The Sleeping Doll

today without O’Neil’s help. Or his humor and patience (and other vital talents: like offering her Dramamine before she went out on his boat).
    Though their approach to their job and their talents differed, their instincts were identical and they were closely attuned to each other. She wasamused to see that, while he’d been staring at the map, in fact he’d been sensing signals from her too.
    “What is it?” he asked.
    “How do you mean?”
    “Something’s bothering you. More than just finding yourself in the driver’s seat here.”
    “Yep.” She thought for a minute. That was one thing about O’Neil; he often forced her to put her tangled ideas in order before speaking. She explained, “Bad feeling about Pell. I got this idea that the guards’ deaths meant nothing to him. Juan too. And that Worldwide Express driver? He’s dead, you know.”
    “I know. . . . You think Pell wants to kill?”
    “No, not wants to. Or doesn’t. What he wants is whatever serves his interest, however small. In a way, that seems scarier, and makes it harder to anticipate him. But let’s hope I’m wrong.”
    “You’re never wrong, boss.” TJ appeared, carrying a laptop. He set it up on the battered conference table under a sign, MOST WANTED STATEWIDE . Below it were the ten winners of that contest, reflecting the demographics of the state: Latino, Anglo, Asian and African-American, in that order.
    “You find the McCoy woman or Pell’s aunt?”
    “Not yet. My troops’re on the case. But check this out.” He adjusted the computer screen.
    They hovered around the screen, on which was a high-resolution image of the photograph from Morton Nagle’s camera. Now larger and clearer, it revealed a figure in a denim jacket on the driveway that led to the back of the building, where the fire had started. The shadow had morphed into a large black suitcase.
    “Woman?” O’Neil asked.
    They could judge the person’s height by comparing it to the automobile nearby. About Dance’s height, five-six. Slimmer, though, she noted. The cap and sunglasses obscured the head and face, but through the vehicle’s window you could see hips slightly broader than a man’s would be for that height.
    “And there’s a glint. See that?” TJ tapped the screen. “Earring.”
    Dance glanced at the hole in his lobe, where a diamond or metal stud occasionally resided.
    “Statistically speaking,” TJ said in defense of his observation.
    “Okay. I agree.”
    “A blond woman, about five-six or so,” O’Neil summarized.
    Dance said, “Weight one-ten, give or take.” She had a thought. She called Rey Carraneo in his office upstairs, asked him to join them.
    He appeared a moment later. “Agent Dance.”
    “Go back to Salinas. Talk to the manager of the You Mail It store.” The accomplice had probably recently checked out the Worldwide Express delivery schedule at the franchise. “See if anyone there remembers a woman fitting her general description. If so, get a picture on EFIS.”
    The Electronic Facial Identification System is a computer-based version of the old Identi-Kit, used by investigators to re-create suspects’ likenesses from the recollections of witnesses.
    “Sure, Agent Dance.”
    TJ hit some buttons and the jpeg zipped wirelessly to the color printer in his office. Carraneo would pick it up there.
    TJ’s phone rang. “Yo.” He jotted notes during a brief conversation, which ended with, “I love you, darling.” He hung up. “Vital statistics clerk in Sacramento. B-R-I-T-N-E-E . Love that name. She’s very sweet. Way too sweet for me. Not to say it couldn’t work out between us.”
    Dance lifted an eyebrow, the kinesic interpretation of which was: “Get to the point.”
    “I put her on the case of the missing Family member, capital F . Five years ago Samantha McCoy changed her name to Sarah Monroe. So she wouldn’t have to throw out her monogrammed underwear, I’d guess. Then three years ago, somebody of that name marries Ronald Starkey. There goes the monogram ploy. Anyway, they live in San Jose.”
    “Sure it’s the same McCoy?”
    “The real McCoy, you mean. I’ve been waiting to say that. Yep. Good old Social Security. With a parole board backup.”
    Dance called Directory Assistance and got Ronald and Sarah Starkey’s address and phone number.
    “San Jose,” O’Neil said. “That’s close enough.” Unlike the other two women in the Family to whom Dance had already spoken, Samantha could