The Sleeping Doll

else.”
    “What?”
    “I can’t say. My guess is she met him here. For whatever he had in mind.”
    “But,” O’Neil pointed out, “there’s no evidence of another car, no evidence that he turned around and walked back to the road. You’d think there’d be some prints.”
    Kellogg said, “He could’ve covered his tracks.” Pointing to a portion of the sand-covered road. “Those marks don’t look natural. He could’ve swept over them with brush or leaves. Maybe even a broom. I’d excavate that whole area.”
    O’Neil went on, “I’m thinking it can’t hurt to check on stolen vessels. And I’d rather crime scene ran the pier now.”
    The tennis volley continued, the FBI agent offering, “With this wind and rain . . . I really think the road should be first.”
    “You know, Win, I think we’ll go with the pier.”
    Kellogg tipped his head, meaning: It’s your crime scene team; I’m backing down. “Fine with me. I’ll search it myself if you don’t mind.”
    “Sure. Go right ahead.”
    Without a look at Dance—he had no desire to test loyalties—the FBI agent returned to the area with the dubious markings.
    Dance turned and walked along a clean zone back to her car, glad to leave the crime scene behind. Forensic evidence wasn’t her expertise.
    Neither were strong-willed rams butting horns.
    •    •    •
    The visage of grief.
    Kathryn Dance knew it well. From her days as a journalist, interviewing survivors of crimes and accidents. And from her days as a jury consultant, watching the faces of the witnesses and victims recounting injustices and personal injury mishaps.
    From her own life too. As a cop.
    And as a widow: looking in the mirror, staring eye-to-eye with a very differentKathryn Dance, the lipstick hovering before easing away from the mask of a face.
    Why bother, why bother?
    Now, she was seeing the same look as she sat in Susan Pemberton’s office, across from the dead woman’s boss, Eve Brock.
    “It’s not real to me.”
    No, it never is.
    The crying was over but only temporarily, Dance sensed. The stocky middle-aged woman held herself in tight rein. Sitting forward, legs tucked under the chair, shoulders rigid, jaw set. The kinesics of grief matched the face.
    “I don’t understand the computer and the files. Why?”
    “I assume there was something he wanted to keep secret. Maybe he was at an event years ago and he didn’t want anybody to know about it.” Dance’s first question to the woman had been: Was the company in business before Pell went to prison? Yes, it was.
    The crying began again. “One thing I want to know. Did he . . .?”
    Dance recognized a certain tone and answered the incomplete question: “There was no sexual assault.” She asked the woman about the client Susan was going to meet, but she knew no details.
    “Would you excuse me for a moment?” Eve Brock was about to surrender to her tears.
    “Of course.”
    Eve headed for the ladies’ room.
    Dance looked at Susan Pemberton’s walls, filled with photos of past events: weddings; bar and bat mitzvahs; anniversary parties; outings for local corporations, banks and fraternal groups; political fund-raisers and high school and college events. The company also worked with funeral homes to cater receptions after an interment.
    She saw, to her surprise, the name of the mortician who had handled her husband’s funeral.
    Eve Brock returned, her face red, eyes puffy. “I’m sorry.”
    “Not a problem at all. So she met that client after work?”
    “Yes.”
    “Would they go for drinks or coffee somewhere?”
    “Probably.”
    “Nearby?”
    “Usually. Alvarado.” The main street in downtown Monterey. “Or maybe Del Monte Center, Fisherman’s Wharf.”
    “Any favorite watering hole?”
    “No. Wherever the client wanted to go.”
    “Excuse me.” Dance found her phone and called Rey Carraneo.
    “Agent Dance,” he said.
    “Where are you?”
    “Near Marina. Still checking on stolen boats for Detective O’Neil. Nothing yet. And no luck on the motels, either.”
    “Okay. Keep at it.” She disconnected and called TJ. “Where are you ?”
    “The emphasis tells me I’m the second choice.”
    “But the answer is?”
    “Near downtown. Monterey.”
    “Good.” She gave him the address of Eve Brock’s company and told him to meet her on the street in ten minutes. She’d give him a picture of Susan Pemberton and have him canvass all the bars and restaurants within