The Sleeping Doll

the cute stores in Los Gatos?
    “I want to see the house. My old house.”
    Where her parents and siblings had died.
    “We’re going to meet Mr. Nagle. He talked to the family who lives there now and they’ve agreed to let me see it.”
    “Did he suggest that?” Dance was ready to run interference for the girl and knew that Nagle would back down in an instant.
    “No, it was my idea,” Theresa said. “I just, you know, want to. And he’s going to come to Napa and interview me. For that book. The Sleeping Doll . That’s the title. Isn’t it weird having a book written about you?”
    Mary Bolling didn’t say anything, though her body language—slightly lifted shoulders, a shift in the jaw—told Dance instantly that she didn’t approve of the evening’s detour and that there’d been an argument on the subject.
    As often, following significant life incidents—like the Family’s reunion or Theresa’s journey here to help catch her family’s killer—there’s a tendency to look for fundamental changes in the participants. But that didn’t happen very often and Dance didn’t think it had here. She found herself looking at the same two people they’d undoubtedly been for some time: a protective middle-aged woman, blunt but stepping up to the difficult task of becoming a substitute parent, and a typically attitudinal teenage girl who’d impulsively done a brave thing. They’d had a disagreement about how to spend the rest of the evening and, in this case, the girl had won, undoubtedly with concessions.
    Maybe, though, the very fact that the disagreement had occurred andbeen resolved was a step forward. This was, Dance supposed, how people change: incrementally.
    She hugged Theresa, shook her aunt’s hand and wished them a safe trip.
    Five minutes later Dance was back in the GW side of CBI headquarters, accepting a cup of coffee and an oatmeal cookie from Maryellen Kresbach.
    Walking into her office, she kicked off the damaged Aldos and dug in her closet for a new pair: Joan and David sandals. Then she stretched and sat, sipping the strong coffee and searching through her desk for the remainder of a pack of M&Ms she’d stashed there a few days ago. She ate them quickly, stretched again and enjoyed looking at the pictures of her children.
    Photos of her husband too.
    How she would have liked to lie in bed next to him tonight and talk about the Pell case.
    Ah, Bill . . .
    Her phone chirped.
    She glanced at the screen and her stomach did a small jump.
    “Hi,” she said to Michael O’Neil.
    “Hey. Just got the news. You okay? Heard there were rounds exchanged.”
    “Pell parked one near me. That’s all.”
    “How’s Linda?”
    Dance gave him the details.
    “And Rebecca?”
    “ICU. She’ll live. But she’s not getting out any time soon.”
    He, in turn, told her about the phony getaway car—Pell’s favorite means of diversion and distraction. The Infiniti driver wasn’t dead. He had been forced by Pell to call and report his own murder and carjacking. He’d then driven home, put the car in the garage and sat in a dark room until he’d heard the news of Pell’s death.
    He added that he was sending her the crime scene reports from the Butterfly Inn, which Pell and Jennie had checked into after escaping from the Sea View and from Point Lobos.
    She’d been glad to hear O’Neil’s voice. But something was off. There was still the matter-of-fact tone. He wasn’t angry, but he wasn’t overly pleased to be speaking to her. She thought his earlier remarks about Winston Kellogg were out of line but, while she didn’t want an apology, she did wish that the rough seas between them would calm.
    She asked, “You all right?” With some people, you had to prime the pump.
    “Fine,” he said.
    That goddamn word, which could mean everything from “wonderful” to “I hate you.”
    She suggested he come by the Deck that night.
    “Can’t, sorry. Anne and I have plans.”
    Ah. Plans .
    That’s one of those words too.
    “Better go. Just wanted to let you know about the Infiniti driver.”
    “Sure, take care.”
    Click . . . .
    Dance grimaced for the benefit of no one and turned back to a file.
    Ten minutes later Winston Kellogg’s head appeared in the door. She gestured toward the chair and he dropped down into it. He hadn’t changed; his clothes were still muddy and sandy. He saw her salt-stained shoes sitting by the door and gestured toward his own. Then laughed, pointing to a