When the huge military base, Fort Ord, was the industry in the area, medium-rank officers would live and, often, retire here. Before that, in the fishing and cannery days, foremen and managers lived here. Dance parked in front of a modest bungalow a
nd walked through the picket-fence gate and along the stony path to the front door. A minute later a freckled, cheerful woman in her late thirties greeted her. Dance identified herself. "I'm here to see Morton."
"Come on in," Joan Nagle said, smiling, the lack of surprise--and concern--in her face telling Dance that her husband had given her some of the details of his role in the events of today, though perhaps not all.
The agent stepped into the small living room. The half-full boxes of clothes and books--mostly the latter--suggested they'd just moved in. The walls were covered with the cheap prints of a seasonal rental. Again the smells of cooking assaulted her--but this time the scent was of hamburger and onions, not Italian herbs.
A cute, round girl in pigtails, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, was holding a drawing pad. She looked up and smiled. Dance waved to her. She was about Wes's age. On the couch, a boy in his midteens was lost in the chaos of a video game, pushing buttons as if civilization depended on him.
Morton Nagle appeared in the doorway, tugging at his waistband. "Hello, hello, hello, Agent Dance."
"Kathryn, please."
"Kathryn. You've met my wife, Joan." A smile. "And . . . hey, Eric. Put that . . . Eric!" he called in a loud, laughing voice. "Put that away."
The boy saved the game--Dance knew how vital that was--and set the controller down. He bounded to his feet.
"This's Eric. Say hello to Agent Dance."
"Agent? Like FBI?"
"Like that."
"Sweet!"
Dance shook the hand of the teenager, as he stared at her hip, looking at the gun.
The girl, still clutching her sketchbook, came up shyly.
"Well, introduce yourself," her mother urged.
"Hi."
"What's your name?" Dance asked.
"Sonja."
Sonja's weight is a problem, Dance noted. Her parents better address it pretty soon, though given their physiques she doubted they understood the problems she was already facing. The agent's kinesics expertise gave her many insights into people's psychological and emotional difficulties, but she continually had to remind herself that her job was law enforcer, not therapist.
Nagle said, "I've been following the news. You almost caught him?"
"Minutes away," she said, grimacing.
"Can I get you anything?" his wife asked.
"No, thanks," Dance said. "I can only stay a minute."
"Come on into my office," Nagle said.
They walked into a small bedroom, which smelled of cat pee. A desk and two chairs were the only pieces of furniture. A laptop, the letters worn off the A, H and N keys, sat beside a desk lamp that had been taped together. There were stacks of paper everywhere and probably two or three hundred books, in boxes and littering the shelves, covering the radiator and piled on the floor. "I like my books around me." A nod toward the living room. "They do too. Even Mr. Wizard on the video game there. We pick a book and then every night I read from it out loud."
"That's nice." Dance and her children did something similar, though it usually involved music. Wes and Mags devoured books, but they preferred to read on their own.
"Of course, we still find time for true culture. . . . Survivor and 24." Nagle's eyes just wouldn't stop sparkling. He gave another of his chuckles when he saw her note the volume of material he had for her. "Don't worry. That one's yours, the small one." He gestured toward a box of videotapes and photocopied sheets.
"Sure I can't get you anything?" Joan asked from the doorway.
"Nothing, thanks."