Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

"What was your dream about?" she asked.

"I don't remember."

"Wonder why you were dreaming about God."

For a moment he felt a curious urge to tell her about his father. Then: What the hell're you thinking of?

"No clue."

"I'm kinda into religion," she said uncertainly. "A little. More spiritual stuff than Jesus, you know."

"Well, about Jesus, I don't think he was the son of God or anything, but I'll tell you, I respect Him. He could get anybody to do whatever He wanted. I mean, even now, you just mention the name and, bang, people'll hop to in a big way. That's power. But all those religions, the organized ones, you give up too much to belong to them. You can't think the way you want to. They control you."

Pell glanced at her blouse, the bra… The swelling began again, the or something high-pressure center growing in his belly.

He tried to ignore it and looked back at the notes he'd taken from his online searches and the map. Jennie clearly wanted to ask what he had in mind but couldn't bring herself to. She'd be hoping he was looking for routes out of town, roads that would lead ultimately to Orange County.

"I've got a few things to take care of, baby. I'll need you to give me a ride."

"Sure, just say when."

He was studying the map carefully, and he looked up to see that she'd stepped away.

Jennie returned a moment later, carrying a few things, which she'd gotten from a bag in the closet. She set these on the bed in front of him, then knelt on the floor. It was like a dog bringing her master a ball, ready to play.

Pell hesitated. But then he reminded himself that it's okay to give up a little control from time to time, depending on the circumstances.

He reached for her but she lay down and rolled over on her belly all by herself.

There are two routes to San Jose from Monterey. You can take Highway 1, which winds along the coast through Santa Cruz, then cut over on vertigo-inducing Highway 17, through artsy Los Gatos, where you can buy crafts and crystals and incense and tie-dyed Janis Joplin dresses (and, okay, Roberto Cavalli and D &G).

Or you can just take the Highway 156 cutoff to the 101 and, if you've got government tags, burn however much gas you want to get up to the city in an hour.

Kathryn Dance chose the second.

Gospel was gone and she was listening to Latin music-the Mexican singer Julieta Venegas. Her soulful "Verdad" was pounding from the speakers.

The Taurus was doing ninety as she zipped through Gilroy, the garlic capital of the world. Not far away was Castroville (ditto, artichokes) and Watsonville, with its sweeping pelt of berry fields and mushroom farms. She liked these towns and had no patience for detractors who laughed at the idea of crowning an artichoke queen or standing in line for the petting tanks at Monterey's own Squid Festival. After all, these chicer-than-thou urbanites were the ones who paid obscene prices for olive oil and balsamic vinegar to cook those very artichokes and calamari rings in.

These burgs were homey and honest and filled with history. And they were also her turf, falling within the west-central region of the CBI.

She saw a sign luring tourists to a vineyard in Morgan Hill, and had a thought.

Dance called Michael O'Neil.

"Hey," he said.

"I was thinking about the acid they found in the Thunderbird at Moss Landing. Any word?"

"Peter's techs've been working on it but they still don't have any specific leads."

"How many bodies we have searching the orchards and vineyards?"

"About fifteen CHP, five of our people, some Salinas uniforms. They haven't found anything."

"I've got an idea. What is the acid exactly?"

"Hold on."

Eyes slipping between the road and the pad of paper resting on her knee, she jotted the incomprehensible terms as he spelled them.

"So kinesics isn't enough? You have to master forensics too?"

"A wise woman knows her limitations. I'll call you in a bit."

Dance then hit speed dial. She listened to a phone ring two thousand miles away.

A click as it answered. "Amelia Sachs."

"Hi, it's Kathryn."

"How're you doing?"

"Well, been better."

"Can imagine. We've been following the case. How's that officer? The one who was burned?"

Dance was surprised that Lincoln Rhyme, the well-known forensic scientist in New York City, and Amelia Sachs, his partner and a detective with the NYPD, had been following the story of Pell's escape.

"Not too good, I'm afraid."

"We were talking about Pell. Lincoln remembers the original case. In ninety-nine. When he killed that family. Are you making headway?"

"Not much. He's smart. Too smart."

"That's what we're gathering from the news. So, how are the kids?"

"Fine. We're still waiting for that visit. My parents too. They want to meet you both."

Sachs gave a laugh. "I'll get him out there soon. It's a…let's say challenge."

Lincoln Rhyme didn't like to travel. This wasn't owing to the problems associated with his disability (he was a quadriplegic). He simply didn't like to travel.

Dance had met Rhyme and Sachs last year when she'd been teaching a course in the New York area and had been tapped to help them on a case. They'd stayed in touch. She and Sachs in particular had grown close. Women in the tough business of policing tend to do that.

"Any word on our other friend?" Sachs asked.

This reference was to the perp they'd been after in New York last year. The man had eluded them and vanished, possibly to California. Dance had opened a CBI file but then the trail grew cold and it was possible that the perp was now out of the country.

"I'm afraid not. Our office in L.A.'s still following up on the leads. I'm calling about something else. Is Lincoln available?"

"Hold on a minute. He's right here."

There was a click and Rhyme's voice popped into her phone.

"Kathryn."

Rhyme was not the sort for chitchat, but he spent a few minutes conversing-nothing about her personal life or the children, of course. His interest was the cases she was working. Lincoln Rhyme was a scientist, with very little patience for the "people" side of policing, as he put it. Yet, on their recent case together, he'd grown to understand and value kinesics (though being quick to point out that it was based on scientific methodology and not, he said contemptuously, gut feeling). He said, "Wish you were here. I've got a witness we'd love for you to grill on a multiple homicide case. You can use a rubber hose if you want."

She could picture him in his red motorized wheelchair, staring at a large flat screen hooked up to a microscope or computer. He loved evidence the same way she loved interrogation.

"Wish I could. But I've got my hands full."

"So I hear. Who's doing the lab work?"

"Peter Bennington."

"Oh, sure. I know him. Cut his teeth in L.A. Took a seminar of mine. Good man."

"Got a question about the Pell situation."

"Sure. Go ahead."

"We've got some evidence that might lead to what he's up to-maybe tainting food-or where he's hiding. But either one's taking a lot of manpower to check out. I have to know if it makes sense to keep them committed. We could really use them elsewhere."

"What's the evidence?"

"I'll do the best I can with the pronunciation." Eyes shifting between the road and her notebook. "Carboxylic acid, ethanol and malic acid, amino acid and glucose."

"Give me a minute."

She heard his conversation with Amelia Sachs, who apparently went online into one of Rhyme's own databases. She could hear the words clearly; unlike most callers, the criminalist was unable to hold his hand over the phone when speaking to someone else in the room.

"Okay, hold on, I'm scrolling through some things now…"