Kellogg was nodding but slowly, and the motion said, I don’t think so. “It’s a little rough, don’t you think, to dock a boat there?”
“Not for somebody who knows what they’re doing.”
“Could you?”
“Me? Sure. Depending on the wind.”
A pause as Winston Kellogg looked over the scene. Rain started coming down steadily. He didn’t seem to notice. “My thinking is that he started that way for some reason, maybe to lead us off. But then he
turned and headed back over the dunes to the road, met his accomplice somewhere along here.”
Phrases like “my thinking” and “I’m of the opinion that” are what Dance called verbal anesthetic. Their purpose is to take the sting out of a speaker’s critical or contrary statement. The new kid on the block was reluctant to disagree with O’Neil but evidently felt that he was wrong about the boat.
“Why do you think that?” Dance asked.
“That old windmill.”
At the turnoff where the beach road left the main highway was an abandoned gas station, under a decorative two-story windmill.
“How long’s it been there?”
“Forty, fifty years, I’d guess. The pumps only have two windows for the price—like no one ever believed gas would ever cost more than ninety-nine cents.”
Kellogg continued, “Pell knows the area. His accomplice’s probably from out of town. He picked this place because it’s deserted but also because there’s a landmark you can’t miss. ‘Turn right at the windmill.’”
O’Neil wasn’t swayed. “Could be. Of course, if that was the only reason, you’d wonder why he didn’t pick someplace closer to town. Be easier to direct his accomplice to a place like that, and there are plenty of deserted areas that’d work. And think about it, the Lexus was stolen and had a body in the trunk. He’d definitely want to dump it as soon as possible.”
“Maybe, makes sense,” Kellogg conceded. He looked around, squinting in the mist. “But I’m leaning toward something else. I think he was drawn here not because of the pier but because it’s deserted and it’s a beach. He’s not a ritualistic killer but most cult leaders have a mystical bent, and water often figures in that. Something happened here, almost ceremonial, I’d say. It might’ve involved that woman with him.
Maybe sex after the kill. Or maybe something else.”
“What?”
“I can’t say. My guess is she met him here. For whatever he had in mind.”
“But,” O’Neil pointed out, “there’s no evidence of another car, no evidence that he turned around and walked back to the road. You’d think there’d be some prints.”
Kellogg said, “He could’ve covered his tracks.” Pointing to a portion of the sand-covered road. “Those marks don’t look natural. He could’ve swept over them with brush or leaves. Maybe even a broom. I’d excavate that whole area.”
O’Neil went on, “I’m thinking it can’t hurt to check on stolen vessels. And I’d rather crime scene ran the pier now.”
The tennis volley continued, the FBI agent offering, “With this wind and rain…I really think the road should be first.”
“You know, Win, I think we’ll go with the pier.”
Kellogg tipped his head, meaning: It’s your crime scene team; I’m backing down. “Fine with me. I’ll search it myself if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Go right ahead.”
Without a look at Dance—he had no desire to test loyalties—the FBI agent returned to the area with the dubious markings.
Dance turned and walked along a clean zone back to her car, glad to leave the crime scene behind.
Forensic evidence wasn’t her expertise.
Neither were strong-willed rams butting horns.
The visage of grief.
Kathryn Dance knew it well. From her days as a journalist, interviewing survivors of crimes and accidents. And from her days as a jury consultant, watching the faces of the witnesses and victims recounting injustices and personal injury mishaps.
From her own life too. As a cop.
And as a widow: looking in the mirror, staring eye-to-eye with a very different Kathryn Dance, the lipstick hovering before easing away from the mask of a face.
Why bother, why bother?
Now, she was seeing the same look as she sat in Susan Pemberton’s office, across from the dead woman’s boss, Eve Brock.
“It’s not real to me.”
No, it never is.
The crying was over but only temporarily, Dance sensed. The stocky middle-aged woman held herself in tight rein. Sitting forward, legs tucked under the chair, shoulders rigid, jaw set. The kinesics of grief matched the face.
“I don’t understand the computer and the files. Why?”
“I assume there was something he wanted to keep secret. Maybe he was at an event years ago and he didn’t want anybody to know about it.” Dance’s first question to the woman had been: Was the company in business before Pell went to prison? Yes, it was.
The crying began again. “One thing I want to know. Did he…?”
Dance recognized a certain tone and answered the incomplete question: “There was no sexual assault.”
She asked the woman about the client Susan was going to meet, but she knew no details.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” Eve Brock was about to surrender to her tears.
“Of course.”
Eve headed for the ladies’ room.
Dance looked at Susan Pemberton’s walls, filled with photos of past events: weddings; bar and bat mitzvahs; anniversary parties; outings for local corporations, banks and fraternal groups; political fund-raisers and high school and college events. The company also worked with funeral homes to cater receptions after an interment.
She saw, to her surprise, the name of the mortician who had handled her husband’s funeral.
Eve Brock returned, her face red, eyes puffy. “I’m sorry.”
“Not a problem at all. So she met that client after work?”
“Yes.”
“Would they go for drinks or coffee somewhere?”
“Probably.”
“Nearby?”
“Usually. Alvarado.” The main street in downtown Monterey. “Or maybe Del Monte Center, Fisherman’s Wharf.”