Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

All were welcome to stop by whether she was home or away, whether the visitors announced their intentions or not, though even if she was home she might not join them. A tacit but well-understood rule held that, while people were always welcome anytime outside, the house itself was off limits, except for planned parties; privacy, sleep and homework were sacred.

Dance now climbed the steep stairs from her side yard and walked onto the Deck, carrying the box of photocopies and tapes, on top of which was perched a prepared chicken dinner she'd bought at Albertsons. The dogs greeted her, a black flat-coated retriever and a black-and-tan German shepherd. She rubbed ears and flung a few mangy stuffed toys, then continued on to two men sitting in plastic chairs.

"Hi, honey." Stuart Dance looked younger than his seventy years. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a full head of unruly white hair. His hours at sea and on the shore had taken a toll on his skin; a few scars from the dermatologist's scalpel and laser were evident too. Technically he was retired but he still worked at the aquarium several days a week, and nothing in the universe could keep him from the rocky shoals of the coast.

He and his daughter brushed cheeks.

"Hnnn." From Albert Stemple, another Major Crimes agent with the CBI. The massive man, with a shaved head, wore boots, jeans, a black T-shirt. There were scars on his face as well, and others he'd alluded to-in places that didn't see much sunlight, though a dermatologist had nothing to do with them. He was drinking a beer, feet sticking out in front of him. The CBI was not known for its cowboys, but Albert Stemple was your basic, make-my-own-rules Wild Bill Hickok. He had more collars than any other agent, as well as more official complaints (he was most proud of the latter).

"Thanks for keeping an eye on things, Al. Sorry it's later than I'd planned." Thinking of Pell's threats during the interrogation-and of his remaining in the area-Dance had asked Stemple to babysit until she returned home. (O'Neil too had arranged for local officers to keep an eye on her house as long as the escapee was at large.)

Stemple grunted. "Not a problem. Overby'll buy me dinner."

"Charles said that?"

"Naw. But he'll buy me dinner. Quiet here. I walked around a couple times. Nothin' strange."

"You want a soda for the road?"

"Sure." The big man helped himself to two Anchor Steams from the fridge. "Don't worry. I'll finish 'em 'fore I get in the car. So long, Stu." He clomped along the Deck, which creaked under his weight.

He disappeared and she heard the Crown Victoria start up fifteen seconds later and peel away, the open beers undoubtedly resting between his massive thighs.

Dance glanced through the streaked windows into the living room. Her eyes settled on a book sitting on the coffee table in the living room. It jogged her memory. "Hey, did Brian call?"

"Oh, your friend? The one who came to dinner?"

"Right."

"What was his last name?"

"Gunderson."

"The investment banker."

"That's the one. Did he call?"

"Not that I know. You want to ask the kids?"

"No, that's okay. Thanks again, Dad."

"No worries." An expression from his days in New Zealand. He turned away, rapping on the window. "'Bye!"

"Grandpa, wait!" Maggie ran outside, her chestnut braid flapping behind her. She was clutching a book. "Hi, Mom," she said enthusiastically. "When'd you get home?"

"Just now."

"You didn't say anything!" exclaimed the ten-year-old, poking her glasses up on her nose.

"Where's your brother?"

"I don't know. His room. When's dinner?"

"Five minutes."

"What're we having?"

"You'll see."

Maggie held the book up to her grandfather and pointed out a small gray-purple, nautilus-like seashell. "Look. You were right." Maggie didn't try to pronounce the words.

"A Columbian Amphissa," he said and pulled out the pen and notebook he was never without. Jotted. Three decades older than his daughter and he needed no glasses. Most of her genetic proclivities derived from her mother, Dance had learned.

"A tide-drift shell," he said to Dance. "Very rare here. But Maggie found one."

"It was just there, " the girl said.

"Okay, I'm headed home to the staff sergeant. She's fixing dinner and my presence is required. 'Night, all."

"'Bye, Grandpa."

Her father climbed down the stairs, and Dance thanked fate or God or whatever might be, as she often did, for a good, dependable male figure in the life of a widow with children.

On her way to the kitchen her phone rang. Rey Carraneo reported that the Thunderbird at Moss Landing had been stolen from the valet parking lot of an upscale restaurant on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles the previous Friday. There were no suspects. They were expecting the report from LAPD but, like most car thefts, there were no forensics. Also he'd had no luck finding the hotel, motel or boardinghouse the woman might've checked into. "There're a lot of them," he confessed.

Welcome to the Monterey Peninsula. "We've got to stash the tourists somewhere, Rey. Keep at it. And say hi to your wife."

Dance began unpacking dinner.

A lean boy with sandy hair wandered into the sunroom beside the kitchen. He was on the phone. Though only twelve, Wes was nearly as tall as his mother. She wiggled a finger at him and he wandered over to her. She kissed him on the forehead and he didn't cringe. Which was the same as "I love you very much, Mother dear."

"Off the phone," she said. "Dinnertime."

"Like, gotta go."

"Don't say 'like.'"

The boy hung up. "What're we having?"

"Chicken," Maggie said dubiously.

"You like Albertsons."

"What about bird flu?"

Wes snickered. "Don't you know anything? You get it from live chickens."

"It was alive once," the girl countered.

From the corner where his sister had backed him, Wes said, "Well, it's not an Asian chicken."

"Hell- o . They migrate. And how you die is you throw up to death."

"Mags, not at dinnertime!" Dance said.

"Well, you do."

"Oh, like chickens migrate? Yeah, right. And they don't have bird flu here. Or we would've heard."

Sibling banter. But there was a little more to it, Dance believed. Her son remained deeply shaken by his father's death. This made him more sensitive to mortality and violence than most boys his age. Dance steered him away from those topics-a tough job for a woman who tracked down felons for a living. She now announced, "As long as the chicken's cooked, it's fine." Though she wasn't sure that this was right and wondered if Maggie would dispute her.

But her daughter was lost in her seashell book.

The boy said, "Oh, mashed potatoes too. You rock, Mom."

Maggie and Wes set the table and laid the food out, while Dance washed up.

When she returned from the bathroom, Wes asked, "Mom, aren't you going to change?" He was looking at her black suit.

"I'm starving. I can't wait." Not sharing that the real reason she'd kept the outfit on was as an excuse to wear her weapon. Usually the first thing she did upon coming home was to put on jeans and a T-shirt and slip the gun into the lockbox beside her bed.

Yeah, it's a tough life being a cop. The little ones spend a lot of time alone, don't they? They'd probably love some friends to play with…

Wes glanced once more at her suit as if he knew exactly what she'd been thinking.

But then they turned to the food, eating and talking about their day-the children's at least. Dance, of course, said nothing about hers. Wes was in a tennis camp in Monterey, Maggie at a music camp in Carmel. Each seemed to be enjoying the experience. Thank goodness neither of them asked about Daniel Pell.