The Sleeping Doll (Kathryn Dance 1)

Dance chuckled. Linda blinked at the punch line and, the agent thought, wanted to smile but forced herself not to.

"Come on, Linda--we're each other's helicopters. Admit it."

The woman said nothing.

Sam thrust a card into the woman's hand. "Here's my number."

Linda said nothing for a long moment, staring at the card. "Sarah Starkey? That's your name?"

Samantha smiled. "I can't change it back at this point. But I am going to tell my husband. Everything. He's on his way here now with our son. We're going to spend a few days in the area. That's what I'm hoping. But after I tell him, he might just get back in the car and head home."

Linda gave no response. She flicked the card with her thumb, slipped it into her purse and looked up the driveway as a battered silver pickup truck approached. It stopped and Roger Whitfield climbed out.

Samantha introduced herself to Linda's brother, using her original name, not "Sarah."

The man greeted her with a raised eyebrow and another formal handshake. Then he and Dance helped Linda into the car, and the agent closed the door.

Samantha stepped up on the running board. "Linda, remember: helicopters."

The woman said, "Good-bye, Sam. I'll pray for you."

With no other words or gestures, the brother and sister drove off. Samantha and Dance watched them ease down the winding drive as the taillights, glowing orbs in the fog, grew fainter.

After they were gone, Dance asked, "When's your husband getting here?"

"He left San Jose an hour ago. Pretty soon, I'd guess." Sam nodded after the pickup truck. "Think she's going to call me?"

All of Kathryn Dance's skill as an investigator, all of her talent as a reader of body language couldn't answer that question. The best she could come up with was, "She didn't throw your card away, did she?"

"Not yet," Samantha said, offered a weak smile and walked back to her car.

*

The evening sky was clear, the fog busy elsewhere.

Kathryn Dance was on the Deck, alone, though Patsy and Dylan were nearby, roaming the backyard, engaged in dog intrigue. She'd finished the preparations for her father's big birthday party tomorrow night and was sipping a German beer while listening to A Prairie Home Companion, Garrison Keillor's variety radio show she'd been a fan of for years. When the program concluded she shut off the stereo and heard in its stead the distant sound track of Maggie playing scales and the faint bass of Wes's stereo.

Listening to the boy's music--she thought it was Coldplay--Kathryn Dance debated a moment then impulsively pulled out her cell phone, found a number in the Samsung and pushed send.

"Well, hi there," Brian Gunderson said, answering the phone.

Caller ID has created a whole new response mechanism, she thought. He'd've had three full seconds to figure out a game plan for the conversation, tailored specifically to Kathryn Dance.

"Hi," she responded. "Hey, sorry I haven't gotten back to you. I know you called a few times."

Brian gave a laugh and she remembered the times they'd spent together, dinner, walking on the beach. He had a nice laugh. And he kissed well. "I'd say if anybody has an excuse, it's you. I've been watching the news. Who's Overby?"

"My boss."

"Oh, the crazy one you told me about?"

"Yep." Dance wondered how indiscreet she'd been.

"I saw a press conference and he mentioned you. He said you were his assistant in capturing Pell."

She laughed. If TJ had heard, it was only a matter of time until she got a message for "Assistant Dance."

"So you got him."