"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying. Not my fault, not Michael's fault. Your brother's. It didn't make him a bad cop. But he was at fault. And if you turn this into a public issue, that fact is going to come out in the press."
"You threatening me?"
"I'm telling you that I won't have this investigation jeopardized."
"Oh, you don't know what you're doing, lady." He turned and stormed down the corridor.
Dance watched him, trying to calm down. She breathed deeply. Then joined the others.
"I'm so sorry about that," Mr. Millar said, his arm around his wife's shoulders.
"He's upset," Dance said.
"Please, don't listen to him. He says things first and regrets them later."
Dance didn't think that the young man would be regretting a single word. But she also knew he wasn't going to be calling reporters anytime soon.
The mother said to O'Neil, "And Juan's always saying such nice things about you. He doesn't blame you or anybody. I know he doesn't."
"Julio loves his brother," O'Neil reassured them. "He's just concerned about him."
Dr. Olson arrived. The slight, placid man briefed the officers and the Millars. The news was pretty much the same. They were still trying to stabilize the patient. As soon as the dangers from shock and sepsis were under control he'd be sent to a major burn and rehab center. It was very serious, the doctor admitted. He couldn't say one way or the other if he'd survive but they were doing everything they could.
"Has he said anything about the attack?" O'Neil asked.
The doctor looked over the monitor with still eyes. "He's said a few words but nothing coherent."
The parents continued their effusive apologies for their younger son's behavior. Dance spent a few minutes reassuring them, then she and O'Neil said good-bye and headed outside.
The detective was jiggling his car keys.
A kinesics expert knows that it's impossible to keep strong feelings hidden. Charles Darwin wrote, "Repressed emotion almost always comes to the surface in some form of body motion." Usually it's revealed as hand or finger gestures or tapping feet--we may easily control our words, glances and facial expressions but we exercise far less conscious mastery over our extremities.
Michael O'Neil was wholly unaware that he was playing with his keys.
She said, "He's got the best doctors in the area here. And Mom'll keep an eye on him. You know her. She'll manhandle the chief of the department into his room if she thinks he needs special attention."
A stoic smile. Michael O'Neil was good at that.
"They can do pretty miraculous things," she said. Not having any idea what doctors could or couldn't do. She and O'Neil had had a number of occasions on which to reassure each other over the past few years, mostly professionally, sometimes personally, like her husband's death or O'Neil's father's deteriorating mental state.
Neither of them did a very good job expressing sympathy or comfort; platitudes seemed to diminish the relationship. Usually the other's simple presence worked much better.
"Let's hope."
As they approached the exit she took a call from FBI Agent Winston Kellogg, in his temporary quarters at CBI. Dance paused and O'Neil continued on into the lot. She told Kellogg about Millar. And she learned from him that a canvass by the FBI in Bakersfield had located no witnesses who'd seen anybody break into Pell's aunt's toolshed or garage to steal the hammer. As for the wallet bearing the initials R.H., found in the well with the hammer, the federal forensic experts were unable to trace it to a recent buyer.
"And, Kathryn, I've got the jet tanked up in Oakland, if Linda Whitfield gets the okay from on high. One other thing? That third woman?"
"Samantha McCoy?"
"Right. Have you called her?"
At that moment Dance happened to look across the parking lot.
She saw Michael O'Neil pausing, as a tall, attractive blonde approached him. The woman smiled at O'Neil, slipped her arms around him and kissed him. He kissed her back.
"Kathryn," Kellogg said. "You there?"