The Sleeping Doll

didn’t want to talk about it, and she didn’t push. But then he said, “The perp didn’t make it.” In a certain tone and with a certain glance. It was how she told people that she was a widow.
    “I’m sorry. You handling it okay?”
    “Fine.” Then he added, “Okay, not fine. But I’m handling it. Sometimes that’s the best you can do.”
    On impulse she asked, “Hey, you have plans tonight?”
    “Brief the SAC, then a bath at the hotel, a scotch, a burger and sleep. Well, okay, two scotches.”
    “Have a question.”
    He lifted an eyebrow.
    “You like birthday cake?”
    After only a brief pause he said, “It’s one of my favorite food groups.”

Chapter 26
    “Mom, look. We deck-orated it! D-E-C-K .”
    Dance kissed her daughter. “Mags, that’s funny.”
    She knew the girl had been bursting, waiting to share the pun.
    The Deck did look nice. The kids had been busy all afternoon getting ready for the party. Banners, Chinese lanterns, candles everywhere. (They’d learned from their mom; when it came to entertaining, Kathryn Dance’s guests might not get gourmet food, but they were treated to great atmosphere.)
    “When can Grandpa open his presents?” Both Wes and Maggie had saved up allowance money and bought Stuart Dance outdoor gear—waders and a net. Dance knew her father’d be happy with anything his grandchildren got him but those particular items he would definitely use.
    “Presents after the cake,” Edie Dance announced. “And that’s after dinner.”
    “Hi, Mom.” Dance and her mother didn’t always hug but tonight Edie clasped her close as an excuse to whisper that she wanted to talk to her about Juan Millar.
    The women walked into the living room.
    Dance saw immediately that her mother was troubled.
    “What is it?”
    “He’s still hanging in there. He’s come to a couple of times.” A glance around to make sure, presumably, that the children were nowhere nearby. “Only for a few seconds each time. He couldn’t possibly give you a statement. But . . .”
    “What, Mom?”
    She lowered her voice further. “I was standing near him. Nobody else was in earshot. I looked down and his eyes were open. I mean the one that’snot bandaged. His lips were moving. I bent down. He said . . .” Edie glanced around again. “He said, ‘Kill me.’ He said it twice. Then he closed his eyes.”
    “Is he in that much pain?”
    “No, he’s so medicated he can’t feel a thing. But he could look at the bandages. He could see the equipment. He’s not a stupid man.”
    “His family’s there?”
    “Most of the time. Well, that brother of his, round the clock. He watches us like a hawk. He’s convinced we’re not giving Juan good treatment because he’s Latino. And he’s made a few more comments about you.”
    Dance grimaced.
    “Sorry, but I thought you should know.”
    “I’m glad you told me.”
    Very troubling. Not Julio Millar, of course. She could handle him. It was the young detective’s hopelessness that upset her so deeply.
    Kill me  . . .
    Dance asked, “Did Betsey call?”
    “Ah, your sister can’t be here,” Edie said in a breezy tone, whose subtext was irritation that their younger daughter wouldn’t make the four-hour drive from Santa Barbara for her father’s birthday party. Of course, with the Pell manhunt ongoing, Dance probably wouldn’t’ve driven there , had the situation been reversed. According to an important rule of families, though, hypothetical transgressions aren’t offenses, and that Dance was present, even by default, meant that, this time, Betsey earned the black mark.
    They returned to the Deck and Maggie asked, “Mom, can we let Dylan and Patsy out?”
    “We’ll see.” The dogs could be a little boisterous at parties. And tended to get too much human food for their own good.
    “Where’s your brother?”
    “In his room.”
    “What’s he doing?”
    “Stuff.”
    Dance locked the weapon away for the party—an MCSO deputy on security detail was parked outside. She showered fast and changed.
    She found Wes in the hallway. “No, no T-shirt. It’s your grandfather’s birthday.”
    “Mom. It’s clean.”
    “Polo. Or your blue-and-white button-down.” She knew the contents of his closet better than he did.
    “Oh, okay.”
    She looked closely at his downcast eyes. His demeanor had nothing to do with a change of shirt.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Come on, spill.”
    “Spill?”
    “It’s from