"I don't know what good it'd do."

"It's important."

A pause. "Well, now, Agent Dance, I really don't think they'd be inclined. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee it."

"Will you give me their number? Please?" Direct questions are often the most effective.

But so are direct answers. "No. Good-bye now, Agent Dance."

Dance and O'Neil were alone in her office.

She'd learned from the Orange County Sheriff's Department that Jennie Marston's father was dead and her mother had a history of petty crime, drug abuse and emotional disabilities. There was no record of the mother's whereabouts; she had a few relatives on the East Coast but no one had heard from Jennie in years.

Dance learned that Jennie had gone to community college for a year, studying food management, then dropped out, apparently to get married. She'd worked for a Hair Cuttery for a year and then went into food service, employed by a number of caterers and bakeries in Orange County, a quiet worker who would arrive on time, do her job and then leave. She led a solitary life, and deputies could find no acquaintances, no close friends. Her ex-husband hadn't talked to her in years but said that she deserved whatever happened to her.

Not surprisingly, police records revealed a history of difficult relationships. Deputies had been summoned by hospital workers at least a half-dozen times on suspicion of domestic abuse involving the ex and at least four other partners. Social Services had started files, but Jennie had never pursued any complaints, let alone sought restraining orders.

Just the sort to fall prey to someone like Daniel Pell.

Dance mentioned this to O'Neil. The detective nodded. He was looking out Dance's window at two pine trees that had grafted themselves to each other over the years, producing a knuckle-like knot at eye level. Dance would often stare at the curious blemish when the facts of a case refused to coalesce into helpful insights.

"So, what's on your mind?" she asked.

"You want to know?"

"I asked, didn't I?" In a tone of good humor.

It wasn't reciprocated. He said testily, "You were right. He was wrong."

"Kellogg? At the motel?"

"We should've followed your initial plan. Set up a surveillance perimeter the minute we heard about the motel. Not spent a half-hour assembling Tactical. That's how he caught on. Somebody gave something away."

Instincts of a cat…

She hated defending herself, especially to someone she was so close to. "A takedown made sense at the time; a lot was going on and it was happening fast."

"No, it didn't make sense. That's why you hesitated. Even at the end, you weren't sure."

"Who knows anything in situations like this?"

"Okay, you felt it was the wrong approach and what you feel is usually right."

"It was just bad luck. If we'd moved in earlier, we probably would've had him." She regretted saying this, afraid he'd take her words as a criticism of the MCSO.

"And people would've died. We're just goddamn lucky nobody was hurt. Kellogg's plan was a prescription for a shootout. I think we're lucky Pell wasn't there. It could've been a bloodbath." He crossed his arms-a protective gesture, which was ironic because he still had on the bulletproof vest. "You're giving up control of the operation. Your operation."

"To Winston?"

"Yes, exactly. He's a consultant. And it seems like he's running the case."

"He's the specialist, Michael. I'm not. You're not."

"He is? I'm sorry, he talks about the cult mentality, he talks about profiles. But I don't see him closing in on Pell. You're the one who's been doing that."

"Look at his credentials, his background. He's an expert."

"Okay, he's got some insights. They're helpful. But he wasn't enough of an expert to catch Pell an hour ago." He lowered his voice. "Look, at the hotel, Overby backed Winston. Obviously-he's the one who wanted him on board. You got the pressure from the FBI and your boss. But we've handled pressure before, the two of us. We could've backed them down."

"What exactly are you saying? That I'm deferring to him for some other reason?"

Looking away. An aversion gesture. People feel stress not only when they lie; sometimes they feel it when they tell the truth. "I'm saying you're giving Kellogg too much control over the operation. And, frankly, over yourself."

She snapped, "Because he reminds me of my husband? Is that what you're saying?"

"I don't know. You tell me. Does he remind you of Bill?"

"This is ridiculous."

"You brought it up."

"Well, anything other than professional judgment's none of your business."

"Fine," O'Neil said tersely. "I'll stick to professional judgment. Winston was off base. And you acquiesced to him, knowing he was wrong."

"'Knowing?' It was fifty-five, forty-five on the tac approach at the motel. I had one opinion at first. I changed it. Any good officer can be swayed."

"By reason. By logical analysis."

"What about your judgment? How objective are you?"

"Me? Why aren't I objective?"

"Because of Juan."

A faint recognition response in O'Neil's eyes. Dance had hit close to home, and she supposed the detective felt responsible in some way for the young officer's death, thinking perhaps that he hadn't trained Millar enough.

His protégés…

She regretted her comment.

Dance and O'Neil had fought before; you can't have friendship and a working relationship without wrinkles. But never with an edge this sharp. And why was he saying what he did, his comments slipping over the bounds into her personal life? This was a first.

And the kinesics read almost as jealousy.

They fell silent. The detective lifted his hands and shrugged. This was an emblem gesture, which translated: I've said my piece. The tension in the room was as tight as that entwined pine knot, thin fibers woven together into steel.

They resumed their discussion of the next steps: checking with Orange County for more details about Jennie Marston, canvassing for witnesses and following up on the crime scene at the Sea View Motel. They sent Carraneo to the airport, bus station and rental-car offices armed with the woman's picture. They kicked around a few other ideas too, but the climate in the office had dropped significantly, summer to fall, and when Winston Kellogg came into the room, O'Neil retreated, explaining that he had to check in with his office and brief the sheriff. He said a perfunctory good-bye that was aimed at neither of them.

His hand throbbing from the cut sustained when he vaulted the Bollings' chain-link fence, Morton Nagle glanced at the guard outside the holding cell of Napa County Men's Detention.

The big Latino reciprocated with a cold gaze.

Apparently Nagle had committed the number-one offense in Vallejo Springs-not the technical infractions of trespass and assault (where the hell had they got that?) but the far more troubling crime of upsetting their local daughter.

"I have a right to make a phone call."

No response.

He wanted to reassure his wife that he was okay. But mostly he wanted to get word to Kathryn Dance about where Theresa was. He'd changed his mind and given up on his book and journalistic ethics. Goddamn it, he was going to do everything in his power to make sure that Daniel Pell got caught and flung back into Capitola.

Not illuminating evil, but attacking it himself. Like a shark. Seeing Theresa in person was what had swayed him: a dear, attractive, vivacious girl who deserved to be leading the normal life of a teenager, and pure evil had destroyed the hope for that. Telling people her story wasn't enough; Morton Nagle personally wanted Pell's head.