"I'm kinda into religion," she said uncertainly. "A little. More spiritual stuff than Jesus, you know."
"Well, about Jesus, I don't think he was the son of God or anything, but I'll tell you, I respect Him. He could get anybody to do whatever He wanted. I mean, even now, you just mention the name and, bang, people'll hop to in a big way. That's power. But all those religions, the organized ones, you give up too much to belong to them. You can't think the way you want to. They control you."
Pell glanced at her blouse, the bra. . . . The swelling began again, the high-pressure center growing in his belly.
He tried to ignore it and looked back at the notes he'd taken from his online searches and the map. Jennie clearly wanted to ask what he had in mind but couldn't bring herself to. She'd be hoping he was looking for routes out of town, roads that would lead ultimately to Orange County.
"I've got a few things to take care of, baby. I'll need you to give me a ride."
"Sure, just say when."
He was studying the map carefully, and he looked up to see that she'd stepped away.
Jennie returned a moment later, carrying a few things, which she'd gotten from a bag in the closet. She set these on the bed in front of him, then knelt on the floor. It was like a dog bringing her master a ball, ready to play.
Pell hesitated. But then he reminded himself that it's okay to give up a little control from time to time, depending on the circumstances.
He reached for her but she lay down and rolled over on her belly all by herself.
*
There are two routes to San Jose from Monterey. You can take Highway 1, which winds along the coast through Santa Cruz, then cut over on vertigo-inducing Highway 17, through artsy Los Gatos, where you can buy crafts and crystals and incense and tie-dyed Janis Joplin dresses (and, okay, Roberto Cavalli and D&G).
Or you can just take the Highway 156 cutoff to the 101 and, if you've got government tags, burn however much gas you want to get up to the city in an hour.
Kathryn Dance chose the second.
Gospel was gone and she was listening to Latin music--the Mexican singer Julieta Venegas. Her soulful "Verdad" was pounding from the speakers.
The Taurus was doing ninety as she zipped through Gilroy, the garlic capital of the world. Not far away was Castroville (ditto, artichokes) and Watsonville, with its sweeping pelt of berry fields and mushroom farms. She liked these towns and had no patience for detractors who laughed at the idea of crowning an artichoke queen or standing in line for the petting tanks at Monterey's own Squid Festival. After all, these chicer-than-thou urbanites were the ones who paid obscene prices for olive oil and balsamic vinegar to cook those very artichokes and calamari rings in.
These burgs were homey and honest and filled with history. And they were also her turf, falling within the west-central region of the CBI.
She saw a sign luring tourists to a vineyard in Morgan Hill, and had a thought.
Dance called Michael O'Neil.
"Hey," he said.
"I was thinking about the acid they found in the Thunderbird at Moss Landing. Any word?"
"Peter's techs've been working on it but they still don't have any specific leads."
"How many bodies we have searching the orchards and vineyards?"
"About fifteen CHP, five of our people, some Salinas uniforms. They haven't found anything."
"I've got an idea. What is the acid exactly?"
"Hold on."
Eyes slipping between the road and the pad of paper resting on her knee, she jotted the incomprehensible terms as he spelled them.
"So kinesics isn't enough? You have to master forensics too?"
"A wise woman knows her limitations. I'll call you in a bit."
Dance then hit speed dial. She listened to a phone ring two thousand miles away.