“Hold on, Charles.” Dance briefed him on what had happened and his mood changed instantly.
“Well, a lead. Good. At last…Anyway, we’ve got another issue. Sacramento got a call from the Napa County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Napa?”
“They’ve got someone named Morton Nagle in jail.”
Dance nodded slowly. She hadn’t told Overby about enlisting the writer’s aid to find the Sleeping Doll.
“I talked to the sheriff. And he’s not a happy camper.”
“What’d Nagle do?” Kellogg asked, lifting an eyebrow to Dance.
“The Croyton girl? She lives up there somewhere with her aunt and uncle. He apparently wanted to talk her into being interviewed by you.”
“That’s right.”
“Oh. I didn’t hear about it.” He let that linger for a moment. “The aunt told him no. But this morning he snuck onto their property and tried to convince the girl in person.”
So much for uninvolved, objective journalism.
“The aunt took a shot at him.”
“What?”
“She missed but if the deputies hadn’t shown up, the sheriff thinks she would’ve taken him out on the second try. And nobody seemed very upset about that possibility. They think we had something to do with it. This’s a can of worms.”
“I’ll handle it,” Dance told him.
“We weren’t involved, were we? I told him we weren’t.”
“I’ll handle it.”
Overby considered this, then gave her the sheriff’s number and headed back to his office. Dance called the sheriff and identified herself. She told him the situation.
The man grunted. “Well, Agent Dance, I appreciate the problem, Pell and all. Made the news up here, I’ll tell you. But we can’t just release him. Theresa’s aunt and uncle went forward with the complaint.
And I have to say we all keep a special eye out for that girl around here, knowing what she went through.
The magistrate set bail at a hundred thousand and none of the bailbondsmen’re interested in handling it.”
“Can I talk to the prosecutor?”
“He’s on trial, will be all day.”
Morton Nagle would have to spend a little time in jail. She felt bad for him, and appreciated his change of mind. But there was nothing she could do. “I’d like to talk to the girl’s aunt or uncle.”
“I don’t know what good it’d do.”
“It’s important.”
A pause. “Well, now, Agent Dance, I really don’t think they’d be inclined. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee it.”
“Will you give me their number? Please?” Direct questions are often the most effective.
But so are direct answers. “No. Good-bye now, Agent Dance.”
Chapter 43
Dance and O’Neil were alone in her office.
She’d learned from the Orange County Sheriff’s Department that Jennie Marston’s father was dead and her mother had a history of petty crime, drug abuse and emotional disabilities. There was no record of the mother’s whereabouts; she had a few relatives on the East Coast but no one had heard from Jennie in years.
Dance learned that Jennie had gone to community college for a year, studying food management, then dropped out, apparently to get married. She’d worked for a Hair Cuttery for a year and then went into food service, employed by a number of caterers and bakeries in Orange County, a quiet worker who would arrive on time, do her job and then leave. She led a solitary life, and deputies could find no acquaintances, no close friends. Her ex-husband hadn’t talked to her in years but said that she deserved whatever happened to her.
Not surprisingly, police records revealed a history of difficult relationships. Deputies had been summoned by hospital workers at least a half-dozen times on suspicion of domestic abuse involving the ex and at least four other partners. Social Services had started files, but Jennie had never pursued any complaints, let alone sought restraining orders.
Just the sort to fall prey to someone like Daniel Pell.
Dance mentioned this to O’Neil. The detective nodded. He was looking out Dance’s window at two pine trees that had grafted themselves to each other over the years, producing a knuckle-like knot at eye level. Dance would often stare at the curious blemish when the facts of a case refused to coalesce into helpful insights.
“So, what’s on your mind?” she asked.
“You want to know?”
“I asked, didn’t I?” In a tone of good humor.
It wasn’t reciprocated. He said testily, “You were right. He was wrong.”
“Kellogg? At the motel?”
“We should’ve followed your initial plan. Set up a surveillance perimeter the minute we heard about the motel. Not spent a half-hour assembling Tactical. That’s how he caught on. Somebody gave something away.”
Instincts of a cat…
She hated defending herself, especially to someone she was so close to. “A takedown made sense at the time; a lot was going on and it was happening fast.”
“No, it didn’t make sense. That’s why you hesitated. Even at the end, you weren’t sure.”
“Who knows anything in situations like this?”
“Okay, youfelt it was the wrong approach and what you feel is usually right.”
“It was just bad luck. If we’d moved in earlier, we probably would’ve had him.” She regretted saying this, afraid he’d take her words as a criticism of the MCSO.
“And people would’ve died. We’re just goddamn lucky nobody was hurt. Kellogg’s plan was a prescription for a shootout. I think we’re lucky Pellwasn’t there. It could’ve been a bloodbath.” He crossed his arms—a protective gesture, which was ironic because he still had on the bulletproof vest.
“You’re giving up control of the operation.Your operation.”
“To Winston?”
“Yes, exactly. He’s a consultant. And it seems like he’s running the case.”
“He’s the specialist, Michael. I’m not. You’re not.”
“He is? I’m sorry, he talks about the cult mentality, he talks about profiles. But I don’t seehim closing in on Pell. You’re the one who’s been doing that.”