Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

"That'd be very helpful, James. Appreciate it." Dance finished the stew and rinsed the bowl, placing it in. "I didn't even know you were in the area. I'd heard you retired to Santa Barbara."

"We have a little place there. But we're here most of the year."

"Well, when you called, I got in touch with MCSO. I'd like to have a deputy stationed outside."

Reynolds dismissed the idea. "I've got a good alarm system. I'm virtually untraceable. When I became lead prosecutor I started getting threats-those Salinas gang prosecutions. I had my phone unlisted and transferred title to the house to a trust. There's no way he could find me. And I've got a carry permit for my six-gun."

Dance wasn't going to take no for an answer. "He's already killed several times today."

A shrug. "Sure, what the hell. I'll take a babysitter. Can't hurt-my younger son's here visiting. Why take chances?"

Dance scooted onto a stool. She rested her maroon wedge Aldos on the supports. The straps on the shoes were inlaid with bright daisies. Even ten-year-old Maggie had more conservative taste than she did when it came to shoes, which were one of Dance's passions.

"For now, could you tell me something about the murders eight years ago? It might give me an idea of what he's up to."

Reynolds sat on an adjoining stool, sipping wine. He ran through the facts of the case: How Pell and Jimmy Newberg had broken into the house of William Croyton in Carmel, killed the businessman, his wife and two of their three children. They were all stabbed to death.

"Newberg too. My theory was that he balked about killing the kids and got into a fight with Pell, who killed him. "

"Any history between Pell and Croyton?"

"Not that we could establish. But Silicon Valley was at its peak then, and Croyton was one of the big boys. He was in the press all the time-he not only designed most of the programs himself, he was the chief of sales too. Larger-than-life kind of guy. Work hard, play hard. Big, loud, tanned. Not the most sympathetic victim in the world. Pretty ruthless businessman, rumors of affairs, disgruntled employees. But if murder was a crime only against saints, we prosecutors'd be out of a job.

"His company had been burglarized a couple of times in the year before the killing. The perps got away with computers and software, but Santa Clara County could never come up with a suspect. No indication that Pell had anything to do with it. But I always wondered if it could've been him."

"What happened to the company after he died?"

"It was acquired by somebody else, Microsoft or Apple or one of the game companies, I don't know."

"And his estate?"

"Most of it went in trust to his daughter, and I think some to his wife's sister, the aunt who took custody of the girl. Croyton'd been in computers ever since he was a kid. He had probably ten, twenty million dollars' worth of old hardware and programs that he left to Cal State-Monterey Bay. The computer museum there's really impressive, and techies come from all over the world to do research in the archives."

"Still?"

"Apparently so. Croyton was way ahead of his time."

"And rich."

"Way rich."

"That was the actual motive for the killings?"

"Well, we never knew for sure. On the facts, it was a plain-vanilla burglary. I think Pell read about Croyton and thought it'd be a cakewalk to pick up some big bucks."

"But his take was pretty skimpy, I read."

"A thousand and some jewelry. Would've been a small case. Except for five dead bodies, of course. Almost six-good thing that little girl was upstairs."

"What's her story?"

"Poor kid. You know what they called her?"

"'The Sleeping Doll.'"

"Right. She didn't testify. Even if she'd seen something, I wouldn't've subjected her to the stand, not with that prick in the courtroom. I had enough evidence anyway."

"She didn't remember anything?"

"Nothing helpful. She went to bed early that night."

"Where is she now?"

"No idea. She was adopted by the aunt and uncle and they moved away."

"What was Pell's defense?"

"They'd gone there with some business idea. Newberg snapped and killed everybody. Pell tried to stop him, they fought and Pell, quote, 'had' to kill him. But there was no evidence Croyton had a meeting planned-the family was in the middle of dinner when they showed up. Besides, the forensics were clear: time of death, fingerprints, trace, blood spatter, everything. Pell was the doer."

"In prison Pell got access to a computer. Unsupervised."

"That's not good."

She nodded. "We found some things he searched for. Do they mean anything to you? One was 'Alison.'"

"It wasn't one of the girls in the Family. I don't remember anybody else connected to him with that name."

"Another word he searched was 'Nimue.' A character out of mythology. King Arthur legend. But I'm thinking it's a name or screen name of somebody Pell wanted to get in touch with."

"Sorry, nothing."

"Any other ideas about what he might have in mind?"

Reynolds shook his head. "Sorry. It was a big case-for me. And for the county. But, the fact is, it wasn't remarkable. He was caught red-handed, the forensics were waterproof and he was a recidivist with a history of criminal activity going back to his early teens. I mean, this guy and the Family were on watch lists in beach communities from Big Sur to Marin. I'd've had to screw up pretty bad to lose."

"All right, James. I should get going," she said. "Appreciate the help. If you find something in the files, let me know."

He gave her a solemn nod, no longer a dabbling retiree or kindly father-of-the-bride. She could see in Reynolds's eyes the fierce determination that had undoubtedly characterized his approach in court. "I'll do anything I can to help get that son of a bitch back where he belongs. Or into a body bag."

They'd separated, and now, several hundred yards apart, they made their way on foot to a motel in quaint Pacific Grove, right in the heart of the Peninsula.

Pell walked leisurely and wide-eyed, like a dumbfounded tourist who'd never seen surf outside Baywatch.

They were in a change of clothing, which they'd bought at a Goodwill store in a poor part of Seaside (where he'd enjoyed watching Jennie hesitate, then discard her beloved pink blouse). Pell was now in a light gray windbreaker, cords, and cheap running shoes, a baseball cap on backward. He also carried a disposable camera. He would occasionally pause to take pictures of the sunset, on the theory that one thing escaped killers rarely do is stop to record panoramic seascapes, however impressive.

He and Jennie had driven east from Moss Landing in the stolen Ford Focus, taking none of the major roads and even cutting through a Brussels sprout field, aromatic with the scent of human gas. Eventually they'd headed back toward Pacific Grove. But when the area became more populous, Pell knew it was time to ditch the wheels. The police would learn about the Focus soon. He hid it in tall grass in the middle of a large field off Highway 68, marked with a FOR SALE – COMMERCIAL ZONED sign.

He decided they should separate on the hike to the motel. Jennie didn't like it, not being with him, but they stayed in touch via their prepaid mobiles. She called every five minutes until he told her it was probably better not to, because the police might be listening in.

Which they weren't, of course, but he was tired of the honey-bunny chatter and wanted to think.

Daniel Pell was worried.

How had the police tracked them to Jack's?

He ran through the possibilities. Maybe the cap, sunglasses and shaved face hadn't fooled the manager at the restaurant, though who'd believe that a murderous escapee would sit down like a day-tripper from San Francisco to devour a plate of tasty sand dabs fifteen miles from the detention center he'd just redecorated with fire and blood?