The Sleeping Doll (Kathryn Dance 1)

"I'm so sorry. Are there other developments?"

"Not really." Dance told him that she'd spoken with Rebecca and Linda. They'd shared some information that might prove to be helpful, but nothing was leading directly to Pell's doorstep. Nagle had come across nothing in his research about a "big score" or a mountaintop.

He had news of his own efforts, though they weren't successful. He'd talked to Theresa Croyton's aunt, but she was refusing to let him, or the police, see the girl.

"She threatened me." His voice was troubled and Dance was sure that there would be no sparkle in his eyes at the moment.

"Where are you?"

He didn't say anything.

Dance filled in, "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"I'm afraid I can't."

She glanced at the caller ID, but he was on his mobile, not a hotel or pay phone.

"Is she going to change her mind?"

"I really doubt it. You should've seen her. She abandoned a hundred dollars' worth of groceries and just ran."

Dance was disappointed. Daniel Pell was a mystery and she was now obsessed with learning everything she could about him. Last year when she'd assisted on that case in New York with Lincoln Rhyme, she'd noted the criminalist's obsessive fascination with every detail of the physical evidence; she was exactly the same--though with the human side of crime.

But there're compulsions like double-checking every detail of a subject's story, and there are compulsions like avoiding sidewalk cracks when you're walking home. You have to know which are vital and which aren't.

She decided they'd have to let the Sleeping Doll lead go.

"I appreciate your help."

"I did try. Really."

After hanging up, Dance talked to Rey Carraneo again. Still no luck on the motels and no reports of boats stolen from local marinas.

Just as she hung up, TJ called. He'd heard back from the DMV. The car that Pell had been driving during the Croyton murders hadn't been registered for years, which meant it'd probably been sold for scrap. If he had stolen something valuable from the Croytons' the night of the murders, it was most likely lost or melted into oblivion. TJ had also checked the inventory from when the car was impounded. The list was short and nothing suggested that any of the items had come from the businessman's house.

She gave him the news about Juan Millar too, and the young agent responded with utter silence. A sign that he was truly shaken.

A few moments later her phone rang again. It was Michael O'Neil with his ubiquitous, "Hey. It's me." His voice was laden with exhaustion, sorrow too. Millar's death was weighing on him heavily.

"Whatever'd been on the pier where we found the Pemberton woman was gone--if there was anything. I just talked to Rey. He tells me there're no reports of any stolen craft so far. Maybe I was off base. Your friend find anything the other way--toward the road?"

She noted the loaded term "friend" and replied, "He hasn't called. I assume he didn't stumble across Pell's address book or a hotel key."

"And negative on sources for the duct tape, and the pepper spray's sold in ten thousand stores and mail-order outlets."

She told O'Neil that Nagle's attempt to contact Theresa had failed.

"She won't cooperate?"

"Her aunt won't. And she's first base. I don't know how helpful it'd be anyway."

O'Neil said, "I liked the idea. She's the only nexus to Pell and that night."

"We'll have to try harder without her," Dance said.

"How're you doing?"

"Fine," he answered.