"I've already checked out everybody here," she assured him. She hung up, looked at her watch again and wondered: Is this harebrained scheme really going to do any good?
Five minutes later, a knock on the door. Dance opened it to see massive CBI Agent Albert Stemple towering over a woman in her late twenties. Stocky Linda Whitfield had a pretty face, untouched by makeup, and short red hair. Her clothes were a bit shabby: black stretch pants with shiny knees and a red sweater dangling threads; its V-neck framed a pewter cross. Dance detected no trace of perfume, and Linda's nails were unpolished and cut short.
The women shook hands. Linda's grip was firm.
Stemple's brow lifted. Meaning, Is there anything else?
Dance thanked him and the big agent set down Linda's suitcase and ambled off. Dance locked the door and the woman walked into the living room of the two-bedroom cabin. She looked at the elegant place as if she'd never stayed anywhere nicer than a Days Inn. "My."
"I've got coffee going." A gesture toward the small kitchen.
"Tea, if there's any."
Dance made a cup. "I'm hoping you won't have to stay long. Maybe not even overnight."
"Any more on Daniel?"
"Nothing new."
Linda looked at the bedrooms as if choosing one would commit her to staying longer than she wanted to. Her serenity wavered, then returned. She picked a room and took her suitcase inside, then returned a moment later and accepted the cup of tea, poured milk in and sat.
"I haven't been on an airplane in years," she said. "And that jet . . . it was amazing. So small, but it pushed you right back in your seat when we took off. There was an FBI agent on board. She was very nice."
They sat on comfortable couches, a large coffee table between them. She looked around the cabin again. "My, this is nice."
It sure was. Dance wondered what the FBI accountants would say when they saw the bill. The cabin was nearly six hundred a night.
"Rebecca's on her way. But maybe you and I could just get started."
"And Samantha?"
"She wouldn't come."
"You talked to her then?"
"I went to see her."
"Where is she? . . . No, wait, you can't tell me that."
Dance smiled.
"I heard she had plastic surgery and changed her name and everything."
"That's true, yes."
"At the airport I bought a newspaper to see what was going on?"
Dance wondered about the absence of a TV in her brother's house; was it an ethical or cultural decision? Or an economic one? You could get a cable ready set for a few hundred bucks nowadays. Still, Dance noted that the heels of Linda's shoes were virtually worn away.
"It said there was no doubt he killed those guards." She set down the tea. "I was surprised by that. Daniel wasn't violent. He'd only hurt someone in self-defense."
Though, looked at from Pell's point of view, that was exactly why he'd slaughtered the guards. "But," Linda continued, "he did let somebody go. That driver."
Only because it served his interest.
"How did you meet Pell?"
"It was about ten years ago. In Golden Gate Park. San Francisco. I'd run away from home and was sleeping there. Daniel, Samantha and Jimmy were living in Seaside, along with a few other people. They'd travel up and down the coast, like gypsies. They'd sell things they'd bought or made. Sam and Jimmy were pretty talented; they'd make picture frames, CD holders, tie racks. Things like that.