The Sleeping Doll

by Jeffery Deaver

  Responding to Dance's questions, Linda mentioned more about her recent life. In jail she'd become devoutly religious and, after her release, moved to Portland, where she'd gotten a job working for a local Protestant church. She'd joined it because her brother was a deacon there.

  She was seeing a "nice Christian" man in Portland and was the nanny, in effect, for her brother and sister-in-law's foster children. She wanted to become a foster parent herself--she'd had medical problems and could have no children of her own--but that was hard with the prison conviction. She added, in a tone of conclusion, "I don't have many material things, but I like my life. It's a rich life, in the good sense of the word."

  A knock on the door intruded. Dance's hand strayed toward her heavy pistol.

  "It's TJ, boss. I forgot the secret password."

  Dance opened the door and the young agent entered with another woman. Slim and tall, in her midthirties, she carried a leather backpack slung over her shoulder.

  Kathryn Dance rose to greet the second member of the Family.

  Chapter 28

  Rebecca Sheffield was a few years older than her fellow Family member. She was athletic-looking and gorgeous, though Dance thought that the short crop of prematurely gray hair, the brash jewelry and the absence of makeup made her look austere. She wore jeans and a white silk T-shirt under a brown suede jacket.

  Rebecca shook Dance's hand firmly but she immediately turned her attention to Linda, who was rising and gazing at her with a steady smile.

  "Well, look who it is." Rebecca stepped forward and hugged Linda.

  "After all these years." Linda's voice choked. "My, I think I'm going to cry." And she did.

  They dropped the embrace but Rebecca continued to hold the other woman's hands tightly. "It's good to see you, Linda."

  "Oh, Rebecca . . . I've prayed for you a lot."

  "You're into that now? You didn't used to know a cross from a Star of David. Well, thanks for the prayers. Not sure they took."

  "No, no, you're doing such good things. Really! The church office has a computer. I saw your website. Women starting their own businesses. It's wonderful. I'm sure it does a lot of good."

  Rebecca seemed surprised that Linda had kept up with her.

  Dance pointed out the available bedroom and Rebecca carried her backpack into it, and used the restroom.

  "You need me, boss, just holler." TJ left and Dance locked the door behind him.

  Linda picked up her teacup, fiddled with it, not taking a sip. How people love their props in stressful situations, Dance reflected. She'd interrogated suspects who clutched pens, ashtrays, food wrappers and even their shoes to dull the stress.

  Rebecca returned and Dance offered her some coffee.

  "You bet."

  Dance poured her some and set out milk and sugar. "There's no public restaurant here, but they have room service. Order whatever you'd like."

  Sipping the coffee, Rebecca said, "I've got to say, Linda, you're looking good."

  A blush. "Oh, I don't know. I'm not in the shape I'd like. You're glamorous. And thin! I love your hair."

  Rebecca laughed. "Hey, nothing like a couple years in prison to turn you gray, hm? Hey, no ring. You're not married?"

  "Nope."

  "Me either."

  "You're kidding. You were going to marry some hunky Italian sculptor. I thought for sure you'd be hooked up now."

  "Not easy to find Mr. Right when men hear your boyfriend was Daniel Pell. I read about your father in BusinessWeek. Something about his bank expanding."

  "Really? I wouldn't know."

  "You're still not talking?"

  Linda shook her head. "My brother doesn't talk to them either. We're two poor church mice. But it's for the best, believe me. You still paint?"

  "Some. Not professionally."

  "No? Really?" Linda turned to Dance, her eyes shining. "Oh, Rebecca was so good! You should see her work. I mean, she's the best."

  "Just sketch for fun now."

  They spent a few minutes catching up. Dance was surprised that though they both lived on the West Coast they hadn't communicated since the trial.

  Rebecca glanced at Dance. "Samantha joining our coffee klatch? Or whatever her name is now?"

  "No, just the two of you."

  "Sam was always the timid one."

  " 'Mouse,' remember?" Linda said.

  "That's right. That's what Pell called her. 'My Mouse.' "

  They refilled their cups and Dance got down to work, asking Rebecca the same basic questions she'd asked Linda.

  "I was the last one to get suckered in by Mr. Pell," the thin woman said sourly. "It was only . . . when?" A glance at Linda, who said, "January. Just four months before the Croyton situation."

  Situation. Not murders.

  "How did you meet Pell?" Dance asked.

  "Back then I was bumming around the West Coast, making money doing sketches of people at street fairs and on the beach, you know. I had my easel set up and Pell stopped by. He wanted his portrait done."

  Linda gave a coy smile. "I seem to remember you didn't do much sketching. You two ended up in the back of the van. And were there for a long, long time."

  Rebecca's smile was of embarrassment. "Well, Daniel had that side to him, sure. . . . In any case, we did spend time talking too. And he asked me if I wanted to hang out with them in Seaside. I wasn't sure at first--I mean, we all knew about Pell's reputation and the shoplifting and things like that. But I just said to myself, hell, I'm a bohemian, I'm a rebel and artist. Screw my lily white suburban upbringing . . . go for it. And I did. It worked out well. There were good people around me, like Linda and Sam. I didn't have to work nine to five and could paint as much as I wanted. Who could ask for anything more in life? Of course, it turned out I'd also joined up with Bonnie and Clyde, a band of thieves. That wasn't so good."

  Dance noticed Linda's placid face darken at the comment.

  After release from jail, Rebecca explained, she became involved in the women's movement.

  "I figured me kowtowing to Pell--treating him like the king of the roost--set the feminist cause back a few years and I wanted to make it up to them."

  Finally, after a lot of counseling, she'd started a consulting service to help women open and finance small businesses. She'd been at it ever since. She must do well for herself, Dance thought, to judge from the jewelry, clothes and Italian shoes, which if the agent's estimate was right (Dance could be an expert footwear witness) cost the same as her best two pairs put together.

  Another knock on the door. Winston Kellogg arrived. Dance was happy to see him--professionally and personally. She'd enjoyed getting to know him on the Deck last night. He'd been surprisingly social, for a hard-traveling Fed. Dance had attended a number of functions with her husband's federal coworkers and found most of them quiet and focused, reluctant to talk. But Win Kellogg, along with her parents, had been the last to leave the party.

  He now greeted the two women and, in keeping with protocol, showed them his ID. He poured himself some coffee. Up until now Dance had been asking background information but with Kellogg here it was time to get to the crux of the interview.

  "All right, here's the situation. Pell is probably still in the area. We can't figure out where or why. It doesn't make any sense; most escapees get as far away as they can from the site of the jail break."

  She told them in detail of how the plan at the courthouse had unfolded and the developments to date. The women listened with interest--and shock or revulsion--to the specifics.

  "First, let me ask you about his accomplice."

  "That woman I read about?" Linda asked. "Who is she?"

  "We don't know. Apparently blond and young. Age is roughly midtwenties."

  "So he's got a new girlfriend," Rebecca said. "That's our Daniel. Never without one."

  Kellogg said, "We don't exactly know the relationship. She was probably a fan of his. Apparently prisoners, even the worst, get plenty of women throwi
ng themselves at their feet."

  Rebecca laughed and glanced at Linda. "You get any love letters when you were inside? I didn't."

  Linda gave a polite smile.

  "There's a chance," Dance said, "that she isn't a stranger. She'd've been very young at the time the Family was together but I was wondering if she could be somebody you know."

  Linda frowned. "Midtwenties now . . . she'd've been a teenager then. I don't remember anyone like that."

  Rebecca added, "When I was in the Family, it was only the five of us."

  Dance jotted a note. "Now, I want to talk about what your life was like then. What Pell said and did, what interested him, what his plans were. I'm hoping something you remember will give us a clue as to what he's up to."

  "Step one, define the problem. Step two, get the facts." Rebecca's eyes were on Dance.

  Both Linda and Kellogg looked blank. Dance, of course, knew what she was talking about. (And was thankful that the woman wasn't in the mood to deliver another lecture, like yesterday.)

  "Jump in with whatever you want. If you have an idea that sounds bizarre, go ahead and tell us. We'll take whatever we can get."

  "I'm game," Linda said.

  Rebecca offered, "Shoot."

  Dance asked about the structure of life in the Family.

  "It was sort of a commune," Rebecca said, "which was weird for me, growing up in capitalistic, sitcom suburbia, you know."

  As they described it, the arrangement was a little different, though, from what a communist cadre might expect. The rule seemed to be: From each according to what Daniel Pell demanded of them; to each according to what Daniel Pell decided.

  Still, the Family worked pretty well, at least on a practical level. Linda had made sure the household ran smoothly and the others contributed. They ate well and kept the bungalow clean and in good repair. Both Samantha and Jimmy Newberg were talented with tools and home improvement. For obvious reasons--stolen property stored in a bedroom--Pell didn't want the owner to paint or fix broken appliances, so they had to be completely self-sufficient.

  Linda said, "That was one of Daniel's philosophies of life. 'Self-Reliance'--the essay by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I read it out loud a dozen times. He loved to hear it."

  Rebecca was smiling. "Remember reading at night?"

  Linda explained that Pell believed in books. "He loved them. He made a ceremony out of throwing out the TV. Almost every night I'd read something aloud, with everyone else gathered in a circle on the floor. Those were nice nights."

  "Were there any neighbors or other friends in Seaside he had a particular connection with?"

  "We didn't have friends," Rebecca said. "Pell wasn't like that."

  "But some people he'd met would come by, stay for a while, then leave. He was always picking up people."

  "Losers like us."

  Linda stiffened slightly. Then said, "Well, I'd say people down on their luck. Daniel was generous. Gave them food, money sometimes."

  You give a hungry man food, he'll do what you want, Dance reflected, recalling Kellogg's profile of a cult leader and his subjects.

  They continued reminiscing but the conversation didn't trigger any recollections of who the houseguests might've been. Dance moved on.

  "There are some things he searched for online recently. I was wondering if they mean anything to you. One was 'Nimue.' I was thinking it might be a name. A nickname or computer screen name maybe."

  "No. I've never heard of it. What does it mean?"

  "It's a character out of the King Arthur legend."

  Rebecca looked at the younger woman. "Hey, did you read us any of those stories?"

  Linda didn't recall. Nor had they any recollection of an Alison--the other name Pell had searched for.

  "Tell me about a typical day in the Family."

  Rebecca seemed at a loss for words. "We'd get up, have breakfast . . . I don't know."

  Shrugging, Linda said, "We were just a family. We talked about what families talk about. The weather, plans, trips we were going to take. Money problems. Who was going to be working where. Sometimes I'd stand in the kitchen after breakfast, doing dishes, and just cry--because I was so happy. I had a real family at last."

  Rebecca agreed that their life hadn't been very different from anyone else's, though she clearly wasn't as sentimental as her sister-in-crime.

  The discussion meandered and they revealed nothing helpful. In interviewing and interrogation, it's a well-known rule that abstractions obscure memories, while specifics trigger them. Dance now said, "Do this for me: Pick a particular day. Tell me about it. A day you'd both remember."

  Neither could think of one that stood out, though.

  Until Dance suggested, "Think of a holiday: Thanksgiving, Christmas."

  Linda shrugged. "How about that Easter?"

  "My first holiday there. My only holiday. Sure. That was fun."

  Linda described making an elaborate dinner with food that Sam, Jimmy and Rebecca had "come up with." Dance spotted the euphemism instantly; it meant the trio had stolen the groceries.

  "I cooked a turkey," Linda said. "I smoked it all day in the backyard. My, that was fun."

  Prodding, Dance asked, "So there you are, you two and Samantha--she was the quiet one, you said."

  "The Mouse."

  "And the young man who was with Pell at the Croytons'," Kellogg said. "Jimmy Newberg. Tell us about him."

  Rebecca said, "Right. He was a funny little puppy. He was a runaway too. From up north, I think."

  "Good-looking. But he wasn't all there." Linda tapped her forehead.

  A laugh from her comrade. "He'd been a stoner."

  "But he was a genius with his hands. Carpentry, electronics, everything. He was totally into computers, even wrote his own programs. He'd tell us about them and none of us could understand what he was talking about. He wanted to get some website going--remember, this was before everybody had one. I think he was actually pretty creative. I felt bad for him. Daniel didn't like him that much. He'd lose patience with him. He wanted to kick him out, I think."

  "Besides, Daniel was a ladies' man. He didn't do well with other men around."

  Dance steered them back to the holiday.

  "It was a pretty day," Linda continued. "The sun was out. It was warm. We had music going. Jimmy'd put together a real good sound system."

  "Did you say grace?"

  "No."

  "Even though it was Easter?"

  Rebecca said, "I suggested it. But Pell said no."

  Linda said, "That's right. He got upset."

  His father, Dance supposed.

  "We played some games in the yard. Frisbee, badminton. Then I put dinner out."

  Rebecca said, "I'd boosted some good Cabernet and we girls and Jimmy had wine--Pell didn't drink. Oh, I got pretty wasted. Sam did too."

  "And we ate a lot." Linda gripped her belly.

  Dance continued to probe. She was aware that Winston Kellogg had dropped out of the conversation. He might be the cult expert but he was deferring to her expertise now. She appreciated that.

  Linda said, "After dinner we just hung out and talked. Sam and I sang. Jimmy was tinkering with his computer. Daniel was reading something."

  The recollections came more frequently now, a chain reaction.

  "Drinking, talking, a family holiday."

  "Yeah."

  "You remember what you talked about?"

  "Oh, just stuff, you know . . ." Linda fell silent. Then she said, "Wait. That reminds me of one thing you might want to know about." She tilted her head slightly. It was a recognition response, though from the focus of her eyes--on a nearby vase filled with artificial amaryllis--the thought was not fully formed. Dance said nothing; you can often erase an elusive memory by asking someone about it directly.

  The woman continued, "It wasn't Easter. It was another dinner. But thinking about Easter reminded me. Daniel and I were in the kitchen. He was watching me cook. And there was a big crash from n
ext door. The neighbors were fighting. He said he couldn't wait to get out of Seaside. To his mountaintop."

  "Mountaintop?"

  "Yeah."

  Kellogg asked, "His?"

  "That's what he said."

  "Did he own some property?"

  "He never mentioned anything specific. Maybe he meant 'his' in the sense that it was something he wanted to have someday."

  Rebecca knew nothing about it.

  Linda said, "I remember it clearly. He wanted to get away from everybody. Just us, just the Family. Nobody else around. I don't think he said anything about it before or after that."

  "But not Utah? You both said he never mentioned that."

  "No," Rebecca agreed. "But, wait . . . you know, thinking of that . . . I don't know if it's helpful, but I remember something too. Along those same lines. We were in bed one night and he said, 'I need to make a big score. Come up with enough money just to get away from everybody.' I remember that. He said 'a big score.' "

  "What did he mean? A robbery to buy some property?"

  "Could be."

  "Linda?"

  She had to plead ignorance and seemed troubled that he hadn't shared everything with her.

  Dance asked the obvious question: "Could the big score have been the Croyton break-in?"

  "I don't know," Rebecca said. "He never told us that's where he and Jimmy were going that night."

  Dance speculated: Maybe he did steal something valuable from Croyton's house, after all. When the police were closing in, he hid it. She thought of the car he'd driven to the break-in. Had it been searched thoroughly? Where was it now? Maybe destroyed, maybe owned by someone else. She made a note to try to find the vehicle. Also, to check deeds registries to see if Pell owned any property.

  Mountaintop . . . Could that have been what he'd been looking for online in Capitola on the Visual-Earth website? Dozen of sizable peaks were within an hour's drive of the Peninsula.

  There were still questions, but Dance was pleased at their progress. Finally, she felt she had some insights into the mind of Daniel Pell. She was about to ask more questions when her phone rang.

  "Excuse me."

  She answered it.

  "Kathryn. It's me."

  She pressed the phone closer to her head. "TJ, what's up?"

  And steeled herself. The fact that he hadn't called her "boss" meant he was about to deliver bad news.

  Chapter 29

  Kathryn Dance and Winston Kellogg walked along a road covered with a thin coat of damp sand toward TJ and Michael O'Neil, who stood at the open trunk of a late-model Lexus.