The Sleeping Doll (14 page)

“Oh, honey, they’re good. Sandy dabs.”

“Sand dabs,” Pell corrected. He was thinking of having a third sandwich.

“So, that was my ex,” she continued. “I never see him or hear from him. Thank God.”

She’d just given him the details of the husband — an accountant and businessman and a wimpy little guy, believe it or not — who’d put her in the hospital twice with internal injuries, once with a broken arm. He screamed at her when she forgot to iron the sheets, when she didn’t get pregnant after only one month of trying, when the Lakers lost. He told her that her tits were like a boy’s, which is why he couldn’t get it up. He told her in front of his friends that she’d “look okay” if she got her nose fixed.

A petty man, Pell thought, one controlled by everything except himself.

Then he heard the further installments of the soap opera: the boyfriends after the divorce. They seemed like him, bad boys. But Pell Lite, he thought. One was a petty thief who lived in Laguna, between L.A. and San Diego. He worked low–stakes scams. One sold drugs. One was a biker. One was just a shit.

Pell had been through his share of therapy. Most of it was pointless but sometimes a shrink came up with some good insights, which Pell filed away (not for his own mental health, of course, but because they were such helpful weapons to use against people).

So why did Jennie go for bad boys? Obvious to Pell. They were like her mother; subconsciously she kept flinging herself at them in hopes they’d change their ways and love, not ignore or use, her.

This was helpful for Pell to know but he could have told her: By the way, lovely, don’t bother. We don’t change. We never, ever change. Write that down and keep it close to your heart.

Of course, though, he kept these wise words to himself.

She stopped eating. “Honey?”

“Um?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, lovely.”

“You never said anything about those, you know, girls you were living with. When they arrested you. The Family.”

“Guess I didn’t.”

“Did you stay in touch with them or anything? What were their names?”

He recited, “Samantha, Rebecca and Linda. Jimmy too, the one who tried to kill me.”

Her eyes flicked toward him. “Would you rather I didn’t ask about them?”

“No, it’s okay. You can ask me anything.”

Never tell someone not to talk about a subject. Keep a smile on your face and suck out every bit of information you can. Even if it hurts.

“Did they turn you in, the women?”

“Not exactly. They didn’t even know we were going to the Croytons’, Jimmy and me. But they didn’t back me up after I got arrested. Linda, she burnt some evidence and lied to the police. But even her, she finally caved and helped them.” A sour laugh. “And look at what I did for them. I gave them a home. Their own parents didn’t give a shit about them. I gave them a family.”

“Are you upset? I don’t want to upset you.”

“No.” Pell smiled. “It’s okay, lovely.”

“Do you think about them much?”

Ah, so that’s it. Pell had worked hard all his life to spot the subtext beneath people’s comments. He now realized that Jennie was jealous. It was a petty emotion, one that was easy to put down, but it was also a central force in the universe.

“Nope. I haven’t heard from them for years. I wrote for a while. Linda was the only one who answered. But then she said her lawyer told her it’d look bad for her parole and she stopped. Felt bad about that, I have to say.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

“For all I know, they’re dead, or maybe married and happy. I was mad at first but then I understood that I made a mistake with them. I picked wrong. Not like you. You’re good for me; they weren’t.”

She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles one at a time.

Pell was studying the map again. He loved maps. When you were lost, you were helpless, out of control. He remembered how maps — well, the
lack
of a map — played a role in the history of this area of California, where they sat right now, in fact, Monterey Bay. In the Family, years ago, Linda had read aloud after dinner, all of them sitting in a circle. Pell had often picked works by local authors and books that were set here, and he remembered one, a history of Monterey. The bay had been discovered by the Spanish in the early 1600s. The Bahia de Monte Rey, named after a rich patron of the expedition, was considered a real plum — fertile land, a perfect port, strategic location — and the governor wanted to build a major colony there. Unfortunately after the explorers sailed away they managed to lose the bay entirely.

A number of expeditions tried unsuccessfully to locate it again. With every passing year Monterey Bay took on mythical proportions. One of the largest contingents of explorers departed from San Diego and headed north on land, determined to find the bahia. Constantly at risk from the elements and the grizzly bears, the conquistadors covered every inch of the state up to San Francisco — and still managed to miss the huge bay altogether.

Simply because they had no accurate map.

When he’d managed to get online in Capitola, he’d been thrilled with a website called Visual–Earth, where you could click on a map and an actual satellite photo of the place you wanted to see came up on screen. He was astonished at this. There were some important things to look at, so he hadn’t had a chance to browse. Pell looked forward to the time when his life was more settled and he could spend hours on the site.

Now, Jennie was pointing out some locations on the map open in front of them and Pell was taking in the information. But, as always, he was also listening to everything around him.

“He’s a good puppy. Just needs more training.”

“It’s a long drive, but if we take our time, it’ll be a blast. You know?”

“I ordered ten minutes ago. Could you see what’s taking so long?”

At this last comment, Pell glanced toward the counter.

“Sorry,” explained a middle–aged man at the cash register to a customer. “Just a little short staffed today.” The man, the owner or manager, was uneasy and looked everywhere except at Pell and Jennie.

Smart people can figure out
why
you changed, then use it against you.

When Pell had ordered their food, there were three or four waitresses shuttling back and forth between the kitchen and the tables. Now this man was the only one working.

He’d sent all his employees into hiding.

Pell leapt up, knocking over the table. Jennie dropped her fork and jumped to her feet.

The manager stared at them in alarm.

“You son of a bitch,” Pell muttered and pulled the pistol from his waistband.

Jennie screamed.

“No, no … I —” The manager debated for a second and fled into the kitchen, abandoning his customers, who screamed and spilled onto the floor for cover.

“What is it, honey?” Jennie’s voice was panicked.

“Let’s go. The car.” He grabbed the map and they fled.

Outside, in the distance, south, he could see tiny flashing lights.

Jennie froze, panicked, whispering, “Angel songs, angel songs … ”

“Come on!”

They leapt in. He slammed the car into reverse, then shifted gears and gunned the engine, heading for Highway 1, over the narrow bridge. Jennie nearly slipped out of her seat as they hit the uneven pavement on the other side of the structure. On the highway Pell turned north, got about a hundred yards then skidded to a stop. Coming the other way was another police car.

Pell glanced to his right and floored the accelerator, heading directly for the front gate of the power plant, a massive, ugly structure, something that belonged not here on this picture–postcard seashore but in the refineries of Gary, Indiana.

Her fingers tapped the grip of the Glock high on her right hip. She’d never fired her gun in the line of duty and wasn’t much of a shot — weaponry didn’t come naturally to her. Also, with children in the house she was uneasy carrying the weapon (at home she kept it in a solid lockbox beside her bed, and only she knew the combination).

Michael O’Neil, on the other hand, was a fine marksman, as was TJ. She was glad she was with them.

But would it come to a fight? she wondered. Dance couldn’t say, of course. But she knew she’d do whatever was necessary to stop the killer.

The Ford now squealed around the corner and then up a hill.

As they crested it O’Neil muttered, “Oh, hell … ”

He jammed the brake pedal. “Hold on!”

Dance gasped, and grabbed the dashboard as they went into a fierce skid. The car came to a stop, halfway on the shoulder, only five feet from a semi stopped in the middle of the road. The highway was completely blocked all the way to Moss Landing. The opposite lanes were moving, but slowly. Several miles ahead Dance could see flashing lights and realized officers were turning back the traffic.

A roadblock?

O’Neil called Monterey County central dispatch on his Motorola. “It’s O’Neil.”

“Go ahead, sir. Over.”

“We’re on One, northbound, just short of Moss Landing. Traffic’s stopped. What’s the story?”

“Be advised. There’s … they’re evacuating Duke Power. Fire or something. It’s pretty bad. They’ve got multiple injuries. Two fatalities.”

Oh, no, Dance thought, exhaling a sigh. Not more deaths.

“Fire?” O’Neil asked.

“Just what Pell did at the courthouse.” Dance squinted. She could see a column of black smoke. Emergency planners took seriously any risk of a conflagration around here. Several years ago a huge fire had raged through an abandoned oil tank at the power facility. The plant was now gas — not oil — operated and the odds of a serious fire were much lower. Still, security would have frozen Highway 1 in both directions and started to evacuate anyone nearby.

O’Neil snapped, “Tell CHP or Monterey Fire or whoever’s running the scene to clear a path. We’ve got to get through. We’re in pursuit of that escapee. Over.”

“Roger, Detective … Hold on … ” Silence for a minute. Then: “Be advised … Just heard from Watsonville Fire. I don’t know … Okay, the plant’s
not
burning. The fire’s just a car in front of the main gate. I don’t know who called in the eleven–forty–one. No injuries that anybody can tell. That was a false report … And we’ve got some calls from Jack’s. The suspect pulled a gun and fled.”

“Hell, he made us,” O’Neil muttered.

Dance took the microphone. “Roger. Are any police on the scene?”

“Stand by … Affirmative. One Watsonville officer. The rest are fire and rescue.”

“
One
officer,” Dance said, scowling, shaking her head.

“Tell him that Daniel Pell’s there somewhere. And he
will
target innocents and officers.”

“Roger. I’ll relay that.”

Dance wondered how the sole officer would fare; Moss Landing’s worst crimes were DUIs and the thefts of cars and boats.

“You get all that, TJ?”

“Fuck” was the reply from the speaker. TJ didn’t bother much with radio codes.

O’Neil slammed the microphone into the cradle in frustration.

Their plea to move the traffic along wasn’t having any effect.

Dance told him, “Let’s try to get up there anyway. I don’t care if we need bodywork.”

O’Neil nodded. He hit the siren and started along the shoulder, which was sandy in parts, rocky in others, and in several places barely passable.

But slowly the motorcade made its way forward.

Dance and O’Neil parked. A moment later TJ too pulled up, beside the burned Thunderbird, still smoldering.

“Pell’s car,” she pointed out. “The one stolen from L.A. on Friday.” Dance told TJ to find the manager of Jack’s.

The Watsonville cop, O’Neil, and the other officers spread out to search for witnesses. Many of them had left, probably scared off by the flames from the T–bird and the piercing siren from the power plant — maybe even thinking it was a nuclear reactor that was melting down.

Dance interviewed several people near the power plant. They reported that a wiry man and a blonde, driving the Thunderbird — it had been turquoise before the fire — had sped over the bridge from Jack’s Seafood, then stopped abruptly in front of the power plant. They’d gotten out and a moment later the car had erupted in flames.

The couple had run across the road to the shore side, one person reported, but nobody saw what became of them after that. Apparently Pell had called 911 himself to report that the plant was burning and there were injuries and two deaths.

Dance looked around her. They’d need another car; you couldn’t escape from here on foot. But then her eyes focused on the bay. With the traffic jam, it would make more sense to steal a boat. She corralled several local officers, trotted across the highway, and they spent fifteen frantic minutes talking to the people on the shoreline, to see if Pell had stolen a vessel. Nobody reported seeing the couple, nor were any boats missing.

A waste of time.

Returning to the highway, Dance noticed a store across from the power plant, a shack selling souvenirs and candy. There was a CLOSED sign on the door but inside Dance believed she could see a woman’s face, looking out.

Was Pell inside with her?

Dance gestured to a deputy, told him of her concern and together they stepped to the door. She rapped on it. No response.

Another knock, and slowly the door opened. A round woman with short curly hair glanced in alarm at their hands, resting on their guns, and asked breathlessly, “Yes?”

Eyes on the dim interior behind her, Dance asked, “Could you please step outside?”

“Um, sure.”

“Is anyone else in there?”

“No. What — ?”

The deputy pushed past her and flicked the lights on. Dance joined him. A fast search revealed that the tiny place was unoccupied.

Dance returned to the woman. “Sorry for the disturbance.”

“No, that’s okay. This’s scary. Where did they go?”

“We’ve still searching. Did you see what happened?”

“No. I was inside. When I looked out there was the car burning. I kept thinking about the oil tank fire a few years ago. That was a bad one. Were you here for that?”

“I was. I could see it from Carmel.”

“We knew it was empty, the tank. Or pretty much empty. But we were all freaked out. And those wires. Electricity can be pretty spooky.”

“So you’re closed?”

“Yeah. I was going to leave early anyway. Didn’t know how long the highway would be closed. Not many tourists’d be interested in saltwater taffy with a power plant on fire across the highway.”

“Imagine not. I’d like to ask why you wondered where they went.”

“Oh, a dangerous man like that? I’d hope he’d get arrested as fast as possible.”

“But you said ‘they.’ How did you know there were several people?”

A pause. “I —”

Dance gazed at her with a smile and but unwavering eyes. “You said you didn’t see anything. You looked out only after you heard the siren.”

“I think I talked to somebody about it. Outside.”

I think …

A denial flag expression. Subconsciously the woman would feel she was giving an opinion, not a deceptive statement.

“Who told you?” Dance persisted.

“I didn’t know them.”

“A man or a woman?”

Another hesitation. “A girl, a woman. From out of state.” Her head was turned away and she was rubbing her nose — an aversion/negation cluster.

“Where’s your car?” Dance asked.

“My — ?”

Eyes play an ambiguous role in kinesic analysis. There’s the belief among some officers that if a suspect looks to his left under your gaze, it’s a sign of lying. Dance knew that was just an old cops’ tale; averting eyes — unlike turning the body or face away from the interrogator — has no correlation to deception; direction of eye gaze is too easily controlled.

But eyes are still very revealing.

As Dance was talking to the woman, she’d noticed her looking at a particular place in the parking lot. Every time she did, she displayed general stress indicators: shifting her weight, pressing her fingers together. Dance understood: Pell had stolen her car and said that he or the infamous partner would kill her family if she said anything. Just as with the Worldwide Express driver.

Dance sighed, upset. If the woman had come forward when they’d first arrived, they might have Pell by now.

Or if I hadn’t blindly believed the CLOSED sign and knocked on the door sooner, she added to herself bitterly.

“I —” The woman started to cry.

“I understand. We’ll make sure you’re safe. What kind of car?”

“It’s a dark blue Ford Focus. Three years old. There’s a bumper sticker about global warming on it. And a dent in the —”

“Where did they go?”

“North.”

Dance got the tag number and called O’Neil, who would in turn relay a message to MCSO dispatch for an announcement to all units about the car.

As the clerk made arrangements to stay with a friend until Pell’s recapture, Dance stared at the lingering cloud of smoke around the Thunderbird. Angry. She’d made a sharp deduction from Eddie Chang’s information and they’d come up with a solid plan for the collar. But it had been a waste.

TJ joined her, with the manager of Jack’s Seafood. He gave his story of the events, clearly omitting a few facts, probably that he’d inadvertently tipped off Pell about the police. Dance couldn’t blame him. She remembered Pell from the interview — how sharp and wary he was.

The manager described the woman, who was skinny and pretty in a “mousy way” and had looked at the man adoringly throughout most of the meal. He’d thought they were honeymooners. She couldn’t keep her hands off him. He put her age at midtwenties. The manager added that they pored over a map for a good portion of the meal.

“What was it of?”

“Here, Monterey County.”

Michael O’Neil joined her, flipping closed his phone. “No reports of the Focus,” he said. “But with the evacuation it must’ve gotten lost in the traffic. Hell, he could’ve turned south and driven right past us.”

Dance called Carraneo over. The young man looked tired. He’d had a busy day but it wasn’t over yet. “Find out everything you can about the T–bird. And start calling motels and boardinghouses from Watsonville down to Big Sur. See if any blond women checked in by themselves and listed a Thunderbird as their car on the registration form. Or if anybody saw a T–bird. If the car was stolen on Friday, she’d’ve checked in Friday, Saturday or Sunday.”

“Sure, Agent Dance.”

She and O’Neil both stared west, over the water, which was calm. The sun was a wide, flat disk, low over the Pacific, the fierce beams muted; the fog hadn’t arrived yet but the late–afternoon sky was hazy, grainy. Monterey Bay looked like a flat, blue desert. He said, “Pell’s taking a huge risk staying around here. He’s got something important to do.”

It was just then that she got a call from someone who, she realized, might have some thoughts about what the killer might have in mind.