Which they weren't, of course, but he was tired of the honey-bunny chatter and wanted to think.
Daniel Pell was worried.
How had the police tracked them to Jack's?
He ran through the possibilities. Maybe the cap, sunglasses and shaved face hadn't fooled the manager at the restaurant, though who'd believe that a murderous escapee would sit down like a day-tripper from San Francisco to devour a plate of tasty sand dabs fifteen miles from the detention center he'd just redecorated with fire and blood?
Finding that the T-bird was stolen was another possibility. But why would somebody run the tag of a car stolen four hundred miles away? And even if it was boosted, why call out the 101 Airborne just for a set of stolen wheels--unless they knew it had some connection to Pell?
And the cops were supposed to believe he was headed to that camper park outside of Salt Lake City he'd called.
Kathryn?
He had a feeling she hadn't bought into the Utah idea, even after the trick with Billy's phone and leaving the driver alive on purpose. Pell wondered if she'd put out the announcement about Utah to the press intentionally, to flush him into the open.
Which had, in fact, worked, he reflected angrily.
Wherever he went, he had a feeling, she'd be supervising the manhunt for him.
Pell wondered where she lived. He thought again about his assessment of her in the interview--her children, her husband--recalled when she gave her faint reactions, when she didn't.
Kids, yes, husband, probably not. A divorce didn't seem likely. He sensed good judgment and loyalty within her.
Pell paused and took a snap of the sun easing into the Pacific Ocean. It was really quite a sight.
Kathryn as a widow. Interesting idea. He felt the swelling within him again.
Somehow he managed to tuck it away.
For the time being.
He bought a few things at a store, a little bodega, which he picked because he knew his picture wouldn't be looping on the news every five minutes; he was right, the tiny set showed only a Spanish-language soap opera.
Pell met up with Jennie in Asilomar, the beautiful park, which featured a crescent of beach for die-hard surfers and, closer toward Monterey, an increasingly rugged shoreline of rocks and crashing spray.
"Everything all right?" she asked cautiously.
"Fine, lovely. We're doing fine."
She led him through the quiet streets of Pacific Grove, a former Methodist retreat, filled with colorful Victorian and Tudor bungalows. In five minutes she announced, "Here we are." She nodded at the Sea View Motel. The building was brown, with small lead windows, a wood shingle roof and plaques of butterflies above the doors. The village's claim to fame, other than being the last dry town in California, was the monarchs--tens of thousands of the insects would cluster here from fall to spring.
"It's cute, isn't it?"
Pell guessed. Cute didn't mean anything to him. What mattered was that the room faced away from the road and there were driveways off the back parking lot that would be perfect escape routes. She'd gotten exactly the kind of place she was supposed to.
"It's perfect, lovely. Just like you."
Another smile on her smooth face, though half-hearted; she was still shaken by the incident at Jack's restaurant. Pell didn't care. The bubble within him had started expanding once more. He wasn't sure whether Kathryn was driving it, or Jennie.
"Which one's ours?"
She pointed. "Come on, honey. I have a surprise for you."
Hm. Pell didn't like surprises.
She unlocked the door.
He nodded toward it. "After you, lovely."
And reached into his waistband, gripping the pistol. He tensed, ready to push her forward as a sacrificial shield and start shooting at the sound of a cop's voice.
But it wasn't a setup. The place was empty. He looked around. It was even nicer than the outside suggested. Ritzy. Expensive furniture, drapes, towels, even bathrobes. Some nice paintings too. Seashores, the Lonesome Pine and more goddamn butterflies.
And candles. Lots of them. Everywhere you could put a candle there was a candle.
Oh, that was the surprise. They weren't, thank God, lit. That's all he'd need--come back from an escape to find his hideaway on fire.
"You have the keys?"
She handed them to him.
Keys. Pell loved them. Whether for a car, a motel room, a safe deposit box or a house, whoever possesses the keys is in control.
"What's in there?" she asked, glancing at the bag. She'd been curious earlier, when they met on the beach not long ago, he knew. Purposely he hadn't told her.
"Just some things we needed. And some food."
Jennie blinked in surprise. "You bought food?"
What, was this the first time her man had bought her groceries?
"I could've done that," she said quickly. Then nodding at the kitchenette, she added a perfunctory, "So. I'll cook you a meal."
Odd phrase. She's been taught to think that. By her ex, or one of the abusive boyfriends. Tim the biker.
Shut up and go cook me a meal. . . .
"That's okay, lovely. I'll do it."
"You?"
"Sure." Pell knew men who insisted that "the wife" feed them. They thought they were kings of the household, to be waited on. It gave them some sense of power. But they didn't understand that when you depended on someone for anything, you were weakened. (Also, how stupid can you be? You know how easy it is to mix rat poison into soup?) Pell was no chef but even years ago, when Linda was the Family cook, he liked to hang out in the kitchen, help her, keep an eye on things.
"Oh, and you got Mexican!" She laughed as she pulled out the ground beef, tortillas, tomatoes, canned peppers and sauces.
"You said you liked it. Comfort food. Hey, lovely." He kissed her head. "You were real steady today at the restaurant."
Turning away from the groceries, she looked down. "I got kind of freaked, you know. I was scared. I didn't mean to scream."
"No, no, you held fast. You know what that means?"
"Not really."
"It's an old expression sailors used to say. They'd tattoo it on their fingers, so when you made fists, you'd see it spelled out. 'Hold fast.' It means not running away."
She laughed. "I wouldn't run away from you."
He touched his lips to her head, smelled sweat and discount perfume.
She rubbed her nose.
"We're a team, lovely." Which got her to stop rubbing. Pell noted that.
He went into the bathroom, peed long and then washed up. When he stepped outside he found a second surprise.
Jennie'd stripped down. She was wearing only a bra and panties, holding a cigarette lighter, working on the candles.
She glanced up. "You said you liked red."
Pell grinned, walked to her. Ran his hand down her bony spine.
"Or would you rather eat?"
He kissed her. "We'll eat later."
"Oh, I want you, baby," she whispered. It was clearly a line she'd used often in the past. But that didn't mean it wasn't true now.
He took the lighter. "We'll do atmosphere later." He kissed her, pulled her hips against him.
She smiled--a genuine one now--and pressed harder against his crotch. "I think you want me too." A purr.
"I do want you, lovely."
"I like it when you call me that."
"You have any stockings?" he asked.
She nodded. "Black ones. I'll go put them on."
"No. That's not what I want them for," he whispered.
Chapter 18
One more errand before this hard day was over.
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 a
nd 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.
Chapter 19
This was known as the Deck.
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 fo
r 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).