She was glad to hear his voice, though the tone was purely professional, and she knew he didn’t want to talk about their fight earlier. He was, she sensed, still angry. Which was odd for him. It bothered her, but there was no time to consider their grievances, given his news.
“Got a call from CHP,” O’Neil said. “Some hikers halfway to Big Sur found a purse and some personal effects on the beach. Jennie Marston’s. No body yet, but there was blood all over the sand. And blood and some hairs and scalp tissue on a rock that crime scene found. Pell’s prints’re on the rock. The Coast Guard has two boats out looking. There wasn’t anything helpful in the purse. ID and credit cards. If that’s where she kept what’s left of the ninety-two hundred dollars, Pell’s got it now.”
He killed her….
Dance closed her eyes. Pell had seen her picture on TV and knew she’d been identified. She’d become a liability to him.
A second suspect logarithmically increases the chances for detection and arrest….
“I’m sorry,” O’Neil said. He’d understand what she was thinking—that Dance never would have guessed releasing the woman’s picture would result in her death.
I believed it would be just another way to help find this terrible man.
The detective said, “It was the right call. We had to do it.”
We,she noted. Notyou.
“How long ago?”
“Crime scene’s estimating an hour. We’re checking along One and the cross roads, but no witnesses.”
“Thanks, Michael.”
She said nothing more, waiting for him to say something else, something about their earlier discussion, something about Kellogg. Didn’t matter what, just some words that would give her a chance to broach the subject. But he said merely, “I’m making plans for a memorial service for Juan. I’ll let you know the details.”
“Thanks.”
“’Bye.”
Click.
She called Kellogg and Overby with the news. Her boss was debating whether it was good or bad.
Someone else had been killed on his watch, but at least it was one of the perps. On the whole, he
suggested, the press and public would receive the development as a score for the good guys.
“Don’t you think, Kathryn?”
Dance had no chance to formulate an answer, though, because just then the CBI’s front desk called on the intercom to tell her the news that Theresa Croyton, the Sleeping Doll, had arrived.
The girl didn’t resemble what Kathryn Dance expected.
In baggy sweats, Theresa Croyton Bolling was tall and slim and wore her light brown hair long, to the middle of her back. The strands had a reddish sheen. Four metallic dots were in her left ear, five in the other, and the majority of her fingers were encircled by silver rings. Her face, free of makeup, was narrow and pretty and pale.
Morton Nagle ushered the girl and her aunt, a solid woman with short, gray hair, into Dance’s office.
Mary Bolling was somber and cautious and it was obvious that this was the last place in the world she wanted to be. Hands were shaken and greetings exchanged. The girl’s was casual and friendly, if a bit nervous; the aunt’s stiff.
Nagle would want to stay, of course—talking to the Sleeping Doll had been his goal even before Pell’s escape. But some bargain had apparently been struck that he’d take a backseat for the time being. He now said he’d be at home if anybody needed him.
Dance gave him a sincere “Thank you.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Nagle,” Theresa said.
He nodded a friendly farewell to both of them—the teenager and the woman who’d tried to gun him down (she looked as if she’d like a second opportunity). Nagle gave one of his chuckles, tugged up his saggy pants and left.
“Thank you for coming. You go by ‘Theresa’?”
“Mostly Tare.”
Dance said to her aunt, “Do you mind if I talk to your niece alone?”
“It’s okay.” This was from the girl. The aunt hesitated. “It’s okay,” the girl repeated more firmly. A hit of exasperation. Like musicians with their instruments, young people can get an infinite variety of sounds out of their voices.
Dance had arranged a room at a chain motel near CBI headquarters. It was booked under one of the fictional names she sometimes used for witnesses.
TJ escorted the aunt to the office of Albert Stemple, who would take her to the motel and wait with her.
When they were alone, Dance came out from around the desk and closed her door. She didn’t know if the girl had hidden memories to be tapped, some facts that could help lead them to Pell. But she was going to try to find out. It would be difficult, though. Despite the girl’s strong personality and her gutsy
foray here, she’d be doing what every other seventeen-year-old in the universe would do at a time like this: raising subconscious barriers to protect herself from the pain of recollection.
Dance would get nothing from her until those barriers were lowered. In her interrogations and interviews the agent didn’t practice classic hypnosis. She did, though, know that subjects who were relaxed and not focused on external stimuli could remember events that otherwise they might not. The agent directed Theresa to the comfortable couch and shut off the bright overhead light, leaving a single yellow desk lamp burning.
“You comfortable?”
“Sure, I guess.” Still, she clasped her hands together, shoulders up, and smiled at Dance with her lips taut. Stress, the agent noted. “That man, Mr. Nagle, said you wanted to ask me about what happened the night my parents and brother and sister were killed.”
“That’s right. I know you were asleep at the time, but—”
“What?”
“I know you were asleep during the murders.”
“Who told you that?”
“Well, all the news stories…the police.”
“No, no, I was awake.”
Dance blinked in surprise. “You were?”
The girl’s expression was even more surprised. “Like, yeah. I mean, I thoughtthat’s why you wanted to see me.”
Chapter 47
“Go ahead, Tare.”
Dance felt her heart tapping fast. Was this the portal to an overlooked clue that might lead to Daniel Pell’s purpose here?