The Bodies Left Behind

boots with two-inch heels—footwear she’d admired for months but been able to resist buying only until they had gone on sale.
    O’Neil was in one of his three or four civilian configurations: chinos and powder blue shirt, no tie. His jacket was dark blue, in a faint plaid pattern.
    The doorman, a cheerful Latino, looked them over with a gaze that said, You seem like a nice young couple. “Welcome. I hope you enjoy your stay.” He opened the door for them.
    Dance smiled uncertainly at O’Neil and they walked through a breezy hallway to the front desk.
    —
    From the main building, they wound through the hotel complex, looking for the room.
    “Never thought this would happen,” O’Neil said to her.
    Dance gave a faint laugh. She was amused to realize that her own eyes occasionally slipped to doors and windows. This was a kinesic response that meant the subject was subconsciously thinking about ways to escape—that is, was feeling stress.
    “Look,” she said, pointing to yet another pool. The place seemed to have four.
    “Like Disneyland for adults. I hear a lot of rock musicians stay here.”
    “Really?” She frowned.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “It’s only one story. Not much fun getting stoned and throwing TVs and furniture out the window.”
    “This is Carmel,” O’Neil pointed out. “The wildest they’d get here is pitching recyclables into the trash.”
    Dance thought of a comeback line but kept quiet. The bantering was making her more nervous.
    She paused beside a palm tree with leaves like sharp weapons. “Where are we?”
    The deputy looked at a slip of paper, oriented himself and pointed to one of the buildings in the back. “There.”
    O’Neil and Dance paused outside the door. He exhaled and lifted an eyebrow. “Guess this is it.”
    Dance laughed. “I feel like a teenager.”
    The deputy knocked.
    After a short pause the door opened, revealing a narrow man, hovering near fifty, wearing dark slacks and a white shirt and striped tie.
    “Michael, Kathryn. Right on time. Come on in.”
    —
    Ernest Seybold, a career district attorney for Los Angeles County, nodded them into the room. Inside, a court reporter sat beside her three-legged dictation machine. Another young woman rose and greeted the new arrivals. She was, Seybold said, his assistant from L.A.
    Earlier this month, Dance and O’Neil had run a case in Monterey—Daniel Pell, a cult leader and killer, had escaped from prison and remained on the Peninsula, targeting more victims. One of the people involved in the case had turned out to be somebody very different from the person Dance and her fellow officers had believed him to be. The consequences of that involved yet another murder.
    Dance adamantly wanted to pursue the case against the perp. But there was much pressure not to follow up—from some very powerful organizations. Dance wouldn’t take no for an answer, though, and while the Monterey prosecutor had declined to handle the case, she and O’Neil learned that the perp had killed earlier—in Los Angeles. District Attorney Seybold, who’d worked regularly with Dance’s organization, the California Bureau of Investigation, and was a friend of Dance’s, agreed to bring charges down in L.A.
    Several witnesses, though, were in the Montereyarea, including Dance and O’Neil, and so Seybold had come here for the day to take their statements. The clandestine nature of the get-together was due to the perp’s connections and reputation. In fact, for the time being they weren’t even using the killer’s real name. The case was known internally as The People v. J. Doe.
    As they sat, Seybold said, “We might have a problem, I have to tell you.”
    The butterflies that Dance had felt earlier—that something would go wrong and the case would derail—returned.
    The prosecutor continued, “The defense’s made a motion to dismiss based on immunity. I honestly can’t tell you what the odds are it’ll succeed. The hearing’s scheduled for day after tomorrow.”
    Dance closed her eyes. “No . . .” Beside her O’Neil exhaled in anger.
    All this work.
    If he gets away, Dance thought . . . but then realized she had nothing to add to that, except: If he gets away, I lose.
    She felt her jaw trembling.
    But Seybold said, “I’ve got a team putting together the response. They’re good. The best in the office.”
    “Whatever it takes, Ernie,” Dance said. “I want him. I want him real bad.”
    “A lot of people do,