The Sleeping Doll

Sandy Sandoval, whether Washington likes it or not.”
    “Federalism at work,” TJ said.
    Tap, tap  . . . The pencil bounced and Overby cleared his throat.
    “It’s not even a great case,” the SAC pointed out. She’d apparently read all the details on the trip to the Peninsula.
    “It doesn’t have to be a slam dunk. Sandy can still win it.”
    Grabe put the coffee down. She turned her placid face to Overby and leveled hard eyes at him. “Charles, they’ve asked that you don’t pursue it.”
    Dance wasn’t going to let them dump the case. And, all right, some of her goddamn motive was because the man who’d asked her out, who’d won a bit of her heart, had betrayed her.
     . . . afterward. How does that sound?
    Overby’s eyes took in more pictures and mementos on his desk. “It’s a tough situation. . . . You know what Oliver Wendell Holmes said? He said that tough cases make bad law. Or maybe hard cases make bad law. I don’t remember.”
    What does that mean? she wondered.
    Grabe said in a soft tone, “Kathryn, Daniel Pell was a dangerous man. He killed law enforcers, he killed people you know and he killed innocents. You’ve done a great job in an impossible situation. You stopped a really bad doer. And Kellogg contributed to that. It’s a gold star for everybody.”
    “Absolutely,” Overby said. He set down the bouncing writing implement. “You know what this reminds me of, Amy? Jack Ruby killing Kennedy’s assassin. Remember? I don’t think anybody had a problem with what Ruby did, gunning Oswald down.”
    Dance’s jaw closed, her teeth pressing together firmly. She flicked her thumb against her forefinger. Just as he’d “reassured” Grabe of Dance’s innocencein contributing to Pell’s escape, her boss was going to sell her out again. By declining to submit the case to Sandy Sandoval, Overby wasn’t just covering his ass; he was as guilty of murder as Kellogg himself. Dance sat back, her shoulders slumping slightly. She saw TJ’s grimace from the corner of her eye.
    “Exactly,” Grabe said. “So—”
    Then Overby held up a hand. “But a funny thing about that case.”
    “What case?” the FBI agent asked.
    “The Ruby case. Texas arrested him for murder. And guess what? Jack Ruby got convicted and sent to jail.” A shrug. “I’ll have to say no, Amy. I’m submitting the Kellogg case to the Monterey County Prosecutor. I’m going to recommend indictment for murder. Lesser included offense’ll be manslaughter. Oh, and aggravated assault on a CBI agent. Kellogg did take a shot at Kathryn, after all.”
    Dance felt her heart thud. Had she heard this right? TJ glanced at her with a raised eyebrow.
    Overby was looking at Dance. He said, “And I think we should go for misuse of legal process too, and lying to an investigative agent. What do you think, Kathryn?”
    Those hadn’t occurred to her. “Excellent.” She noticed TJ’s thumb subtly point upward.
    Grabe rubbed her cheek with a short, pink-polished nail. “Do you really think this is a good idea, Charles?”
    “Oh, I do. Absolutely.”

S ATURDAY

Chapter 61
    Tears pooling in her eyes, a woman lay on the bed of the cheap transient hotel off Del Monte, near Highway 1. Listening to the hiss of traffic, she was staring at the ceiling.
    She wished she could stop crying.
    But she couldn’t.
    Because he was dead.
    Her Daniel was gone.
    Jennie Marston touched her head, under the bandage, which stung furiously. She kept replaying the last few hours of their time together, Thursday. Standing on the beach south of Carmel, as he held the rock in the shape of Jasmine, her mother’s cat, the one thing her mother would never hurt.
    Recalling how Daniel held the rock, turning it over and over.
    “That’s exactly what I was thinking, lovely. It looks just like a cat.” Then he’d held her tighter and whispered, “I was watching the news.”
    “Oh, back at the motel?”
    “That’s right. Lovely, the police found out about you.”
    “About—”
    “Your name. They know who you are.”
    “They do?” she whispered in horror.
    “Yes.”
    “Oh, no . . . Daniel, sweetheart, I’m sorry . . .” She’d started shaking.
    “You left something in the room, right?”
    Then she remembered. The email. It was in her jeans. In a weak voice she said, “It was the first one where you said you loved me. I couldn’t throw it out. You told me to, but I just couldn’t. I’m so sorry. I—”
    “It’s okay,