The Sleeping Doll (Kathryn Dance 1)

Now the eyes fished away and his shoulder was turned toward her. That meant another agenda lay behind the question. She knew what was bothering him--the same as last night. And now it was time to talk.

"Just us and a few people." Sunday evening there'd be a bigger event, with many of Stuart's friends, at the Marine Club near the aquarium in Monterey. Today, her father's actual birthday, she'd invited only eight or so people for dinner. She continued, "Michael and his wife, Steve and Martine, the Barbers . . . that's about it. Oh, and somebody who's working with us on a case. He's from Washington."

He nodded. "That's all? Nobody else?"

"That's all." She pitched him a bag of pretzels, which he caught with one hand. "Set those out. And make sure there're some left for the guests."

A much-relieved Wes headed off to start filling bowls.

What the boy had been worried about was the possibility that Dance had invited Brian Gunderson.

The Brian who was the source of the book sitting prominently nearby, the Brian whose phone call to Dance at CBI headquarters Maryellen Kresbach had so diligently reported.

Brian called. . . .

The forty-year-old investment banker had been a blind date, courtesy of Maryellen, who was as compulsive about, and talented at, matchmaking as she was baking, brewing coffee and running the professional life of CBI agents.

Brian was smart and easy-going and funny too; on their first date the man had listened to her description of kinesics and promptly sat on his hands. "So you can't figure out my intentions." That dinner had turned out to be quite enjoyable. Divorced, no children (though he wanted them). Brian's investment-banking business was hectic, and with his and Dance's busy schedules, the relationship had by necessity moved slowly. Which was fine with her. Long married, recently widowed, she was in no hurry.

After a month of dinners, coffee and movies, she and Brian had taken a long hike and found themselves on the beach at Asilomar. A golden sunset, a slew of sea otters playing near shore . . . how could you resist a kiss or two? They hadn't. She remembered liking that. Then feeling guilty for liking. But liking it more than feeling guilty.

That part of your life you can do without for a while, but not forever.

Dance hadn't had any particular plans for the future with Brian and was happy to take it easy, see what developed.

But Wes had intervened. He was never rude or embarrassing, but he made clear in a dozen ways a mother could clearly read that he didn't like anything about Brian. Dance had graduated from grief-counseling but she still saw a therapist occasionally. The woman told her how to introduce a possible romantic interest to the children, and she'd done everything right. But Wes had outmaneuvered her. He grew sullen and passive-aggressive whenever the subject of Brian came up or when she returned from seeing him.

That's what he'd been wanting to ask about last night when he was reading Lord of the Rings.

Tonight, in his casual question about attendance at the party, the boy really meant, Is Brian coming?

And the corollary: Have you guys really broken up?

Yes, we have. (Though Dance wondered if Brian felt differently. After all, he'd called several times since the breakup.) The therapist had said his behavior was normal, and Dance could work it out if she remained patient and determined. Most important, though, she couldn't let her son control her. But in the end she decided she wasn't patient or determined enough. And so, two weeks ago, she'd broken it off. She'd been tactful, explaining that it was just a little too soon after her husband's death; she wasn't ready. Brian had been upset but had taken the news well. No parting shots. And they'd left the matter open.

Let's just give it some time. . . .

In truth the breakup was a relief; parents have to pick their battles, and, she'd decided, skirmishing over romance wasn't worth the effort just now. Still, she was pleased about his calls and had found herself missing him.

Carting wine outside onto the Deck, she found her father with Maggie. He was holding a book and pointing to a picture of a deep-sea fish that glowed.

"Hey, Mags, that looks tasty," Dance said.

"Mom, gross."

"Happy birthday, Dad." She hugged him.

"Thank you, dear."

Dance arranged platters, dumped beer into the cooler, then walked into the kitchen and pulled out her mobile. She checked in with TJ and Carraneo. They'd had no luck with the physical search for Pell, nor come across any leads to the missing Ford Focus, anyone with the names or screen names Nimue or Alison, or hotels, motels or boardinghouses where Pell and his accomplice might be staying.

She was tempted to call Winston Kellogg, thinking he might be shying, but she decided not to. He had all the vital statistics; he'd either show or not.

Dance helped her mother with more food and, returning to the Deck, greeted the neighbors, Tom and Sarah Barber, who brought with them wine, a birthday present and their gangly mixed-breed dog, Fawlty.

"Mom, please!" Maggie called, her meaning clear.

"Okay, okay, let 'em out of doggy jail."