The Sleeping Doll

porn encounter like that.
    But then she’d heard from the computer tech at Capitola, who’d read to her the message that the accomplice had posted on the “Manslaughter” bulletin board in the “Helter Skelter” category: Package will be there about 9:20. WWE delivery truck at San Benito at 9:50. Orange ribbon on pine tree. Will meet in front of grocery store we mentioned .
    This was the first part of the message, a final confirmation of the escape plan. What had been so surprising to Dance, though, was the final sentence.
    Room all set and checking on those locations around Monterey you wanted.—Your lovely .
    Which suggested, to everyone’s astonishment, that Pell might be staying nearby.
    Dance and O’Neil could deduce no reason for this. It was madness. But if he was staying, Dance decided to make him feel confident enough to show himself. And so she’d done what she never would have otherwise. She’d used Charles Overby. She knew that once she told him about Utah, he’d run to the press immediately and announce that the search was now focused on the routes east. This would, she hoped, give Pell a false sense of security and make him more likely to appear in public.
    But where might that be?
    She hoped the answer to that question might be found in her conversation with Eddie Chang, getting a sense of what Daniel Pell had hinted appealed to him, his interests and urges. Sex figured prominently, Chang told her, which meant he might head for massage parlors, brothels or escort agencies, but there were few on the Peninsula. Besides, he had his female partner, who presumably would be satisfying him in that department.
    “What else?” she’d asked Chang.
    “Oh, hey, I remember one thing. Food.”
    Daniel Pell, it seemed, had a particular love of seafood, especially a tiny fish known as the sand dab. He had mentioned on several occasions that there were only four or five restaurants in the Central Coast area that knew how to cook them right. And he was opinionated about how they should be prepared. Dance got the names of the restaurants Chang could remember. Three had closed in the years since Pell had gone into prison, but one at Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey and one in Moss Landing were still open.
    That was the unorthodox assignment Dance had given Rey Carraneo: calling those two restaurants—and any others up and down the Central Coast with similar menus—and telling them about the escaped prisoner, who might be in the company of a slight woman with blond hair.
    It was a long shot, and Dance didn’t have much hope that the idea would pay off. But Carraneo had just heard back from the manager of Jack’s, the landmark restaurant at Moss Landing. A couple was in there at the moment, and he thought they were acting suspicious—sitting inside where they could see the front door, which the boyfriend kept looking at, when most patrons were outside. The man was clean-shaven and wearing sunglasses and a cap so they couldn’t really tell if he was Pell. The woman appeared to be blond, though she too had a cap and shades on. But the ages of the couple were right.
    Dance had called the manager of the restaurant directly and asked if someone there could find out which car the couple had come in. The managerdidn’t have any idea. But the lot wasn’t crowded and one of the busboys had gone outside and, in Spanish, given Dance the tag numbers of all the cars parked in the small lot.
    A fast DMV check revealed that one, a turquoise Thunderbird, had been stolen just last Friday—though, curiously, not in the area but in Los Angeles.
    Maybe it was a false alarm. But Dance decided to move on the place; if nothing else, they’d collar a car thief. She’d alerted O’Neil, and then told the manager, “We’ll be there as soon as we can. Don’t do anything. Just ignore him and act normally.”
    “Act normal,” the man said with a shaking voice. “Yeah, right.”
    Kathryn Dance was now anticipating her next interrogation session with Pell, when he was back in custody. The number one question she was eager to learn the answer to: Why was he staying in the area?
    Cruising through Sand City, a commercial strip along Highway 1, the traffic grew lighter, and O’Neil punched the accelerator hard. They’d be at the restaurant in ten minutes.

Chapter 15
    “Are those the best thing you ever tasted?”
    “Oh, honey, they’re good. Sandy dabs.”
    “Sand dabs,” Pell corrected. He was thinking of having a