O'Neil nodded politely toward Kellogg, as if the recent disagreements were long forgotten. Crime scene, O'Neil reported, hadn't discovered much at all. They'd found shell casings from a 9mm pistol, some useless tire prints (they were so worn the technicians couldn't ID the brand) and "about a million samples of trace that'll lead us nowhere." The latter information was delivered with the sour hyperbole O'Neil slung out when frustrated.
And, he added, the guard gave only a groggy and inarticulate description of his attacker and the girl with him, but he couldn't add anything to what they already knew.
Reynolds called his daughter, since Pell now knew her and her husband's names, and told her to leave town until the killer was recaptured. Reynolds's wife and other son would join them, but the prosecutor refused to leave. He was going to stay in the area--though at a separate hotel, under police guard--until he'd had a chance to review the Croyton murders files, which would arrive from the county court archives soon. He was more determined than ever to help them get Pell.
Most of the officers left--two stayed to guard Reynolds and his family, and two were keeping the reporters back--and soon Kellogg, O'Neil and Dance were alone, standing on the fragrant grass.
"I'm going back to Point Lobos," Dance said to both of the men. Then to Kellogg: "You want me to drop you off at HQ, for your car?"
"I'll go with you to the inn," Kellogg said. "If that's okay."
"Sure. What about you, Michael? Want to come with us?" She could see that Millar's death was still weighing heavily on him.
The chief deputy glanced at Kellogg and Dance, standing side by side, like a couple in front of their suburban house saying goodnight to guests after a dinner party. He said, "Think I'll pass. I'll make a statement to the press then stop by to see Juan's family." He exhaled, sending a stream of breath into the cool night. "Been a long day."
*
He was exhausted.
And his round belly contained pretty much an entire bottle of Vallejo Springs's smooth Merlot wine.
There was no way Morton Nagle was going to drive home tonight through a tangle of combat traffic in Contra Costa County, then the equally daunting roads around San Jose. He'd found a motel not far from the vineyards he'd moped around in all day and checked in. He washed his face and hands, ordered a club sandwich from room service and uncorked the wine.
Waiting for the food to arrive, he called his wife and spoke to her and the children, then got through to Kathryn Dance.
She told him that Pell had tried to kill the prosecutor in the Croyton trial.
"Reynolds? No!"
"Everybody's all right," Dance said. "But he got away."
"You think maybe that was his goal? Why he was staying in the area?"
The agent explained she didn't think so. She believed he'd intended to kill Reynolds as a prelude to his real plan, because he was frightened of the prosecutor. But what that real plan might be continued to elude them.
Dance sounded tired, discouraged.
Apparently he did too.
"Morton," Dance asked, "are you all right?"
"I'm just wondering how bad my headache'll be tomorrow morning."
She gave a sour laugh.
Room service knocked on the door. He said good-bye and hung up the phone.
Nagle ate the meal without much appetite and channel surfed, seeing virtually nothing that flickered by on the screen.
The large man lay back in bed, kicking off his shoes. As he sipped from the plastic glass of wine he was thinking of a color photo of Daniel Pell in Time magazine years ago. The killer's head was turned partially away but the unearthly blue eyes stared straight into the camera. They seemed to follow you wherever you were, and you couldn't shake the thought that even if you closed the magazine, Pell would continue to stare into your soul.
Nagle was angry that he'd failed in his attempt to get the aunt's agreement, that the trip here had been a waste of time.
But then he told himself that, at least, he'd stayed true to his journalist's ethics and protected his sources--and protected the girl. He'd been as persuasive as he could with the aunt but hadn't stepped over the moral boundary and told Kathryn Dance the girl's new name and location.
No, Nagle realized, he'd done everything right in a difficult situation.
Growing drowsy, he found he was feeling better. He'd go home tomorrow, back to his wife and children. He'd do the best he could with the book without Theresa. He'd heard from Rebecca Sheffield and she was game to go ahead--she'd been making a lot of notes on life in the Family--and wanted to sit down with him when he returned. She was sure she could convince Linda Whitfield to be interviewed, as well. And there were certainly no lack of victims of Daniel Pell to write about.