The Sleeping Doll (Kathryn Dance 1)

Five minutes later Dance was back in the GW side of CBI headquarters, accepting a cup of coffee and an oatmeal cookie from Maryellen Kresbach.

Walking into her office, she kicked off the damaged Aldos and dug in her closet for a new pair: Joan and David sandals. Then she stretched and sat, sipping the strong coffee and searching through her desk for the remainder of a pack of M&Ms she'd stashed there a few days ago. She ate them quickly, stretched again and enjoyed looking at the pictures

of her children.

Photos of her husband too.

How she would have liked to lie in bed next to him tonight and talk about the Pell case.

Ah, Bill . . .

Her phone chirped.

She glanced at the screen and her stomach did a small jump.

"Hi," she said to Michael O'Neil.

"Hey. Just got the news. You okay? Heard there were rounds exchanged."

"Pell parked one near me. That's all."

"How's Linda?"

Dance gave him the details.

"And Rebecca?"

"ICU. She'll live. But she's not getting out any time soon."

He, in turn, told her about the phony getaway car--Pell's favorite means of diversion and distraction. The Infiniti driver wasn't dead. He had been forced by Pell to call and report his own murder and carjacking. He'd then driven home, put the car in the garage and sat in a dark room until he'd heard the news of Pell's death.

He added that he was sending her the crime scene reports from the Butterfly Inn, which Pell and Jennie had checked into after escaping from the Sea View and from Point Lobos.

She'd been glad to hear O'Neil's voice. But something was off. There was still the matter-of-fact tone. He wasn't angry, but he wasn't overly pleased to be speaking to her. She thought his earlier remarks about Winston Kellogg were out of line but, while she didn't want an apology, she did wish that the rough seas between them would calm.

She asked, "You all right?" With some people, you had to prime the pump.

"Fine," he said.

That goddamn word, which could mean everything from "wonderful" to "I hate you."

She suggested he come by the Deck that night.

"Can't, sorry. Anne and I have plans."

Ah. Plans.

That's one of those words too.

"Better go. Just wanted to let you know about the Infiniti driver."

"Sure, take care."

Click. . . .

Dance grimaced for the benefit of no one and turned back to a file.

Ten minutes later Winston Kellogg's head appeared in the door. She gestured toward the chair and he dropped down into it. He hadn't changed; his clothes were still muddy and sandy. He saw her salt-stained shoes sitting by the door and gestured toward his own. Then laughed, pointing to a dozen pairs in her closet. "Probably nothing in there that'd work for me."