“Your genie awaits, boss.”
“Bring me what we’ve got so far on Pell.”
“The whole ball of wax? Whatever that means.”
“All the wax.”
Dance was reviewing James Reynolds’s notes from the Croyton murder case when TJ arrived—only three or four minutes later, breathless. Maybe her voice had sounded more urgent than she’d realized.
She took the files he carted and spread them out until they covered her desk an inch thick. In a short time they’d accumulated an astonishing amount of material. She began riffling through the pages.
“The girl, was she helpful?”
“Yep,” the agent replied absently, staring at a particular sheet of paper.
TJ made another comment but she wasn’t paying any attention. Flipping through more reports, more pages of handwritten notes, and looking over Reynolds’s time line and his other transcriptions. Then returning to the piece of paper she held.
Finally she said, “I’ve got a computer question. You know a lot about them. Go check this out.” She circled some words on the sheet.
He glanced down. “What about it?”
“It’s fishy.”
“Not a computer term I’m familiar with. But I’m on the case, boss. We never sleep.”
“We’ve got a situation.”
Dance was addressing Charles Overby, Winston Kellogg and TJ. They were in Overby’s office and he was playing with a bronze golf ball mounted on a wooden stand, like a gearshift in a sports car. She wished Michael O’Neil were here.
Dance then dropped the bomb. “Rebecca Sheffield’s working with Pell.”
“What?” Overby blurted.
“It gets better. I think she was behind the whole escape.”
Her boss shook his head, the theory troubling him. He was undoubtedly wondering if he’d authorized something he shouldn’t have.
But Winston Kellogg encouraged her. “Interesting. Go on.”
“Theresa Croyton told me a few things that made me suspicious. So I went back and looked over the evidence so far. Remember that email we found in the Sea View? Supposedly Pell sent it to Jennie from prison. But look.” She showed the printout. “The email address says Capitola Correctional. But it has a ‘dot com’ extension. If it was really a Department of Corrections address it would’ve had ‘dot ca dot gov.’”
Kellogg grimaced. “Hell, yes. Missed that completely.”
“I just had TJ check out the address.”
The young agent explained, “The company’s a service provider in Denver. You can create your own domain, as long as the name’s not taken by somebody else. It’s an anonymous account. But we’re getting a warrant to look at the archives.”
“Anonymous? Then why do you think it was Rebecca?” Overby asked.
“Look at the email. That phrase. ‘Who could ask for anything more in a girl?’ It’s not that common. It stuck with me because it echoes a line in an old Gershwin song.”
“Why is that important?”
“Because Rebecca used the exact expression the first time I met her.”
Overby said, “Still—”
She pushed forward, not in the mood to be obstructed. “Now, let’s look at the facts. Jennie stole the Thunderbird from that restaurant in L.A. on Friday and checked into the Sea View on Saturday. Her phone and credit card records show she was in Orange County all last week. But the woman who checked out the You Mail It office near the courthouse was there onWednesday. We faxed a warrant to Rebecca’s credit card companies. She flew from San Diego to Monterey on Tuesday, flew back on Thursday. Rented a car here.”
“Okay,” Overby allowed.
“Now, I’m guessing that in Capitola it wasn’t Jennie that Pell was talking to; it was Rebecca. He must’ve given her Jennie’s name and street and email address. Rebecca took over from there. They picked her because she lived near Rebecca, at least close enough to check her out.”
Kellogg added, “So she knows where Pell is, what he’s doing here.”
“Has to.”
Overby said, “Let’s pick her up. You can work your magic, Kathryn.”
“I want her in custody, but I need some more information before I interrogate her. I want to talk to Nagle.”
“The writer?”
She nodded. Then said to Kellogg, “Can you bring Rebecca in?”
“Sure, if you can get some backup for me.”
Overby said he’d call the MCSO and have another officer meet Kellogg outside the Point Lobos Inn.
The agent in charge surprised Dance by pointing out something she hadn’t thought of: They had no reason to think Rebecca was armed, but since she’d driven from San Diego and not gone through airport security she could have a weapon with her.
Dance said, “Good, Charles.” Then, a nod at TJ. “Let’s go see Nagle.”
Dance and the younger agent were en route to their destination when her phone rang.
“Hello?”
Winston Kellogg said in an uncharacteristically urgent voice, “Kathryn, she’s gone.”
“Rebecca?”
“Yes.”
“Are the others okay?”
“They’re fine. Linda said Rebecca wasn’t feeling well, went to lie down. Didn’t want to be disturbed.
We found her bedroom window open but her car’s still at CBI.”
“So Pell picked her up?”
“I’m guessing.”
“How long ago?”
“She went to bed an hour ago. They don’t know when she slipped out.”
If Rebecca had wanted to hurt the other women, she could’ve done it herself or snuck Pell in through the window. Dance decided they weren’t at immediate risk, especially with the guards.
“Where are you now?” she asked Kellogg.
“Going back to CBI. I think Pell and Rebecca are making a run for it. I’ll talk to Michael about getting roadblocks set up again.”
When they hung up, she called Morton Nagle.
“Hello?” he answered.
“It’s Kathryn. Listen, Rebecca’s with Pell.”
“What? He kidnapped her?”
“They’re working together. She was behind the escape.”
“No!”
“They might be headed out of town but there’s a chance you’re in danger.”