“I didn’t check that out. I will, though, you want.”
“We want,” O’Neil said. TJ didn’t report to him, and in the well-established hierarchy of law enforcement the CBI trumped MCSO. But a request from Chief Deputy Michael O’Neil was the same as a request from Dance. Or even higher.
A few minutes later TJ returned to say that the tax department revealed that Sarah Starkey was employed by a small educational publisher in San Jose.
Dance got the number. “Let’s see if she was in this morning.”
O’Neil asked, “How’re you going to do that? We can’t let her know we suspect anything.”
“Oh, I’ll lie,” Dance said breezily. She called the publisher from a caller ID–blocked line. When a woman answered, Dance said, “Hi. This is the El Camino Boutique. We have an order for Sarah Starkey. But the driver said she wasn’t there this morning. Do you know what time she’ll be getting in?”
“Sarah? I’m afraid there’s some mistake. She’s been here since eight thirty.”
“Really? Well, I’ll talk to the driver again. Might be better to deliver it to her house. If you could not mention anything to Mrs. Starkey, I’d appreciate it. It’s a surprise.” Dance hung up. “She was there all morning.”
TJ applauded. “And the Oscar for the best performance by a law enforcer deceiving the public goes to…”
O’Neil frowned.
“Don’t approve of my subversive techniques?” Dance asked.
With his typical wry delivery O’Neil said, “No, it’s just that you’re going to have to send hersomething now. The receptionist’s going to dime you out. Tell her she’s got a secret admirer.”
“I know, boss. Get her one of those balloon bouquets. ‘Congratulations on not being a suspect.’”
Dance’s administrative assistant, short, no-nonsense Maryellen Kresbach, walked into the room with coffee for all (Dance never asked; Maryellen always brought). The mother of three wore clattery high heels and favored complicated, coiffed hair and impressive fingernails.
The crew in the conference room thanked her. Dance sipped the excellent coffee. Wished Maryellen had brought some of the cookies sitting on her desk. She envied the woman’s ability to be both a domestic powerhouse and the best assistant Dance had ever had.
The agent noticed that Maryellen wasn’t leaving after delivering the caffeine.
“Didn’t know if I should bother you. But Brian called.”
“He did?”
“He said you might not have gotten his message on Friday.”
“You gave it to me.”
“I know I did. I didn’t tell him I did. And I didn’t tell him I didn’t. So.”
Feeling O’Neil’s eyes on her, Dance said, “Okay, thanks.”
“You want his number?”
“I have it.”
“Okay.” Her assistant continued to stand resolutely in front of her boss, nodding slowly.
Well, this is a rather spiny moment.
Dance didn’t want to talk about Brian Gunderson.
The trill of the conference-room phone saved her.
She answered, listened for a moment and said, “Have somebody bring him to my office right away.”
Chapter 11
The large man, in a California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation uniform, sat in front of her desk, a workaday slab of government-issue furniture on which lay random pens, some awards, a lamp and photos: of the two children, of Dance with a handsome silver-haired man, of her mother and father, and of two dogs, each paired with one of the youngsters. A dozen files also rested on the cheap laminate.
They were facedown.
“This is terrible,” said Tony Waters, a senior guard from Capitola Correctional Facility. “I can’t tell you.”
Dance detected traces of a southeastern accent in the distraught voice. The Monterey Peninsula drew people from all over the world. Dance and Waters were alone at the moment. Michael O’Neil was checking on the forensics from the scene of the escape.
“You were in charge of the wing where Pell was incarcerated?” Dance asked.
“That’s right.” Bulky and with stooped shoulders, Waters sat forward in the chair. He was in his midfifties, she estimated.
“Did Pell say anything to you—about where he’s headed?”
“No, ma’am. I’ve been racking my brain since it happened. That was the first thing I did when I heard. I sat down and went through everything he’d said in the past week or more. But, no, nothing. For one thing, Daniel didn’t talk a lot. Not to us, the hacks.”
“Did he spend time in the library?”
“Huge amount. Read all the time.”
“Can I find out what?”
“It’s not logged and the cons can’t check anything out.”
“How about visitors?”
“Nobody in the last year.”
“And telephone calls? Are they logged?”
“Yes, ma’am. But not recorded.” He thought back. “He didn’t have many, aside from reporters wanting to interview him. But he never called back. I think maybe he talked to his aunt once or twice. No others I remember.”
“What about computers, email?”
“Not for the prisoners. We do for ourselves, of course. They’re in a special area—a control zone.
We’re very strict about that. You know, I was thinking about it and if he communicated with anybody on the outside—”
“Which he had to do,” Dance pointed out.
“Right. It had to be through a con being released. You might want to check there.”
“I thought of that. I’ve talked to your warden. She tells me that there were only two releases in the past month and their parole officers had them accounted for this morning. They could’ve gotten messages to someone, though. The officers’re checking that out.”
Waters, she’d noted, had arrived empty-handed, and Dance now asked, “Did you get our request for the contents of his cell?”
The guard’s mood darkened. He was shaking his head, looking down. “Yes, ma’am. But it was empty.