The Sleeping Doll (16 page)

Kathryn Dance pulled up to a modest house in the netherworld between Carmel and Monterey.

When the huge military base, Fort Ord, was
the
industry in the area, medium–rank officers would live and, often, retire here. Before that, in the fishing and cannery days, foremen and managers lived here. Dance parked in front of a modest bungalow and walked through the picket–fence gate and along the stony path to the front door. A minute later a freckled, cheerful woman in her late thirties greeted her. Dance identified herself. “I’m here to see Morton.”

“Come on in,” Joan Nagle said, smiling, the lack of surprise — and concern — in her face telling Dance that her husband had given her some of the details of his role in the events of today, though perhaps not all.

The agent stepped into the small living room. The half–full boxes of clothes and books — mostly the latter — suggested they’d just moved in. The walls were covered with the cheap prints of a seasonal rental. Again the smells of cooking assaulted her — but this time the scent was of hamburger and onions, not Italian herbs.

A cute, round girl in pigtails, wearing wire–rimmed glasses, was holding a drawing pad. She looked up and smiled. Dance waved to her. She was about Wes’s age. On the couch, a boy in his midteens was lost in the chaos of a video game, pushing buttons as if civilization depended on him.

Morton Nagle appeared in the doorway, tugging at his waistband. “Hello, hello, hello, Agent Dance.”

“Kathryn, please.”

“Kathryn. You’ve met my wife, Joan.” A smile. “And … hey, Eric. Put that … Eric!” he called in a loud, laughing voice. “Put that away.”

The boy saved the game — Dance knew how vital
that
was — and set the controller down. He bounded to his feet.

“This’s Eric. Say hello to Agent Dance.”

“Agent? Like FBI?”

“Like that.”

“Sweet!”

Dance shook the hand of the teenager, as he stared at her hip, looking at the gun.

The girl, still clutching her sketchbook, came up shyly.

“Well, introduce yourself,” her mother urged.

“Hi.”

“What’s your name?” Dance asked.

“Sonja.”

Sonja’s weight is a problem, Dance noted. Her parents better address it pretty soon, though given their physiques she doubted they understood the problems she was already facing. The agent’s kinesics expertise gave her many insights into people’s psychological and emotional difficulties, but she continually had to remind herself that her job was law enforcer, not therapist.

Nagle said, “I’ve been following the news. You almost caught him?”

“Minutes away,” she said, grimacing.

“Can I get you anything?” his wife asked.

“No, thanks,” Dance said. “I can only stay a minute.”

“Come on into my office,” Nagle said.

They walked into a small bedroom, which smelled of cat pee. A desk and two chairs were the only pieces of furniture. A laptop, the letters worn off the
A, H
and
N
keys, sat beside a desk lamp that had been taped together. There were stacks of paper everywhere and probably two or three hundred books, in boxes and littering the shelves, covering the radiator and piled on the floor. “I like my books around me.” A nod toward the living room. “They do too. Even Mr. Wizard on the video game there. We pick a book and then every night I read from it out loud.”

“That’s nice.” Dance and her children did something similar, though it usually involved music. Wes and Mags devoured books, but they preferred to read on their own.

“Of course, we still find time for true culture …
Survivor
and
24.
” Nagle’s eyes just wouldn’t stop sparkling. He gave another of his chuckles when he saw her note the volume of material he had for her. “Don’t worry.
That
one’s yours, the small one.” He gestured toward a box of videotapes and photocopied sheets.

“Sure I can’t get you anything?” Joan asked from the doorway.

“Nothing, thanks.”

“You can stay for dinner if you like.”

“Sorry, no.”

She smiled and left. Nagle nodded after her. “She’s a physicist.” And added nothing more.

Dance told Nagle the latest details in the case and explained that she was pretty sure Pell was staying in the area.

“That’d be crazy. Everybody on the Peninsula’s looking for him.”

“You’d think.” She explained about his search at Capitola, but Nagle could contribute no insights about Alison or Nimue. Nor did he have any clue why the killer had been browsing a satellite photo site.

She glanced at the box he’d prepared for her. “Is there a bio in there? Something brief?”

“Brief? No, not really. But if you want a synopsis I could do it, sure. Three, four pages?”

“That’d be great. It’ll take me forever to pull it together from all of that.”

“
All
of that?” Chuckling. “That’s nothing. By the time I’m ready to write the book, I’ll have fifty times more notes and sources. But, sure, I’ll gin up something.”

“Hi,” a youthful voice said.

Dance smiled at Sonja in the doorway.

An envious glance at the agent’s figure, then her braid. “I saw you looking at my drawings. When you came in?”

“Honey, Agent Dance is busy.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Do you want to see them?”

Dance sank to her knees to look at the sketchpad. They were pictures of butterflies, surprisingly well done.

“Sonja, these are beautiful. They could be in a gallery on Ocean in Carmel.”

“You think?”

“Definitely.”

She flipped back a page. “This one’s my favorite. It’s a swallowtail.”

The picture was of a dark blue butterfly. The color was iridescent.

“It’s sitting on a Mexican sunflower. They get nectar from that. When I’m at home we go out into the desert and I draw lizards and cactuses.”

Dance remembered that the writer’s full–time residence was Scottsdale.

The girl continued, “Here, my mommy and I go out in the woods and we take pictures. Then I draw them.”

He said, “She’s the James Audubon of butterflies.”

Joan appeared in the doorway and ushered the child out.

“Think that’ll do any good?” Nagle asked, gesturing at the box.

“I don’t know. But I sure hope so. We need some help.”

Dance said good night, turned down another dinner invitation and returned to the car.

She set the box on the seat next to her. The photocopies beckoned and she was tempted to turn on the dome light and have a look now. But the material would have to wait. Kathryn Dance was a good investigator, just as she’d been a good reporter and a good jury consultant. But she was also a mother and a widow. And the unique confluence of
those
roles required her to know when to pull back from her other job. It was now time to be home.

An expanse of gray pressure–treated wood, twenty by thirty feet, extending from the kitchen of Dance’s house into the backyard and filled with mismatched lawn chairs, loungers and tables. Tiny electric Christmas lights, some amber globes, a sink and a large refrigerator were the main decorations, along with a few anemic plants in terra–cotta bowls. A narrow stairway led down to the backyard, hardly landscaped, though it
was
filled with plenty of natural flora: scrub oak and maple trees, monkey flowers, asters, lupine, potato vines, clover and renegade grass.

A stockade fence provided separation from the neighbors. Two birdbaths and a feeder for hummingbirds hung from a branch near the stairs. Two wind chimes lay on the ground where Dance, in her pajamas, had dumped them at 3 A.M. one particularly stormy night a month ago.

The classic Victorian house — dark green with gray, weathered banisters, shutters and trim — was in the northwestern part of Pacific Grove; if you were willing to risk a precarious lean, you could catch a glimpse of ocean, about a half–mile away.

Dance spent plenty of time on the Deck. It was often too cold or misty for an early breakfast but on lazy weekends, after the sun had melted the fog, she and the children might come here after a walk on the beach with the dogs and have bagels and cream cheese, coffee and hot chocolate. Hundreds of dinner parties, large and small, had been hosted on the uneven planks.

The Deck was where her husband, Bill, had told his parents firmly that, yes, he was marrying Kathryn Dance and, by corollary, not the Napa socialite his mother had championed for several years — an act braver for him than much of what he’d done with the FBI.

The Deck was where they’d had his memorial service.

It was also a gathering–place for friends both inside and outside the law enforcement community on the Peninsula. Kathryn Dance enjoyed her friendships but after Bill’s death she’d chosen to spend her free time with her children. Not wanting to take them to bars or restaurants with her adult friends, she brought the friends into their world.

There was beer and soda in the outdoor fridge, and usually a bottle or two of basic Central Coast Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio and Cabernet. A stained, rusty but functional barbecue grill sat here as well, and there was a bathroom downstairs, accessible from the backyard. It wasn’t unusual for Dance to come home and find her mother or father, friends or colleagues from the CBI or MCSO, enjoying a beer or coffee.

All were welcome to stop by whether she was home or away, whether the visitors announced their intentions or not, though even if she was home she might not join them. A tacit but well–understood rule held that, while people were always welcome anytime outside, the house itself was off limits, except for planned parties; privacy, sleep and homework were sacred.

Dance now climbed the steep stairs from her side yard and walked onto the Deck, carrying the box of photocopies and tapes, on top of which was perched a prepared chicken dinner she’d bought at Albertsons. The dogs greeted her, a black flat–coated retriever and a black–and–tan German shepherd. She rubbed ears and flung a few mangy stuffed toys, then continued on to two men sitting in plastic chairs.

“Hi, honey.” Stuart Dance looked younger than his seventy years. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a full head of unruly white hair. His hours at sea and on the shore had taken a toll on his skin; a few scars from the dermatologist’s scalpel and laser were evident too. Technically he was retired but he still worked at the aquarium several days a week, and nothing in the universe could keep him from the rocky shoals of the coast.

He and his daughter brushed cheeks.

“Hnnn.” From Albert Stemple, another Major Crimes agent with the CBI. The massive man, with a shaved head, wore boots, jeans, a black T–shirt. There were scars on his face as well, and others he’d alluded to — in places that didn’t see much sunlight, though a dermatologist had nothing to do with them. He was drinking a beer, feet sticking out in front of him. The CBI was not known for its cowboys, but Albert Stemple was your basic, make–my–own–rules Wild Bill Hickok. He had more collars than any other agent, as well as more official complaints (he was most proud of the latter).

“Thanks for keeping an eye on things, Al. Sorry it’s later than I’d planned.” Thinking of Pell’s threats during the interrogation — and of his remaining in the area — Dance had asked Stemple to babysit until she returned home. (O’Neil too had arranged for local officers to keep an eye on her house as long as the escapee was at large.)

Stemple grunted. “Not a problem. Overby’ll buy me dinner.”

“Charles said that?”

“Naw. But he’ll buy me dinner. Quiet here. I walked around a couple times. Nothin’ strange.”

“You want a soda for the road?”

“Sure.” The big man helped himself to two Anchor Steams from the fridge. “Don’t worry. I’ll finish ‘em ‘fore I get in the car. So long, Stu.” He clomped along the Deck, which creaked under his weight.

He disappeared and she heard the Crown Victoria start up fifteen seconds later and peel away, the open beers undoubtedly resting between his massive thighs.

Dance glanced through the streaked windows into the living room. Her eyes settled on a book sitting on the coffee table in the living room. It jogged her memory. “Hey, did Brian call?”

“Oh, your friend? The one who came to dinner?”

“Right.”

“What was his last name?”

“Gunderson.”

“The investment banker.”

“That’s the one. Did he call?”

“Not that I know. You want to ask the kids?”

“No, that’s okay. Thanks again, Dad.”

“No worries.” An expression from his days in New Zealand. He turned away, rapping on the window. “’Bye!”

“Grandpa, wait!” Maggie ran outside, her chestnut braid flapping behind her. She was clutching a book. “Hi, Mom,” she said enthusiastically. “When’d you get home?”

“Just now.”

“You didn’t
say
anything!” exclaimed the ten–year–old, poking her glasses up on her nose.

“Where’s your brother?”

“I don’t know. His room. When’s dinner?”

“Five minutes.”

“What’re we having?”

“You’ll see.”

Maggie held the book up to her grandfather and pointed out a small gray–purple, nautilus–like seashell. “Look. You were right.” Maggie didn’t try to pronounce the words.

“A Columbian Amphissa,” he said and pulled out the pen and notebook he was never without. Jotted. Three decades older than his daughter and he needed no glasses. Most of her genetic proclivities derived from her mother, Dance had learned.

“A tide–drift shell,” he said to Dance. “Very rare here. But Maggie found one.”

“It was just
there,
” the girl said.

“Okay, I’m headed home to the staff sergeant. She’s fixing dinner and my presence is required. ‘Night, all.”

“’Bye, Grandpa.”

Her father climbed down the stairs, and Dance thanked fate or God or whatever might be, as she often did, for a good, dependable male figure in the life of a widow with children.

On her way to the kitchen her phone rang. Rey Carraneo reported that the Thunderbird at Moss Landing had been stolen from the valet parking lot of an upscale restaurant on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles the previous Friday. There were no suspects. They were expecting the report from LAPD but, like most car thefts, there were no forensics. Also he’d had no luck finding the hotel, motel or boardinghouse the woman might’ve checked into. “There’re a lot of them,” he confessed.

Welcome to the Monterey Peninsula. “We’ve got to stash the tourists somewhere, Rey. Keep at it. And say hi to your wife.”

Dance began unpacking dinner.

A lean boy with sandy hair wandered into the sunroom beside the kitchen. He was on the phone. Though only twelve, Wes was nearly as tall as his mother. She wiggled a finger at him and he wandered over to her. She kissed him on the forehead and he didn’t cringe. Which was the same as “I love you very much, Mother dear.”

“Off the phone,” she said. “Dinnertime.”

“Like, gotta go.”

“Don’t say ‘like.’ ”

The boy hung up. “What’re we having?”

“Chicken,” Maggie said dubiously.

“You like Albertsons.”

“What about bird flu?”

Wes snickered. “Don’t you know anything? You get it from
live
chickens.”

“It
was
alive once,” the girl countered.

From the corner where his sister had backed him, Wes said, “Well, it’s not an Asian chicken.”

“Hell–
o.
They migrate. And how you die is you throw up to death.”

“Mags, not at dinnertime!” Dance said.

“Well, you do.”

“Oh, like chickens migrate? Yeah, right. And they don’t have bird flu here. Or we would’ve heard.”

Sibling banter. But there was a little more to it, Dance believed. Her son remained deeply shaken by his father’s death. This made him more sensitive to mortality and violence than most boys his age. Dance steered him away from those topics — a tough job for a woman who tracked down felons for a living. She now announced, “As long as the chicken’s cooked, it’s fine.” Though she wasn’t sure that this was right and wondered if Maggie would dispute her.

But her daughter was lost in her seashell book.

The boy said, “Oh, mashed potatoes too. You rock, Mom.”

Maggie and Wes set the table and laid the food out, while Dance washed up.

When she returned from the bathroom, Wes asked, “Mom, aren’t you going to change?” He was looking at her black suit.

“I’m starving. I can’t wait.” Not sharing that the real reason she’d kept the outfit on was as an excuse to wear her weapon. Usually the first thing she did upon coming home was to put on jeans and a T–shirt and slip the gun into the lockbox beside her bed.

Yeah, it’s a tough life being a cop. The little ones spend a lot of time alone, don’t they? They’d probably love some friends to play with …

Wes glanced once more at her suit as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

But then they turned to the food, eating and talking about their day — the children’s at least. Dance, of course, said nothing about hers. Wes was in a tennis camp in Monterey, Maggie at a music camp in Carmel. Each seemed to be enjoying the experience. Thank goodness neither of them asked about Daniel Pell.

When dinner was over, the trio cleared the table and did the dishes — her children always had a share of the housework. When they were through, Wes and Maggie headed into the living room to read or play video games.

Dance logged onto her computer and checked email. Nothing about the case, though she had several about her other “job.” She and her best friend, Martine Christensen, ran a website called “American Tunes,” after the famous Paul Simon song from the 1970s.

Kathryn Dance was not a bad musician, but a brief attempt at a full–time career as a singer and guitarist had left her dissatisfied (which, she was afraid, was how
she
’d left her audiences). She decided that her real talent was
listening
to music and encouraging other people to, as well.

On her infrequent vacations or on long weekends, she’d head off in search of homemade music, often with the children and dogs in tow. A “folklorist” was the name of the avocation or, more popularly, “song catcher.” Alan Lomax was perhaps the most famous, collecting music from Louisiana to the Appalachians for the Library of Congress throughout the midtwentieth century. While his taste ran to black blues and mountain music, Dance’s scavenger hunt took her farther afield, to places reflecting the changing sociology of North America: music grounded in Latino, Caribbean, Nova Scotian, Canadian, urban African–American and Native American cultures.

She and Martine helped the musicians copyright their original material, posted the taped songs and distributed to them the money that listeners paid for downloads.

When the day came when Dance was no longer willing or able to track down criminals, she knew music would be a good way to spend retirement.