“Excuse me?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“This is the California Bureau of Investigation?”
If she’d looked at the building she would’ve seen the large sign that repeated four of the words in her question. But, being a good public servant, he said, “That’s right. Can I help you?”
“Is this the office where Agent Dance works?”
“Kathryn Dance. Yes.”
“Is she in now?”
“I don’t—” The clerk looked across the lot and barked a laugh. “Well, guess what, miss? That’s her, right over there, the younger woman.”
He saw Dance with her mother and the two kids, whom the clerk had met on a couple of occasions.
“Okay. Thank you, Officer.”
The clerk didn’t correct her. He liked being misidentified as a real law enforcer. He got into his car and pulled out of the driveway. He happened to glance in the rearview mirror and saw the woman standing just where he’d left her. She seemed troubled.
He could’ve told her she didn’t need to be. Kathryn Dance, in his opinion, was one of the nicest people in the whole of the CBI.
• • •
Dance closed the door of her mother’s Prius hybrid. It hummed out of the lot and the agent waved good-bye.
She watched the silver car negotiate the winding road toward Highway 68. She was troubled. She kept imagining Juan Millar’s voice in her head.
Kill me. . . .
The poor man.
Although his brother’s lashing out had nothing to do with it, Kathryn Dance did feel guilty that she’d picked him to go check on what was happening in the lockup. He was the most logical one, but she wondered if, being younger, he’d been more careless than a more experienced officer might’ve been. It was impossible to think that Michael O’Neil, or big Albert Stemple, or Dance herself would have let Pell get the upper hand.
Turning back toward the building, she was thinking of the first few moments of the fire and the escape. They’d had to move so quickly. But should she have waited, thought out her strategy better?
Second-guessing. It went with the territory of being a cop.
Returning to the building, humming Julieta Venegas’s music. The notes were swirling through her thoughts, intoxicating—and taking her away from Juan Millar’s terrible wounds and terrible words and Susan Pemberton’s death . . . and her son’s eyes, flipping from cheerful to stony the moment the boy had seen Dance with Winston Kellogg.
What to do about that?
Dance continued through the deserted parking lot toward the front door of CBI, glad that the rain had stopped.
She was nearing the stairs when she heard a scrape of footstep on the asphalt and turned quickly to see that a woman had come up behind her, silently until now. She was a mere six or so feet away, walking directly toward her.
Dance stopped fast.
The woman did too. She shifted her weight.
“Agent Dance . . . I . . .”
Neither spoke for a moment.
Then Samantha McCoy said, “I’ve changed my mind. I want to help.”
Chapter 32
“I couldn’t sleep after you came to see me. And when I heard he’d killed someone else, that woman, I knew I had to come.”
Samantha, Dance and Kellogg were in her office. The woman sat upright, gripping the arms of the chair hard, looking from one to the other. Never more than a second’s gaze at either. “You’re sure it was Daniel who killed her?”
“That’s right,” Kellogg said.
“Why?”
“We don’t know. We’re looking into it now. Her name was Susan Pemberton. She worked for Eve Brock. Do the names mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“It’s an event-planning company. Pell took all their files and presumably destroyed them. There was something in them that he wanted to hide. Or maybe there’s an event coming up that he’s interested in. Do you have any thoughts about what that might be?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
Dance told her, “I want to get you together with Linda and Rebecca as soon as possible.”
“They’re both here?”
“That’s right.”
Samantha nodded slowly.
Kellogg said, “I need to follow up on a few things here. I’ll join you later.”
Dance told Maryellen Kresbach where she’d be and the women left the CBI building. The agent had Samantha park her car in the secure garage under the building, so no one would see it. They then both got into Dance’s Ford.
Samantha clicked on her seat belt and then stared straight ahead. Suddenly she blurted, “One thing, my husband, his family . . . my friends. They still don’t know.”
“What did you tell him about being away?”
“A publishing conference . . . And Linda and Rebecca? I’d just as soon they didn’t know my new name, about my family.”
“That’s fine with me. I haven’t given them any details they didn’t already know. Now, you ready?”
A shaky smile. “No. I’m not the least ready. But, okay, let’s go.”
When they arrived at the inn Dance checked with the MCSO deputy outside and learned there’d been no unusual activity in or around the cabin.
She gestured Samantha out of the car. The woman hesitated and climbed from the vehicle, squinting, taking in everything around her. She’d be vigilant, of course, under the circumstances, but Dance sensed something else behind this attentiveness.
Samantha gave a faint smile. “The smells, the sound of the ocean . . . I haven’t been back to the Peninsula since the trial. My husband keeps asking me to drive down for the weekend. I’ve come up with some doozy excuses. Allergies, carsickness, pressing manuscripts to edit.” Her smile faded. She glanced at the cabin. “Pretty.”
“It’s only got two bedrooms. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“If there’s a couch, I can sleep on that. I don’t want to bother anybody.”
Samantha the unassuming one, the shy one, Dance recalled.
Mouse.
“I hope it’ll just be for one night.” Kathryn Dance stepped forward and knocked on the door to the past.
• • •
The Toyota smelled of cigarette smoke, which Daniel Pell hated.
He himself never smoked, though he’d bartered cigarettes like a floor broker on a stock exchange when he was inside the Q or Capitola. He would’ve let the kids in the Family smoke—dependency in someone else is exploitable, of course—but he loathed the smell. Reminded him of growing up, his father sitting in his big armchair, reading the Bible, jotting notes for sermons nobody would ever hear and chain-smoking. (His mother nearby, smoking and drinking.) His brother, not smoking or doing much else but hauling young Daniel out from where he was hiding, his closet, the tree house, the basement bathroom. “I’m not doing all the fucking work myself.”
Though his brother ended up not doing any of the work; he just handed Daniel a scrub bucket or toilet brush or dishrag and went to hang with his friends. He’d return to the house occasionally to pound on his brother if the house wasn’t spic-and-span, or sometimes even if it was.
Cleanliness, son, is next to godliness. There’s truth in that. Now, polish the ashtrays. I want them to sparkle.
So he and Jennie were now driving with the windows down, the scent of pine and cold salty air swirling into the car.
Jennie did that rubby-nose thing, like she was trying to massage the bump out, and was quiet. She was content now, not purring but back on track. His distance last night, after she’d balked at helping him “kill” Susan Pemberton on the beach, had worked just fine. They’d returned to the Sea View and she’d done the only thing she could to try to win back his love—and spent two strenuous hours proving it. He’d withheld at first, been sullen, and she tried even harder. She even was starting to enjoy the pain. It reminded him of the time the Family had stopped at Carmel Mission years ago. He’d learned about the monks who’d beat themselve
s bloody, getting a high in the name of God.
But that reminded Daniel Pell of his chunky father looking at him blankly over the Bible, through a cloud of Camel cigarette smoke, so he pushed the memory away.
Last night, after the sex, he’d grown warmer to her. But later he’d stepped outside and pretended to make a phone call.
Just to keep her on edge.
When he’d returned, she hadn’t asked about the call. Pell had returned to the material he’d gotten from Susan Pemberton’s office, and went online once more.
This morning, he’d told her he had to go see someone. Let that sit, watched her insecurities roll up—taps on the lumpy nose, a half-dozen “sweetheart”s—and then finally he’d said, “I’d like it if you came along.”
“Really?” A thirsty dog lapping up water.
“Yep. But, I don’t know. It might be too hard for you.”
“No, I want to. Please.”
“We’ll see.”
She’d pulled him back to bed and they’d continued their balance-of-power game. He let himself be tugged temporarily back into her camp.
Now, though, as they drove, he had no interest in her body whatsoever; he was firmly back in control.
“You understand about yesterday, at the beach? I was in a funny mood. I get that way when something precious to me is endangered.” This was a bit of an apology—who can resist that?—along with the reminder that it might happen again.
“That’s one thing I love about you, sweetie.”
Not “sweetheart” now. Good.
When Pell had had the Family, tucked away all cozy in the town of Seaside, he’d used a lot of techniques for controlling the girls and Jimmy. He’d give them common goals, he’d dispense rewards evenly, he’d give them tasks but withhold the reason for doing them, he’d keep them in suspense until they were nearly eaten alive by uncertainty.
And—the best way to cement loyalty and avoid dissension—he’d create a common enemy.
He now said to her, “We have another problem, lovely.”
“Oh. That’s where we’re going now?” Rub-a-dub on the nose. It was a wonderful barometer.
“That’s right.”
“I told you, honey, I don’t care about the money. You don’t have to pay me back.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with that. It’s more important. Much more. I’m not asking you to do what I did last night. I’m not asking you to hurt anybody. But I need some help. And I hope you will.”
Carefully playing with the emphasis.
She’d be thinking of the fake phone call last night. Who’d he been talking to? Somebody else he could call on to step in?
“Whatever I can do, sure.”
They passed a pretty brunette, late teens, on the sidewalk. Pell noted immediately her posture and visage—the determined walk, the angry, downcast face, the unbrushed hair—which suggested she’d fled after an argument. Perhaps from her parents, perhaps her boyfriend. So wonderfully vulnerable. A day’s work, and Daniel Pell could have her on the road with him.
The Pied Piper . . .
But, of course, now wasn’t the time and he left her behind, feeling the frustration of a hunter unable to stop by the roadside and take a perfect buck in a field nearby. Still, he wasn’t upset; there’d be plenty of other young people like her in his future.
Besides, feeling the gun and knife in his waistband, Pell knew that in just a short period of time his hunt lust would be satisfied.
Chapter 33
Standing in the open doorway of the cabin at Point Lobos Inn, Rebecca Sheffield said to Dance, “Welcome back. We’ve been gossiping and spending your money on room service.” She nodded toward a bottle of Jordan Cabernet, which only she was drinking.
Rebecca glanced at Samantha and, not recognizing her, said, “Hello.” Probably thinking she was another officer involved in the case.
The women walked inside. Dance shut and double-locked the door.
Samantha looked from one woman to the other. It seemed as if she’d lost her voice, and for a moment Dance believed she’d turn and flee.
Rebecca did a double take and blinked. “Wait. Oh my God.”
Linda didn’t get it, her brows furrowed.
Rebecca said, “Don’t you recognize her?”
“What do you—? Wait. It’s you, Sam?”
“Hello.” The slim woman was racked with uneasiness. She couldn’t hold a gaze for more than a few seconds.
“Your face,” Linda said. “You’re so different. My.”
Samantha shrugged, blushing.
“Uh-huh, prettier. And you’ve got some meat on your bones. Finally. You were a scrawny little thing.” Rebecca walked forward and firmly hugged Samantha. Then, hands on her shoulders, she leaned back. “Great job . . . What’d they do?”
“Implants on my jaw and cheeks. Lips and eyes mostly. Nose, of course. And then . . .” She glanced at her round chest. A faint smile. “But I’d wanted to do that for years.”
Linda, crying, said, “I can’t believe it.” Another hug.
“What’s your new name?”
Not looking at either of them, she said, “I’d rather not say. And listen, both of you. Please. You can’t tell anybody about me. If they catch Daniel and you want to talk to reporters, please don’t mention me.”
“No problem with that.”
“Your husband doesn’t know?” Linda asked, glancing at Samantha’s engagement and wedding rings.
A shake of the head.
“How’d you pull that one off?” Rebecca asked.
Samantha swallowed. “I lie. That’s how.”
Dance knew that married couples lie to each other with some frequency, though less often than romantic partners who aren’t married. But most lies are trivial; very few involve something as fundamental as Samantha’s.
“That’s gotta be a pain,” Rebecca said. “Need a good memory.”
“I don’t have any choice,” Samantha added. Dance recognized the kinesic attributes of defensiveness, body parts folding, stature shrinking, crossings, aversions. She was a volcano of stress.
Rebecca said, “But he has to know you did time?”
“Yes.”
“Then how—?”
“I told him it was a white-collar thing. I helped my boss embezzle some stocks because his wife needed an operation.”
“He believed that?”
Samantha gave a timid look to Rebecca. “He’s a good man. But he’d walk out the door if he knew the truth. That I was in a cult—”
“It wasn’t a cult,” Linda said quickly.
“Whatever it was, Daniel Pell was involved. That’s reason enough to leave me. And I wouldn’t blame him.”
Rebecca asked, “What about your parents? Do they know anything?”
“My mother’s dead, and my father’s as involved in my life as he always was. Which is not at all. But I’m sorry, I’d rather not talk about all this.”
“Sure, Sam,” Rebecca said.
The agent now returned to the specifics of the case. First, she gave them the details of the Pemberton killing, the theft of the company’s files.
“Are you sure he did it?” Linda asked.
“Yes. The prints are his.”
She closed her eyes and muttered a prayer. Rebecca’s face tightened angrily.
Neither of them had ever heard the name Pemberton, nor of the Brock Company. They couldn’t recall any events Pell might’ve gone to that had been catered.
“Wasn’t a black-tie kind of life back then,” Rebecca said.
Dance now asked Samantha about Pell’s accomplice, but, like the others, she had no idea who the woman might be. Nor did she recall any references to Charles Pickering in Redding. Dance told them about the email from Richard Pell and asked if they’d ever had any contact with him.
“Who?” Rebecca asked.
Dance explained.
“An older brother?” Linda interrupted. “No, Scotty was younger. And he died a y
ear before I met Daniel.”
“He had a brother?” Rebecca asked. “He said he was an only child.”
Dance told them the story about the crimes Pell had committed with his brother’s sister-in-law.
Linda shook her head. “No, no. You’re wrong. His brother’s name was Scott and he was mentally disabled. That’s one of the reasons we connected so well. My cousin’s got cerebral palsy.”
Rebecca said, “And he told me he was an only child, like me.” A laugh. “He was lying to get our sympathy. What’d he tell you, Sam?”
She was reluctant to answer. Then she said, “Richard was older. He and Daniel didn’t get along at all. Richard was a bully. Their mother was drunk all the time and she never cleaned up, so his father insisted the boys do it. But Richard would force Daniel to do all the work. He beat him up if he didn’t.”
“He told you the truth?” Linda asked stiffly.
“Well, he just mentioned it.”
“The Mouse scores.” Rebecca laughed.
Linda said, “He told me he didn’t want anybody else in the Family to know about his brother. He only trusted me.”
“And I wasn’t supposed to mention he was an only child,” Rebecca said.
Linda’s face was troubled. “We all tell fibs sometimes. I’ll bet the incident with the sister-in-law—what his brother told you about—didn’t happen at all, or it wasn’t so bad, and his brother used it as an excuse to cut things off.”
Rebecca was clearly not convinced of this.
Dance supposed that Pell had identified both Linda and Rebecca as more of a threat to him than Samantha. Linda was the mother of the Family and would have some authority. Rebecca was clearly brash and outspoken. But Samantha . . . he could control her much better and knew she could be trusted with the truth—well, some truth.
Dance was glad she’d decided to come help them.
She noticed that Samantha was looking at the coffeepot.
“Like some?”
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 69
