The Sleeping Doll

by Jeffery Deaver

  Kellogg said, "Typical of cult leaders. Jim Jones in Guyana? He had sex three or four times a day."

  "Why is that?" Dance asked.

  "Because they can. They can do pretty much whatever they want."

  O'Neil's phone rang and he took the call. He listened for a few moments. "Good. Scan it and send it to Agent Dance's computer. You have her email? . . . Thanks."

  He looked at Dance. "Crime scene found an email in the pocket of the woman's jeans."

  A few minutes later Dance called up the message on the screen. She printed out the .pdf attachment.

  From: CentralAdmin2235@Capitolacorrectional.com

  To: JMSUNGIRL@Euroserve.co.uk

  Re:

  Jennie, my lovely--

  Bargained my way into the office to write this. I had to. There's something I want to say. I woke up thinking about you--our plans to go out to the beach, and the desert, and watching the fireworks every night in your backyard. I was thinking, you're smart and beautiful and romantic--who could ask for anything more in a girl? We've danced around it a lot and haven't said it but I want to now. I love you. There's no doubt in my mind, you're unlike anybody I've ever met. So, there you have it. Have to go now. Hope these words of mine haven't upset you or "freaked" you out.

  Soon, Daniel

  So Pell had sent emails from Capitola--though prior to Sunday, Dance noted, probably why the tech hadn't found them.

  Dance noted that Jennie was her first name. Last or middle initial M.

  JMSUNGIRL.

  O'Neil added, "Our tech department's contacting the ISP now. Foreign servers aren't very cooperative but we'll keep our fingers crossed."

  Dance was staring at the email. "Look at what he said: beach, desert and fireworks every night. All three near her house. That ought to give us some ideas."

  Kellogg said, "The car was stolen in Los Angeles. . . . She's from Southern California somewhere: beach and desert. But fireworks every night?"

  "Anaheim," Dance said.

  The other parent present nodded. O'Neil said, "Disneyland."

  Dance met O'Neil's eye. She said, "Your idea earlier: the banks and withdrawals of ninety-two hundred dollars. All of L.A. County--okay, maybe that was too much. But Anaheim? Much smaller. And now, we know her first name. And possibly an initial. Can your people handle this one, Win?"

  "Sure, that'd be a more manageable number of banks," he said agreeably. He picked up the phone and called the request in to the L.A. field office.

  Dance called the Point Lobos Inn. She explained to the women what had happened at the motel.

  "He got away again?" Samantha asked.

  "I'm afraid so." She gave her the details of the email, including the screen name, but none of them could recall anybody with that name or initials.

  "We also found evidence of S and M activity." She described the sexual gear. "Could that've been Pell, or would it've been the woman's idea? Might help us narrow down a search, if it was hers. A professional, a dominatrix maybe."

  Samantha was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I, ah . . . That would've been Daniel's idea. He was kind of that way." Embarrassed.

  Dance thanked her. "I know you're anxious to leave. I promise I won't keep you much longer."

  It was only a few minutes later that Winston Kellogg received a call. His eyes flashed in surprise. He looked up. "They've got an ID. A woman named Jennie Marston withdrew nine thousand two hundred dollars--virtually her whole savings account--from Pacific Trust in Anaheim last week. Cash. We're getting a warrant, and our agents and Orange County deputies're going to raid her house. They'll let us know what they find."

  Sometimes you do get a break.

  O'Neil grabbed the phone and in five minutes a jpeg image of a young woman's driver's license photo was on Dance's computer. She called TJ into her office.

  "Yo?"

  She nodded at the screen. "Do an EFIS image. Make her a brunette, redhead, long hair, short hair. Get it to the Sea View. I want to make sure it's her. And if it is, I want a copy sent to every TV station and newspaper in the area."

  "You bet, boss." Without sitting, he typed on her keyboard, then hurried out, as if he were trying to beat the picture's arrival to his office.

  Charles Overby stepped into the doorway. "That call from Sacramento is--"

  "Hold on, Charles." Dance briefed him on what had happened and his mood changed instantly.

  "Well, a lead. Good. At last . . . Anyway, we've got another issue. Sacramento got a call from the Napa County Sheriff's Office."

  "Napa?"

  "They've got someone named Morton Nagle in jail."

  Dance nodded slowly. She hadn't told Overby about enlisting the writer's aid to find the Sleeping Doll.

  "I talked to the sheriff. And he's not a happy camper."

  "What'd Nagle do?" Kellogg asked, lifting an eyebrow to Dance.

  "The Croyton girl? She lives up there somewhere with her aunt and uncle. He apparently wanted to talk her into being interviewed by you."

  "That's right."

  "Oh. I didn't hear about it." He let that linger for a moment. "The aunt told him no. But this morning he snuck onto their property and tried to convince the girl in person."

  So much for uninvolved, objective journalism.

  "The aunt took a shot at him."

  "What?"

  "She missed but if the deputies hadn't shown up, the sheriff thinks she would've taken him out on the second try. And nobody seemed very upset about that possibility. They think we had something to do with it. This's a can of worms."

  "I'll handle it," Dance told him.

  "We weren't involved, were we? I told him we weren't."

  "I'll handle it."

  Overby considered this, then gave her the sheriff's number and headed back to his office. Dance called the sheriff and identified herself. She told him the situation.

  The man grunted. "Well, Agent Dance, I appreciate the problem, Pell and all. Made the news up here, I'll tell you. But we can't just release him. Theresa's aunt and uncle went forward with the complaint. And I have to say we all keep a special eye out for that girl around here, knowing what she went through. The magistrate set bail at a hundred thousand and none of the bailbondsmen're interested in handling it."

  "Can I talk to the prosecutor?"

  "He's on trial, will be all day."

  Morton Nagle would have to spend a little time in jail. She felt bad for him, and appreciated his change of mind. But there was nothing she could do. "I'd like to talk to the girl's aunt or uncle."

  "I don't know what good it'd do."

  "It's important."

  A pause. "Well, now, Agent Dance, I really don't think they'd be inclined. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee it."

  "Will you give me their number? Please?" Direct questions are often the most effective.

  But so are direct answers. "No. Good-bye now, Agent Dance."

  Chapter 43

  Dance and O'Neil were alone in her office.

  She'd learned from the Orange County Sheriff's Department that Jennie Marston's father was dead and her mother had a history of petty crime, drug abuse and emotional disabilities. There was no record of the mother's whereabouts; she had a few relatives on the East Coast but no one had heard from Jennie in years.

  Dance learned that Jennie had gone to community college for a year, studying food management, then dropped out, apparently to get married. She'd worked for a Hair Cuttery for a year and then went into food service, employed by a number of caterers and bakeries in Orange County, a quiet worker who would arrive on time, do her job and then leave. She led a solitary life, and deputies could find no acquaintances, no close friends. Her ex-husband hadn't talked to her in years but said that she deserved whatever happened to her.

  Not surprisingly, police records revealed a history of difficult relationships. Deputies had been summoned by hospital workers at least a half-dozen times on suspicion of domestic abuse involving the ex and at least four
other partners. Social Services had started files, but Jennie had never pursued any complaints, let alone sought restraining orders.

  Just the sort to fall prey to someone like Daniel Pell.

  Dance mentioned this to O'Neil. The detective nodded. He was looking out Dance's window at two pine trees that had grafted themselves to each other over the years, producing a knuckle-like knot at eye level. Dance would often stare at the curious blemish when the facts of a case refused to coalesce into helpful insights.

  "So, what's on your mind?" she asked.

  "You want to know?"

  "I asked, didn't I?" In a tone of good humor.

  It wasn't reciprocated. He said testily, "You were right. He was wrong."

  "Kellogg? At the motel?"

  "We should've followed your initial plan. Set up a surveillance perimeter the minute we heard about the motel. Not spent a half-hour assembling Tactical. That's how he caught on. Somebody gave something away."

  Instincts of a cat . . .

  She hated defending herself, especially to someone she was so close to. "A takedown made sense at the time; a lot was going on and it was happening fast."

  "No, it didn't make sense. That's why you hesitated. Even at the end, you weren't sure."

  "Who knows anything in situations like this?"

  "Okay, you felt it was the wrong approach and what you feel is usually right."

  "It was just bad luck. If we'd moved in earlier, we probably would've had him." She regretted saying this, afraid he'd take her words as a criticism of the MCSO.

  "And people would've died. We're just goddamn lucky nobody was hurt. Kellogg's plan was a prescription for a shootout. I think we're lucky Pell wasn't there. It could've been a bloodbath." He crossed his arms--a protective gesture, which was ironic because he still had on the bulletproof vest. "You're giving up control of the operation. Your operation."

  "To Winston?"

  "Yes, exactly. He's a consultant. And it seems like he's running the case."

  "He's the specialist, Michael. I'm not. You're not."

  "He is? I'm sorry, he talks about the cult mentality, he talks about profiles. But I don't see him closing in on Pell. You're the one who's been doing that."

  "Look at his credentials, his background. He's an expert."

  "Okay, he's got some insights. They're helpful. But he wasn't enough of an expert to catch Pell an hour ago." He lowered his voice. "Look, at the hotel, Overby backed Winston. Obviously--he's the one who wanted him on board. You got the pressure from the FBI and your boss. But we've handled pressure before, the two of us. We could've backed them down."

  "What exactly are you saying? That I'm deferring to him for some other reason?"

  Looking away. An aversion gesture. People feel stress not only when they lie; sometimes they feel it when they tell the truth. "I'm saying you're giving Kellogg too much control over the operation. And, frankly, over yourself."

  She snapped, "Because he reminds me of my husband? Is that what you're saying?"

  "I don't know. You tell me. Does he remind you of Bill?"

  "This is ridiculous."

  "You brought it up."

  "Well, anything other than professional judgment's none of your business."

  "Fine," O'Neil said tersely. "I'll stick to professional judgment. Winston was off base. And you acquiesced to him, knowing he was wrong."

  " 'Knowing?' It was fifty-five, forty-five on the tac approach at the motel. I had one opinion at first. I changed it. Any good officer can be swayed."

  "By reason. By logical analysis."

  "What about your judgment? How objective are you?"

  "Me? Why aren't I objective?"

  "Because of Juan."

  A faint recognition response in O'Neil's eyes. Dance had hit close to home, and she supposed the detective felt responsible in some way for the young officer's death, thinking perhaps that he hadn't trained Millar enough.

  His proteges . . .

  She regretted her comment.

  Dance and O'Neil had fought before; you can't have friendship and a working relationship without wrinkles. But never with an edge this sharp. And why was he saying what he did, his comments slipping over the bounds into her personal life? This was a first.

  And the kinesics read almost as jealousy.

  They fell silent. The detective lifted his hands and shrugged. This was an emblem gesture, which translated: I've said my piece. The tension in the room was as tight as that entwined pine knot, thin fibers woven together into steel.

  They resumed their discussion of the next steps: checking with Orange County for more details about Jennie Marston, canvassing for witnesses and following up on the crime scene at the Sea View Motel. They sent Carraneo to the airport, bus station and rental-car offices armed with the woman's picture. They kicked around a few other ideas too, but the climate in the office had dropped significantly, summer to fall, and when Winston Kellogg came into the room, O'Neil retreated, explaining that he had to check in with his office and brief the sheriff. He said a perfunctory good-bye that was aimed at neither of them.

  *

  His hand throbbing from the cut sustained when he vaulted the Bollings' chain-link fence, Morton Nagle glanced at the guard outside the holding cell of Napa County Men's Detention.

  The big Latino reciprocated with a cold gaze.

  Apparently Nagle had committed the number-one offense in Vallejo Springs--not the technical infractions of trespass and assault (where the hell had they got that?) but the far more troubling crime of upsetting their local daughter.

  "I have a right to make a phone call."

  No response.

  He wanted to reassure his wife that he was okay. But mostly he wanted to get word to Kathryn Dance about where Theresa was. He'd changed his mind and given up on his book and journalistic ethics. Goddamn it, he was going to do everything in his power to make sure that Daniel Pell got caught and flung back into Capitola.

  Not illuminating evil, but attacking it himself. Like a shark. Seeing Theresa in person was what had swayed him: a dear, attractive, vivacious girl who deserved to be leading the normal life of a teenager, and pure evil had destroyed the hope for that. Telling people her story wasn't enough; Morton Nagle personally wanted Pell's head.

  But apparently they were going to keep him incommunicado for as long as they possibly could.

  "I really would like to make a phone call."

  The guard looked at him as if he'd been caught selling crack to kids outside Sunday school and said nothing.

  He stood up and paced. The look from the guard said, Sit down. Nagle sat.

  Ten long, long minutes later he heard a door open. Footsteps approached.

  "Nagle."

  He gazed at another guard. Bigger than the first one.

  "Stand up." The guard pushed a button and the door opened. "Hold out your hands."

  It sounded ridiculous, like someone offering a child some candy. He lifted them and watched the cuffs clatter around his wrists.

  "This way." The man took him by the arm, strong fingers closing around his biceps. Nagle smelled garlic and cigarette smoke residue. He almost pulled away but didn't think it would be a smart idea. They walked like this, the chains clinking, for fifty feet down a dim corridor. They continued to interview room A.

  The guard opened it and gestured Nagle inside.

  He paused.

  Theresa Croyton, the Sleeping Doll, sat at a table, looking up at him with dark eyes. The guard pushed him forward and he sat down across from her.

  "Hello again," he said.

  The girl looked over his arms and face and hands, as if searching for evidence of prisoner abuse. Or maybe hoping for it. She noticed the bandage on his hand, squinted and then must have remembered that he'd cut it vaulting the fence.

  He knew she was only seventeen but there was nothing young about her, except the white delicacy of her skin. She didn't die in Daniel Pell's attack, Nagle thought. But her childhood did.
His anger at the killer burned hotter yet.

  The guard stepped back. But he remained close; Nagle could hear his large body absorbing sounds.

  "You can leave us alone," Theresa said.

  "I have to be here, Miss. Rules." He had a moveable smile. Polite to her, hostile to Nagle.

  Theresa hesitated, then focused on the writer. "Tell me what you were going to say in my backyard. About Daniel Pell."

  "He's staying in the Monterey area for some reason. The police can't figure out why."

  "And he tried to kill the prosecutor who sent him to jail?"

  "James Reynolds, that's right."

  "He's okay?"

  "Yes. The policewoman I was telling you about saved him."

  "Who are you exactly?" she asked. Direct questions, unemotional.

  "Your aunt didn't tell you anything?"

  "No."

  "I've been speaking to her for a month now about a book I wanted to write. About you."

  "Me? Like, why would you want to write that? I'm nobody interesting."

  "Oh, I think you are. I wanted to write about somebody who's been hurt by something bad. How they were beforehand, how they are after. How their life changes--and how things might've gone without the crime."

  "No, my aunt didn't tell me any of that."

  "Does she know you're here?"

  "Yeah, I told her. She drove me here. She won't let me have a driver's license."

  She glanced up at the guard, then back to Nagle. "They didn't want me to talk to you either, the police here. But there was nothing they could do about it."

  "Why did you come to see me, Theresa?" he asked.

  "That policewoman you mentioned?"

  Nagle was astonished. "You mean, it's all right if she comes to see you?"

  "No," the girl said adamantly, shaking her head.

  Nagle couldn't blame her. "I understand. But--"

  "I want to go see her."

  The writer wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "You want to what?"

  "I want to go down to Monterey. Meet her in person."

  "Oh, you don't have to do that."

  She nodded firmly. "Like, yeah, I do."

  "Why?"

  "Because."

  Which Nagle thought was as good a response as any.

  "I'll have my aunt drive me down there now."