“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.
Thatgoddamn 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? Itis 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.”