The Sleeping Doll

Afghanistan? How many pictures of blown-up cars, how many scenes of wailing mothers did you see before you lost interest?
    “When I was a war correspondent covering the Middle East and Africa and Bosnia, I got numb. And you don’t have to be there in person for that to happen. It’s the same thing in your own living room when you just see the news bites or watch gruesome movies—where there’re no real consequences for the violence. But if we want peace, if we want to stop violence and fighting, that ’s what people need to experience, the consequences. You don’t do that by gawking at bloody bodies; you focus on lives changed forever by evil.
    “Originally it was only going to be about the Croyton case. But then I find out that Pell killed someone else—this Robert Herron. I want to include everyone affected by his death too: friends, family. And now, I understand, two guards’re dead.”
    The smile was still there but it was a sad smile and Kathryn Dance realized that his cause was one with which she, as a mother and Major Crimes agent who’d worked plenty of rape, assault and homicide cases, could empathize.
    “This’s added another wrinkle.” He gestured around him. “It’s much harder to track down victims and family members in a cold case. Herron was killed about ten years ago. I was thinking . . .” Nagle’s voice faded and he was frowning, though inexplicably a sparkle returned to his eyes. “Wait, wait . . . Oh my God, Pell didn’t have anything to do with the Herron death, did he? He confessed to get out of Capitola so he could escape from here.”
    “We don’t know about that,” Dance said judiciously. “We’re still investigating.”
    Nagle didn’t believe her. “Did he fake evidence? Or get somebody to come forward and lie. I’ll bet he did.”
    In a low, even tone Michael O’Neil said, “We wouldn’t want there to be any rumors that might interfere with the investigation.” When the chief deputy made suggestions in this voice people always heeded the advice.
    “Fine. I won’t say anything.”
    “Appreciate that,” Dance said, then asked, “Mr. Nagle, do you have anyinformation that could help us? Where Daniel Pell might be going, what he might be up to? Who’s helping him?”
    With his potbelly, wispy hair and genial laugh, Nagle seemed like a middle-aged elf. He hitched up his pants. “No idea. I’m sorry. I really just got started on the project a month or so ago. I’ve been doing the background research.”
    “You mentioned you plan to write about the women in Pell’s Family too. Have you contacted them?”
    “Two of them. I asked if they’d be willing to let me interview them.”
    O’Neil asked, “They’re out of jail?”
    “Oh, yes. They weren’t involved in the Croyton murders. They got short terms, mostly for larceny-related offenses.”
    O’Neil completed Dance’s thought. “Could one of them, or both, I guess, be his accomplice?”
    Nagle considered this. “I can’t see it. They think Pell’s the worst thing that ever happened to them.”
    “Who are they?” O’Neil asked.
    “Rebecca Sheffield. She lives in San Diego. And Linda Whitfield is in Portland.”
    “Have they kept out of trouble?”
    “Think so. No police records I could find. Linda lives with her brother and his wife. She works for a church. Rebecca runs a consulting service for small businesses. My impression is they’ve put the past behind them.”
    “You have their numbers?”
    The writer flipped through a notebook of fat pages. His handwriting was sloppy and large—and the notes voluminous.
    “There was a third woman in the Family,” Dance said, recalling the research she’d done for the interview.
    “Samantha McCoy. She disappeared years ago. Rebecca said she changed her name and moved away, was sick of being known as one of Daniel’s ‘girls.’ I’ve done a little searching but I haven’t been able to find her yet.”
    “Any leads?”
    “West Coast somewhere is all that Rebecca heard.”
    Dance said to TJ, “Find her. Samantha McCoy.”
    The curly-haired agent bounded off to the corner of the room. He looked like an elf too, she reflected.
    Nagle found the numbers of the two women and Dance wrote them down. She placed a call to Rebecca Sheffield in San Diego.
    “Women’s Initiatives,” the receptionist said in a voice with a faint Chicana accent. “May I help you?”
    A moment later Dance found herself speaking to the head of the company, a