The Sleeping Doll

Nothing. That’s a promise. Okay?”
    “Okay,” Wes said. It was a bit knee-jerk, but he didn’t seem completely unconvinced.
    But now Maggie was troubled. “Aren’t you ever going to get married again?”
    “Mags, what brought that up?”
    “Just wondering.”
    “I can’t even imagine getting married again.”
    “You didn’t say no,” Wes muttered.
    Dance laughed at the interrogator’s perfect response. “Well, that’s my answer. I can’t even imagine it.”
    “I want to be best woman,” Maggie said.
    “Maid of honor,” Dance corrected.
    “No, I saw this after-school special. They do it different now.”
    “Differently,” her mother corrected again. “But let’s not get distracted. We’ve got pancakes and iced tea to polish off. And plans to make for Sunday. You’ve got to do some thinking.”
    “I will.” Wes seemed reassured.
    Dance ate the rest of her dinner, feeling elated at this victory: being honest with her son and receiving his acquiescence to the date. Oddly, this tiny step did a huge amount to take away the horror of the day’s events.
    On a whim she gave in to Maggie’s final plea on behalf of the dogs and ordered one pancake and a side of sausage for each, minus the syrup. The girl served the food in the back of the Pathfinder. Dylan the shepherd devoured his in several gulps while the ladylike Patsy ate the sausage fastidiously, then carried the pancake to a space between the backseats, impossible to reach, and deposited it there for a rainy day.
    •    •    •
    At home, Dance spent the next few hours at domestic chores, fielding phone calls, including one from Morton Nagle, thanking her again for what she’d done for his family.
    Winston Kellogg did not call, which was good (meaning the date was still on).
    Michael O’Neil did not call either, which wasn’t so good.
    Rebecca Sheffield was in stable condition after extensive surgery. She’d be in the hospital, under guard, for the next six or seven days. More operations were needed.
    Dance talked to Martine Christensen for some time about the “American Tunes” website, then, business disposed of, it was time for dessert: popcorn, which made sense after a sweet dinner. Dance found a Wallace and Gromit Claymation tape, cued it up and at the last minute managed to save the Redenbacher from the microwave of mass destruction before she set the bag ablaze, as she had last week.
    She was pouring the contents into a bowl when her phone croaked yet again.
    “Mom,” Wes said impatiently. “I’m like starving.” She loved his tone. It meant he’d snapped out of his unhappy mood.
    “It’s TJ,” she announced, opening up her mobile.
    “Say hi,” the boy offered, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
    “Wes says hi.”
    “Back at him. Oh, tell him I got to level eight on ‘Zarg.’ ”
    “Is that good?”
    “You have no idea.”
    Dance relayed the message and Wes’s eyes glowed. “Eight? No way!”
    “He’s impressed. So what’s up?”
    “Who’s getting all the stuff?”
    “ ‘Stuff’ would be?”
    “Evidence, reports, emails, everything. The ball of wax, remember?”
    He meant for the final disposition report. It would be massive in this case, with the multiple felonies and the interagency paperwork. She’d run the case and the CBI had primary jurisdiction.
    “Me. Well, I should say us .”
    “I liked the first answer better, boss. Oh, by the way, remember ‘Nimue’?”
    The mystery word . . .
    “What about it?”
    “I just found another reference to it. You want me to follow up?”
    “Think we better. Leave no t undotted. So to speak.”
    “Is tomorrow okay? It’s not much of a date tonight, but Lucretia might be the woman of my dreams.”
    “You’re going out with somebody named Lucretia? You may have to concentrate. . . . Tell you what. Bring me all the wax. And the Nimue ‘stuff.’ I’ll get started on it.”
    “Boss, you’re the best. You’re invited to the wedding.”

F RIDAY

Chapter 58
    Kathryn Dance, in a black suit and burgundy blouse—not the warmest of outfits, all things considered—was sitting outside at the Bay View Restaurant near Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey.
    The place lived up to its name, usually offering a postcard image of the coast all the way up to Santa Cruz, which was, however, invisible at the moment. The early morning was a perfect example of June Gloom on the Peninsula. Fog like smoke from a damp fire surrounded the