Finally, drunk and more or less content, Morton Nagle drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 36
They sat around the TV, leaning forward, watching the news like three reunited sisters.
Which in a way they were, thought Samantha McCoy.
"Can you believe that?" Rebecca asked in a low, angry voice.
Linda, who with Sam was cleaning up the remnants of a room-service dinner, shook her head in dismay.
James Reynolds, the prosecutor, had been the target of Daniel Pell.
Sam was very disturbed by the assault. She remembered Reynolds well. A stern but reasonable man, he'd negotiated what her lawyer had said were fair plea bargains. Sam, in fact, had thought he was quite lenient. There was no evidence that they'd had any involvement in the Croyton deaths--Sam, like the others, was stunned and horrified at the news. Still, the Family's record of petty crimes was extensive and if he'd wanted to, James Reynolds could have gone to trial and probably gotten much longer sentences from a jury.
But he was sympathetic to what they'd been through; he realized they'd fallen under the spell of Daniel Pell. He called it the Stockholm syndrome, which Sam had looked up. It was an emotional connection that victims develop with their hostage takers or kidnappers. Sam was happy to accept Reynolds's leniency, but she wasn't going to let herself off the hook by blaming her actions on some psychological excuse. Every single day she felt bad about the thefts and letting Pell run her life. She hadn't been kidnapped; she'd lived with the Family voluntarily.
A picture came on the TV: an artist's rendering of Pell with darker skin, moustache and black hair, glasses and a vague Latino look. His disguise.
"That's way bizarre," Rebecca offered.
The knock on the door startled them. Kathryn Dance's voice announced her arrival. Linda rose to let her in.
Samantha liked her--a cop with a great smile, who wore an iPod like her gun and had shoes with bold daisies embossed on the straps. She'd like a pair of shoes like that. Sam rarely bought fun or frivolous things for herself. Sometimes she'd window-shop and think, Neat, I'd like one of those. But then her conscience tweaked, and she decided, No, I don't deserve it.
Winston Kellogg too was smiling, but his was different from Dance's. It seemed like his badge, something to be flashed, saying: I'm really not what you think. I'm a federal agent, but I'm human too. He was appealing. Kellogg wasn't really handsome, certainly not in a classic way. He had a bit of double chin, was a little round in the middle. But his manner and voice and eyes made him sexy.
Glancing at the TV screen, Dance asked, "You heard?"
Linda said, "I'm so happy he's all right. His family was there too?"
"They're all fine."
"On the news, they mentioned a deputy was hurt?" Rebecca asked.
Kellogg said, "He'll be all right." He went on to explain how Pell and his partner had planned the man's murder, killing the other woman, Susan Pemberton, yesterday solely to find out where Reynolds lived.
Sam thought of what had struck her years ago: the obsessed, unstoppable mind of Daniel Pell.
Dance said, "Well, I wanted to thank you. The information you gave us saved his life."
"Us?" Linda asked.
"Yep." She explained how the observations they'd offered earlier--particularly about Pell's reaction to being laughed at and about disguises--had let her deduce what the killer might be up to.
Rebecca was shaking her head, her expressive lips tight. She said, "But he did get away from you, I noticed."
Sam was embarrassed at Rebecca's abrasive comment. It always amazed her how people wouldn't hesitate to criticize or insult, even when there was no purpose to it.
"He did," Dance said, looking the taller woman in the eyes. "We didn't get there in time."
"The newscaster said Reynolds tried to capture him himself," Rebecca said.
"That's right," Kellogg said.
"So maybe he's the reason Pell got away."