“Mrs. Millar,” Dance said, “I’d just like to—”
Then found herself flying sideways, barking a scream, hands not dropping to her weapon but rising to keep her head from slamming into one of the carts parked here. Her first thought: How had Daniel Pell gotten into the hospital?
“No!” O’Neil shouted. Or Kellogg. Probably both. Dance caught herself as she went down on one knee, knocking coils of yellow tubing and plastic cups to the floor.
The doctor too leapt forward, but it was Winston Kellogg who got the enraged Julio Millar in a restraint hold, arm bent backward, and held him down easily by a twisted wrist. The maneuver was fast and effortless.
“No, son!” the father shouted, and the mother cried harder.
O’Neil helped Dance up. No injuries other than what would be bruises come morning, she guessed.
Julio tried to break away but Kellogg, apparently much stronger than he appeared, tugged the arm up slightly. “Take it easy, don’t hurt yourself. Just take it easy.”
“Bitch, you fucking bitch! You killed him! You killed my brother!”
O’Neil said, “Julio, listen. Your parents are upset enough. Don’t make it worse.”
“Worse? How could it be worse?” He tried to kick out.
Kellogg simply sidestepped him and lifted the wrist higher. The young man grimaced and groaned.
“Relax. It won’t hurt if you relax.” The FBI agent looked at the parents, their hopeless eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Julio,” his father said, “you hurt her. She’s a policewoman. They’ll put you in jail.”
“They should puther in jail! She’s the killer.”
Millar senior shouted, “No, stop it! Your mother, think about your mother. Stop it!”
Smoothly, O’Neil had his cuffs out. He was hesitating. He glanced at Kellogg. The men were debating.
Julio seemed to be relaxing.
“Okay, okay, get off me.”
O’Neil said, “We’ll have to cuff you if you can’t control yourself. Understand?”
“Yeah, yeah, I understand.”
Kellogg let go and helped him up.
Everyone’s eyes were on Dance. But she wasn’t going to take the matter to the magistrate. “It’s all right.
There’s no problem.”
Julio stared into Dance’s eyes. “Oh, there’s a problem. There’s a big problem.”
He stormed off.
“I’m sorry,” Rosa Millar said through her tears.
Dance reassured her. “Does he live at home?”
“No, an apartment nearby.”
“Have him stay with you tonight. Tell him you need his help. For the funeral, to take care of Juan’s affairs, whatever you can think of. He’s in as much pain as everybody. He just doesn’t know what to do with it.”
The mother had moved to the gurney where her son lay. She muttered something. Edie Dance walked up to her again and whispered into her ear, touching her arm. An intimate gesture between women who’d been complete strangers until a couple of days ago.
After a moment Edie returned to her daughter. “You want the kids to spend the night?”
“Thanks. It’s probably best.”
Dance said good-bye to the Millars and added, “Is there anything we can do? Anything at all?”
The father answered in a voice that seemed perplexed by the question. “No, no.” Then he added softly, “What else is there to be done?”
Chapter 30
The town of Vallejo Springs in Napa, California, has several claims to fame.
It’s the site of a museum featuring many works of Eduard Muybridge, the nineteenth-century photographer credited with inventing moving pictures (and—a lot more interesting than his art—he was a man who murdered his wife’s lover, admitted it in court and got off scot-free).
Another draw is the local vineyards, which produce a particularly fine strain of the Merlot grape—one of the three most famous used to make red wine. Contrary to a bad rap generated by a movie of a few years ago, Merlot isn’t your Yugo of grapes. Just look at Pétrus, a wine from the Pomerol section of Bordeaux, made almost entirely from Merlot and perhaps the most consistently expensive wine in the world.
Morton Nagle was now crossing the town limits because of Vallejo Springs’s third attraction, albeit one that was known to very few people.
Theresa Croyton, the Sleeping Doll, and her aunt and uncle lived here.
Nagle had done his homework. A month of tracking down twisty leads had turned up a reporter in Sonoma, who’d given him the name of a lawyer, who’d done some legal work for the girl’s aunt. He’d been reluctant to give Nagle any information but did offer the opinion that the woman was over-bearing and obnoxious—and cheap. She’d dunned him on a bill. Once he was convinced that Nagle was a legitimate writer he gave up the town the family lived in and their new name on a guarantee of anonymity.
(“Confidential source” is really just a synonym for spineless.) Nagle had been to Vallejo Springs several times, meeting with the Sleeping Doll’s aunt in an attempt to get an interview with the girl (the uncle didn’t figure much in the equation, Nagle had learned). She was reluctant, but he believed that she would eventually agree.
Now, back in this picturesque town, he parked near the spacious house, waiting for the opportunity to talk to the woman alone. He could call, of course. But Nagle felt that phone calls—like email—were a very ineffective way of communicating. On a telephone people you’re speaking to are your equals. You have much less control and power of persuasion than if you see them in person.
They can also just hang up.