Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

They can also just hang up.

He had to be careful. He'd noticed the police cruising past the house of the Bollings, the surname the family had adopted, at frequent intervals. This in itself meant nothing-Vallejo Springs was a rich town and had a large, well-endowed constabulary-but Nagle noticed that the squad cars seemed to slow when they drove by.

He noticed too that there were far more police cars out and about now than last week. Which suggested to him what he already suspected: that Theresa was a town sweetheart. The cops would be on high alert to make sure nothing happened to her. If Nagle overstepped, they'd escort him to the town line and dump him in the dust, like an unwelcome gunslinger in some bad western.

He sat back, eyes on the front door, and thought about opening lines for his book.

Carmel-by-the-Sea is a village of contradictions, a mecca for tourists, the jewel in the crown of the Central Coast, yet beneath the pristine and the cute you'll find the secretive world of the rich and ruthless from San Francisco, Silicon Valley and Hollywood…

Hm. Work on that.

Nagle chuckled.

And then he saw the SUV, a white Escalade, pulling out of the Bollings' driveway. The girl's aunt, Mary, was behind the wheel, alone in the car. Good. He'd never get close if Theresa was with her.

Nagle started his car, a Buick worth the price of the SUV's transmission alone, and followed. Theresa's aunt made a stop at a gas station, filled the tank with premium. She chatted with a woman at a nearby pump, driving a red Jaguar S-type. The aunt seemed harried. Her gray hair wasn't brushed and she looked tired. Even from the edge of the parking lot, Nagle could make out dark circles under her eyes.

Pulling out of Shell, she drove through the quaint, unmistakably Californian downtown: a street adorned with plants and flowers and quirky sculptures and lined with coffee shops, understated restaurants, a garden center, an independent bookstore, a yoga place and small retail operations selling wine, crystals, pet supplies and L.L. Bean-style clothing.

A few hundred yards along the road was the strip mall where the locals shopped, anchored by an Albertsons grocery and a Rite Aid drugstore. Mary Bolling parked in the lot and walked inside the grocery store. Nagle parked near her SUV. He stretched, longing for a cigarette, though he hadn't smoked in twenty years.

He continued the endless debate with himself.

So far he hadn't transgressed. Hadn't broken any rules.

He could still head home, no moral harm done.

But should he?

He wasn't sure.

Morton Nagle believed he had a purpose in life, which was to expose evil. It was an important mission, one he felt passionate about. A noble mission.

But the goal was to reveal evil, and let people make their own judgments. Not to fight it himself. Because once you crossed the line and your purpose became seeking justice, not illuminating it, there were risks. Unlike the police, he didn't have the Constitution telling him what he could and couldn't do, which meant there was a potential for abuse.

By asking Theresa Croyton to help find a killer, he was exposing her and her family-himself and his too-to very real dangers. Daniel Pell obviously had no problem killing youngsters.

It was so much better to write about human beings and their conflicts than to make judgments about those conflicts. Let the readers decide what was good or bad, and act accordingly. On the other hand, was it right for him to sit back and let Pell continue his slaughter, when he could do more?

The time for his slippery debate ended, though. Mary Bolling was walking out of Albertsons, wheeling a cart filled with groceries.

Yes or no?

Morton Nagle hesitated only a few seconds, then pulled open the door, stepped out and hitched up his pants. He strode forward.

"Excuse me. Hi, Mrs. Bolling. It's me."

She paused, blinked and stared at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I-"

"I haven't agreed to let you talk to Theresa."

"I know, I know…That's not-"

"How dare you show up here like this? You're stalking us!"

Her cell phone was in her hand.

"Please," Nagle said, feeling a sudden desperation to sway her. "This is something different. I'm here doing a favor for someone. We can talk about the book later."

"A favor?"

"I drove up from Monterey to ask you something. I wanted to see you in person."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know about Daniel Pell."

"Of course I know." She said this as if he were the village idiot.

"There's a policewoman who'd like to talk to your niece. She thinks maybe Theresa can help her find Pell."

"What?"

"Don't worry. There's no risk. She-"

"No risk? Are you mad? You could've led him here!"

"No. He's somewhere in Monterey."

"Did you tell them where we are?"

"No, no! This policewoman'll meet her wherever you like. Here. Anywhere. She just wants to ask Theresa-"

"No one is going to talk to her. No one is going to see her." The woman leaned forward. "There will be very serious consequences if you don't leave immediately."

"Mrs. Bolling, Daniel Pell has killed-"

"I watch the fucking news. Tell that policewoman, whoever she is, that there's not a single thing Theresa can tell her. And you can forget about ever talking to her for your goddamn book."

"No, wait, please-"

Mary Bolling turned and ran back to the Escalade, as her abandoned shopping cart ambled in the opposite direction down the shallow incline. By the time a breathless Nagle had grabbed the cart just before it slammed into a Mini Cooper, the aunt's SUV was spinning tires as it vanished from the lot.

Not long ago a CBI agent, now former, had once called this the "Gals' Wing."

He was referring to that portion of the Monterey headquarters that happened to be the home of two female investigative agents-Dance and Connie Ramirez-as well as Maryellen Kresbach and the no-nonsense office manager, Grace Yuan.

The unfortunate utterer was a fiftyish agent, one of those fixtures in offices all over the world who wake up counting the days to retirement, and who've done so since their twenties. He'd had his share of collars at the Highway Patrol some years back, but his move to the CBI had been a mistake. He wasn't up to the challenges of the job.

He also apparently lacked any sense of survival.

"And this is the Gals' Wing," he'd said, loud enough for everyone to hear, during a lunch-hour tour of HQ with a young woman he was wooing.

Dance and Connie Ramirez made eye contact.

That night they went on a panty-hose-buying mission and when the poor agent came to work the next day he found his entire office spiderwebbed in mesh, fishnet and glittery synthetic leg wear. Some personal hygiene products also figured in the decor. He ran whining to then-CBI head Stan Fishburne, who, bless him, could hardly keep a straight face during the inquisition. "What do you mean you only said, 'Gals' Wing,' Bart? You actually said that?"

He threatened a complaint to Sacramento, but he didn't last long enough in the CBI to see the matter through. Ironically, after the offender's departure, the population of that portion of the office adopted the moniker instantly and the hallway was now known to everyone in the CBI as "GW."

Whose undecorated hallway Kathryn Dance was walking down at the moment.

"Maryellen, hi."

"Oh, Kathryn, I'm sorry to hear about Juan. We're all going to make a donation. You know where his parents would like it to go?"

"Michael'll let us know."

"Your mother called. She's going to stop by with the kids later, if that's okay."

Dance made sure to see her children whenever she could, even during business hours, if a case was taking up a lot of time and she'd be working late. "Good. How's the Davey situation?"