Dance ate the rest of her dinner, feeling elated at this victory: being honest with her son and receiving his acquiescence to the date. Oddly, this tiny step did a huge amount to take away the horror of the day’s events.
On a whim she gave in to Maggie’s final plea on behalf of the dogs and ordered one pancake and a side of sausage for each, minus the syrup. The girl served the food in the back of the Pathfinder. Dylan the shepherd devoured his in several gulps while the ladylike Patsy ate the sausage fastidiously, then carried the pancake to a space between the backseats, impossible to reach, and deposited it there for a rainy day.
At home, Dance spent the next few hours at domestic chores, fielding phone calls, including one from Morton Nagle, thanking her again for what she’d done for his family.
Winston Kellogg did not call, which was good (meaning the date was still on).
Michael O’Neil did not call either, which wasn’t so good.
Rebecca Sheffield was in stable condition after extensive surgery. She’d be in the hospital, under guard, for the next six or seven days. More operations were needed.
Dance talked to Martine Christensen for some time about the “American Tunes” website, then, business disposed of, it was time for dessert: popcorn, which made sense after a sweet dinner. Dance found a
Wallace and Gromit Claymation tape, cued it up and at the last minute managed to save the Redenbacher from the microwave of mass destruction before she set the bag ablaze, as she had last week.
She was pouring the contents into a bowl when her phone croaked yet again.
“Mom,” Wes said impatiently. “I’m like starving.” She loved his tone. It meant he’d snapped out of his unhappy mood.
“It’s TJ,” she announced, opening up her mobile.
“Say hi,” the boy offered, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
“Wes says hi.”
“Back at him. Oh, tell him I got to level eight on ‘Zarg.’”
“Is that good?”
“You have no idea.”
Dance relayed the message and Wes’s eyes glowed. “Eight? No way!”
“He’s impressed. So what’s up?”
“Who’s getting all the stuff?”
“‘Stuff’ would be?”
“Evidence, reports, emails, everything. The ball of wax, remember?”
He meant for the final disposition report. It would be massive in this case, with the multiple felonies and the interagency paperwork. She’d run the case and the CBI had primary jurisdiction.
“Me. Well, I should sayus. ”
“I liked the first answer better, boss. Oh, by the way, remember ‘Nimue’?”
The mystery word…
“What about it?”
“I just found another reference to it. You want me to follow up?”
“Think we better. Leave not undotted. So to speak.”
“Is tomorrow okay? It’s not much of a date tonight, but Lucretia might be the woman of my dreams.”
“You’re going out with somebody namedLucretia? You may have to concentrate…. Tell you what.
Bring me all the wax. And the Nimue ‘stuff.’ I’ll get started on it.”
“Boss, you’re the best. You’re invited to the wedding.”
FRIDAY
Chapter 58
Kathryn Dance, in a black suit and burgundy blouse—not the warmest of outfits, all things considered—was sitting outside at the Bay View Restaurant near Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey.
The place lived up to its name, usually offering a postcard image of the coast all the way up to Santa Cruz, which was, however, invisible at the moment. The early morning was a perfect example of June Gloom on the Peninsula. Fog like smoke from a damp fire surrounded the wharf. The temperature was fifty-five degrees.
Last night she’d been in an elated mood. Daniel Pell had been stopped, Linda Whitfield would be all right, Nagle and his family had survived. She and Winston Kellogg had made their plans for “afterward.”
Today, though, things were different. A darkness hung over her; she couldn’t shake it, and the mood had nothing to do with the weather. Many things were contributing to it, not the least of which was planning the memorial services and funerals for the guards killed at the courthouse, the deputies at the Point Lobos Inn yesterday and Juan Millar too.
She sipped her coffee. Then blinked in surprise as a hummingbird appeared from nowhere and dipped its beak into the feeder hanging on the side of the restaurant, near a spill of gardenias. Another bird strafed in and drove the first away. They were pretty creatures, jewels, but could be mean as scrap-yard dogs.
Then she heard, “Hello.”
Winston Kellogg came up behind her, slipped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.
Not too close to the mouth, not too far away. She smiled and hugged him.
He sat down.
Dance waved to the waitress, who refilled her cup and poured one for Kellogg.
“So I was doing some research about the area,” Kellogg said. “I thought we could go down to Big Sur tonight. Some place called Ventana.”
“It’s beautiful. I haven’t been for years. The restaurant’s wonderful. It’s a bit of a drive.”
“I’m game. Highway One, right?”
Which would take them right past Point Lobos. She flashed back to the gunshots, the blood, Daniel Pell lying on his back, dull blue eyes staring unseeing at a dark blue sky.
“Thanks for getting up so early,” Dance said.
“Breakfastand dinner with you. The pleasure’s mine.”
She gave him another smile. “Here’s the situation. TJ finally found the answer to ‘Nimue,’ I think.”
Kellogg nodded. “What Pell was searching for in Capitola.”
“At first I thought it was a screen name, then I was thinking it might have to do with this computer game, ‘Nimue’ with anX, the popular one.”
The agent shook his head.
“Apparently it’s hot. I should have consulted the experts—my kids. Anyway, I was toying with the idea that Pell and Jimmy went to the Croytons’ to steal some valuable software, and I remembered Reynolds told me that Croyton gave away all this computer research and software to Cal State-Monterey Bay. I thought maybe there was something in the college archives that Pell planned to steal. But, no, it turns out that Nimue’s something else.”