He was referring to that portion of the Monterey headquarters that happened to be the home of two female investigative agents—Dance and Connie Ramirez—as well as Maryellen Kresbach and the no-nonsense office manager, Grace Yuan.
The unfortunate utterer was a fiftyish agent, one of those fixtures in offices all over the world who wake up counting the days to retirement, and who’ve done so since their twenties. He’d had his share of collars at the Highway Patrol some years back, but his move to the CBI had been a mistake. He wasn’t up to the challenges of the job.
He also apparently lacked any sense of survival.
“And this is the Gals’ Wing,” he’d said, loud enough for everyone to hear, during a lunch-hour tour of HQ with a young woman he was wooing.
Dance and Connie Ramirez made eye contact.
That night they went on a panty-hose-buying mission and when the poor agent came to work the next day he found his entire office spiderwebbed in mesh, fishnet and glittery synthetic leg wear. Some personal hygiene products also figured in the decor. He ran whining to then–CBI head Stan Fishburne, who, bless him, could hardly keep a straight face during the inquisition. “What do you mean youonly said,
‘Gals’ Wing,’ Bart? You actuallysaid that?”
He threatened a complaint to Sacramento, but he didn’t last long enough in the CBI to see the matter through. Ironically, after the offender’s departure, the population of that portion of the office adopted the moniker instantly and the hallway was now known to everyone in the CBI as “GW.”
Whose undecorated hallway Kathryn Dance was walking down at the moment.
“Maryellen, hi.”
“Oh, Kathryn, I’m sorry to hear about Juan. We’re all going to make a donation. You know where his parents would like it to go?”
“Michael’ll let us know.”
“Your mother called. She’s going to stop by with the kids later, if that’s okay.”
Dance made sure to see her children whenever she could, even during business hours, if a case was taking up a lot of time and she’d be working late. “Good. How’s the Davey situation?”
“It’s taken care of,” said the woman firmly. The person in question was Maryellen’s son, Wes’s age, who’d been having trouble in school because of some issues with what amounted to a preteen gang.
Maryellen now relayed the news of the resolution with a look of happy malice, which told Dance that extreme measures had been used to get the offenders transferred or otherwise neutralized.
Dance believed that Maryellen Kresbach would make a great cop.
In her office she dropped her jacket onto a chair, hitched the awkward Glock to the side and sat. She
looked through her email. Only one was relevant to the Pell case. His brother, Richard Pell, was replying from London.
Officer Dance:
I received your forwarded email from the U.S. embassy here. Yes, I heard of the escape, it has made the news here. I have not had any contact with my brother for 12 years, when he came to visit my wife and me in Bakersfield at the same time my wife’s twenty-three-year-old sister was visiting us from New York. One Saturday we got a call from the police that she’d been detained at a jewelry store downtown for shoplifting.
The girl had been an honor’s student in college and quite involved in her church. She’d never been in any trouble in her life before that.
It seemed that she’d been “hanging out” with my brother and he’d talked her into stealing a “few things.”
I searched his room and found close to $10,000 worth of merchandise. My sister-in-law was given probation and my wife nearly left me as a result.
I never had anything to do with him again. After the murders in Carmel in ’99, I decided to move my family to Europe.
If I hear from him, I will certainly let you know, though that is unlikely. The best way to describe my relationship now is this: I’ve contacted the London Metropolitan Police and they have an officer guarding my house.
So much for that lead.
Her mobile rang. The caller was Morton Nagle. In an alarmed voice he asked, “He killed someone else?
I just saw the news.”
“I’m afraid so.” She gave him the details. “And Juan Millar died, the officer who was burned.”
“I’m so sorry. Are there other developments?”
“Not really.” Dance told him that she’d spoken with Rebecca and Linda. They’d shared some information that might prove to be helpful, but nothing was leading directly to Pell’s doorstep. Nagle had come across nothing in his research about a “big score” or a mountaintop.
He had news of his own efforts, though they weren’t successful. He’d talked to Theresa Croyton’s aunt, but she was refusing to let him, or the police, see the girl.
“She threatened me.” His voice was troubled and Dance was sure that there would be no sparkle in his eyes at the moment.
“Where are you?”
He didn’t say anything.
Dance filled in, “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
She glanced at the caller ID, but he was on his mobile, not a hotel or pay phone.
“Is she going to change her mind?”
“I really doubt it. You should’ve seen her. She abandoned a hundred dollars’ worth of groceries and just ran.”
Dance was disappointed. Daniel Pell was a mystery and she was now obsessed with learning everything she could about him. Last year when she’d assisted on that case in New York with Lincoln Rhyme, she’d noted the criminalist’s obsessive fascination with every detail of the physical evidence; she was exactly the same—though with the human side of crime.
But there’re compulsions like double-checking every detail of a subject’s story, and there are compulsions like avoiding sidewalk cracks when you’re walking home. You have to know which are vital and which aren’t.
She decided they’d have to let the Sleeping Doll lead go.
“I appreciate your help.”
“I did try. Really.”