The Sleeping Doll

that the Motor Vehicles camera would capture her flawed nose and make it more prominent than her eyes, ears and lips.
    Apparently Jennie had left something in the Sea View Motel room after all.
    He turned her around to face the raging ocean, stood behind her.
    “Angel songs,” she whispered.
    Pell held her tight for a moment, then kissed her on the cheek.
    “Look at that,” he said, gazing at the beach.
    “What?”
    “That rock there, in the sand.”
    He bent down and unearthed a smooth stone, which weighed maybe ten pounds. It was luminescent gray.
    “What do you think it looks like, lovely?”
    “Oh, when you hold it that way it’s like a cat, don’t you think? A cat sleeping all curled up. Like my Jasmine.”
    “That was your cat?” Pell hefted it in his hand.
    “When I was a little girl. My mother loved it. She’d never hurt Jasmine. She’d hurt me, she’d hurt a lot of people. But never Jasmine. Isn’t that funny?”
    “That’s exactly what I was thinking, lovely. It looks just like a cat.”
    •    •    •
    Dance called O’Neil first with the news.
    He didn’t pick up, so she left a message about Theresa. It wasn’t like him not to answer but she knew he wasn’t screening. Even his outburst—well, not outburst, okay—even his criticism earlier had been grounded in a law enforcer’s desire to run a case most efficiently.
    She wondered now, as she occasionally did, what it would be like to live with the cop/book-collector/seafarer. Good and bad, each in large quantities, was her usual conclusion, and she now hung up on that thought at the same time she did the phone.
    Dance found Kellogg in the conference room. She said, “We’ve got Theresa Croyton. Nagle just called from Napa. Get this. She bailed him out.”
    “How ’bout that? Napa, hm? That’s where they moved to. Are you going up there to talk to her?”
    “No, she’s coming here. With her aunt.”
    “ Here? With Pell still loose?”
    “She wanted to come. Insisted, in fact. It was the only way she’d agree.”
    “Gutsy.”
    “I’ll say.”
    Dance called massive Albert Stemple and arranged for him to take over Theresa’s guard detail when they arrived.
    She looked up and found Kellogg studying the pictures on her desk, the ones of her children. His face was still. She wondered again if there was something about the fact that she was a mother that touched, or troubled, him. This was an open question between them, she noted, wondering if there were others—or, more likely, what the others would be.
    The great, complicated journey of the heart.
    She said, “Theresa won’t be here for a while. I’d like to go back to the inn, see our guests again.”
    “I’ll leave that up to you. I think a male figure’s a distraction.”
    Dance agreed. The sex of each participant makes a difference in how an interrogator handles a session, and she often adjusted her behavior along the androgyny scale depending on the subject. Since Daniel Pell had been such a powerful force in these women’s lives, the presence of a man might throw off the balance. Kellogg had backed off earlier and let her pursue the questioning,but it would be better for him not to be there at all. She told him this and said she appreciated his understanding.
    She started to rise but he surprised her by saying, “Wait, please.”
    Dance sat back. He gave a faint laugh and looked into her eyes.
    “I haven’t been completely honest with you, Kathryn. And it wouldn’t mean anything . . . except for last night.”
    What was this? she wondered. An ex who isn’t exactly an ex. Or a girlfriend who’s very much present?
    Neither of which made any difference at this point. They hardly knew each other and the emotional connection was potentially significant but negligible so far. Whatever it might be, better to air the issue now, up front.
    “About children.”
    Dance dropped the it’s-about-me line of thought, and sat forward, giving him her full attention.
    “The fact is my wife and I did have a child.”
    The tense of the verb made Kathryn Dance’s stomach clench.
    “She died in a car accident when she was sixteen.”
    “Oh, Win . . .”
    He gestured at the picture of Dance and her husband. “Bit of a parallel. Car crash . . . Anyway, I was a shit about it. Terrible. I couldn’t handle the situation at all. I tried to be there for Jill, but I really wasn’t, not the way I should’ve been. You know what it’s like being a cop. The