The Sleeping Doll - Страница 3

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"Not shook. Just curious." She explained how the interview had been going fine when, suddenly, Pell turned on her. Under TJ's skeptical gaze, she conceded, "Okay, I'm a little shook. I've been threatened before. But his were the worst kinds of threats."

"Worst?" asked Juan Millar, a tall, dark-complexioned young detective with the Investigations Division of the MCSO-the Monterey County Sheriff's Office, which was headquartered not far from the courthouse.

"Calm threats," Dance said.

TJ filled in, "Cheerful threats. You know you're in trouble when they stop screaming and start whispering."

The little ones spend a lot of time alone…

"What happened?" Sandoval asked, seemingly more concerned about the state of his case than threats against Dance.

"When he denied knowing Herron, there was no stress reaction at all. It was only when I had him talking about police conspiracy that he started to exhibit aversion and negation. Some extremity movement too, deviating from his baseline."

Kathryn Dance was often called a human lie detector, but that wasn't accurate; in reality she, like all successful kinesic analysts and interrogators, was a stress detector. This was the key to deception; once she spotted stress, she'd probe the topic that gave rise to it and dig until the subject broke.

Kinesics experts identify several different types of stress individuals experience. The stress that arises primarily when someone isn't telling the whole truth is called "deception stress." But people also experience general stress, which occurs when they are merely uneasy or nervous, and has nothing to do with lying. It's what someone feels when, say, he's late for work, has to give a speech in public or is afraid of physical harm. Dance had found that different kinesic behaviors signal the two kinds of stress.

She explained this and added, "My sense was that he'd lost control of the interview and couldn't get it back. So he went ballistic."

"Even though what you were saying supported his defense?" Lanky Juan Millar absently scratched his left hand. In the fleshy Y between the index finger and thumb was a scar, the remnant of a removed gang tat.

"Exactly."

Then Dance's mind made one of its curious jumps. A to B to X. She couldn't explain how they happened. But she always paid attention. "Where was Robert Herron murdered?" She walked to a map of Monterey County on Sandoval's wall.

"Here." The prosecutor touched an area in the yellow trapezoid.

"And the well where they found the hammer and wallet?"

"About here, make it."

It was a quarter mile from the crime scene, in a residential area.

Dance was staring at the map.

She felt TJ's eyes on her. "What's wrong, boss?"

"You have a picture of the well?" she asked.

Sandoval dug in the file. "Juan's forensic people shot a lot of pics."

"Crime scene boys love their toys," Millar said, the rhyme sounding odd from the mouth of such a Boy Scout. He gave a shy smile. "I heard that somewhere."

The prosecutor produced a stack of color photographs, riffled through them until he found the ones he sought.

Gazing at them, Dance asked TJ, "We ran a case there six, eight months ago, remember?"

"The arson, sure. In that new housing development."

Tapping the map, the spot where the well was located, Dance continued, "The development is still under construction. And that"-she nodded at a photograph-"is a hard-rock well."

Everybody in the area knew that water was at such a premium in this part of California that hard-rock wells, with their low output and unreliable supply, were never used for agricultural irrigation, only for private homes.

"Shit." Sandoval closed his eyes briefly. "Ten years ago, when Herron was killed, that was all farmland. The well wouldn't've been there then."

"It wasn't there one year ago," Dance muttered. "That's why Pell was so stressed. I was getting close to the truth-somebody did get the hammer from his aunt's in Bakersfield and had a fake wallet made up, then planted them there recently. Only it wasn't to frame him."

"Oh, no," TJ whispered.

"What?" Millar asked, looking from one agent to the other.

"Pell set the whole thing up himself," she said.

"Why?" Sandoval asked.

"Because he couldn't escape from Capitola." That facility, like Pelican Bay in the north of the state, was a high-tech superprison. "But he could from here."

Kathryn Dance lunged for the phone.

Chapter 3

In a special holding cell-segregated from the other prisoners-Daniel Pell studied his cage and the corridor beyond, leading to the courthouse.

To all appearances he was calm but his heart was in turmoil. The woman cop interviewing him had spooked him badly, with her calm green eyes behind those black-framed glasses, her unwavering voice. He hadn't expected somebody to get inside his mind so deeply or so fast. It was like she could read his thoughts.

Kathryn Dance…

Pell turned back to Baxter, the guard, outside the cage. He was a decent hack, not like Pell's escort from Capitola, who was a burly man, black and hard as ebony, now sitting silently at the far door, watching everything.

"What I was saying," Pell now continued his conversation with Baxter. "Jesus helped me. I was up to three packs a day. And He took time outta His busy schedule to help me. I quit pretty much cold."

"Could use some of that help," the hack confided.

"I'll tell you," Pell confided, "smoking was harder to say good-bye to than the booze."

"Tried the patch, thing you put on your arm. Wasn't so good. Maybe I'll pray for help tomorrow. The wife and I pray every morning."

Pell wasn't surprised. He'd seen his lapel pin. It was in the shape of a fish. "Good for you."

"I lost my car keys last week and we prayed for an hour. Jesus told me where they were. Now, Daniel, here's a thought: You'll be down here on trial days. You want, we could pray together."

"'Preciate that."

Baxter's phone rang.

An instant later an alarm brayed, painful to the ears. "The hell's going on?"

The Capitola escort leapt to his feet.

Just as a huge ball of fire filled the parking lot. The window in the back of the cell was barred but open, and a wad of flame shot through it. Black, greasy smoke streamed into the room. Pell dropped to the floor. He curled up into a ball. "My dear Lord."

Baxter was frozen, staring at the boiling flames, engulfing the entire lot behind the courthouse. He grabbed the phone but the line must've been dead. He lifted his walkie-talkie and reported the fire. Daniel Pell lowered his head and began to mutter the Lord's Prayer.

"Yo, Pell!"

The con opened his eyes.

The massive Capitola escort stood nearby, holding a Taser. He tossed leg shackles to Pell. "Put ' em on. We're going down that corridor, out the front door and into the van. You're-" More flames streamed into the cell. The three men cringed. Another car's gas tank had exploded. "You're going to stay right beside me. You understand?"

"Yeah, sure. Let's go! Please!" He ratcheted on the shackles good and tight.

Sweating, his voice cracking, Baxter said, "Whatta you think it is? Terrorists?"

The Capitola escort ignored the panicked hack, eyes on Pell. "If you don't do 'xactly what I say you'll get fifty thousand volts up your ass." He pointed the Taser toward the prisoner. "And if it ain't convenient to carry you I will leave you to burn to death. Understand?"

"Yessir. Let's go. Please. I don't want you or Mr. Baxter getting hurt 'causa me. I'll do whatever you want."

"Open it," the escort barked to Baxter, who hit a button. With a buzz, the door eased outward. The three men started down the corridor, through another security door and then along a dim corridor, filling with smoke. The alarm was braying.

But, wait, Pell thought. It was a second alarm-the first had sounded before the explosions outside. Had someone figured out what he was going to do?

Kathryn Dance…

Just as they passed a fire door Pell glanced back. Thick smoke was filling the corridor around them. He cried to Baxter, "No, it's too late. The whole building's going to go! Let's get out of here."

"He's right." Baxter reached toward the alarm bar of the exit.

The Capitola escort, perfectly calm, said firmly, "No. Out the front door to the prison van."

"You're crazy!" Pell snapped. "For the love of God. We'll die." He shoved the fire door open.

The men were hit with a blast of fierce heat, smoke and sparks. Outside a wall of fire consumed cars and shrubbery and trash cans. Pell dropped to his knees, covering his face. He screamed, "My eyes…It hurts!"

"Pell, goddamn it-" The escort stepped forward, lifting the Taser.

"Put that down. He's not going anywhere," Baxter said angrily. "He's hurt."

"I can't see," Pell moaned. "Somebody help me!"

Baxter turned toward him, bent down.

"Don't!" the escort shouted.

Then the county hack staggered backward, a bewildered expression on his face, as Pell repeatedly shoved a filleting knife into his belly and chest. Bleeding in cascades, Baxter fell to his knees, trying for the pepper spray. Pell grabbed his shoulders and spun him around as the huge escort fired the Taser. It discharged but the probes went wide.

Pell shoved Baxter aside and leapt at the escort, the useless Taser falling to the floor.

The big man froze, staring at the knife. Pell's blue eyes studied his sweaty black face.