Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

"Yep." She thought for a minute. That was one thing about O'Neil; he often forced her to put her tangled ideas in order before speaking. She explained, "Bad feeling about Pell. I got this idea that the guards' deaths meant nothing to him. Juan too. And that Worldwide Express driver? He's dead, you know."

"I know… You think Pell wants to kill?"

"No, not wants to. Or doesn't. What he wants is whatever serves his interest, however small. In a way, that seems scarier, and makes it harder to anticipate him. But let's hope I'm wrong."

"You're never wrong, boss." TJ appeared, carrying a laptop. He set it up on the battered conference table under a sign, MOST WANTED STATEWIDE. Below it were the ten winners of that contest, reflecting the demographics of the state: Latino, Anglo, Asian and African-American, in that order.

"You find the McCoy woman or Pell's aunt?"

"Not yet. My troops're on the case. But check this out." He adjusted the computer screen.

They hovered around the screen, on which was a high-resolution image of the photograph from Morton Nagle's camera. Now larger and clearer, it revealed a figure in a denim jacket on the driveway that led to the back of the building, where the fire had started. The shadow had morphed into a large black suitcase.

"Woman?" O'Neil asked.

They could judge the person's height by comparing it to the automobile nearby. About Dance's height, five-six. Slimmer, though, she noted. The cap and sunglasses obscured the head and face, but through the vehicle's window you could see hips slightly broader than a man's would be for that height.

"And there's a glint. See that?" TJ tapped the screen. "Earring."

Dance glanced at the hole in his lobe, where a diamond or metal stud occasionally resided.

"Statistically speaking," TJ said in defense of his observation.

"Okay. I agree."

"A blond woman, about five-six or so," O'Neil summarized.

Dance said, "Weight one-ten, give or take." She had a thought. She called Rey Carraneo in his office upstairs, asked him to join them.

He appeared a moment later. "Agent Dance."

"Go back to Salinas. Talk to the manager of the You Mail It store." The accomplice had probably recently checked out the Worldwide Express delivery schedule at the franchise. "See if anyone there remembers a woman fitting her general description. If so, get a picture on EFIS."

The Electronic Facial Identification System is a computer-based version of the old Identi-Kit, used by investigators to re-create suspects' likenesses from the recollections of witnesses.

"Sure, Agent Dance."

TJ hit some buttons and the jpeg zipped wirelessly to the color printer in his office. Carraneo would pick it up there.

TJ's phone rang. "Yo." He jotted notes during a brief conversation, which ended with, "I love you, darling." He hung up. "Vital statistics clerk in Sacramento. B-R-I-T-N-E-E. Love that name. She's very sweet. Way too sweet for me. Not to say it couldn't work out between us."

Dance lifted an eyebrow, the kinesic interpretation of which was: "Get to the point."

"I put her on the case of the missing Family member, capital F. Five years ago Samantha McCoy changed her name to Sarah Monroe. So she wouldn't have to throw out her monogrammed underwear, I'd guess. Then three years ago, somebody of that name marries Ronald Starkey. There goes the monogram ploy. Anyway, they live in San Jose."

"Sure it's the same McCoy?"

"The real McCoy, you mean. I've been waiting to say that. Yep. Good old Social Security. With a parole board backup."

Dance called Directory Assistance and got Ronald and Sarah Starkey's address and phone number.

"San Jose," O'Neil said. "That's close enough." Unlike the other two women in the Family to whom Dance had already spoken, Samantha could have planted the gas bomb this morning and been home in an hour and a half.

"Does she work?" Dance asked.

"I didn't check that out. I will, though, you want."

"We want," O'Neil said. TJ didn't report to him, and in the well-established hierarchy of law enforcement the CBI trumped MCSO. But a request from Chief Deputy Michael O'Neil was the same as a request from Dance. Or even higher.

A few minutes later TJ returned to say that the tax department revealed that Sarah Starkey was employed by a small educational publisher in San Jose.

Dance got the number. "Let's see if she was in this morning."

O'Neil asked, "How're you going to do that? We can't let her know we suspect anything."

"Oh, I'll lie," Dance said breezily. She called the publisher from a caller ID-blocked line. When a woman answered, Dance said, "Hi. This is the El Camino Boutique. We have an order for Sarah Starkey. But the driver said she wasn't there this morning. Do you know what time she'll be getting in?"

"Sarah? I'm afraid there's some mistake. She's been here since eight thirty."

"Really? Well, I'll talk to the driver again. Might be better to deliver it to her house. If you could not mention anything to Mrs. Starkey, I'd appreciate it. It's a surprise." Dance hung up. "She was there all morning."

TJ applauded. "And the Oscar for the best performance by a law enforcer deceiving the public goes to…"

O'Neil frowned.

"Don't approve of my subversive techniques?" Dance asked.

With his typical wry delivery O'Neil said, "No, it's just that you're going to have to send her something now. The receptionist's going to dime you out. Tell her she's got a secret admirer."

"I know, boss. Get her one of those balloon bouquets. 'Congratulations on not being a suspect.'"

Dance's administrative assistant, short, no-nonsense Maryellen Kresbach, walked into the room with coffee for all (Dance never asked; Maryellen always brought). The mother of three wore clattery high heels and favored complicated, coiffed hair and impressive fingernails.

The crew in the conference room thanked her. Dance sipped the excellent coffee. Wished Maryellen had brought some of the cookies sitting on her desk. She envied the woman's ability to be both a domestic powerhouse and the best assistant Dance had ever had.

The agent noticed that Maryellen wasn't leaving after delivering the caffeine.

"Didn't know if I should bother you. But Brian called."

"He did?"

"He said you might not have gotten his message on Friday."

"You gave it to me."

"I know I did. I didn't tell him I did. And I didn't tell him I didn't. So."

Feeling O'Neil's eyes on her, Dance said, "Okay, thanks."

"You want his number?"

"I have it."

"Okay." Her assistant continued to stand resolutely in front of her boss, nodding slowly.

Well, this is a rather spiny moment.

Dance didn't want to talk about Brian Gunderson.

The trill of the conference-room phone saved her.

She answered, listened for a moment and said, "Have somebody bring him to my office right away."

The large man, in a California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation uniform, sat in front of her desk, a workaday slab of government-issue furniture on which lay random pens, some awards, a lamp and photos: of the two children, of Dance with a handsome silver-haired man, of her mother and father, and of two dogs, each paired with one of the youngsters. A dozen files also rested on the cheap laminate. They were facedown.

"This is terrible," said Tony Waters, a senior guard from Capitola Correctional Facility. "I can't tell you."

Dance detected traces of a southeastern accent in the distraught voice. The Monterey Peninsula drew people from all over the world. Dance and Waters were alone at the moment. Michael O'Neil was checking on the forensics from the scene of the escape.

"You were in charge of the wing where Pell was incarcerated?" Dance asked.