The Sleeping Doll

like my husband and boyfriends. I used to get picked up in bars or at catering jobs. Daniel did the same thing, only he was just a lot smarter about it.
    “All my life I thought I needed a man. I’d have this idea I was like a flashlight and men were the batteries. I couldn’t shine without one in my life. But then after Daniel was killed I was in this motel room and all of a sudden I felt different. I got mad. It was weird. I could taste it, I was so mad. That, like, never happened to me before. And I knew I had to do something about it. But not moaning about Daniel, not going out and finding a new man. Which I always would do in the past. No, I wanted to do something for me . And what’s the best thing I could do? Get arrested.” She gave a laugh. “Sounds stupid, but it’s all my decision. Nobody else’s.”
    “I think that’s a good one.”
    “We’ll see. So, I guess that’s it.”
    It pretty much was, Dance decided.
    She escorted Jennie back to the Taurus. As they drove to Salinas, Dance mentally tallied up the charges. Arson, felony murder, conspiracy, harboring a fugitive, several others.
    Still, the woman had surrendered voluntarily and appeared as contrite as they came. Dance would interview her later, if she agreed, and if Jennie was as sincere as she seemed, the agent would go to bat for her with Sandoval.
    At the lockup in the courthouse Dance processed her into the system.
    “Is there anybody you want me to call?” Dance asked.
    She started to say something, then stopped and gave a soft laugh. “No. I think it’s best, you know, just to start over. I’m fine.”
    “They’ll get you a lawyer, then maybe you and I could spend some more time talking.”
    “Sure.”
    And she was led down the very hallway her lover had escaped from almost one week before.

Chapter 63
    It was perhaps a spectacularly bright Saturday afternoon two or three hundred feet up, but the grounds of Monterey Bay Hospital were leached gray by the dense fog.
    The mist carried with it the fragrance of pine, eucalyptus and flowers—gardenia, Kathryn Dance believed, but wasn’t sure. She liked plants but, like meals, she preferred to purchase them fully functional from those in the know, rather than try her own hand and risk destruction.
    Standing beside one of the gardens, Dance watched Linda Whitfield being wheeled out of the front door by her brother. Roger was a slim, austere man whose age could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five. He fit Dance’s expectations, quiet and conservative, wearing pressed jeans, a dress shirt starched and ironed, and a striped tie, held in place with a bar that had a cross on it. He’d greeted Dance with a very firm handshake and no smile whatsoever.
    “I’ll get the truck. Excuse me, please.”
    “Are you up for the drive?” Dance asked the woman after he’d gone.
    “We’ll see. We know some people in Mendocino who used to be in our church. Roger called them. We might stop there for the night.”
    Linda’s eyes were unfocused and she’d been giving giddy laughs at nothing in particular; Dance deduced that the painkiller she’d taken was really, really good.
    “I’d vote for stopping. Take it easy. Be coddled.”
    “Coddled.” She laughed at the word. “How’s Rebecca? I haven’t asked about her.”
    “Still in intensive care.” A nod at the hospital. “Probably not too far from where you were.”
    “Is she going to be okay?”
    “They think so.”
    “I’ll pray for her.” Another laugh. It reminded Dance of Morton Nagle’s signature chuckle.
    Dance crouched down beside the chair. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did. I know it was hard. And I’m so sorry you were hurt. But we couldn’t’ve stopped him without you.”
    “God does His work, life goes on. It’s all for the good.”
    Dance didn’t follow; it was like one of Charles Overby’s nonsequiturs.
    Linda blinked. “Where will Daniel be buried?”
    “We called his aunt in Bakersfield, but she doesn’t even remember her own name. His brother—Richard? He’s not interested. He’ll be buried here after the autopsy. In Monterey County, for indigent funerals, the body’s cremated. There’s a public cemetery.”
    “Is it consecrated?”
    “I don’t know. I’d suppose so.”
    “If not, could you find a place for him? A proper resting place. I’ll pay.”
    The man who’d tried to kill her?
    “I’ll make sure.”
    “Thank you.”
    It was then that a dark blue Acura