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

by Deaver, Jeffery

  That’s what he’d been wanting to ask about last night when he was reading Lord of the Rings.

  Tonight, in his casual question about attendance at the party, the boy really meant, Is Brian coming?

  And the corollary: Have you guys really broken up?

  Yes, we have. (Though Dance wondered if Brian felt differently. After all, he’d called several times since the breakup.)

  The therapist had said his behavior was normal, and Dance could work it out if she remained patient and determined. Most important, though, she couldn’t let her son control her. But in the end she decided she wasn’t patient or determined enough. And so, two weeks ago, she’d broken it off. She’d been tactful, explaining that it was just a little too soon after her husband’s death; she wasn’t ready. Brian had been upset but had taken the news well. No parting shots. And they’d left the matter open.

  Let’s just give it some time. . . .

  In truth the breakup was a relief; parents have to pick their battles, and, she’d decided, skirmishing over romance wasn’t worth the effort just now. Still, she was pleased about his calls and had found herself missing him.

  Carting wine outside onto the Deck, she found her father with Maggie. He was holding a book and pointing to a picture of a deep-sea fish that glowed.

  “Hey, Mags, that looks tasty,” Dance said.

  “Mom, gross.”

  “Happy birthday, Dad.” She hugged him.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  Dance arranged platters, dumped beer into the cooler, then walked into the kitchen and pulled out her mobile. She checked in with TJ and Carraneo. They’d had no luck with the physical search for Pell, nor come across any leads to the missing Ford Focus, anyone with the names or screen names Nimue or Alison, or hotels, motels or boardinghouses where Pell and his accomplice might be staying.

  She was tempted to call Winston Kellogg, thinking he might be shying, but she decided not to. He had all the vital statistics; he’d either show or not.

  Dance helped her mother with more food and, returning to the Deck, greeted the neighbors, Tom and Sarah Barber, who brought with them wine, a birthday present and their gangly mixed-breed dog, Fawlty.

  “Mom, please!” Maggie called, her meaning clear.

  “Okay, okay, let ’em out of doggy jail.”

  Maggie freed Patsy and Dylan from the bedroom and the three canines galloped into the backyard, knocking one another down and checking out new scents.

  A few minutes later another couple appeared on the Deck. Fortyish Steven Cahill could’ve been a Birkenstock model, complete with corduroy slacks and salt-and-pepper ponytail. His wife, Martine Christensen, belied her surname; she was sultry, dark and voluptuous. You’d have thought the blood in her veins was Spanish or Mexican but her ancestors predated all the Californian settlers. She was part Ohlone Indian—a loose affiliation of tribelets, hunting and gathering from Big Sur to San Francisco Bay. For hundreds, possibly thousands, of years, the Ohlone were the sole inhabitants of this region of the state.

  Some years ago Dance had met Martine at a concert at a community college in Monterey, a descendant of the famed Monterey Folk Festival, where Bob Dylan had made his West Coast debut in 1965, and that a few years later morphed into the even more famous Monterey Pop Festival, which brought Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin to the world’s attention.

  The concert where Dance and Martine had met was less culture-breaking than its predecessors, but more significant on a personal level. The women had hit it off instantly and had stayed out long after the last act finished, talking music. They’d soon become best friends. It was Martine who’d practically broken down Dance’s door on several occasions following Bill’s death. She’d waged a persistent campaign to keep her friend from sinking into the seductive world of reclusive widowhood. While some people avoided her, and others (her mother, for instance) plied her with exhausting sympathy, Martine embarked on a campaign that could be called ignoring sorrow. She cajoled, joked, argued and plotted. Despite Dance’s reticence, she realized that, damn it, the tactic had worked. Martine was perhaps the biggest influence in getting her life back on track.

  Steve’s and Martine’s children, twin boys a year younger than Maggie, followed them up the stairs, one toting his mother’s guitar case, the other a present for Stuart. After greetings, Maggie herded the boys into the backyard.

  The adults gravitated to a rickety candlelit table.

  Dance saw that Wes was happier than he’d been in a long time. He was a natural social director and was now organizing a game for the children.

  She thought again about Brian, then let it go.

  “The escape. Are you . . .?” Martine’s melodious voice faded once she saw that Dance knew what she was talking about.

  “Yep. I’m running it.”

  “So the bugs hit you first,” her friend observed.

  “Right in the teeth. If I have to run off before the cake and candles, that’s why.”

  “It’s funny,” said Tom Barber, a local journalist and freelance writer. “We spend all our time lately thinking about terrorists. They’re the new ‘in’ villains. And suddenly somebody like Pell sneaks up behind you. You tend to forget that it’s people like him who might be the worst threat to most of us.”

  Barber’s wife added, “People’re staying home. All over the Peninsula. They’re afraid.”

  “Only reason I’m here,” Steven Cahill said, “is because I knew there’d be folks packing heat.”

  Dance laughed.

  Michael and Anne O’Neil arrived with their two children, Amanda and Tyler, nine and ten. Once again Maggie clambered up the stairs. She escorted the new youngsters to the backyard, after stocking up on sodas and chips.

  Dance pointed out wine and beer, then headed into the kitchen to help. But her mother said, “You’ve got another guest.” She indicated the front door, where Dance found Winston Kellogg.

  “I’m empty-handed,” he confessed.

  “I’ve got more than we’ll ever eat. You can take a doggy bag home, if you want. By the way, you allergic?”

  “To pollen, yes. Dogs? No.”

  Kellogg had changed again. The sports coat was the same but he wore a polo shirt and jeans, Topsiders and yellow socks.

  He noted her glance. “I know. For a Fed I look surprisingly like a soccer dad.”

  She directed him through the kitchen and introduced him to Edie. Then they continued on to the Deck, where he was inundated with more introductions. She remained circumspect about his role here, and Kellogg said merely that he was in town from Washington and was “working with Kathryn on a few projects.”

  Then she took him to the stairs leading down to the backyard and introduced him to the children. Dance caught Wes and Tyler looking at him closely, undoubtedly for armament, and whispering to each other.

  O’Neil joined the two agents.

  Wes waved enthusiastically to the deputy and, with another glance at Kellogg, returned to their game, which he was apparently making up on the run. He was laying out the rules. It seemed to involve outer space and invisible dragons. The dogs were aliens. The twins were royalty of some kind and a pine cone was either a magic orb or a hand grenade, perhaps both.

  “Did you tell Michael about Nagle?” Kellogg asked.

  She gave a brief synopsis of what they’d learned about Pell’s history and added that the writer was going to see if Theresa Croyton would talk to them.

  “So, you think Pell’s here because of the murders back then?” O’Neil asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But I need all the information I can get.”

  The placid detective gave a smile and said to Kellogg, “No stone left unturned. That’s how I describe her policing style.”

  “Which I learned from him,” Dance said, laughing, and nodding at O’Neil.

  Then the detective said, “Oh, I was thinking about something. Remember? One of Pell’s phone conversations from Capitola was about money.”
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  “Ninety-two hundred dollars,” Kellogg said.

  Dance was impressed at his retention.

  “Well, here’s what I thought: We know the Thunderbird was stolen in Los Angeles. It’s logical to assume that’s where Pell’s girlfriend’s from. How ’bout we contact banks in L.A. County and see if any women customers’ve withdrawn that amount in the past, say, month or two?”

  Dance liked the idea, though it would mean a lot of work.

  O’Neil said to Kellogg, “That’d have to come from you folks: FBI, Treasury, IRS or Homeland Security, I’d guess.”

  “It’s a good idea. Just thinking out loud, though, I’d say we’d have a manpower problem.” He echoed Dance’s concern. “We’re talking millions of customers. I know the L.A. bureau couldn’t handle it, and Homeland’d laugh. And if she was smart she’d make small withdrawals over a period of time. Or cash third-party checks and stash the money.”

  “Oh, sure. Possibly. But it’d be great to ID his girlfriend. You know, ‘A second suspect—’ ”

  “—‘logarithmically increases the chances for detection and arrest,’ ” Kellogg finished the quotation from an old textbook on law enforcement. Dance and O’Neil quoted it often.

  Smiling, Kellogg held O’Neil’s eye. “We Feds don’t have quite the resources people think we do. I’m sure we couldn’t come up with the bodies to man the phones. Be a huge job.”

  “I wonder. You’d think it’d be pretty easy to check databases, at least with the big chain banks.” Michael O’Neil could be quite tenacious.

  Dance asked, “Would you need a warrant?”

  O’Neil said, “Probably to release the name you would. But if a bank wanted to cooperate they could run the numbers and tell us if there was a match. We could get a warrant for the name and address in a half-hour.”

  Kellogg sipped his wine. “The fact is, there’s another problem. I’m worried if we go to the SAC or Homeland with something like that—too tenuous—we might lose support we’d need later for something more solid.”

  “Crying wolf, hm?” O’Neil nodded. “Guess you have to play more politics at that level than we do here.”

  “But let’s think about it. I’ll make some calls.”

  O’Neil looked past Dance’s shoulder. “Hey, happy birthday, young man.”

  Stuart Dance, wearing a badge that said “Birthday Boy,” handmade by Maggie and Wes, shook hands, refilled O’Neil’s and Dance’s wineglasses and said to Kellogg, “You’re talking shop. Not allowed. I’m stealing you away from these children, come play with the adults.”

  Kellogg gave a shy laugh and followed the man to the candlelit table, where Martine had her battered Gibson guitar out of the case and was organizing a sing-along. Dance and O’Neil stood alone. She saw Wes looking up. He’d apparently been studying the adults. He turned away, back to the Star Wars improvisation.

  “He seems good,” O’Neil said, tilting his head toward Kellogg.

  “Winston? Yes.”

  Typically, O’Neil carried no grudge about the rejection of his suggestions. He was the antithesis of pettiness.

  “He take a hit recently?” O’Neil tapped his neck.

  “How’d you know?” The bandage wasn’t visible tonight.

  “He was touching it the way you touch a wound.”

  She laughed. “Good kinesic analysis. Yeah, just happened. He was in Chicago. The perp got a round off first, I guess, and Win took him out. He didn’t go into the details.”

  They fell silent, looking over the backyard, the children, the dogs, the lights glowing brighter in the encroaching dusk. “We’ll get him.”

  “Will we?” she asked.

  “Yep. He’ll make a mistake. They always do.”

  “I don’t know. He’s something different. Don’t you feel that?”

  “No. He’s not different. He’s just more.” Michael O’Neil—the most widely read person she knew—had surprisingly simple philosophies of life. He didn’t believe in evil or good, much less God or Satan. Those were all abstractions that deflected you from your job, which was to catch people who broke rules that humans had created for their own health and safety.

  No good, no bad. Just destructive forces that had to be stopped.

  To Michael O’Neil, Daniel Pell was a tsunami, an earthquake, a tornado.

  He watched the children playing, then said, “I gather that guy you’ve been seeing . . . It’s over with?”

  Brian called. . . .

  “You caught that, hm? Busted by my own assistant.”

  “I’m sorry. Really.”

  “You know how it goes,” Dance said, noting she’d spoken one of those sentences that were meaningless flotsam in a conversation.

  “Sure.”

  Dance turned to see how her mother was coming with dinner. She saw O’Neil’s wife looking at the two of them. Anne smiled.

  Dance smiled back. She said to O’Neil, “So, let’s go join the sing-along.”

  “Do I have to sing?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said quickly. He had a wonderful speaking voice, low with a natural vibrato. He couldn’t stay on key under threat of torture.

  After a half-hour of music, gossip and laughter, Edie Dance, her daughter and granddaughter set out Worcestershire-marinated flank steak, salad, asparagus and potatoes au gratin. Dance sat beside Winston Kellogg, who was holding his own very well among strangers. He even told a few jokes, with a deadpan delivery that reminded her of her late husband, who had shared not only Kellogg’s career but his easy-going nature—at least once the federal ID card was tucked away.

  The conversation ambled from music to Anne O’Neil’s critique of San Francisco arts, to politics in the Middle East, Washington and Sacramento, to the far more important story of a sea otter pup born in captivity at the aquarium two days ago.

  It was a comfortable gathering: friends, laughter, food, wine, music.

  Though, of course, complete comfort eluded Kathryn Dance. Pervading the otherwise fine evening, like the moving bass line of Martine’s old guitar, was the thought that Daniel Pell was still at large.

  WEDNESDAY

  Chapter 27

  Kathryn Dance was sitting in a cabin at the Point Lobos Inn—the first time she’d ever been in the expensive place. It was an upscale lodge of private cabins on a quiet road off Highway 1, south of Carmel, abutting the rugged and beautiful state park after which the inn was named. The Tudor-style place was secluded—a long driveway separated it from the road—and the deputy in the Monterey Sheriff’s Office car stationed in front had a perfect view of all approaches, which was why she’d picked it.

  Dance checked in with O’Neil. At the moment he was following up on a missing person report in Monterey. Calls to TJ and Carraneo too. TJ had nothing to tell her, and the rookie agent said he was still having no luck finding a cheap motel or boardinghouse where Pell might be staying. “I’ve tried all the way up to Gilroy and—”

  “Cheap hotels?”

  A pause. “That’s right, Agent Dance. I didn’t bother with the expensive ones. Didn’t think an escapee’d have much money to spend on them.”

  Dance recalled Pell’s secret phone conversation in Capitola, the reference to $9,200. “Pell’s probably thinking that’s exactly what you’re thinking. Which means . . .” She let Carraneo pick up her thought.

  “That it’d be smarter for him to stay in an expensive one. Hm. Okay. I’ll get on it. Wait. Where are you right now, Agent Dance? Do you think he—?”

  “I’ve already checked out everybody here,” she assured him. She hung up, looked at her watch again and wondered: Is this harebrained scheme really going to do any good?

  Five minutes later, a knock on the door. Dance opened it to see massive CBI Agent Albert Stemple towering over a woman in her late twenties. Stocky Linda Whitfield had a pretty face, untouched by makeup, and short red hair. Her clothes were a bit shabby: black stretch pants with shiny knees and a red sweater dangling threads; its V-neck framed
a pewter cross. Dance detected no trace of perfume, and Linda’s nails were unpolished and cut short.

  The women shook hands. Linda’s grip was firm.

  Stemple’s brow lifted. Meaning, Is there anything else?

  Dance thanked him and the big agent set down Linda’s suitcase and ambled off. Dance locked the door and the woman walked into the living room of the two-bedroom cabin. She looked at the elegant place as if she’d never stayed anywhere nicer than a Days Inn. “My.”

  “I’ve got coffee going.” A gesture toward the small kitchen.

  “Tea, if there’s any.”

  Dance made a cup. “I’m hoping you won’t have to stay long. Maybe not even overnight.”

  “Any more on Daniel?”

  “Nothing new.”

  Linda looked at the bedrooms as if choosing one would commit her to staying longer than she wanted to. Her serenity wavered, then returned. She picked a room and took her suitcase inside, then returned a moment later and accepted the cup of tea, poured milk in and sat.

  “I haven’t been on an airplane in years,” she said. “And that jet . . . it was amazing. So small, but it pushed you right back in your seat when we took off. There was an FBI agent on board. She was very nice.”

  They sat on comfortable couches, a large coffee table between them. She looked around the cabin again. “My, this is nice.”

  It sure was. Dance wondered what the FBI accountants would say when they saw the bill. The cabin was nearly six hundred a night.

  “Rebecca’s on her way. But maybe you and I could just get started.”

  “And Samantha?”

  “She wouldn’t come.”

  “You talked to her then?”

  “I went to see her.”

  “Where is she? . . . No, wait, you can’t tell me that.”

  Dance smiled.

  “I heard she had plastic surgery and changed her name and everything.”

  “That’s true, yes.”