Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

The stocky, bearded, balding man in his hard-worn fifties stood near the courthouse, looking over the chaos, his sharp eyes checking out everyone, the police, the guards, the civilians.

"Hey, Officer, how you doing, you got a minute? Just like to ask you a few questions… You mind saying a few words into the tape recorder?…Oh, sure, I understand. I'll catch you later. Sure. Good luck."

Morton Nagle had watched the helicopter swoop in low and ease to the ground to spirit away the injured cop.

He'd watched the men and women conducting the search, their strategy-and faces-making clear that they'd never run an escape.

He'd watched the uneasy crowds, thinking accidental fire, then thinking terrorists, then hearing the truth and looking even more scared than if al-Qaeda itself were behind the explosion.

As well they should, Nagle reflected.

"Excuse me, do you have a minute to talk?…Oh, sure. Not a problem. Sorry to bother you, Officer."

Nagle milled through the crowds. Smoothing his wispy hair, then tugging up saggy tan slacks, he was studying the area carefully, the fire trucks, the squad cars, the flashing lights bursting with huge aureoles through the foggy haze. He lifted his digital camera and snapped some more pictures.

A middle-aged woman looked over his shabby vest-a fisherman's garment with two dozen pockets-and battered camera bag. She snapped, "You people, you journalists, you're like vultures. Why don't you let the police do their job?"

He gave a chuckle. "I didn't know I wasn't."

"You're all the same." The woman turned away and continued to stare angrily at the smoky courthouse.

A guard came up to him and asked if he'd seen anything suspicious.

Nagle thought, Now that's a strange question. Sounds like something from an old-time TV show.

Just the facts, ma'am…

He answered, "Nope."

Adding to himself, Nothing surprising to me . But maybe I'm the wrong one to ask.

Nagle caught a whiff of a terrible scent-seared flesh and hair-and, incongruously, gave another amused laugh.

Thinking about it now-Daniel Pell had put the idea in mind-he realized he chuckled at times that most people would consider inappropriate, if not tasteless. Moments like this: when looking over carnage. Over the years he'd seen plenty of violent death, images that would repel most people.

Images that often made Morton Nagle laugh.

It was a defense mechanism probably. A device to keep violence-a subject he was intimately familiar with-from eating away at his soul, though he wondered if the chuckling wasn't an indicator that it already had.

Then an officer was making an announcement. People would soon be allowed back into the courthouse.

Nagle hitched up his pants, pulled his camera bag up higher on his shoulder and scanned the crowd. He spotted a tall, young Latino in a suit, clearly a plainclothes detective of some sort. The man was speaking to an elderly woman wearing a juror badge. They were off to the side, not many people around.

Good.

Nagle sized up the officer. Just what he wanted, young, gullible, trusting. And began slowly moving toward him.

Closing the distance.

The man moved on, oblivious to Nagle, looking for more people to interview.

When he was ten feet away, the big man slipped the camera strap around his neck, unzipped the bag, reached inside.

Five feet…

He stepped closer yet.

And felt a strong hand close around his arm. Nagle gasped and his heart gave a jolt.

"Just keep those hands where I can see them, how's that?" The man was a short, fidgety officer with the California Bureau of Investigation. Nagle read the ID dangling from his neck.

"Hey, what-"

"Shhhhh," hissed the officer, who had curly red hair. "And those hands? Remember where I want 'em?…Hey, Rey."

The Latino joined them. He too had a CBI ID card. He looked Nagle up and down. Together they led him to the side of the courthouse, attracting the attention of everybody nearby.

"Look, I don't know-"

"Shhhhh," the wiry agent offered again.

The Latino frisked him carefully and nodded. Then he lifted Nagle's press pass off his chest and showed it to the shorter officer.

"Hm," he said. "This is a little out of date, wouldn't you say?"

"Technically, but-"

"Sir, it's four years out of date," the Latino officer pointed out.

"That's a big bowl of technical," his partner said.

"I must've picked up the wrong one. I've been a reporter for-"

"So, if we called this paper, they'd say you're a credentialed employee?"

If they called the paper they'd get a nonworking number.

"Look, I can explain."

The short officer frowned. "You know, I sure would like an explanation. See, I was just talking to this groundskeeper, who told me that a man fitting your description was here about eight thirty this morning. There were no other reporters here then. And why would that be? Because there was no escape then… Getting here before the story breaks. That's quite a-whatta they call that, Rey?"

"Scoop?"

"Yeah, that's quite a scoop. So, 'fore you do any explaining, turn around and put your hands behind your back."

In the conference room on the second floor of the courthouse, TJ handed Dance what he'd found on Morton Nagle.

No weapons, no incendiary fuse, no maps of the courthouse or escape routes.

Just money, wallet, camera, tape recorder and thick notebook. Along with three true-crime books, his name on the cover and his picture on the back (appearing much younger, and hairier).

"He's a paperback writer," TJ sang, not doing justice to the Beatles.

Nagle was described in the author bio as "a former war correspondent and police reporter, who now writes books about crime. A resident of Scottsdale, Ariz., he is the author of thirteen works of nonfiction. He claims his other professions are gadabout, nomad and raconteur."

"This doesn't let you off the hook," Dance snapped. "What're you doing here? And why were you at the courthouse before the fire?"

"I'm not covering the escape. I got here early to get some interviews."

O'Neil said, "With Pell? He doesn't give them."

"No, no, not Pell. With the family of Robert Herron. I heard they were coming to testify to the grand jury."

"What about the fake press pass?"

"Okay, it's been four years since I've been credentialed with a magazine or newspaper. I've been writing books full-time. But without a press pass you can't get anywhere. Nobody ever looks at the date."

" Almost never," TJ corrected with a smile.

Dance flipped through one of the books. It was about the Peterson murder case in California a few years ago. It seemed well written.

TJ looked up from his laptop. "He's clean, boss. At least no priors. DMV pic checks out too."

"I'm writing a book. It's all legit. You can check."

He gave them the name of his editor in Manhattan. Dance called the large publishing company and spoke to the woman, whose attitude was, Oh, hell, what's Morton got himself into now? But she confirmed that he'd signed a contract for a new book about Pell.

Dance said to TJ, "Uncuff him."

O'Neil turned to the author and asked, "What's the book about?"

"It isn't like any true crime you've read before. It's not about the murders. That's been done. It's about the victims of Daniel Pell. What their lives were like before the murders and, the ones who survived, what they're like now. See, most nonfiction crime on TV or in books focuses only on the murderer himself and the crime-the gore, the gruesome aspects. The cheap stuff. I hate that. My book's about Theresa Croyton-the girl who survived-and the family's relatives and friends. The title's going to be The Sleeping Doll . That's what they called Theresa. I'm also going to include the women who were in Pell's quote Family, the ones he brainwashed. And all the other victims of Pell's too. There are really hundreds of them, when you think about it. I see violent crime like dropping a stone into a pond. The ripples of consequence can spread almost forever."