The Sleeping Doll (3 page)

No answer.

An eleven–nine–nine was a Highway Patrol code — though one that all California law enforcers knew. It meant an officer needed immediate assistance.

And yet no response after his transmission.

The courthouse security chief, a grizzled, crew–cut retired cop, stuck his head into the office. “Who’s running the search? Who’s in charge?”

Sandoval glanced at Dance. “You’re senior.”

Dance had never encountered a situation like this — a firebomb and an escape by a killer like Daniel Pell — but, then, she didn’t know of
anybody
on the Peninsula who had. She could coordinate efforts until somebody from MCSO or the Highway Patrol took over. It was vital to move fast and decisively.

“Okay,” she said. And instructed the security chief to get other guards downstairs immediately and to the doors where people were exiting.

Screams outside. People running in the corridor. Radio messages flying back and forth.

“Look,” TJ said, nodding toward the window, where black smoke obscured the view completely. “Oh, man.”

Despite the fire, which might be raging
inside
now, Kathryn Dance decided to remain in Alonzo Sandoval’s office. She wouldn’t waste time by relocating or evacuating. If the building was engulfed they could jump out of the windows to the roofs of cars parked in the front lot, ten feet below. She tried Juan Millar again — there was no answer on his phone or radio — then said to the security chief, “We need a room–by–room search of the building.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He trotted off.

“And in case he gets out, I want roadblocks,” Dance said to TJ. She pulled off her jacket, tossed it over a chair. Sweat stains were blossoming under the arms. “Here, here, here … ” Her short nails tapped loudly on the laminated map of Salinas.

Gazing at the places she was indicating, TJ made calls to the Highway Patrol — California’s state police — and the MCSO.

Sandoval, the prosecutor — grim and dazed — stared at the smoky parking lot too. Flashing lights reflected in the window. He said nothing. More reports came in. No sign of Pell in the building or outside.

None of Juan Millar either.

The courthouse security chief returned a few minutes later, his face smudged. He was coughing hard. “Fire’s under control. Limited pretty much to outside.” He added shakily, “But, Sandy … I’ve gotta tell you, Jim Baxter’s dead. So’s the Capitola guard. Stabbed. Pell got a knife somehow, looks like.”

“No,” Sandoval whispered. “Oh, no.”

“And Millar?” Dance asked.

“We can’t find him. Might be a hostage. We found a radio. Assume it’s his. But we can’t figure out where Pell went. Somebody opened the back fire door but there were flames everywhere until just a few minutes ago. He couldn’t’ve gotten out that way. The only other choice is through the building and he’d be spotted in a minute in his prison overalls.”

“Unless he’s dressed in Millar’s suit,” Dance said.

TJ looked at her uneasily; they both knew the implications of that scenario.

“Get word to everybody that he might be in a dark suit, white shirt.” Millar was much taller than Pell. She added, “The pants cuffs’d be rolled up.”

The chief hit transmit on his radio and sent out the message.

Looking up from his phone, TJ called, “Monterey’s getting cars in place.” He gestured toward the map. “CHP’s scrambled a half dozen cruisers and cycles. They should have the main highways sealed in fifteen minutes.”

It worked to their advantage that Salinas wasn’t a huge town — only about 150,000 — and was an agricultural center (its nickname was the “Nation’s Salad Bowl”). Lettuce, berry, Brussels sprout, spinach and artichoke fields covered most of the surrounding area, which meant that there were limited highways and roads by which he could escape. And on foot, Pell would be very visible in the fields of low crops.

Dance ordered TJ to have Pell’s mug shots sent to the officers manning the roadblocks.

What else should she be doing?

She gripped her braid, which ended in the red elastic tie that energetic Maggie had twisted around her hair that morning. It was a mother–daughter tradition; every morning the child picked the color of the rubber band or scrunchie for the day. Now, the agent recalled her daughter’s sparkling brown eyes behind the wire–rimmed glasses as she told her mother about music camp that day and what kind of snacks they should have for Dance’s father’s birthday party tomorrow. (She realized that it was probably at that moment that Wes had planted the stuffed bat in her purse.)

She recalled too looking forward to interrogating a legendary criminal.

The Son of Manson …

The security chief’s radio crackled. A voice called urgently, “We’ve got an injury. Real bad. That Monterey County detective. Looks like Pell pushed him right into the fire. The EMS crew called for medevac. There’s a chopper on its way.”

No, no … She and TJ shared a glance. His otherwise irrepressibly mischievous face registered dismay. Dance knew that Millar would be in terrible pain but she needed to know if he had any clues as to where Pell had gone. She nodded at the radio. The chief handed it to her. “This’s Agent Dance. Is Detective Millar conscious?”

“No, ma’am. It’s … it’s pretty bad.” A pause.

“Is he wearing clothes?”

“Is he … Say again?”

“Did Pell take Millar’s clothes?”

“Oh, that’s negative. Over.”

“What about his weapon?”

“No weapon.”

Shit.

“Tell everybody that Pell’s armed.”

“Roger that.”

Dance had another thought. “I want an officer at the medevac chopper from the minute it lands. Pell might be planning to hitch a ride.”

“Roger.”

She handed the radio back, pulled out her phone, hit speed dial four.

“Cardiac Care,” Edie Dance’s low, placid voice said.

“Mom, me.”

“What’s the matter, Katie? The kids?” Dance pictured the stocky woman, with short gray hair and large, gray–framed round glasses, concern on her ageless face. She’d be leaning forward — her automatic response to tension.

“No, we’re fine. But one of Michael’s detectives is burned. Bad. There was an arson at the courthouse, part of an escape. You’ll hear about it on the news. We lost two guards.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Edie murmured.

“The detective — Juan Millar’s his name. You’ve met him a couple of times.”

“I don’t remember. He’s on his way here?”

“Will be soon. Medevac.”

“That bad?”

“You have a burn unit?”

“A small one, part of ICU. For long term we’d get him to Alta Bates, U.C.–Davis or Santa Clara as soon as we could. Maybe down to Grossman.”

“Could you check in on him from time to time? Let me know how he’s doing?”

“Of course, Katie.”

“And if there’s any way, I want to talk to him. Whatever he saw, it could be helpful.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be tied up for the day, even if we catch him right away. Could you have Dad pick up the kids?” Stuart Dance, a retired marine biologist, worked occasionally at the famous Monterey aquarium, but was always available to chauffeur the children whenever needed.

“I’ll call right now.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Dance disconnected and glanced up to see Prosecutor Alonzo Sandoval staring numbly at the map. “Who was helping him?” he muttered. “And where the fuck is Pell?”

Variations of these two questions were also spinning through Kathryn Dance’s mind.

Along with another: What could I have done to read him better? What could I have done to avoid this tragedy altogether?

Vaya con Dios …

Dance got a call. Glanced at the phone screen. She was surprised it had taken so long for the man to get back to her. “Charles,” she said to her boss, the agent in charge of the west–central regional office of the CBI.

“I’m on my way to the courthouse. What’ve we got, Kathryn?”

She brought him up to date, including the deaths and Millar’s condition.

“Sorry to hear that … Any leads, anything we can tell them?”

“Tell who?”

“The press.”

“I don’t know, Charles. We don’t have much information. He could be anywhere. I’ve ordered roadblocks and we’re doing a room–by–room search.”

“Nothing specific? Not even a direction?”

“No.”

Overby sighed. “Okay. By the way, you’re running the operation.”

“What?”

“I want you in charge of the manhunt.”

“Me?” She was surprised. CBI certainly had jurisdiction; it was the highest–ranking law–enforcement agency in the state, and Kathryn Dance was a senior agent; she was as competent as anyone to supervise the case. Still, the CBI was an investigative operation and didn’t have a large staff. The California Highway Patrol and the Sheriff’s Office would have to provide the manpower for the search.

“Why not somebody from CHP or MCSO?”

“I think we need central coordination on this one. Absolutely makes sense. Besides, it’s a done deal. I’ve cleared it with everybody.”

Already? She wondered if that was why he hadn’t returned her call right away — he was roping down CBI’s control of a big media case.

Well, his decision was fine with her. She had a personal stake in capturing Pell.

Seeing his bared teeth, hearing his eerie words.

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 …

“Okay, Charles. I’ll take it. But I want Michael on board too.”

Michael O’Neil was the MCSO detective Dance worked with most often. She and the soft–spoken officer, a life–long resident of Monterey, had worked together for years; in fact, he’d been a mentor when she’d joined the CBI.

“That’s fine with me.”

Good, Dance thought. Because she’d already called him.

“I’ll be there soon. I want another briefing before the press conference.” Overby disconnected.

Dance was heading toward the back of the courthouse when flashing lights caught her eye. She recognized one of the CBI’s Tauruses, the grille pulsing red and blue.

Rey Carraneo, the most recent addition to the office, pulled up nearby and joined her. The slim man, with black eyes sunk beneath thick brows, had only two months on the job. He wasn’t quite as unseasoned as he looked, though, and had been a cop in Reno for three years — a tough venue — before moving to the Peninsula so he and his wife could take care of his ill mother. There were rough edges to be worn off and experience to be tucked under his extremely narrow belt but he was a tireless, reliable law enforcer. And that counted for a lot.

Carraneo was only six or seven years younger than Dance but those were important years in the life of a cop and he couldn’t bring himself to call her Kathryn, as she frequently offered. His usual greeting was a nod. He gave her a respectful one now.

“Come with me.” Recalling the Herron evidence and the gas bomb, she added, “He’s probably got an accomplice, and we know he’s got a weapon. So, eyes open.” They continued to the back of the courthouse, where arson investigators and Monterey County crime scene officers from the Enforcement Operations Bureau were looking over the carnage. It was like a scene from a war zone. Four cars had burned to the frames, the two others were half–gutted. The back of the building was black with soot, trash cans melted. A haze of blue–gray smoke hung over the area. The place stank of burning rubber — and an odor that was far more repulsive.

She studied the parking lot. Then her eyes slipped to the open back door.

“No way he got out
there,
” Carraneo said, echoing Dance’s thought. From the destroyed cars and the scorch marks on the pavement, it was clear that the fire had surrounded the door; the flames were meant to be a diversion. But where
had
he gone?

“These cars all accounted for?” she asked a fireman.

“Yeah. They’re all employees’.”

“Hey, Kathryn, we have the device,” a man in a uniform said to her. He was the county’s chief fire marshal.

She nodded a greeting. “What was it?”

“Wheelie suitcase, big one, filled with plastic milk containers of gasoline. The doer planted it under that Saab there. Slow–burning fuse.”

“A pro?”

“Probably not. We found the fuse residue. You can make ‘em out of clothesline and chemicals. Got instructions from the Internet, I’d say. The sort of things kids make to blow stuff up with. Including themselves a lot of times.”

“Can you trace anything?”

“Maybe. We’ll have it sent to the MCSO lab and then we’ll see.”

“You know when it was left?”

He nodded toward the car the bomb had been planted under. “The driver got here about nine fifteen, so it’d be after that.”

“Any hope for prints?”

“Doubt it.”

Dance stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the battleground. Something felt wrong.

The dim corridor, blood on the concrete.

The open door.

Turning slowly, studying the area, Dance noticed behind the building something in a nearby pine and cypress grove: a tree from which dangled an orange ribbon — the sort used to mark shrubs and trees scheduled for cutting. Walking closer, she noticed that the mound of pine needles at the base was larger than those beneath the others. Dance dropped to her knees and dug into it. She unearthed a large scorched bag made of metallic cloth.

“Rey, need some gloves.” She coughed from the smoke.

The young agent got a pair from an MCSO crime scene deputy and brought them to her. Inside the bag were Pell’s orange prison uniform and a set of gray hooded overalls, which turned out to be some kind of fire suit. A label said the garment was made of PBI fibers and Kevlar and had an SFI rating of 3.2A/5. Dance had no idea what this meant — except that it was obviously protective enough to get Daniel Pell safely through the conflagration behind the courthouse.

Her shoulders slumped in disgust.

A fire suit? What’re we up against here?

“I don’t get it,” Rey Carraneo said.

She explained that Pell’s partner had probably set the bomb and left the fireproof bag outside the door; it had contained the fire suit and a knife. Maybe a universal cuff or shackle key too. After he’d disarmed Juan Millar, Pell had donned the garment and run through the flames to the tree marked with the orange tag, where the partner had hidden some civilian clothes. He’d changed and sprinted off.

She lifted the Motorola and reported what she’d found, then gestured an MCSO crime scene officer over and gave him the evidence.

Carraneo called her to a patch of earth not far away. “Footprints.” Several impressions, about four feet apart — left by someone running. They were clearly Pell’s; he’d left distinctive prints outside the fire door of the courthouse. The two CBI agents started jogging in the direction they led.

Pell’s footsteps ended at a nearby street, San Benito Way, along which were vacant lots, a liquor store, a dingy taqueria, a quick–copy and shipping franchise, a pawnshop and a bar.

“So here’s where the partner picked him up,” Carraneo said, looking up and down San Benito.

“But there’s another street on the other side of the courthouse. It’s two hundred feet closer. Why here?”

“More traffic there?”

“Could be.” Dance squinted as she scanned the area, coughing again. Finally she caught her breath and her eyes focused across the street. “Come on, let’s move!”