"No, it was about then that I guess I fell back asleep. And the next thing I knew . . ." She swallowed again. "There was this woman in a uniform there. A policewoman. She had me get dressed and . . . that was it."
Dance reflected: four hundred dollars, a car dealership, a French Canadian province.
And a third man.
Was Pell intent on heading north now? At the very least she'd call Homeland Security and Immigration; they could keep an eye on the northern border crossings.
Dance tried again, walking the girl through the events of that terrible night.
But the efforts were useless. She knew nothing more.
Four hundred dollars . . . Canada . . . What's Quebec? . . . used cars . . . Did they contain the key to the Daniel Pell conspiracy?
And then Dance had a thought that, surprisingly, involved her own family: herself, Wes and Maggie. An idea occurred to her. She ran through the facts of the murder in her mind. Impossible . . . But then the theory grew more likely, though she didn't like the conclusion.
She reluctantly asked, "Tare, you said this was around seven P.M. or so?"
"Yeah, maybe."
"Where did your family eat?"
"Where? The den most of the time. We weren't allowed to use the dining room. That was just for, like, formal things."
"Did you watch TV while you were having dinner?"
"Yeah. A lot. Me and my brother and sister, at least."
"And was the den near your bedroom?"
"Like, right down the stairs. How did you know?"
"Did you ever watch Jeopardy!?"
She frowned. "Yeah."
"Tare, I'm wondering if maybe the voices you heard were from the show. Maybe somebody picking the category of geography for four hundred dollars. And the answer was 'the French-speaking province of Canada.' The question would be 'What is Quebec?' "
The girl fell silent. Her eyes were still. "No," she said firmly, shaking her head. "No, that wasn't it. I'm sure."
"And the voice talking about the dealership--could it have been a commercial? Somebody talking fast in a low voice. Like they do on car ads."
The girl's face flushed with dismay. Then anger. "No!"
"But maybe?" Dance asked gently.
Theresa's eyes closed. "No." A whisper. Then: "I don't know."
That was why Reynolds hadn't pursued the child's testimony. He too had figured out she was talking about a TV show.
Theresa's shoulders slumped forward, collapsing in on themselves. It was a very subtle movement but Dance could clearly read the kinesic signal of defeat and sorrow. The girl had been so certain that she'd remembered something helpful to find the man who'd killed her family. Now, she realized that her courageous trip here, defying her aunt . . . The efforts had been pointless. She was crestfallen. "I'm sorry. . . ." Tears pooled in her eyes.
Kathryn Dance smiled. "Tare, don't worry. It's nothing." She gave the girl a Kleenex.
"Nothing? It's terrible! I wanted to help so bad. . . ."
Another smile. "Oh, Tare, believe me, we're just getting warmed up."
*