The Sleeping Doll

felt passionate about. A noble mission.
    But the goal was to reveal evil, and let people make their own judgments. Not to fight it himself. Because once you crossed the line and your purpose became seeking justice, not illuminating it, there were risks. Unlike the police, he didn’t have the Constitution telling him what he could and couldn’t do, which meant there was a potential for abuse.
    By asking Theresa Croyton to help find a killer, he was exposing her and her family—himself and his too—to very real dangers. Daniel Pell obviously had no problem killing youngsters.
    It was so much better to write about human beings and their conflicts than to make judgments about those conflicts. Let the readers decide what was good or bad, and act accordingly. On the other hand, was it right for him to sit back and let Pell continue his slaughter, when he could do more?
    The time for his slippery debate ended, though. Mary Bolling was walking out of Albertsons, wheeling a cart filled with groceries.
    Yes or no?
    Morton Nagle hesitated only a few seconds, then pulled open the door, stepped out and hitched up his pants. He strode forward.
    “Excuse me. Hi, Mrs. Bolling. It’s me.”
    She paused, blinked and stared at him. “What are you doing here?”
    “I—”
    “I haven’t agreed to let you talk to Theresa.”
    “I know, I know . . . That’s not—”
    “How dare you show up here like this? You’re stalking us!”
    Her cell phone was in her hand.
    “Please,” Nagle said, feeling a sudden desperation to sway her. “This is something different. I’m here doing a favor for someone. We can talk about the book later.”
    “A favor?”
    “I drove up from Monterey to ask you something. I wanted to see you in person.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “You know about Daniel Pell.”
    “Of course I know.” She said this as if he were the village idiot.
    “There’s a policewoman who’d like to talk to your niece. She thinks maybe Theresa can help her find Pell.”
    “What?”
    “Don’t worry. There’s no risk. She—”
    “No risk? Are you mad? You could’ve led him here!”
    “No. He’s somewhere in Monterey.”
    “Did you tell them where we are?”
    “No, no! This policewoman’ll meet her wherever you like. Here. Anywhere. She just wants to ask Theresa—”
    “No one is going to talk to her. No one is going to see her.” The woman leaned forward. “There will be very serious consequences if you don’t leave immediately.”
    “Mrs. Bolling, Daniel Pell has killed—”
    “I watch the fucking news. Tell that policewoman, whoever she is, that there’s not a single thing Theresa can tell her. And you can forget about ever talking to her for your goddamn book.”
    “No, wait, please—”
    Mary Bolling turned and ran back to the Escalade, as her abandoned shopping cart ambled in the opposite direction down the shallow incline. By the time a breathless Nagle had grabbed the cart just before it slammed into a Mini Cooper, the aunt’s SUV was spinning tires as it vanished from the lot.
    •    •    •
    Not long ago a CBI agent, now former , had once called this the “Gals’ Wing.”
    He was referring to that portion of the Monterey headquarters that happened to be the home of two female investigative agents—Dance and Connie Ramirez—as well as Maryellen Kresbach and the no-nonsense office manager, Grace Yuan.
    The unfortunate utterer was a fiftyish agent, one of those fixtures in offices all over the world who wake up counting the days to retirement, and who’ve done so since their twenties. He’d had his share of collars at the Highway Patrol some years back, but his move to the CBI had been a mistake. He wasn’t up to the challenges of the job.
    He also apparently lacked any sense of survival.
    “And this is the Gals’ Wing,” he’d said, loud enough for everyone to hear, during a lunch-hour tour of HQ with a young woman he was wooing.
    Dance and Connie Ramirez made eye contact.
    That night they went on a panty-hose-buying mission and when the poor agent came to work the next day he found his entire office spiderwebbed in mesh, fishnet and glittery synthetic leg wear. Some personal hygiene products also figured in the decor. He ran whining to then–CBI head Stan Fishburne, who, bless him, could hardly keep a straight face during the inquisition. “What do you mean you only said, ‘Gals’ Wing,’ Bart? You actually said that?”
    He threatened a complaint