Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

"How'd you know about the Latino disguise?"

She explained that Susan had been seen in the company of a slim Latino man not long before she'd been killed. Linda had told them about Pell's use of disguises. "Becoming Latino seemed a bit far-fetched…but apparently it wasn't." She nodded at a cluster of bullet holes in the prosecutor's front wall.

Finished with their canvassing, TJ and Rey Carraneo arrived to report that there'd been no sightings of the killer's new wheels.

Michael O'Neil too joined them. He'd been with the crime scene officers as they'd worked the street and the front yard.

O'Neil nodded politely toward Kellogg, as if the recent disagreements were long forgotten. Crime scene, O'Neil reported, hadn't discovered much at all. They'd found shell casings from a 9mm pistol, some useless tire prints (they were so worn the technicians couldn't ID the brand) and "about a million samples of trace that'll lead us nowhere." The latter information was delivered with the sour hyperbole O'Neil slung out when frustrated.

And, he added, the guard gave only a groggy and inarticulate description of his attacker and the girl with him, but he couldn't add anything to what they already knew.

Reynolds called his daughter, since Pell now knew her and her husband's names, and told her to leave town until the killer was recaptured. Reynolds's wife and other son would join them, but the prosecutor refused to leave. He was going to stay in the area-though at a separate hotel, under police guard-until he'd had a chance to review the Croyton murders files, which would arrive from the county court archives soon. He was more determined than ever to help them get Pell.

Most of the officers left-two stayed to guard Reynolds and his family, and two were keeping the reporters back-and soon Kellogg, O'Neil and Dance were alone, standing on the fragrant grass.

"I'm going back to Point Lobos," Dance said to both of the men. Then to Kellogg: "You want me to drop you off at HQ, for your car?"

"I'll go with you to the inn," Kellogg said. "If that's okay."

"Sure. What about you, Michael? Want to come with us?" She could see that Millar's death was still weighing heavily on him.

The chief deputy glanced at Kellogg and Dance, standing side by side, like a couple in front of their suburban house saying goodnight to guests after a dinner party. He said, "Think I'll pass. I'll make a statement to the press then stop by to see Juan's family." He exhaled, sending a stream of breath into the cool night. "Been a long day."

He was exhausted.

And his round belly contained pretty much an entire bottle of Vallejo Springs's smooth Merlot wine.

There was no way Morton Nagle was going to drive home tonight through a tangle of combat traffic in Contra Costa County, then the equally daunting roads around San Jose. He'd found a motel not far from the vineyards he'd moped around in all day and checked in. He washed his face and hands, ordered a club sandwich from room service and uncorked the wine.

Waiting for the food to arrive, he called his wife and spoke to her and the children, then got through to Kathryn Dance.

She told him that Pell had tried to kill the prosecutor in the Croyton trial.

"Reynolds? No!"

"Everybody's all right," Dance said. "But he got away."

"You think maybe that was his goal? Why he was staying in the area?"

The agent explained she didn't think so. She believed he'd intended to kill Reynolds as a prelude to his real plan, because he was frightened of the prosecutor. But what that real plan might be continued to elude them.

Dance sounded tired, discouraged.

Apparently he did too.

"Morton," Dance asked, "are you all right?"

"I'm just wondering how bad my headache'll be tomorrow morning."

She gave a sour laugh.

Room service knocked on the door. He said good-bye and hung up the phone.

Nagle ate the meal without much appetite and channel surfed, seeing virtually nothing that flickered by on the screen.

The large man lay back in bed, kicking off his shoes. As he sipped from the plastic glass of wine he was thinking of a color photo of Daniel Pell in Time magazine years ago. The killer's head was turned partially away but the unearthly blue eyes stared straight into the camera. They seemed to follow you wherever you were, and you couldn't shake the thought that even if you closed the magazine, Pell would continue to stare into your soul.

Nagle was angry that he'd failed in his attempt to get the aunt's agreement, that the trip here had been a waste of time.

But then he told himself that, at least, he'd stayed true to his journalist's ethics and protected his sources-and protected the girl. He'd been as persuasive as he could with the aunt but hadn't stepped over the moral boundary and told Kathryn Dance the girl's new name and location.

No, Nagle realized, he'd done everything right in a difficult situation.

Growing drowsy, he found he was feeling better. He'd go home tomorrow, back to his wife and children. He'd do the best he could with the book without Theresa. He'd heard from Rebecca Sheffield and she was game to go ahead-she'd been making a lot of notes on life in the Family-and wanted to sit down with him when he returned. She was sure she could convince Linda Whitfield to be interviewed, as well. And there were certainly no lack of victims of Daniel Pell to write about.

Finally, drunk and more or less content, Morton Nagle drifted off to sleep.

They sat around the TV, leaning forward, watching the news like three reunited sisters.

Which in a way they were, thought Samantha McCoy.

"Can you believe that?" Rebecca asked in a low, angry voice.

Linda, who with Sam was cleaning up the remnants of a room-service dinner, shook her head in dismay.

James Reynolds, the prosecutor, had been the target of Daniel Pell.

Sam was very disturbed by the assault. She remembered Reynolds well. A stern but reasonable man, he'd negotiated what her lawyer had said were fair plea bargains. Sam, in fact, had thought he was quite lenient. There was no evidence that they'd had any involvement in the Croyton deaths-Sam, like the others, was stunned and horrified at the news. Still, the Family's record of petty crimes was extensive and if he'd wanted to, James Reynolds could have gone to trial and probably gotten much longer sentences from a jury.

But he was sympathetic to what they'd been through; he realized they'd fallen under the spell of Daniel Pell. He called it the Stockholm syndrome, which Sam had looked up. It was an emotional connection that victims develop with their hostage takers or kidnappers. Sam was happy to accept Reynolds's leniency, but she wasn't going to let herself off the hook by blaming her actions on some psychological excuse. Every single day she felt bad about the thefts and letting Pell run her life. She hadn't been kidnapped; she'd lived with the Family voluntarily.

A picture came on the TV: an artist's rendering of Pell with darker skin, moustache and black hair, glasses and a vague Latino look. His disguise.

"That's way bizarre," Rebecca offered.

The knock on the door startled them. Kathryn Dance's voice announced her arrival. Linda rose to let her in.

Samantha liked her-a cop with a great smile, who wore an iPod like her gun and had shoes with bold daisies embossed on the straps. She'd like a pair of shoes like that. Sam rarely bought fun or frivolous things for herself. Sometimes she'd window-shop and think, Neat, I'd like one of those. But then her conscience tweaked, and she decided, No, I don't deserve it.

Winston Kellogg too was smiling, but his was different from Dance's. It seemed like his badge, something to be flashed, saying: I'm really not what you think. I'm a federal agent, but I'm human too. He was appealing. Kellogg wasn't really handsome, certainly not in a classic way. He had a bit of double chin, was a little round in the middle. But his manner and voice and eyes made him sexy.