James Reynolds, the prosecutor, had been the target of Daniel Pell.
Sam was very disturbed by the assault. She remembered Reynolds well. A stern but reasonable man, he’d negotiated what her lawyer had said were fair plea bargains. Sam, in fact, had thought he was quite lenient. There was no evidence that they’d had any involvement in the Croyton deaths—Sam, like the others, was stunned and horrified at the news. Still, the Family’s record of petty crimes was extensive and if he’d wanted to, James Reynolds could have gone to trial and probably gotten much longer sentences from a jury.
But he was sympathetic to what they’d been through; he realized they’d fallen under the spell of Daniel Pell. He called it the Stockholm syndrome, which Sam had looked up. It was an emotional connection that victims develop with their hostage takers or kidnappers. Sam was happy to accept Reynolds’s leniency, but she wasn’t going to let herself off the hook by blaming her actions on some psychological excuse. Every single day she felt bad about the thefts and letting Pell run her life. She hadn’t been kidnapped; she’d lived with the Family voluntarily.
A picture came on the TV: an artist’s rendering of Pell with darker skin, moustache and black hair, glasses and a vague Latino look. His disguise.
“That’s way bizarre,” Rebecca offered.
The knock on the door startled them. Kathryn Dance’s voice announced her arrival. Linda rose to let her in.
Samantha liked her—a cop with a great smile, who wore an iPod like her gun and had shoes with bold
daisies embossed on the straps. She’d like a pair of shoes like that. Sam rarely bought fun or frivolous things for herself. Sometimes she’d window-shop and think, Neat, I’d like one of those. But then her conscience tweaked, and she decided, No, I don’t deserve it.
Winston Kellogg too was smiling, but his was different from Dance’s. It seemed like his badge, something to be flashed, saying: I’m really not what you think. I’m a federal agent, but I’m human too. He was appealing. Kellogg wasn’t really handsome, certainly not in a classic way. He had a bit of double chin, was a little round in the middle. But his manner and voice and eyes made him sexy.
Glancing at the TV screen, Dance asked, “You heard?”
Linda said, “I’m so happy he’s all right. His family was there too?”
“They’re all fine.”
“On the news, they mentioned a deputy was hurt?” Rebecca asked.
Kellogg said, “He’ll be all right.” He went on to explain how Pell and his partner had planned the man’s murder, killing the other woman, Susan Pemberton, yesterday solely to find out where Reynolds lived.
Sam thought of what had struck her years ago: the obsessed, unstoppable mind of Daniel Pell.
Dance said, “Well, I wanted to thank you. The information you gave us saved his life.”
“Us?” Linda asked.
“Yep.” She explained how the observations they’d offered earlier—particularly about Pell’s reaction to being laughed at and about disguises—had let her deduce what the killer might be up to.
Rebecca was shaking her head, her expressive lips tight. She said, “But hedid get away from you, I noticed.”
Sam was embarrassed at Rebecca’s abrasive comment. It always amazed her how people wouldn’t hesitate to criticize or insult, even when there was no purpose to it.
“He did,” Dance said, looking the taller woman in the eyes. “We didn’t get there in time.”
“The newscaster said Reynolds tried to capture him himself,” Rebecca said.
“That’s right,” Kellogg said.
“So maybe he’s the reason Pell got away.”
Dance held her eye easily. Sam was so envious of that ability. Her husband would often say, “Hey, what’s the matter? Look at me.” It seemed that her eighteen-month-old son was the only person in the world she could look in the eye.
Dance said to Rebecca, “Possibly. But Pell was at the front door with a gun. James didn’t really have any choice.”
Rebecca shrugged. “Still. One of him, all of you.”
“Come on,” Linda snapped. “They’re doing the best they can. You know Daniel. He thinks out everything. He’s impossible to get ahead of.”
The FBI agent said, “No, you’re right, Rebecca. We have to work harder. We’re on the defensive. But wewill get him, I promise.”
Samantha noticed Kellogg glance at Kathryn Dance and Sam thought: Damn, he’s sweet on her, the phrase from one of the hundreds of old-time books she’d spent her summers reading as a girl. As for the policewoman? Hm, could be. Sam couldn’t tell. But she didn’t waste much time thinking about the romantic life of two people she’d known for one day. They were part of a world she wanted to leave behind as fast as possible.
Rebecca relented. “Well, if we got you that close last time, maybe we’ll get you there five minutes earlier the next.”
Dance nodded. “Thank you for that. And everything. We really appreciate it. Now, a couple of things.
Just to reassure you, I’ve added another deputy outside. There’s no reason to believe that Pell has any clue you’re here, but I thought it couldn’t hurt.”
“Won’t say no to that,” Rebecca said.
The agent glanced at the clock. It was 10:15. “I’m proposing we call it quits for tonight. If you think of anything else about Pell or the case and want to talk about it, I can be here in twenty minutes. Otherwise, we’ll reconvene in the morning. You’ve got to be exhausted.”
Samantha said, “Reunions have a way of doing that.”
Parking in the back of the Sea View, Jennie shut off the Toyota’s engine. Daniel Pell didn’t get out. He felt numb and everything seemed surreal: the lights ghostly auras in the fog, the slow-motion sound of the waves piling up on Asilomar Beach.
An alternate world, out of some weird movie the cons would watch in Capitola and talk about for months afterward.
All because of the bizarre incident at the prosecutor’s house.
“Are you all right, sweetie?”