The Sleeping Doll

Samantha said, offered a weak smile and walked back to her car.
    •    •    •
    The evening sky was clear, the fog busy elsewhere.
    Kathryn Dance was on the Deck, alone, though Patsy and Dylan were nearby, roaming the backyard, engaged in dog intrigue. She’d finished the preparations for her father’s big birthday party tomorrow night and was sipping a German beer while listening to A Prairie Home Companion , Garrison Keillor’s variety radio show she’d been a fan of for years. When the program concluded she shut off the stereo and heard in its stead the distant sound track of Maggie playing scales and the faint bass of Wes’s stereo.
    Listening to the boy’s music—she thought it was Coldplay—Kathryn Dance debated a moment then impulsively pulled out her cell phone, found a number in the Samsung and pushed send.
    “Well, hi there,” Brian Gunderson said, answering the phone.
    Caller ID has created a whole new response mechanism, she thought. He’d’ve had three full seconds to figure out a game plan for the conversation, tailored specifically to Kathryn Dance.
    “Hi,” she responded. “Hey, sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. I know you called a few times.”
    Brian gave a laugh and she remembered the times they’d spent together, dinner, walking on the beach. He had a nice laugh. And he kissed well. “I’d say if anybody has an excuse, it’s you. I’ve been watching the news. Who’s Overby?”
    “My boss.”
    “Oh, the crazy one you told me about?”
    “Yep.” Dance wondered how indiscreet she’d been.
    “I saw a press conference and he mentioned you. He said you were his assistant in capturing Pell.”
    She laughed. If TJ had heard, it was only a matter of time until she got a message for “Assistant Dance.”
    “So you got him.”
    “He’s got.”
    And then some.
    “How’ve you been?” she asked.
    “Good. Up in San Fran for a few days, wheedling money out of people who were wheedling money out of other people. And I wheedled a fee. Worked out for everybody.” He added that he’d had a flat tire on the 101, returning home. An amateur barbershop quartet coming back from a gig had stopped, directed traffic and changed the tire for him.
    “They sing while they changed it?”
    “Sadly, no. But I’m going to one of their shows in Burlingame.”
    Was this an invitation? she wondered
    “How are the kids?” he asked.
    “Fine. Being kids.” She paused, wondering if she should ask him out for drinks first, or go right for dinner. She figured dinner was safe, given that they had a history.
    Brian said, “Anyway, thanks for calling back.”
    “Sure.”
    “But, never mind.”
    Never mind?
    “The reason I called? A friend and I’re going down to La Jolla this week.”
    Friend . What a marvelously diverse word that is.
    “That’s great. You going to snorkel? You said you wanted to, I remember.” There was a huge underwater wildlife refuge there. She and Brian had talked about going.
    “Oh, yeah. We’ve got that planned. I just called to see if I could pick up that book I lent you, the one about backpacking trails down near San Diego.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry.”
    “Not a problem. I bought another one. Keep it. I’m sure you’ll get down there some day.”
    She gave a laugh—a Morton Nagle chuckle. “Sure.”
    “Everything else going well?”
    “Real well, yeah.”
    “I’ll call you when I’m back in town.”
    Kathryn Dance, kinesics analyst and seasoned interrogator, knew that people often lie expecting—even hoping—that the listener spots the deception. Usually in contexts just like this one.
    “That’d be great, Brian.”
    She guessed they’d never share another word together in their lives.
    Dance folded up the phone and walked into her bedroom. She pushed aside the sea of shoes and found her old Martin 00-18 guitar, with a mahogany back and sides and a spruce top aged the color of taffy.
    She carried it out to the Deck, sat down and, with fingers clumsy from the chill—and lack of practice—tuned up and started to play. First, some scales and arpeggios, then the Bob Dylan song “Tomorrow Is a Long Time.”
    Her thoughts were meandering, from Brian Gunderson to the front seat of the CBI Taurus and Winston Kellogg.
    Tasting mint, smelling skin and aftershave . . .
    As she played, she noticed motion inside the house. Dance saw her son beeline to the refrigerator and cart a cookie and glass of milk back into his room. The raid took all of