“No. He’s not different. He’s justmore. ” Michael O’Neil—the most widely read person she knew—had surprisingly simple philosophies of life. He didn’t believe in evil or good, much less God or Satan. Those were all abstractions that deflected you from your job, which was to catch people who broke rules that humans had created for their own health and safety.
No good, no bad. Just destructive forces that had to be stopped.
To Michael O’Neil, Daniel Pell was a tsunami, an earthquake, a tornado.
He watched the children playing, then said, “I gather that guy you’ve been seeing…It’s over with?”
Brian called….
“You caught that, hm? Busted by my own assistant.”
“I’m sorry. Really.”
“You know how it goes,” Dance said, noting she’d spoken one of those sentences that were meaningless flotsam in a conversation.
“Sure.”
Dance turned to see how her mother was coming with dinner. She saw O’Neil’s wife looking at the two of them. Anne smiled.
Dance smiled back. She said to O’Neil, “So, let’s go join the sing-along.”
“Do I have to sing?”
“Absolutely not,” she said quickly. He had a wonderful speaking voice, low with a natural vibrato. He couldn’t stay on key under threat of torture.
After a half-hour of music, gossip and laughter, Edie Dance, her daughter and granddaughter set out Worcestershire-marinated flank steak, salad, asparagus and potatoes au gratin. Dance sat beside Winston Kellogg, who was holding his own very well among strangers. He even told a few jokes, with a deadpan delivery that reminded her of her late husband, who had shared not only Kellogg’s career but his easy-going nature—at least once the federal ID card was tucked away.
The conversation ambled from music to Anne O’Neil’s critique of San Francisco arts, to politics in the Middle East, Washington and Sacramento, to the far more important story of a sea otter pup born in captivity at the aquarium two days ago.
It was a comfortable gathering: friends, laughter, food, wine, music.
Though, of course, complete comfort eluded Kathryn Dance. Pervading the otherwise fine evening, like the moving bass line of Martine’s old guitar, was the thought that Daniel Pell was still at large.
WEDNESDAY
Chapter 27
Kathryn Dance was sitting in a cabin at the Point Lobos Inn—the first time she’d ever been in the expensive place. It was an upscale lodge of private cabins on a quiet road off Highway 1, south of Carmel, abutting the rugged and beautiful state park after which the inn was named. The Tudor-style place was secluded—a long driveway separated it from the road—and the deputy in the Monterey Sheriff’s Office car stationed in front had a perfect view of all approaches, which was why she’d picked it.
Dance checked in with O’Neil. At the moment he was following up on a missing person report in Monterey. Calls to TJ and Carraneo too. TJ had nothing to tell her, and the rookie agent said he was still
having no luck finding a cheap motel or boardinghouse where Pell might be staying. “I’ve tried all the way up to Gilroy and—”
“Cheaphotels?”
A pause. “That’s right, Agent Dance. I didn’t bother with the expensive ones. Didn’t think an escapee’d have much money to spend on them.”
Dance recalled Pell’s secret phone conversation in Capitola, the reference to $9,200. “Pell’s probably thinking that’s exactly whatyou ’re thinking. Which means…” She let Carraneo pick up her thought.
“That it’d be smarter for him to stay in an expensive one. Hm. Okay. I’ll get on it. Wait. Where are you right now, Agent Dance? Do you think he—?”
“I’ve already checked out everybody here,” she assured him. She hung up, looked at her watch again and wondered: Is this harebrained scheme really going to do any good?
Five minutes later, a knock on the door. Dance opened it to see massive CBI Agent Albert Stemple towering over a woman in her late twenties. Stocky Linda Whitfield had a pretty face, untouched by makeup, and short red hair. Her clothes were a bit shabby: black stretch pants with shiny knees and a red sweater dangling threads; its V-neck framed a pewter cross. Dance detected no trace of perfume, and Linda’s nails were unpolished and cut short.
The women shook hands. Linda’s grip was firm.
Stemple’s brow lifted. Meaning, Is there anything else?
Dance thanked him and the big agent set down Linda’s suitcase and ambled off. Dance locked the door and the woman walked into the living room of the two-bedroom cabin. She looked at the elegant place as if she’d never stayed anywhere nicer than a Days Inn. “My.”
“I’ve got coffee going.” A gesture toward the small kitchen.
“Tea, if there’s any.”
Dance made a cup. “I’m hoping you won’t have to stay long. Maybe not even overnight.”
“Any more on Daniel?”
“Nothing new.”
Linda looked at the bedrooms as if choosing one would commit her to staying longer than she wanted to. Her serenity wavered, then returned. She picked a room and took her suitcase inside, then returned a moment later and accepted the cup of tea, poured milk in and sat.
“I haven’t been on an airplane in years,” she said. “And that jet…it was amazing. So small, but it pushed you right back in your seat when we took off. There was an FBI agent on board. She was very nice.”
They sat on comfortable couches, a large coffee table between them. She looked around the cabin again. “My, this is nice.”
It sure was. Dance wondered what the FBI accountants would say when they saw the bill. The cabin was nearly six hundred a night.
“Rebecca’s on her way. But maybe you and I could just get started.”
“And Samantha?”
“She wouldn’t come.”
“You talked to her then?”
“I went to see her.”
“Where is she?…No, wait, you can’t tell me that.”
Dance smiled.
“I heard she had plastic surgery and changed her name and everything.”
“That’s true, yes.”
“At the airport I bought a newspaper to see what was going on?”
Dance wondered about the absence of a TV in her brother’s house; was it an ethical or cultural decision? Or an economic one? You could get a cable ready set for a few hundred bucks nowadays.