Patterns…goddamn patterns.
Winston Kellogg was upset about the escape, but not apologetic. He’d made a judgment call, like Dance’s at Moss Landing. His plan could have worked, but fate had intervened, and she respected that he wasn’t bitter or whiny about the outcome; he was focused on the next steps.
Overby’s assistant joined them. She told her boss he had a call from Sacramento, and SAC Amy Grabe, from the FBI, was holding on two. She wasn’t happy.
An angry grunt. The CBI chief turned and followed her back to his office.
Carraneo called to report that the canvass he and several other officers were conducting had so far yielded nothing. A cleaning woman thought she’d seen a dark car driving toward the back of the lot before the raid. No tag number. No one had seen anything else.
Dark sedan. The same useless description they’d gotten at James Reynolds’s house. A Monterey Sheriff’s deputy arrived with a large packet. He handed it to O’Neil. “Crime scene, sir.” The detective set out photos and a list of the physical evidence. There was no doubt; the fingerprints revealed that the two occupants of the room were indeed Pell and his accomplice. Clothes, food wrappers, newspapers, personal hygiene items, some cosmetics. Also clothespins, what looked like a whip made out of a coat hanger, dotted with blood, panty hose that had been tied to the bedposts, dozens of condoms—new and used—and a large tube of K-Y lubricant.
Kellogg said, “Typical of cult leaders. Jim Jones in Guyana? He had sex three or four times a day.”
“Why is that?” Dance asked.
“Because theycan . They can do pretty much whatever they want.”
O’Neil’s phone rang and he took the call. He listened for a few moments. “Good. Scan it and send it to Agent Dance’s computer. You have her email?…Thanks.”
He looked at Dance. “Crime scene found an email in the pocket of the woman’s jeans.”
A few minutes later Dance called up the message on the screen. She printed out the .pdf attachment.
From: [email protected]
Re:
Jennie, my lovely—
Bargained my way into the office to write this. I had to. There’s something I want to say. I woke up thinking about you—our plans to go out to the beach, and the desert, and watching the fireworks every night in your backyard. I was thinking, you’re smart and beautiful and romantic—who could ask for anything more in a girl? We’ve danced around it a lot and haven’t said it but I want to now. I love you.
There’s no doubt in my mind, you’re unlike anybody I’ve ever met. So, there you have it. Have to go now. Hope these words of mine haven’t upset you or “freaked” you out.
Soon, Daniel
So Pellhad sent emails from Capitola—though prior to Sunday, Dance noted, probably why the tech hadn’t found them.
Dance noted that Jennie was her first name. Last or middle initial M.
JMSUNGIRL.
O’Neil added, “Our tech department’s contacting the ISP now. Foreign servers aren’t very cooperative but we’ll keep our fingers crossed.”
Dance was staring at the email. “Look at what he said: beach, desert and fireworks every night. All three near her house. That ought to give us some ideas.”
Kellogg said, “The car was stolen in Los Angeles…. She’s from Southern California somewhere: beach and desert. But fireworks every night?”
“Anaheim,” Dance said.
The other parent present nodded. O’Neil said, “Disneyland.”
Dance met O’Neil’s eye. She said, “Your idea earlier: the banks and withdrawals of ninety-two hundred dollars. All of L.A. County—okay, maybe that was too much. But Anaheim? Much smaller. And now, we know her first name. And possibly an initial. Can your people handle this one, Win?”
“Sure, that’d be a more manageable number of banks,” he said agreeably. He picked up the phone and called the request in to the L.A. field office.
Dance called the Point Lobos Inn. She explained to the women what had happened at the motel.
“He got away again?” Samantha asked.
“I’m afraid so.” She gave her the details of the email, including the screen name, but none of them could recall anybody with that name or initials.
“We also found evidence of S and M activity.” She described the sexual gear. “Could that’ve been Pell, or would it’ve been the woman’s idea? Might help us narrow down a search, if it was hers. A professional, a dominatrix maybe.”
Samantha was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I, ah…That would’ve been Daniel’s idea. He was kind of that way.” Embarrassed.
Dance thanked her. “I know you’re anxious to leave. I promise I won’t keep you much longer.”
It was only a few minutes later that Winston Kellogg received a call. His eyes flashed in surprise. He looked up. “They’ve got an ID. A woman named Jennie Marston withdrew nine thousand two hundred dollars—virtually her whole savings account—from Pacific Trust in Anaheim last week. Cash. We’re getting a warrant, and our agents and Orange County deputies’re going to raid her house. They’ll let us know what they find.”
Sometimes youdo get a break.
O’Neil grabbed the phone and in five minutes a jpeg image of a young woman’s driver’s license photo was on Dance’s computer. She called TJ into her office.
“Yo?”
She nodded at the screen. “Do an EFIS image. Make her a brunette, redhead, long hair, short hair. Get it to the Sea View. I want to make sure it’s her. And if it is, I want a copy sent to every TV station and newspaper in the area.”
“You bet, boss.” Without sitting, he typed on her keyboard, then hurried out, as if he were trying to beat the picture’s arrival to his office.
Charles Overby stepped into the doorway. “That call from Sacramento is—”