“Please, just call her. She’s in Monterey. You can—Oh, God.”
The gunshot from behind Theresa was astonishingly loud, way louder than in the movies. It shook the windows and sent birds streaking into the clear skies.
Theresa cringed at the sound and dropped to her knees, watching Morton Nagle tumble backward onto the wet grass, his arms flailing in the air.
Eyes wide in horror, the girl looked at the deck behind the house.
Weird, she didn’t even know her aunt owned a gun, much less knew how to shoot it.
TJ Scanlon’s extensive canvassing of James Reynolds’s neighborhood had yielded no helpful witnesses or evidence.
“No vee-hicles. No nothin’.” He was calling from a street near the prosecutor’s house.
Dance, in her office, stretched and her bare feet fiddled with one of the three pairs of shoes under her desk. She badly wanted an ID of Pell’s new car, if not a tag number; Reynolds had reported only that it was a dark sedan, and the officer who’d been bashed with the shovel couldn’t remember seeing it at all.
The MCSO’s crime scene team hadn’t found any trace or other forensic evidence to give even a hint as to what Pell might be driving now.
She thanked TJ and disconnected, then joined O’Neil and Kellogg in the CBI conference room, where Charles Overby was about to arrive to ask for fodder for the next press conference—and his daily update to Amy Grabe of the FBI, and the head of the CBI in Sacramento, both of whom were extremely troubled that Daniel Pell was still free. Unfortunately, though, Overby’s briefing this morning would be primarily about the funeral plans for Juan Millar.
Her eyes caught Kellogg’s and they both looked away. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to the FBI agent about last night in the car.
Then decided: What is there to talk about?…afterward. How does that sound?
Young Rey Carraneo, eyes wide, stuck his perfectly round head into the conference room and said breathlessly, “Agent Dance, I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“What, Rey?”
“I think…” His voice vanished. He’d been sprinting. Sweat dotted his dark face.
“What? What’s wrong?”
The skinny agent said, “The thing is, Agent Dance, I think I’ve found him.”
“Who?”
“Pell.”
Chapter 40
The young agent explained that he’d called the upscale Sea View Motel in Pacific Grove—only a few miles from where Dance lived—and learned that a woman had checked in on Saturday. She was midtwenties, attractive and blond, slightly built. On Tuesday night, the desk clerk saw a Latino man go into her room.
“The clincher’s the car, though,” Carraneo said. “On the registration she put down Mazda. With a fake tag number—I just ran it. But the manager was sure he saw a turquoise T-bird there for a day or two.
It’s not there anymore.”
“They’re at the motel now?”
“He thinks so. The curtain’s drawn but he saw some motion and lights inside.”
“What’s her name?”
“Carrie Madison. But there’s no credit card info. She paid cash and showed a military ID but it was in a plastic wallet sleeve and scratched. Might’ve been faked.”
Dance leaned against the edge of the table, staring at the map. “Occupancy of the motel?”
“No vacancies.”
She grimaced. Plenty of innocents in the place.
Kellogg said, “Let’s plan the takedown.” To Michael: “You have MCSO tactical on alert?”
O’Neil was looking at Dance’s troubled face, and Kellogg had to repeat the question. The detective answered, “We can get teams there in twenty minutes.” He sounded reluctant.
Dance was, as well. “I’m not sure.”
“About what?” the FBI agent asked.
“We know he’s armed and he’ll target civilians. And I know the motel. The rooms look out on a parking lot and courtyard. Hardly any cover. He could see us coming. If we try to empty the rooms nearby and across the way, he’d spot us. If we don’t, people’re going to get hurt. Those walls wouldn’t stop a twenty-two.”
Kellogg asked, “What’re you thinking?”
“Surveillance. Get a team around the building, watch it nonstop. When he leaves, take him on the street.”
O’Neil nodded. “I’d vote for that too.”
“Vote for what?” Charles Overby asked, joining them.
Dance explained the situation.
“We’ve found him? Allright! ” He turned to Kellogg. “What about FBI tactical teams?”
“They can’t get here in time. We’ll have to go with county SWAT.”
“Michael, you’ve called them?”
“Not yet. Kathryn and I have some problems with a takedown.”
“What?” Overby asked testily.
She explained the risk. The CBI chief understood but he shook his head. “Bird in the hand.”
Kellogg too persisted. “I really don’t think we can risk waiting. He’s gotten away from us twice now.”
“If he gets any hint we’re moving in—and all he has to do is look out the window—he’ll go barricade. If there’s a door to the adjoining room—”
“There is,” Carraneo said. “I asked.”
She gave him a nod for his initiative. Then continued, “He could take hostages. I say we get a team on the roof across the way and maybe somebody in a housekeeping uniform. Sit back and watch. When he leaves, we’ll tail him. He hits a deserted intersection, block him in and get him in a cross-fire. He’ll surrender.”
Or be killed in a shootout. Either way…
“He’s too slippery for that,” Kellogg countered. “We surprise him in the motel, we move fast, he’ll give up.”
Our first spat, Dance thought wryly. “And go back to Capitola? I don’t think so. He’ll fight. Tooth and nail. Everything the women have told me about him makes me believe that. He can’t stand to be controlled or confined.”