Jeffery Deaver - The Sleeping Doll

"Too bad, that lime-green number has a certain appeal."

They discussed the reports that needed to be completed and the shooting review board that would have to issue a report on the incident. She'd wondered how long he'd be in the area and realized that whether or not he followed through on asking her out he'd have to stay for four or five days; a review board could take that long to convene, hear testimony and write the report.

…afterward. How does that sound?…

Like Dance herself a few minutes ago, Kellogg stretched. His face gave a very faint signal-he was troubled. It would be the shootout, of course. Dance had never even fired her weapon at a suspect, let alone killed anyone. She'd been instrumental in tracking down dangerous perps, some of whom had been killed in the takedown. Others had gone to death row. But that was different from pointing a gun at someone and ending his life.

And here Kellogg had done so twice in a relatively short period of time.

"So what's next for you?" she asked.

"I'm giving a seminar in Washington on religious fundamentalism-it shares a lot with cult mentality. Then some time off. If the real world cooperates, of course." He slouched and closed his eyes.

In his smudged slacks, and with floppy hair and a bit of five-o'clock shadow, he was really an appealing man, Dance reflected.

"Sorry," he said, opening his eyes and laughing. "Bad form to fall asleep in colleagues' offices." The smile was genuine and whatever had been troubling him earlier was now gone. "Oh, one thing. I've got paperwork tonight, but tomorrow, can I hold you to that offer of dinner? It is afterward, remember?"

She hesitated, thinking, You know counterinterrogation strategy: anticipate every question the interrogator's going to ask and be ready with an answer.

But even though she'd just been thinking about this very matter, she was caught off guard.

So what's the answer? she asked herself.

"Tomorrow?" he repeated, sounding shy-curiously, for a man who'd just nailed one of the worst perps in Monterey County history.

You're stalling, she told herself. Her eyes swept the pictures of her children, her dogs, her late husband. She thought of Wes.

She said, "You know, tomorrow'd be great."

"It's over," she said in a low voice to her mother.

"I heard. Michael briefed us at CBI."

They were at her parents' house in Carmel. The family was back from the castle keep of headquarters.

"Did the gang hear?"

Meaning the children.

"I put some spin on it. Phrased it like, oh, Mom'll be home at a decent hour tonight because, by the way, that stupid case of hers is over with, they got the bad guy, I don't know the details. That sort of thing. Mags didn't pay any attention-she's working up a new song for piano camp. Wes headed right for the TV but I had Stu drag him outside to play Ping-Pong. He seems to've forgotten about the story. But the key word is 'seems.'"

Dance had shared with her parents that, where her children were concerned, she wanted to minimize news about death and violence, particularly as it involved her work. "I'll keep an eye on him. And thanks."

Dance cracked open an Anchor Steam beer and split it in two glasses. Handed one to her mother.

Edie sipped and then, with a frown, asked, "When did you get Pell?"

Dance gave her the approximate time. "Why?"

Glancing at the clock, her mother said, "I was sure I heard somebody in the backyard around four, four-thirty. I didn't think anything of it at first but then I got to wondering if Pell found out where we lived. Wanting to get even or something. I was feeling a little bit spooked. Even with the squad car out front."

Pell wouldn't hesitate to hurt them, of course-he'd planned to do so-but the timing was off. Pell was already at Morton Nagle's house by then, or on the way.

"It probably wasn't him."

"Must've been a cat. Or the Perkins' dog. They have to learn to keep it inside. I'll talk to them."

She knew her mother would do just that.

Dance rounded up the children and herded them into the family Pathfinder, where the dogs awaited. She hugged her father and they made plans for her to pick her parents up for his birthday party at the Marine Club on Sunday evening. Dance was the designated driver, so they could enjoy themselves and drink as much champagne and Pinot Noir as they wanted. She thought about inviting Winston Kellogg but decided to wait on that one. See how tomorrow's "afterward" date went.

Dance thought about dinner and could summon up zero desire to cook. "Can you guys live with pancakes at Bayside?"

"Woo-hoo!" Maggie called. And began debating aloud what kind of syrup she wanted. Wes was happy but more restrained.

When they got to the restaurant and were seated at a booth, she reminded her son it was his job to pick their Sunday afternoon adventure this week before the birthday party. "So, what's our plan? Movie? Hiking?"

"I don't know yet." Wes examined the menu for a long time. Maggie wanted a to-go order for the dogs. Dance explained that the pancakes weren't to celebrate the reunion with the canines; it was simply because she wasn't in the mood to cook.

As the large, steaming plates were arriving, Wes asked, "Oh, you hear about that festival thing? The boats?"

"Boats?"

"Grandpa was telling us about it. It's a boat parade in the bay and a concert. At Cannery Row."

Dance recalled something about a John Steinbeck festival. "Is that on Sunday? Is that what you'd like to do?"

"It's tomorrow night," Wes said. "It'd be fun. Can we go?"

Dance laughed to herself. There was no way he could've known about her dinner date with Kellogg tomorrow. Or could he? She had intuition when it came to the children; why couldn't it work the other way?

Dance dressed the pancakes with syrup and allowed herself a pat of butter. Stalling. "Tomorrow? Let me think."

Her initial reaction, on seeing Wes's unsmiling face, was to call Kellogg and postpone or even cancel the date.

Sometimes it's just easier…

She stopped Maggie from drowning her pancakes in a frightening avalanche of blueberry and strawberry syrups, then turned to Wes and said impulsively, "Oh, that's right, honey, I can't. I have plans."

"Oh."

"But I'm sure Grandpa'd want to go with you."

"What're you going to do? See Connie? Or Martine? Maybe they'd like to come too. We could all go. They could bring the twins."

"Yeah, the twins, Mom!" Maggie said.

Dance heard her therapist's words: Kathryn, you can't look at the substance of what he's saying. Parents tend to feel that their children raise valid objections about potential step-parents or even casual dates. You can't think that way. What he's upset with is what he sees as your betrayal of his father's memory. It has nothing to do with the partner himself.

She made a decision. "No, I'm going to have dinner with the man I've been working with."

"Agent Kellogg," the boy shot back.

"That's right. He has to go back to Washington soon, and I wanted to thank him for all the work he's done for us."

She felt a bit cheesy for gratuitously suggesting that because he lived so far away Kellogg was no long-term threat. (Though she supposed Wes's sensitive mind could easily jump to the conclusion that Dance was already planning to uproot them from friends and family here on the Peninsula and resettle them in the nation's capital.)

"Okay," the boy said, cutting up the pancakes, eating some, pensive. Dance was using his appetite as a barometer of his reaction.

"Hey, son of mine, what's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Grandpa would love to go to see the boats with you."

"Sure."

Then she asked another impulsive question. "Don't you like Winston?"