Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"This is the California Bureau of Investigation?"

If she'd looked at the building she would've seen the large sign that repeated four of the words in her question. But, being a good public servant, he said, "That's right. Can I help you?"

"Is this the office where Agent Dance works?"

"Kathryn Dance. Yes."

"Is she in now?"

"I don't-" The clerk looked across the lot and barked a laugh. "Well, guess what, miss? That's her, right over there, the younger woman."

He saw Dance with her mother and the two kids, whom the clerk had met on a couple of occasions.

"Okay. Thank you, Officer."

The clerk didn't correct her. He liked being misidentified as a real law enforcer. He got into his car and pulled out of the driveway. He happened to glance in the rearview mirror and saw the woman standing just where he'd left her. She seemed troubled.

He could've told her she didn't need to be. Kathryn Dance, in his opinion, was one of the nicest people in the whole of the CBI.

Dance closed the door of her mother's Prius hybrid. It hummed out of the lot and the agent waved good-bye.

She watched the silver car negotiate the winding road toward Highway 68. She was troubled. She kept imagining Juan Millar's voice in her head.

Kill me…

The poor man.

Although his brother's lashing out had nothing to do with it, Kathryn Dance did feel guilty that she'd picked him to go check on what was happening in the lockup. He was the most logical one, but she wondered if, being younger, he'd been more careless than a more experienced officer might've been. It was impossible to think that Michael O'Neil, or big Albert Stemple, or Dance herself would have let Pell get the upper hand.

Turning back toward the building, she was thinking of the first few moments of the fire and the escape. They'd had to move so quickly. But should she have waited, thought out her strategy better?

Second-guessing. It went with the territory of being a cop.

Returning to the building, humming Julieta Venegas's music. The notes were swirling through her thoughts, intoxicating-and taking her away from Juan Millar's terrible wounds and terrible words and Susan Pemberton's death…and her son's eyes, flipping from cheerful to stony the moment the boy had seen Dance with Winston Kellogg.

What to do about that ?

Dance continued through the deserted parking lot toward the front door of CBI, glad that the rain had stopped.

She was nearing the stairs when she heard a scrape of footstep on the asphalt and turned quickly to see that a woman had come up behind her, silently until now. She was a mere six or so feet away, walking directly toward her.

Dance stopped fast.

The woman did too. She shifted her weight.

"Agent Dance…I…"

Neither spoke for a moment.

Then Samantha McCoy said, "I've changed my mind. I want to help."

"I couldn't sleep after you came to see me. And when I heard he'd killed someone else, that woman, I knew I had to come."

Samantha, Dance and Kellogg were in her office. The woman sat upright, gripping the arms of the chair hard, looking from one to the other. Never more than a second's gaze at either. "You're sure it was Daniel who killed her?"

"That's right," Kellogg said.

"Why?"

"We don't know. We're looking into it now. Her name was Susan Pemberton. She worked for Eve Brock. Do the names mean anything to you?"

"No."

"It's an event-planning company. Pell took all their files and presumably destroyed them. There was something in them that he wanted to hide. Or maybe there's an event coming up that he's interested in. Do you have any thoughts about what that might be?"

"I'm sorry, no."

Dance told her, "I want to get you together with Linda and Rebecca as soon as possible."

"They're both here?"

"That's right."

Samantha nodded slowly.

Kellogg said, "I need to follow up on a few things here. I'll join you later."

Dance told Maryellen Kresbach where she'd be and the women left the CBI building. The agent had Samantha park her car in the secure garage under the building, so no one would see it. They then both got into Dance's Ford.

Samantha clicked on her seat belt and then stared straight ahead. Suddenly she blurted, "One thing, my husband, his family…my friends. They still don't know."

"What did you tell him about being away?"

"A publishing conference…And Linda and Rebecca? I'd just as soon they didn't know my new name, about my family."

"That's fine with me. I haven't given them any details they didn't already know. Now, you ready?"

A shaky smile. "No. I'm not the least ready. But, okay, let's go."

When they arrived at the inn Dance checked with the MCSO deputy outside and learned there'd been no unusual activity in or around the cabin.

She gestured Samantha out of the car. The woman hesitated and climbed from the vehicle, squinting, taking in everything around her. She'd be vigilant, of course, under the circumstances, but Dance sensed something else behind this attentiveness.

Samantha gave a faint smile. "The smells, the sound of the ocean…I haven't been back to the Peninsula since the trial. My husband keeps asking me to drive down for the weekend. I've come up with some doozy excuses. Allergies, carsickness, pressing manuscripts to edit." Her smile faded. She glanced at the cabin. "Pretty."

"It's only got two bedrooms. I wasn't expecting you."

"If there's a couch, I can sleep on that. I don't want to bother anybody."

Samantha the unassuming one, the shy one, Dance recalled.

Mouse.

"I hope it'll just be for one night." Kathryn Dance stepped forward and knocked on the door to the past.

The Toyota smelled of cigarette smoke, which Daniel Pell hated.

He himself never smoked, though he'd bartered cigarettes like a floor broker on a stock exchange when he was inside the Q or Capitola. He would've let the kids in the Family smoke-dependency in someone else is exploitable, of course-but he loathed the smell. Reminded him of growing up, his father sitting in his big armchair, reading the Bible, jotting notes for sermons nobody would ever hear and chain-smoking. (His mother nearby, smoking and drinking.) His brother, not smoking or doing much else but hauling young Daniel out from where he was hiding, his closet, the tree house, the basement bathroom. "I'm not doing all the fucking work myself."

Though his brother ended up not doing any of the work; he just handed Daniel a scrub bucket or toilet brush or dishrag and went to hang with his friends. He'd return to the house occasionally to pound on his brother if the house wasn't spic-and-span, or sometimes even if it was.

Cleanliness, son, is next to godliness. There's truth in that. Now, polish the ashtrays. I want them to sparkle.

So he and Jennie were now driving with the windows down, the scent of pine and cold salty air swirling into the car.

Jennie did that rubby-nose thing, like she was trying to massage the bump out, and was quiet. She was content now, not purring but back on track. His distance last night, after she'd balked at helping him "kill" Susan Pemberton on the beach, had worked just fine. They'd returned to the Sea View and she'd done the only thing she could to try to win back his love-and spent two strenuous hours proving it. He'd withheld at first, been sullen, and she tried even harder. She even was starting to enjoy the pain. It reminded him of the time the Family had stopped at Carmel Mission years ago. He'd learned about the monks who'd beat themselves bloody, getting a high in the name of God.

But that reminded Daniel Pell of his chunky father looking at him blankly over the Bible, through a cloud of Camel cigarette smoke, so he pushed the memory away.