there. He’s come to a couple of times.” A glance around to make sure, presumably, that the children were nowhere nearby. “Only for a few seconds each time. He couldn’t possibly give you a statement. But . . .”

  “What, Mom?”

  She lowered her voice further. “I was standing near him. Nobody else was in earshot. I looked down and his eyes were open. I mean the one that’s not bandaged. His lips were moving. I bent down. He said . . .” Edie glanced around again. “He said, ‘Kill me.’ He said it twice. Then he closed his eyes.”

  “Is he in that much pain?”

  “No, he’s so medicated he can’t feel a thing. But he could look at the bandages. He could see the equipment. He’s not a stupid man.”

  “His family’s there?”

  “Most of the time. Well, that brother of his, round the clock. He watches us like a hawk. He’s convinced we’re not giving Juan good treatment because he’s Latino. And he’s made a few more comments about you.”

  Dance grimaced.

  “Sorry, but I thought you should know.”

  “I’m glad you told me.”

  Very troubling. Not Julio Millar, of course. She could handle him. It was the young detective’s hopelessness that upset her so deeply.

  Kill me . . .

  Dance asked, “Did Betsey call?”

  “Ah, your sister can’t be here,” Edie said in a breezy tone, whose subtext was irritation that their younger daughter wouldn’t make the four-hour drive from Santa Barbara for her father’s birthday party. Of course, with the Pell manhunt ongoing, Dance probably wouldn’t’ve driven there, had the situation been reversed. According to an important rule of families, though, hypothetical transgressions aren’t offenses, and that Dance was present, even by default, meant that, this time, Betsey earned the black mark.

  They returned to the Deck and Maggie asked, “Mom, can we let Dylan and Patsy out?”

  “We’ll see.” The dogs could be a little boisterous at parties. And tended to get too much human food for their own good.

  “Where’s your brother?”

  “In his room.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Stuff.”

  Dance locked the weapon away for the party—an MCSO deputy on security detail was parked outside. She showered fast and changed.

  She found Wes in the hallway. “No, no T-shirt. It’s your grandfather’s birthday.”

  “Mom. It’s clean.”

  “Polo. Or your blue-and-white button-down.” She knew the contents of his closet better than he did.

  “Oh, okay.”

  She looked closely at his downcast eyes. His demeanor had nothing to do with a change of shirt.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, spill.”

  “Spill?”

  “It’s from my era. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Go change.”

  Ten minutes later she was setting out mounds of luscious appetizers, offering a silent prayer of thanks to Trader Joe’s.

  In a dress shirt, cuffs buttoned and tails tucked, Wes strafed past and grabbed a handful of nuts. A whiff of aftershave followed. He looked good. Being a parent was a challenge, but there was plenty to be proud of too.

  “Mom?” He tossed a cashew into the air. Caught it in his mouth.

  “Don’t do that. You could choke.”

  “Mom?”

  “What?”

  “Who’s coming tonight?”

  Now the eyes fished away and his shoulder was turned toward her. That meant another agenda lay behind the question. She knew what was bothering him—the same as last night. And now it was time to talk.

  “Just us and a few people.” Sunday evening there’d be a bigger event, with many of Stuart’s friends, at the Marine Club near the aquarium in Monterey. Today, her father’s actual birthday, she’d invited only eight or so people for dinner. She continued, �
�Michael and his wife, Steve and Martine, the Barbers . . . that’s about it. Oh, and somebody who’s working with us on a case. He’s from Washington.”

  He nodded. “That’s all? Nobody else?”

  “That’s all.” She pitched him a bag of pretzels, which he caught with one hand. “Set those out. And make sure there’re some left for the guests.”

  A much-relieved Wes headed off to start filling bowls.

  What the boy had been worried about was the possibility that Dance had invited Brian Gunderson.

  The Brian who was the source of the book sitting prominently nearby, the Brian whose phone call to Dance at CBI headquarters Maryellen Kresbach had so diligently reported.

  Brian called. . . .

  The forty-year-old investment banker had been a blind date, courtesy of Maryellen, who was as compulsive about, and talented at, matchmaking as she was baking, brewing coffee and running the professional life of CBI agents.

  Brian was smart and easy-going and funny too; on their first date the man had listened to her description of kinesics and promptly sat on his hands. “So you can’t figure out my intentions.” That dinner had turned out to be quite enjoyable. Divorced, no children (though he wanted them). Brian’s investment-banking business was hectic, and with his and Dance’s busy schedules, the relationship had by necessity moved slowly. Which was fine with her. Long married, recently widowed, she was in no hurry.

  After a month of dinners, coffee and movies, she and Brian had taken a long hike and found themselves on the beach at Asilomar. A golden sunset, a slew of sea otters playing near shore . . . how could you resist a kiss or two? They hadn’t. She remembered liking that. Then feeling guilty for liking. But liking it more than feeling guilty.

  That part of your life you can do without for a while, but not forever.

  Dance hadn’t had any particular plans for the future with Brian and was happy to take it easy, see what developed.

  But Wes had intervened. He was never rude or embarrassing, but he made clear in a dozen ways a mother could clearly read that he didn’t like anything about Brian. Dance had graduated from grief-counseling but she still saw a therapist occasionally. The woman told her how to introduce a possible romantic interest to the children, and she’d done everything right. But Wes had outmaneuvered her. He grew sullen and passive-aggressive whenever the subject of Brian came up or when she returned from seeing him.