“We heard,” the aunt said, unsmiling. “He’s dead?” As if she couldn’t have too much confirmation.
“That’s right.”
She gave them the details of the incident at Point Lobos. The aunt seemed impatient, though Theresa was eager to hear exactly what had happened. Dance didn’t edit the account.
Theresa nodded and took the news unemotionally.
“We can’t thank you enough,” the agent said. “What you did saved lives.”
The subject didn’t come up of what had actually happened on the night her family was killed, Theresa’s feigned illness. Dance supposed that would remain a secret between herself and the girl forever. But why not? Sharing with one person was often as cathartic as sharing with the world.
“You’re driving back tonight?”
“Yeah,” the girl said with a glance at her aunt. “But we’re making a stop first.”
Dance thinking: seafood dinner, shopping at the cute stores in Los Gatos?
“I want to see the house. My old house.”
Where her parents and siblings had died.
“We’re going to meet Mr. Nagle. He talked to the family who lives there now and they’ve agreed to let me see it.”
“Did he suggest that?” Dance was ready to run interference for the girl and knew that Nagle would back down in an instant.
“No, it was my idea,” Theresa said. “I just, you know, want to. And he’s going to come to Napa and interview me. For that book. The Sleeping Doll. That’s the title. Isn’t it weird having a book written about you?”
Mary Bolling didn’t say anything, though her body language—slightly lifted shoulders, a shift in the jaw—told Dance instantly that she didn’t approve of the evening’s detour and that there’d been an argument on the subject.
As often, following significant life incidents—like the Family’s reunion or Theresa’s journey here to help catch her family’s killer—there’s a tendency to look for fundamental changes in the participants. But that didn’t happen very often and Dance didn’t think it had here. She found herself looking at the same two people they’d undoubtedly been for some time: a protective middle-aged woman, blunt but stepping up to the difficult task of becoming a substitute parent, and a typically attitudinal teenage girl who’d impulsively done a brave thing. They’d had a disagreement about how to spend the rest of the evening and, in this case, the girl had won, undoubtedly with concessions.
Maybe, though, the very fact that the disagreement had occurred and been resolved was a step forward. This was, Dance supposed, how people change: incrementally.
She hugged Theresa, shook her aunt’s hand and wished them a safe trip.
Five minutes later Dance was back in the GW side of CBI headquarters, accepting a cup of coffee and an oatmeal cookie from Maryellen Kresbach.
Walking into her office, she kicked off the damaged Aldos and dug in her closet for a new pair: Joan and David sandals. Then she stretched and sat, sipping the strong coffee and searching through her desk for the remainder of a pack of M&Ms she’d stashed there a few days ago. She ate them quickly, stretched again and enjoyed looking at the pictures of her children.
Photos of her husband too.
How she would have liked to lie in bed next to him tonight and talk about the Pell case.
Ah, Bill . . .
Her phone chirped.
She glanced at the screen and her stomach did a small jump.
“Hi,” she said to Michael O’Neil.
“Hey. Just got the news. You okay? Heard there were rounds exchanged.”
“Pell parked one near me. That’s all.”
“How’s Linda?”
Dance gave him the details.
“And Rebecca?”
“ICU. She’ll live. But she’s not getting out any time soon.”
He, in turn, told her about the phony getaway car—Pell’s favorite means of diversion and distraction. The Infiniti driver wasn’t dead. He had been forced by Pell to call and report his own murder and carjacking. He’d then driven home, put the car in the garage and sat in a dark room until he’d heard the news of Pell’s death.
He added that he was sending her the crime scene reports from the Butterfly Inn, which Pell and Jennie had checked into after escaping from the Sea View and from Point Lobos.
She’d been glad to hear O’Neil’s voice. But something was off. There was still the matter-of-fact tone. He wasn’t angry, but he wasn’t overly pleased to be speaking to her. She thought his earlier remarks about Winston Kellogg were out of line but, while she didn’t want an apology, she did wish that the rough seas between them would calm.
She asked, “You all right?” With some people, you had to prime the pump.
“Fine,” he said.
That goddamn word, which could mean everything from “wonderful” to “I hate you.”
She suggested he come by the Deck that night.
“Can’t, sorry. Anne and I have plans.”
Ah. Plans.
That’s one of those words too.
“Better go. Just wanted to let you know about the Infiniti driver.”
“Sure, take care.”
Click. . . .
Dance grimaced for the benefit of no one and turned back to a file.
Ten minutes later Winston Kellogg’s head appeared in the door. She gestured toward the chair and he dropped down into it. He hadn’t changed; his clothes were still muddy and sandy. He saw her salt-stained shoes sitting by the door and gestured toward his own. Then laughed, pointing to a dozen pairs in her closet. “Probably nothing in there that’d work for me.”
“Sorry,” she answered, deadpan. “They’re all a size six.”
“Too bad, that lime-green number has a certain appeal.”
They discussed the reports that needed to be completed and the shooting review board that would have to issue a report on the incident. She’d wondered how long he’d be in the area and realized that whether or not he followed through on asking her out he’d have to stay for four or five days; a review board could take that long to convene, hear testimony and write the report.
. . . afterward. How does that sound? . . .
Like Dance herself a few minutes ago, Kellogg stretched. His face gave a very faint signal—he was troubled. It would be the shootout, of course. Dance had never even fired her weapon at a suspect, let alone killed anyone. She’d been instrumental in tracking down dangerous perps, some of whom had been killed in the takedown. Others had gone to death row. But that was different from pointing a gun at someone and ending his life.
And here Kellogg had done so twice in a relatively short period of time.
“So what’s next for you?” she asked.
“I’m giving a seminar in Washington on religious fundamentalism—it shares a lot with cult mentality. Then some time off. If the real world cooperates, of course.” He slouched and closed his eyes.
In his smudged slacks, and with floppy hair and a bit of five-o’clock shadow, he was really an appealing man, Dance reflected.
“Sorry,” he said, opening his eyes and laughing. “Bad form to fall asleep in colleagues’ offices.” The smile was genuine and whatever had been troubling him earlier was now gone. “Oh, one thing. I’ve got paperwork tonight, but tomorrow, can I hold you to that offer of dinner? It is afterward, remember?”
She hesitated, thinking, You know counterinterrogation strategy: anticipate every question the interrogator’s going to ask and be ready with an answer.
But even though she’d just been thinking about this very matter, she was caught off guard.
So what’s the answer? she asked herself.
“Tomorrow?” he repeated, sounding shy—curiously, for a man who’d just nailed one of the worst perps in Monterey County history.
You’re stalling, she told herself. Her eyes swept the pictures of her children, her dogs, her late husband. She thought of Wes.
She said, “You know, tomorrow’d be great.”
Chapter 57
“It’s over,” she said in a low voice to her mother.
“I heard. Michael briefed us at CBI.”
They were at her parents’ house in Carmel. The family was back from the castle keep of headquarters.
“Did the gang hear?”
Meaning the children.
“I put some spin on it. Phrased it like, oh, Mom’ll be home at a decent hour tonight because, by the way, that stupid case of hers is over with, they got the bad guy, I don’t know the details. That sort of thing. Mags didn’t pay any attention—she’s working up a new song for piano camp. Wes headed right for the TV but I had Stu drag him outside to play Ping-Pong. He seems to’ve forgotten about the story. But the key word is ‘seems.’ ”
Dance had shared with her parents that, where her children were concerned, she wanted to minimize news about death and violence, particularly as it involved her work. “I’ll keep an eye on him. And thanks.”
Dance cracked open an Anchor Steam beer and split it in two glasses. Handed one to her mother.
Edie sipped and then, with a frown, asked, “When did you get Pell?”
Dance gave her the approximate time. “Why?”
Glancing at the clock, her mother said, “I was sure I heard somebody in the backyard around four, four-thirty. I didn’t think anything of it at first but then I got to wondering if Pell found out where we lived. Wanting to get even or something. I was feeling a little bit spooked. Even with the squad car out front.”
Pell wouldn’t hesitate to hurt them, of course—he’d planned to do so—but the timing was off. Pell was already at Morton Nagle’s house by then, or on the way.
“It probably wasn’t him.”
“Must’ve been a cat. Or the Perkins’ dog. They have to learn to keep it inside. I’ll talk to them.”
She knew her mother would do just that.
Dance rounded up the children and herded them into the family Pathfinder, where the dogs awaited. She hugged her father and they made plans for her to pick her parents up for his birthday party at the Marine Club on Sunday evening. Dance was the designated driver, so they could enjoy themselves and drink as much champagne and Pinot Noir as they wanted. She thought about inviting Winston Kellogg but decided to wait on that one. See how tomorrow’s “afterward” date went.
Dance thought about dinner and could summon up zero desire to cook. “Can you guys live with pancakes at Bayside?”
“Woo-hoo!” Maggie called. And began debating aloud what kind of syrup she wanted. Wes was happy but more restrained.
When they got to the restaurant and were seated at a booth, she reminded her son it was his job to pick their Sunday afternoon adventure this week before the birthday party. “So, what’s our plan? Movie? Hiking?”
“I don’t know yet.” Wes examined the menu for a long time. Maggie wanted a to-go order for the dogs. Dance explained that the pancakes weren’t to celebrate the reunion with the canines; it was simply because she wasn’t in the mood to cook.
As the large, steaming plates were arriving, Wes asked, “Oh, you hear about that festival thing? The boats?”
“Boats?”
“Grandpa was telling us about it. It’s a boat parade in the bay and a concert. At Cannery Row.”
Dance recalled something about a John Steinbeck festival. “Is that on Sunday? Is that what you’d like to do?”
“It’s tomorrow night,” Wes said. “It’d be fun. Can we go?”
Dance laughed to herself. There was no way he could’ve known about her dinner date with Kellogg tomorrow. Or could he? She had intuition when it came to the children; why couldn’t it work the other way?
Dance dressed the pancakes with syrup and allowed herself a pat of butter. Stalling. “Tomorrow? Let me think.”
Her initial reaction, on seeing Wes’s unsmiling face, was to call Kellogg and postpone or even cancel the date.
Sometimes it’s just easier. . . .
She stopped Maggie from drowning her pancakes in a frightening avalanche of blueberry and strawberry syrups, then turned to Wes and said impulsively, “Oh, that’s right, honey, I can’t. I have plans.”
“Oh.”
“But I’m sure Grandpa’d want to go with you.”
“What’re you going to do? See Connie? Or Martine? Maybe they’d like to come too. We could all go. They could bring the twins.”
“Yeah, the twins, Mom!” Maggie said.
Dance heard her therapist’s words: Kathryn, you can’t look at the substance of what he’s saying. Parents tend to feel that their children raise valid objections about potential step-parents or even casual dates. You can’t think that way. What he’s upset with is what he sees as your betrayal of his father’s memory. It has nothing to do with the partner himself.
She made a decision. “No, I’m going to have dinner with the man I’ve been working with.”
“Agent Kellogg,” the boy shot back.
“That’s right. He has to go back to Washington soon, and I wanted to thank him for all the work he’s done for us.”
She felt a bit cheesy for gratuitously suggesting that because he lived so far away Kellogg was no long-term threat. (Though she supposed Wes’s sensitive mind could easily jump to the conclusion that Dance was already planning to uproot them from friends and family here on the Peninsula and resettle them in the nation’s capital.)
“Okay,” the boy said, cutting up the pancakes, eating some, pensive. Dance was using his appetite as a barometer of his reaction.
“Hey, son of mine, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Grandpa would love to go to see the boats with you.”
“Sure.”
Then she asked another impulsive question. “Don’t you like Winston?”
“He’s okay.”
“You can tell me.” Her own interest in food was flagging.
“I don’t know. . . . He’s not like Michael.”
“No, he’s not. But there aren’t many people like Michael.” The dear friend who isn’t returning my calls at the moment. “That doesn’t mean I can’t have dinner with them, does it?”
“I guess.”
They ate for a few minutes. Then Wes blurted, “Maggie doesn’t like him either.”
“I didn’t say that! Don’t say things I didn’t say.”
“Yeah, you did. You said he’s got a potbelly.”
“Did not!” Though her blush told Dance that she had.
She smiled, put down her fork. “Hey, you two, listen up. Whether I have dinner with somebody or not, or even go out to the movies with them, nothing’s going to change us. Our house, the dogs, our lives. Nothing. That’s a promise. Okay?”
“Okay,” Wes said. It was a bit knee-jerk, but he didn’t seem completely unconvinced.
But now Maggie was troubled. “Aren’t you ever going to get married again?”
“Mags, what brought that up?”
“Just wondering.”
“I can’t even imagine getting married again.”
“You didn’t say no,” Wes muttered.
Dance laughed at the interrogator’s perfect response. “Well, that’s my answer. I can’t even imagine it.”
“I want to be best woman,” Maggie said.
“Maid of honor,” Dance corrected.
“No, I saw this after-school special. They do it different now.”
“Differently,” her mother corrected again. “But let’s not get distracted. We’ve got pancakes and iced tea to polish off. And plans to make for Sunday. You’ve got to do some thinking.”
“I will.” Wes seemed reassured.
Dance ate the rest of her dinner, feeling elated at this victory: being honest with her son and receiving his acquiescence to the date. Oddly, this tiny step did a huge amount to take away the horror of the day’s events.
On a whim she gave in to Maggie’s final plea on behalf of the dogs and ordered one pancake and a side of sausage for each, mi
nus the syrup. The girl served the food in the back of the Pathfinder. Dylan the shepherd devoured his in several gulps while the ladylike Patsy ate the sausage fastidiously, then carried the pancake to a space between the backseats, impossible to reach, and deposited it there for a rainy day.
• • •
At home, Dance spent the next few hours at domestic chores, fielding phone calls, including one from Morton Nagle, thanking her again for what she’d done for his family.
Winston Kellogg did not call, which was good (meaning the date was still on).
Michael O’Neil did not call either, which wasn’t so good.
Rebecca Sheffield was in stable condition after extensive surgery. She’d be in the hospital, under guard, for the next six or seven days. More operations were needed.
Dance talked to Martine Christensen for some time about the “American Tunes” website, then, business disposed of, it was time for dessert: popcorn, which made sense after a sweet dinner. Dance found a Wallace and Gromit Claymation tape, cued it up and at the last minute managed to save the Redenbacher from the microwave of mass destruction before she set the bag ablaze, as she had last week.
She was pouring the contents into a bowl when her phone croaked yet again.
“Mom,” Wes said impatiently. “I’m like starving.” She loved his tone. It meant he’d snapped out of his unhappy mood.
“It’s TJ,” she announced, opening up her mobile.
“Say hi,” the boy offered, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
“Wes says hi.”
“Back at him. Oh, tell him I got to level eight on ‘Zarg.’ ”
“Is that good?”
“You have no idea.”
Dance relayed the message and Wes’s eyes glowed. “Eight? No way!”
“He’s impressed. So what’s up?”
“Who’s getting all the stuff?”
“ ‘Stuff’ would be?”
“Evidence, reports, emails, everything. The ball of wax, remember?”
He meant for the final disposition report. It would be massive in this case, with the multiple felonies and the interagency paperwork. She’d run the case and the CBI had primary jurisdiction.
“Me. Well, I should say us.”
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 84
