The Sleeping Doll

if she didn’t live up to his expectations?
    Daniel Pell took her face in his strong hands. “Lovely, you’re the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth. You don’t even need makeup.”
    Like he could see right into her thoughts.
    Crying again. “I’ve been worried you wouldn’t like me.”
    “Wouldn’t like you. Baby, I love you. What I emailed you, remember?”
    Jennie remembered every word he’d written. She looked into his eyes. “Oh, you’re such a beautiful person.” She pressed her lips against his. Though they made love in her imagination at least once a day, this was their first kiss. She felt his teeth against her lips, his tongue. They stayed locked together in this fierce embrace for what seemed like forever, though it could have been a mere second. Jennie had no sense of time. She wanted him inside her, pressing hard, his chest pulsing against hers.
    Souls are where love should start, but you’ve got to get the bodies involved pretty damn soon.
    She slipped her hand along his bare, muscular leg.
    He gave a laugh. “Tell you what, lovely, maybe we’d better get out of here.”
    “Sure, whatever you want.”
    He asked, “You have the phone I called you on?” Daniel had told her to buy three prepaid cell phones with cash. She handed him the one she’d answered when he’d called just after he’d escaped. He took it apart and pulled the battery and SIM card out. He threw them into a trash can and returned to the car.
    “The others?”
    She produced them. He handed her one and put the other in his pocket.
    He said, “We ought to—”
    A siren sounded nearby—close. They froze.
    Angel songs, Jennie thought, then recited this good-luck mantra a dozen times.
    The sirens faded into the distance.
    She turned back. “They might come back.” Nodding after the sirens.
    Daniel smiled. “I’m not worried about that. I just want to be alone with you.”
    Jennie felt a shiver of happiness down her spine. It almost hurt.
    •    •    •
    The west-central regional headquarters of the California Bureau of Investigation, home to dozens of agents, was a two-story modern structure, near Highway 68, indistinguishable from the other buildings around it—functional rectangles of glass and stone, housing doctors’ and lawyers’ offices,architectural firms, computer companies and the like. The landscaping was meticulous and boring, the parking lots always half-empty. The countryside rose and fell in gentle hills, which were at the moment bright green, thanks to recent rains. Often the ground was as brown as Colorado during a dry spell.
    A United Express regional jet banked sharply and low, then leveled off, vanishing over the trees for the touchdown at nearby Monterey Peninsula Airport.
    Kathryn Dance and Michael O’Neil were in the CBI’s ground-floor conference room, directly beneath her office. They stood side by side, staring at a large map on which the roadblocks were indicated—this time with pushpins, not entomological Post-it notes. There had been no sightings of the Worldwide Express driver’s Honda, and the net had been pushed farther back, now eighty miles away.
    Kathryn Dance glanced at O’Neil’s square face and read in it a complicated amalgam of determination and concern. She knew him well. They’d met years ago when she was a jury consultant, studying the demeanor and responses of prospective jurors during voir dire and advising lawyers which to choose and which to reject. She’d been hired by federal prosecutors to help them select jurors in a RICO trial in which O’Neil was a chief witness. (Curiously, she’d met her late husband under parallel circumstances: when she was a reporter covering a trial in Salinas and he was a prosecution witness.)
    Dance and O’Neil had become friends and stayed close over the years. When she’d decided to go into law enforcement and got a job with the regional office of the CBI, she found herself working frequently with him. Stan Fishburne, then the agent in charge, was one mentor, O’Neil the other. He taught her more about the art of investigation in six months than she’d learned during her entire formal training. They complemented each other well. The quiet, deliberate man preferred traditional police techniques, like forensics, undercover work, surveillance and running confidential informants, while Dance’s specialty was canvassing, interrogation and interviewing.
    She knew she wouldn’t be the agent she was