Dance pointed out wine and beer, then headed into the kitchen to help. But her mother said, "You've got another guest." She indicated the front door, where Dance found Winston Kellogg.
"I'm empty-handed," he confessed.
"I've got more than we'll ever eat. You can take a doggy bag home, if you want. By the way, you allergic?"
"To pollen, yes. Dogs? No."
Kellogg had changed again. The sports coat was the same but he wore a polo shirt and jeans, Topsiders and yellow socks.
He noted her glance. "I know. For a Fed I look surprisingly like a soccer dad."
She directed him through the kitchen and introduced him to Edie. Then they continued on to the Deck, where he was inundated with more introductions. She remained circumspect about his role here, and Kellogg said merely that he was in town from Washington and was "working with Kathryn on a few projects."
Then she took him to the stairs leading down to the backyard and introduced him to the children. Dance caught Wes and Tyler looking at him closely, undoubtedly for armament, and whispering to each other.
O'Neil joined the two agents.
Wes waved enthusiastically to the deputy and, with another glance at Kellogg, returned to their game, which he was apparently making up on the run. He was laying out the rules. It seemed to involve outer space and invisible dragons. The dogs were aliens. The twins were royalty of some kind and a pine cone was either a magic orb or a hand grenade, perhaps both.
"Did you tell Michael about Nagle?" Kellogg asked.
She gave a brief synopsis of what they'd learned about Pell's history and added that the writer was going to see if Theresa Croyton would talk to them.
"So, you think Pell's here because of the murders back then?" O'Neil asked.
"I don't know," she said. "But I need all the information I can get."
The placid detective gave a smile and said to Kellogg, "No stone left unturned. That's how I describe her policing style."
"Which I learned from him," Dance said, laughing, and nodding at O'Neil.
Then the detective said, "Oh, I was thinking about something. Remember? One of Pell's phone conversations from Capitola was about money."
"Ninety-two hundred dollars," Kellogg said.
Dance was impressed at his retention.
"Well, here's what I thought: We know the Thunderbird was stolen in Los Angeles. It's logical to assume that's where Pell's girlfriend's from. How 'bout we contact banks in L.A. County and see if any women customers've withdrawn that amount in the past, say, month or two?"
Dance liked the idea, though it would mean a lot of work.
O'Neil said to Kellogg, "That'd have to come from you folks: FBI, Treasury, IRS or Homeland Security, I'd guess."
"It's a good idea. Just thinking out loud, though, I'd say we'd have a manpower problem." He echoed Dance's concern. "We're talking millions of customers. I know the L.A. bureau couldn't handle it, and Homeland'd laugh. And if she was smart she'd make small withdrawals over a period of time. Or cash third-party checks and stash the money."
"Oh, sure. Possibly. But it'd be great to ID his girlfriend. You know, 'A second suspect--' "
"--'logarithmically increases the chances for detection and arrest,' " Kellogg finished the quotation from an old textbook on law enforcement. Dance and O'Neil quoted it often.
Smiling, Kellogg held O'Neil's eye. "We Feds don't have quite the resources people think we do. I'm sure we couldn't come up with the bodies to man the phones. Be a huge job."
"I wonder. You'd think it'd be pretty easy to check databases, at least with the big chain banks." Michael O'Neil could be quite tenacious.
Dance asked, "Would you need a warrant?"
O'Neil said, "Probably to release the name you would. But if a bank wanted to cooperate they could run the numbers and tell us if there was a match. We could get a warrant for the name and address in a half-hour."
Kellogg sipped his wine. "The fact is, there's another problem. I'm worried if we go to the SAC or Homeland with something like that--too tenuous--we might lose support we'd need later for something more solid."
"Crying wolf, hm?" O'Neil nodded. "Guess you have to play more politics at that level than we do here."
"But let's think about it. I'll make some calls."
O'Neil looked past Dance's shoulder. "Hey, happy birthday, young man."
Stuart Dance, wearing a badge that said "Birthday Boy," handmade by Maggie and Wes, shook hands, refilled O'Neil's and Dance's wineglasses and said to Kellogg, "You're talking shop. Not allowed. I'm stealing you away from these children, come play with the adults."
Kellogg gave a shy laugh and followed the man to the candlelit table, where Martine had her battered Gibson guitar out of the case and was organizing a sing-along. Dance and O'Neil stood alone. She saw Wes looking up. He'd apparently been studying the adults. He turned away, back to the Star Wars improvisation.
"He seems good," O'Neil said, tilting his head toward Kellogg.
"Winston? Yes."
Typically, O'Neil carried no grudge about the rejection of his suggestions. He was the antithesis of pettiness.
"He take a hit recently?" O'Neil tapped his neck.
"How'd you know?" The bandage wasn't visible tonight.
"He was touching it the way you touch a wound."
She laughed. "Good kinesic analysis. Yeah, just happened. He was in Chicago. The perp got a round off first, I guess, and Win took him out. He didn't go into the details."
They fell silent, looking over the backyard, the children, the dogs, the lights glowing brighter in the encroaching dusk. "We'll get him."
"Will we?" she asked.
"Yep. He'll make a mistake. They always do."
"I don't know. He's something different. Don't you feel that?"
"No. He's not different. He's just more." Michael O'Neil--the most widely read person she knew--had surprisingly simple philosophies of life. He didn't believe in evil or good, much less God or Satan. Those were all abstractions that deflected you from your job, which was to catch people who broke rules that humans had created for their own health and safety.
No good, no bad. Just destructive forces that had to be stopped.
To Michael O'Neil, Daniel Pell was a tsunami, an earthquake, a tornado.
He watched the children playing, then said, "I gather that guy you've been seeing . . . It's over with?"
Brian called. . . .
"You caught that, hm? Busted by my own assistant."
"I'm sorry. Really."
"You know how it goes," Dance said, noting she'd spoken one of those sentences that were meaningless flotsam in a conversation.
"Sure."
Dance turned to see how her mother was coming with dinner. She saw O'Neil's wife looking at the two of them. Anne smiled.
Dance smiled back. She said to O'Neil, "So, let's go join the sing-along."
"Do I have to sing?"
"Absolutely not," she said quickly. He had a wonderful speaking voice, low with a natural vibrato. He couldn't stay on key under threat of torture.
After a half-hour of music, gossip and laughter, Edie Dance, her daughter and granddaughter set out Worcestershire-marinated flank steak, salad, asparagus and potatoes au gratin. Dance sat beside Winston Kellogg, who was holding his own very well among strangers. He even told a few jokes, with a deadpan delivery that reminded her of her late husband, who had shared not only Kellogg's career but his easy-going nature--at least once the federal ID card was tucked away.
The conversation ambled from music to Anne O'Neil's critique of San Francisco arts, to politics in the Middle East, Washington and Sacramento, to the far more important story of a sea otter pup born in captivity at the aquarium two days ago.
It was a comfortable gathering: friends, laughter, food, wine, music.
Though, of course, complete comfort eluded Kathryn Dance. Pervading the otherwise fine evening, like the moving bass line of Martine's old guitar, was the thought that D
aniel Pell was still at large.
WEDNESDAY
Chapter 27
Kathryn Dance was sitting in a cabin at the Point Lobos Inn--the first time she'd ever been in the expensive place. It was an upscale lodge of private cabins on a quiet road off Highway 1, south of Carmel, abutting the rugged and beautiful state park after which the inn was named. The Tudor-style place was secluded--a long driveway separated it from the road--and the deputy in the Monterey Sheriff's Office car stationed in front had a perfect view of all approaches, which was why she'd picked it.
Dance checked in with O'Neil. At the moment he was following up on a missing person report in Monterey. Calls to TJ and Carraneo too. TJ had nothing to tell her, and the rookie agent said he was still having no luck finding a cheap motel or boardinghouse where Pell might be staying. "I've tried all the way up to Gilroy and--"
"Cheap hotels?"
A pause. "That's right, Agent Dance. I didn't bother with the expensive ones. Didn't think an escapee'd have much money to spend on them."
Dance recalled Pell's secret phone conversation in Capitola, the reference to $9,200. "Pell's probably thinking that's exactly what you're thinking. Which means . . ." She let Carraneo pick up her thought.
"That it'd be smarter for him to stay in an expensive one. Hm. Okay. I'll get on it. Wait. Where are you right now, Agent Dance? Do you think he--?"
"I've already checked out everybody here," she assured him. She hung up, looked at her watch again and wondered: Is this harebrained scheme really going to do any good?
Five minutes later, a knock on the door. Dance opened it to see massive CBI Agent Albert Stemple towering over a woman in her late twenties. Stocky Linda Whitfield had a pretty face, untouched by makeup, and short red hair. Her clothes were a bit shabby: black stretch pants with shiny knees and a red sweater dangling threads; its V-neck framed a pewter cross. Dance detected no trace of perfume, and Linda's nails were unpolished and cut short.
The women shook hands. Linda's grip was firm.
Stemple's brow lifted. Meaning, Is there anything else?
Dance thanked him and the big agent set down Linda's suitcase and ambled off. Dance locked the door and the woman walked into the living room of the two-bedroom cabin. She looked at the elegant place as if she'd never stayed anywhere nicer than a Days Inn. "My."
"I've got coffee going." A gesture toward the small kitchen.
"Tea, if there's any."
Dance made a cup. "I'm hoping you won't have to stay long. Maybe not even overnight."
"Any more on Daniel?"
"Nothing new."
Linda looked at the bedrooms as if choosing one would commit her to staying longer than she wanted to. Her serenity wavered, then returned. She picked a room and took her suitcase inside, then returned a moment later and accepted the cup of tea, poured milk in and sat.
"I haven't been on an airplane in years," she said. "And that jet . . . it was amazing. So small, but it pushed you right back in your seat when we took off. There was an FBI agent on board. She was very nice."
They sat on comfortable couches, a large coffee table between them. She looked around the cabin again. "My, this is nice."
It sure was. Dance wondered what the FBI accountants would say when they saw the bill. The cabin was nearly six hundred a night.
"Rebecca's on her way. But maybe you and I could just get started."
"And Samantha?"
"She wouldn't come."
"You talked to her then?"
"I went to see her."
"Where is she? . . . No, wait, you can't tell me that."
Dance smiled.
"I heard she had plastic surgery and changed her name and everything."
"That's true, yes."
"At the airport I bought a newspaper to see what was going on?"
Dance wondered about the absence of a TV in her brother's house; was it an ethical or cultural decision? Or an economic one? You could get a cable ready set for a few hundred bucks nowadays. Still, Dance noted that the heels of Linda's shoes were virtually worn away.
"It said there was no doubt he killed those guards." She set down the tea. "I was surprised by that. Daniel wasn't violent. He'd only hurt someone in self-defense."
Though, looked at from Pell's point of view, that was exactly why he'd slaughtered the guards. "But," Linda continued, "he did let somebody go. That driver."
Only because it served his interest.
"How did you meet Pell?"
"It was about ten years ago. In Golden Gate Park. San Francisco. I'd run away from home and was sleeping there. Daniel, Samantha and Jimmy were living in Seaside, along with a few other people. They'd travel up and down the coast, like gypsies. They'd sell things they'd bought or made. Sam and Jimmy were pretty talented; they'd make picture frames, CD holders, tie racks. Things like that.
"Anyway, I'd run away that weekend--no big deal, I did it all the time--and Daniel saw me near the Japanese Garden. He sat down and we started talking. Daniel has this gift. He listens to you. It's like you're the center of the universe. It's really, you know, seductive."
"And you never went back home?"
"No, I did. I always wanted to run away and just keep going. My brother did. He left home at eighteen and never looked back. But I wasn't brave enough to. My parents--we lived in San Mateo--they were real strict. Like drill instructors. My father was head of Santa Clara Bank and Trust."
"Wait, that Whitfield?"
"Yep. The multimillionaire Whitfield. The one who financed a good portion of Silicon Valley and survived the crash. The one who was going into politics--until a certain daughter of his made the press in a big way." A wry smile. "Ever met anybody who's been disowned by her parents? You have now. . . . Anyway, when I was growing up they were very authoritarian. I had to do everything the way they insisted. How I made my room, what I wore, what I was taking in school, what my grades were going to be. I got spanked until I was fourteen and I think he only stopped because my mother told my father it wasn't a good idea with a girl that age. . . . They claimed it was because they loved me, and so on. But they were just control freaks. They were trying to turn me into a little doll for them to dress up and play with.
"So I go back home but all the time I was there I couldn't get Daniel out of my head. We'd only talked for, I don't know, a few hours. But it was wonderful. He treated me like I was a real person. He told me to trust my judgment. That I was smart, I was pretty." A grimace. "Oh, I wasn't really--not either of those things. But when he said it I believed him.
"One morning my mother came to my room and told me to get up and get dressed. We were going to visit my aunt or somebody. And I was supposed to wear a skirt. I wanted to wear jeans. It wasn't a formal thing--we were just going to lunch. But she made a big deal out of it. She screamed at me. 'No daughter of mine . . . ' You get the idea. Well, I grabbed my backpack and just left. I was afraid I'd never find Daniel but I remembered he'd told me he'd be in Santa Cruz that week, at a flea market on the boardwalk."
The boardwalk was a famous amusement park on the beach. A lot of young people hung out there, at all hours of the day. Dance reflected that it'd make a good hunting ground if Daniel Pell was on the prowl for victims.
"So I hitched a ride down Highway One, and there he was. He looked happy to see me. Which I don't think my parents ever did." She laughed. "I asked if he knew a place I could stay. I was nervous about that, hinting. But he said, 'You bet I do. With us.' "
"In Seaside?"
"Uh-huh. We had a little bungalow there. It was nice."
"You, Samantha, Jimmy and Pell?"
"Right."
Her body language told Dance that she was enjoying the memory: the easy position of the shoulders, the crinkles beside the eyes and the illustrator hand gestures, which emphasize the content of the words and suggest the intensity of the speaker's reaction to what he or she is saying.
Linda picked up her tea again and sipped it. "Whatever the papers said--cul
t, drug orgies--that was wrong. It was really homey and comfortable. I mean, no drugs at all, or liquor. Some wine at dinner sometimes. Oh, it was nice. I loved being around people who saw you for who you were, didn't try to change you, respected you. I ran the house. I was sort of the mother, I guess you could say. It was so nice to be in charge for a change, not getting yelled at for having my own opinion."
"What about the crimes?"
Linda grew tense. "There was that. Some. Not as much as people say. A little shoplifting, things like that. And I never liked it. Never."
A few negation gestures here, but Dance sensed she wasn't being deceptive; the kinesic stress was due to her minimizing the severity of the crimes. The Family had done much worse than just shoplifting, Dance knew. There were burglary counts, and grand larceny, as well as purse snatching and pickpocketing--both crimes against persons, and under the penal code more serious than those against property.
"But we didn't have any choice. To be in the Family you had to participate."
"What was it like living with Daniel?"
"It wasn't as bad as you'd think. You just had to do what he wanted."
"And if you didn't?"
"He never hurt us. Not physically. Mostly, he'd . . . withdraw."
Dance recalled Kellogg's profile of a cult leader.
He'll threaten to withhold himself from them, and that's a very powerful weapon.
"He'd turn away from you. And you'd get scared. You never knew if that was the end for you and you'd get thrown out. Somebody in the church office was telling me about these reality shows? Big Brother, Survivor?"
Dance nodded.
"She was saying how popular they were. I think that's why people're obsessed with them. There's something terrifying about the idea of being kicked out of your family." She shrugged and fondled the cross on her chest.
"You got a longer sentence than the others. For destroying evidence. What was that story?"
The woman's lips grew tight. "It was stupid. I panicked. All I knew was that Daniel called and said Jimmy was dead and something had gone wrong at this house where they'd had a meeting. We were supposed to pack up and get ready to leave, the police might be after him soon. Daniel kept all these books about Charles Manson in the bedroom and clippings and things. I burned some before the police got there. I thought it'd look bad if they knew he had this thing for Manson."
Which it had, Dance reflected, recalling how the prosecutor had used the Charles Manson theme to help him win a conviction.
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