"Look at his credentials, his background. He's an expert."
"Okay, he's got some insights. They're helpful. But he wasn't enough of an expert to catch Pell an hour ago." He lowered his voice. "Look, at the hotel, Overby backed Winston. Obviously--he's the one who wanted him on board. You got the pressure from the FBI and your boss. But we've handled pressure before, the two of us. We could've backed them down."
"What exactly are you saying? That I'm deferring to him for some other reason?"
Looking away. An aversion gesture. People feel stress not only when they lie; sometimes they feel it when they tell the truth. "I'm saying you're giving Kellogg too much control over the operation. And, frankly, over yourself."
She snapped, "Because he reminds me of my husband? Is that what you're saying?"
"I don't know. You tell me. Does he remind you of Bill?"
"This is ridiculous."
"You brought it up."
"Well, anything other than professional judgment's none of your business."
"Fine," O'Neil said tersely. "I'll stick to professional judgment. Winston was off base. And you acquiesced to him, knowing he was wrong."
" 'Knowing?' It was fifty-five, forty-five on the tac approach at the motel. I had one opinion at first. I changed it. Any good officer can be swayed."
"By reason. By logical analysis."
"What about your judgment? How objective are you?"
"Me? Why aren't I objective?"
"Because of Juan."
A faint recognition response in O'Neil's eyes. Dance had hit close to home, and she supposed the detective felt responsible in some way for the young officer's death, thinking perhaps that he hadn't trained Millar enough.
His proteges . . .
She regretted her comment.
Dance and O'Neil had fought before; you can't have friendship and a working relationship without wrinkles. But never with an edge this sharp. And why was he saying what he did, his comments slipping over the bounds into her personal life? This was a first.
And the kinesics read almost as jealousy.
They fell silent. The detective lifted his hands and shrugged. This was an emblem gesture, which translated: I've said my piece. The tension in the room was as tight as that entwined pine knot, thin fibers woven together into steel.
They resumed their discussion of the next steps: checking with Orange County for more details about Jennie Marston, canvassing for witnesses and following up on the crime scene at the Sea View Motel. They sent Carraneo to the airport, bus station and rental-car offices armed with the woman's picture. They kicked around a few other ideas too, but the climate in the office had dropped significantly, summer to fall, and when Winston Kellogg came into the room, O'Neil retreated, explaining that he had to check in with his office and brief the sheriff. He said a perfunctory good-bye that was aimed at neither of them.
*
His hand throbbing from the cut sustained when he vaulted the Bollings' chain-link fence, Morton Nagle glanced at the guard outside the holding cell of Napa County Men's Detention.
The big Latino reciprocated with a cold gaze.
Apparently Nagle had committed the number-one offense in Vallejo Springs--not the technical infractions of trespass and assault (where the hell had they got that?) but the far more troubling crime of upsetting their local daughter.
"I have a right to make a phone call."
No response.
He wanted to reassure his wife that he was okay. But mostly he wanted to get word to Kathryn Dance about where Theresa was. He'd changed his mind and given up on his book and journalistic ethics. Goddamn it, he was going to do everything in his power to make sure that Daniel Pell got caught and flung back into Capitola.
Not illuminating evil, but attacking it himself. Like a shark. Seeing Theresa in person was what had swayed him: a dear, attractive, vivacious girl who deserved to be leading the normal life of a teenager, and pure evil had destroyed the hope for that. Telling people her story wasn't enough; Morton Nagle personally wanted Pell's head.