Or you can just take the Highway 156 cutoff to the 101 and, if you’ve got government tags, burn however much gas you want to get up to the city in an hour.
Kathryn Dance chose the second.
Gospel was gone and she was listening to Latin music—the Mexican singer Julieta Venegas. Her soulful “Verdad” was pounding from the speakers.
The Taurus was doing ninety as she zipped through Gilroy, the garlic capital of the world. Not far away was Castroville (ditto, artichokes) and Watsonville, with its sweeping pelt of berry fields and mushroom farms. She liked these towns and had no patience for detractors who laughed at the idea of crowning an artichoke queen or standing in line for the petting tanks at Monterey’s own Squid Festival. After all, these chicer-than-thou urbanites were the ones who paid obscene prices for olive oil and balsamic vinegar to cook those very artichokes and calamari rings in.
These burgs were homey and honest and filled with history. And they were also her turf, falling within the west-central region of the CBI.
She saw a sign luring tourists to a vineyard in Morgan Hill, and had a thought.
Dance called Michael O’Neil.
“Hey,” he said.
“I was thinking about the acid they found in the Thunderbird at Moss Landing. Any word?”
“Peter’s techs’ve been working on it but they still don’t have any specific leads.”
“How many bodies we have searching the orchards and vineyards?”
“About fifteen CHP, five of our people, some Salinas uniforms. They haven’t found anything.”
“I’ve got an idea. What is the acid exactly?”
“Hold on.”
Eyes slipping between the road and the pad of paper resting on her knee, she jotted the incomprehensible terms as he spelled them.
“So kinesics isn’t enough? You have to master forensics too?”
“A wise woman knows her limitations. I’ll call you in a bit.”
Dance then hit speed dial. She listened to a phone ring two thousand miles away.
A click as it answered. “Amelia Sachs.”
“Hi, it’s Kathryn.”
“How’re you doing?”
“Well, been better.”
“Can imagine. We’ve been following the case. How’s that officer? The one who was burned?”
Dance was surprised that Lincoln Rhyme, the well-known forensic scientist in New York City, and Amelia Sachs, his partner and a detective with the NYPD, had been following the story of Pell’s escape.
“Not too good, I’m afraid.”
“We were talking about Pell. Lincoln remembers the original case. In ninety-nine. When he killed that family. Are you making headway?”
“Not much. He’s smart. Too smart.”
“That’s what we’re gathering from the news. So, how are the kids?”
“Fine. We’re still waiting for that visit. My parents too. They want to meet you both.”
Sachs gave a laugh. “I’ll get him out there soon. It’s a . . . let’s say challenge.”
Lincoln Rhyme didn’t like to travel. This wasn’t owing to the problems associated with his disability (he was a quadriplegic). He simply didn’t like to travel.
Dance had met Rhyme and Sachs last year when she’d been teaching a course in the New York area and had been tapped to help them on a case. They’d stayed in touch. She and Sachs in particular had grown close. Women in the tough business of policing tend to do that.
“Any word on our other friend?” Sachs asked.
This reference was to the perp they’d been after in New York last year. The man had eluded them and vanished, possibly to California. Dance had opened a CBI file but then the trail grew cold and it was possible that the perp was now out of the country.
“I’m afraid not. Our office in L.A.’s still following up on the leads. I’m calling about something else. Is Lincoln available?”
“Hold on a minute. He’s right here.”
There was a click and Rhyme’s voice popped into her phone.
“Kathryn.”
Rhyme was not the sort for chitchat, but he spent a few minutes conversing—nothing about her personal life or the children, of course. His interest was the cases she was working. Lincoln Rhyme was a scientist, with very little patience for the “people” side of policing, as he put it. Yet, on their recent case together, he’d grown to understand and value kinesics (though being quick to point out that it was based on scientific methodology and not, he said contemptuously, gut feeling). He said, “Wish you were here. I’ve got a witness we’d love for you to grill on a multiple homicide case. You can use a rubber hose if you want.”
She could picture him in his red motorized wheelchair, staring at a large flat screen hooked up to a microscope or computer. He loved evidence the same way she loved interrogation.
“Wish I could. But I’ve got my hands full.”
“So I hear. Who’s doing the lab work?”
“Peter Bennington.”
“Oh, sure. I know him. Cut his teeth in L.A. Took a seminar of mine. Good man.”
“Got a question about the Pell situation.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“We’ve got some evidence that might lead to what he’s up to—maybe tainting food—or where he’s hiding. But either one’s taking a lot of manpower to check out. I have to know if it makes sense to keep them committed. We could really use them elsewhere.”
“What’s the evidence?”
“I’ll do the best I can with the pronunciation.” Eyes shifting between the road and her notebook. “Carboxylic acid, ethanol and malic acid, amino acid and glucose.”
“Give me a minute.”
She heard his conversation with Amelia Sachs, who apparently went online into one of Rhyme’s own databases. She could hear the words clearly; unlike most callers, the criminalist was unable to hold his hand over the phone when speaking to someone else in the room.
“Okay, hold on, I’m scrolling through some things now. . . .”
“You can call me back,” Dance said. She hadn’t expected an answer immediately.
“No . . . just hold on. . . . Where was the substance found?”
“On the floor of Pell’s car.”
“Hm. Car.” Silence for a moment, then Rhyme was muttering to himself. Finally he asked, “Any chance that Pell had just eaten in a restaurant? A seafood restaurant or a British pub?”
She laughed out loud. “Seafood, yes. How on earth did you know?”
“The acid’s vinegar—malt vinegar specifically, because the amino acids and glucose indicate caramel coloring. My database tells me it’s common in British cooking, pub food and seafood. Thom? You remember him? He helped me with that entry.”
Rhyme’s caregiver was also quite a cook. Last December he’d served her a boeuf bourguignon that was the best she’d ever had.
“Sorry it doesn’t lead to his front door,” the criminalist said.
“No, no, that’s fine, Lincoln. I can pull the troops off the areas we had them searching. Send them to where they’ll be better used.”
“Call anytime. That’s one perp I wouldn’t mind a piece of.”
They said good-bye.
Dance disconnected, called O’Neil, and told him it was likely that the acid had come from Jack’s restaurant and wouldn’t lead them to Pell or his mission here. It was probably better for the officers to search for the killer according to their original plan.
She hung up and continued her drive north on the familiar highway, which would take her to San Francisco, where the eight-lane Highway 101 eventually funneled into just another city street, Van Ness. Now, eighty miles north of Monterey. Dance turned west and made her way into the sprawl of San Jose, a city that stood as the antithesis of Los Angeles narcissism in the old Burt Bacharach/Hal David tune “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” Nowadays, of course, thanks to Silicon Valley, San Jose flexed an ego of its own.
Mapquest led her through a maze of large deve
lopments until she came to one filled with nearly identical houses; if the symmetrically planted trees had been saplings when they’d gone in, Dance estimated the neighborhood was about twenty-five years old. Modest, nondescript, small—still, each house would sell for well over a million dollars.
She found the house she sought and passed it by, parking across the street a block away. She walked back to the address, where a red Jeep and a dark blue Acura sat in the driveway and a big plastic tricycle rested on the lawn. Dance could see lights inside the house. She walked to the front porch. Rang the bell. Her cover story was prepared in case Samantha McCoy’s husband or children answered the door. It seemed unlikely that the woman had kept her past a secret from her spouse, but it would be better to start out on the assumption that she had. Dance needed the woman’s cooperation and didn’t want to alienate her.
The door opened and she found herself looking at a slim woman with a narrow, pretty face, resembling the actress Cate Blanchett. She wore chic, blue-framed glasses and had curly brown hair. She stood in the doorway, head thrust forward, bony hand gripping the doorjamb.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Starkey?”
“That’s right.” The face was very different from that in the pictures of Samantha McCoy eight years ago; she’d had extensive cosmetic surgery. But her eyes told Dance instantly that there was no doubt of her identity. Not their appearance, but the flash of horror, then dismay.
The agent said quietly, “I’m Kathryn Dance. California Bureau of Investigation.” The woman’s glance at the ID, discreetly held low, was so fast that she couldn’t possibly have read a word on it.
From inside, a man’s voice called, “Who is it, honey?”
Samantha’s eyes firmly fixed on Dance’s, she replied, “That woman from up the street. The one I met at Safeway I told you about.”
Which answered the question about how secret her past was.
She also thought: Smooth. Good liars are always prepared with credible answers, and they know the person they’re lying to. Samantha’s response told Dance that her husband had a bad memory of casual conversation and that Samantha had thought out every likely situation in which she’d need to lie.
The woman stepped outside, closed the door behind her and they walked halfway to the street. Without the softening filter of the screen door, Dance could see how haggard the woman looked. Her eyes were red and the crescents beneath them were dark, her facial skin dry, lips cracked. A fingernail was torn. It seemed she’d gotten no sleep. Dance understood why she was “working at home” today.
A glance back at the house. Then she turned to Dance and, with imploring eyes, whispered, “I had nothing to do with it, I swear. I heard he had somebody helping him, a woman. I saw that on the news, but—”
“No, no, that’s not what I’m here about. I checked you out. You work for that publisher on Figueroa. You were there all day yesterday.”
Alarm. “Did you—”
“Nobody knows. I called about delivering a package.”
“That . . . Toni said somebody tried to deliver something, they were asking about me. That was you.” The woman rubbed her face then crossed her arms. Gestures of negation. She was steeped in stress.
“That was your husband?” Dance asked.
She nodded.
“He doesn’t know?”
“He doesn’t even suspect.”
Amazing, Dance reflected. “Does anyone know?”
“A few of the clerks at the courthouse, where I changed my name. My parole officer.”
“What about friends and family?”
“My mother’s dead. My father couldn’t care less about me. They didn’t have anything to do with me before I met Pell. After the Croyton murders, they stopped returning my phone calls. And my old friends? Some stayed in touch for a while but being associated with somebody like Daniel Pell? Let’s just say they found excuses to disappear from my life as fast as they could. Everybody I know now I met after I became Sarah.” A glance back at the house, then she turned her uneasy eyes to Dance. “What do you want?” A whisper.
“I’m sure you’re watching the news. We haven’t found Pell yet. But he’s staying in the Monterey area. And we don’t know why. Rebecca and Linda are coming to help us.”
“They are?” She seemed astonished.
“And I’d like you to come down there too.”
“Me?” Her jaw trembled. “No, no, I couldn’t. Oh, please . . .” Her voice started to break.
Dance could see the fringes of hysteria. She said quickly, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to ruin your life. I’m not going to say anything about you. I’m just asking for help. We can’t figure him out. You might know some things—”
“I don’t know anything. Really. Daniel Pell’s not like a husband or brother or friend. He’s a monster. He used us. That’s all. I lived with him for two years and I still couldn’t begin to tell you what was going on in his mind. You have to believe me. I swear.”
Classic denial flags, signaling not deception but the stress from a past she couldn’t confront.
“You’ll be completely protected, if that’s what—”
“No. I’m sorry. I wish I could. You have to understand, I’ve created a whole new life for myself. But it’s taken so much work . . . and it’s so fragile.”
One look at the face, the horrified eyes, the trembling jaw, told Dance that there was no chance of her agreeing.
“I understand.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t do it.”
Samantha turned and walked to the house. At the door, she looked back and gave a big smile.
Has she changed her mind? Dance was momentarily hopeful.
Then the woman waved. “ ’Bye!” she called. “Good seeing you again.”
Samantha McCoy and her lie walked back into the house. The door closed.
Chapter 24
“Did you hear about that?” Susan Pemberton asked César Gutierrez, sitting across from her in the hotel bar, as she poured sugar into her latte. She was gesturing toward a TV from which an anchorman was reading news above a local phone number.
Escapee Hotline.
“Wouldn’t it be Escaper?” Gutierrez asked.
Susan blinked. “I don’t know.”
The businessman continued, “I didn’t mean to be light about it. It’s terrible. He killed two people, I heard.” The handsome Latino sprinkled cinnamon into his cappuccino, then sipped, spilling a bit of spice on his slacks. “Oh, look at that. I’m such a klutz.” He laughed. “You can’t take me anywhere.”
He wiped at the stain, which only made it worse. “Oh, well.”
This was a business meeting. Susan, who worked for an event-planning company, was going to put together an anniversary party for his parents—but, being currently single, the thirty-nine-year-old woman automatically sized him up from a personal perspective, noting he was only a few years older than she and wore no wedding ring.
They’d disposed of the details of the party—cash bar, chicken and fish, open wine, fifteen minutes to exchange new vows and then dancing to a DJ. And now they were chatting over coffee before she went back to the office to work up an estimate.
“You’d think they would’ve got him by now.” Then Gutierrez glanced outside, frowning.
“Something wrong?” Susan asked.
“It sounds funny, I know. But just as I was getting here I saw this car pull up. And somebody who looked a little like him, Pell, got out.” He nodded at the TV.
“Who? The killer?”
He nodded. “And there was a woman driving.”
The TV announcer had just repeated that his accomplice was a young woman.
“Where did he go?”
“I wasn’t paying attention. I think toward the parking garage by the bank.”
She looked toward the place.
Then the businessman gave a smile. “But that’s crazy. He’s not going to be here.” He nodded past where they were looking. “What’s
that banner? I saw it before.”
“Oh, the concert on Friday. Part of a John Steinbeck celebration. You read him?”
The businessman said, “Oh, sure. East of Eden. The Long Valley. You ever been to King City? I love it there. Steinbeck’s grandfather had a ranch.”
She touched her palm reverently to her chest. “Grapes of Wrath . . . the best book ever written.”
“And there’s a concert on Friday, you were saying? What kind of music?”
“Jazz. You know, because of the Monterey Jazz Festival. It’s my favorite.”
“I love it too,” Gutierrez said. “I go to the festival whenever I can.”
“Really?” Susan resisted an urge to touch his arm.
“Maybe we’ll run into each other at the next one.”
Susan said, “I worry . . . Well, I just wish more people would listen to music like that. Real music. I don’t think kids are interested.”
“Here’s to that.” Gutierrez tapped his cup to hers. “My ex . . . she lets our son listen to rap. Some of those lyrics? Disgusting. And he’s only twelve years old.”
“It’s not music,” Susan announced. Thinking: So. He has an ex. Good. She’d vowed never to date anyone over forty who hadn’t been married.
He hesitated and asked, “You think you might be there? At the concert?”
“Yeah, I will.”
“Well, I don’t know your situation, but if you were going to go, you want to hook up there?”
“Oh, César, that’d be fun.”
Hooking up . . .
Nowadays that was as good as a formal invitation.
Gutierrez stretched. He said he wanted to get on the road. Then he added he’d enjoyed meeting her and, without hesitating, gave her the holy trinity of phone numbers: work, home and mobile. He picked up his briefcase and they started for the door together. She noticed, though, that he was pausing, his eyes, through dark-framed glasses, examining the lobby. He frowned again, brushing uneasily at his moustache.
“Something wrong?”
“I think it’s that guy,” he whispered. “The one I saw before. There, you see him? He was here, in the hotel. Looking our way.”
Kathryn Dance Ebook Boxed Set : Roadside Crosses, Sleeping Doll, Cold Moon (9781451674217) Page 61