The Sleeping Doll (Kathryn Dance 1)

Edie never worried about her daughter's good sense when it came to picking partners. Her problem was like the one plaguing Edie's golf swing--the follow-through. And she knew the source. Katie'd told her about Wes, his unhappiness at his mom's dating. Edie had been in nursing for a long time, both pediatric and adult. She'd seen how controlling children can be, how clever and manipulative, even subconsciously. Her daughter had to approach the subject. But she simply wouldn't. Her approach was duck and cover. . . .

But it wasn't Edie's role to talk to the boy directly. Grandparents have the unqualified joy of children's company, but the price for that is abdicating much of the right to parental intervention. Edie'd said her piece to Katie, who'd agreed but, apparently, ignored her completely by breaking up with Brian and--

The woman cocked her head.

A noise from outside, the backyard.

She glanced up to see if Stu had arrived. No, the carport was empty, except for her Prius. Looking out the front window she saw the police officer was still there.

Then she heard the sound again. . . . The clatter of rocks.

Edie and Stu lived off Ocean, on the long hill descending from downtown to Carmel Beach. Their backyard was a stepped series of gardens, boarded by rock walls. Walking the short path to or from the neighbor's adjoining backyard sometimes set loose a tiny spill of gravel down the face of those walls. That's what the noise sounded like.

She walked to the back deck and opened the door, stepped outside. She couldn't see anyone and heard nothing else. Probably just a cat or a dog. They weren't supposed to run free; Carmel had strict pet laws. But the town was also very animal friendly (the actress Doris Day owned a wonderful hotel here, where pets were welcome), and several cats and dogs roamed the neighborhood.

She closed the door and, hearing Stu's car pull into the driveway, forgot all about the noise. Edie Dance walked to the refrigerator to find a snack for the children.

*

The interview with the Sleeping Doll had come to an intriguing conclusion.

Back in her office, Dance called and checked up on the girl and her aunt, both safely ensconced in the motel and protected by a 250-pound monolith of a CBI agent who carried two large weapons. They were fine, Albert Stemple reported, then added, "The girl's nice. I like her. The aunt you can keep."

Dance read over the notes she'd taken in the interview. Then read them again. Finally she called TJ.

"Your genie awaits, boss."

"Bring me what we've got so far on Pell."

"The whole ball of wax? Whatever that means."

"All the wax."

Dance was reviewing James Reynolds's notes from the Croyton murder case when TJ arrived--only three or four minutes later, breathless. Maybe her voice had sounded more urgent than she'd realized.

She took the files he carted and spread them out until they covered her desk an inch thick. In a short time they'd accumulated an astonishing amount of material. She began riffling through the pages.

"The girl, was she helpful?"

"Yep," the agent replied absently, staring at a particular sheet of paper.

TJ made another comment but she wasn't paying any attention. Flipping through more reports, more pages of handwritten notes, and looking over Reynolds's time line and his other transcriptions. Then returning to the piece of paper she held.

Finally she said, "I've got a computer question. You know a lot about them. Go check this out." She circled some words on the sheet.

He glanced down. "What about it?"

"It's fishy."

"Not a computer term I'm familiar with. But I'm on the case, boss. We never sleep."

*

"We've got a situation."

Dance was addressing Charles Overby, Winston Kellogg and TJ. They were in Overby's office and he was playing with a bronze golf ball mounted on a wooden stand, like a gearshift in a

sports car. She wished Michael O'Neil were here.