Read Online The Sleeping Doll by Jeffery Deaver - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeffery Deaver
Ads: Link
might be.
“We don’t know what he has in mind,” Dance told the woman. “We have no reason to believe you’re in danger, but—”
“Oh, Daniel wouldn’t hurt me,” she said quickly.
“Still, you might want to tell your local police.”
“Well, I’ll think about it.” Then she added, “Is there a hotline I can call and find out what’s going on?”
“We don’t have anything set up like that. But the press’s covering it closely. You can get the details on the news as fast as we know them.”
“Well, my brother doesn’t have a television.”
No TV?
“Well, if there are any significant developments, I’ll let you know. And if you can think of anything else, please call.” Dance gave her the phone numbers and hung up.
A few moments later CBI chief Charles Overby strode into the room. “Press conference went well, I think. They asked some prickly questions. They always do. But I fielded them okay, I have to say. Stayed one step ahead. You see it?” He nodded at the TV in the corner. No one had bothered to turn up the volume to hear his performance.
“Missed it, Charles. Been on the phone.”
“Who’s he?” Overby asked. He’d been staring at Nagle as if he should know him.
Dance introduced them, then the writer instantly disappeared from the agent in charge’s radar screen. “Any progress at all?” A glance at the maps.
“No reports anywhere,” Dance told him. Then explained that she’d contacted two of the women who’d been in Pell’s Family. “One’s from San Diego, one’s from Portland, and we’re looking for the other right now. At least we know the first two aren’t the accomplice.”
“Because you believe them?” Overby asked. “You could tell that from the tone of their voices?”
None of the officers in the room said anything. So it was up to Dance tolet her boss know he’d missed the obvious. “I don’t think they could’ve set the gas bombs and gotten back home by now.”
A brief pause. Overby said, “Oh, you called them where they live. You didn’t say that.”
Kathryn Dance, former reporter and jury consultant, had played in the real world for a long time. She avoided TJ’s glance and said, “You’re right, Charles, I didn’t. Sorry.”
The CBI head turned to O’Neil. “This’s a tough one, Michael. Lots of angles. Sure glad you’re available to help us out.”
“Glad to do what I can.”
This was Charles Overby at his best. Using the words “help us” to make clear who was running the show, while also tacitly explaining that O’Neil and the MCSO were on the line too.
Stash the blame . . .
Overby announced he was headed back to the CBI office and left the conference room.
Dance now turned to Morton Nagle. “Do you have any research about Pell I could look at?”
“Well, I suppose. But why?”
“Maybe help us get some idea of where he’s going,” O’Neil said.
“Copies,” the writer said. “Not the originals.”
“That’s fine,” Dance told him. “One of us’ll come by later and pick them up. Where’s your office?”
Nagle worked out of a house he was renting in Monterey. He gave Dance the address and phone number, then began packing up his camera bag.
Dance glanced down at it. “Hold on.”
Nagle noticed her eyes on the contents. He smiled. “I’d be happy to.”
“I’m sorry?”
He picked up a copy of one of his true-crime books, Blind Trust , and with a flourish autographed it for her.
“Thanks.” She set it down and pointed at what she’d actually been looking at. “Your camera. Did you take any pictures this morning? Before the fire?”
“Oh.” He smiled wryly at the misunderstanding. “Yes, I did.”
“It’s digital?”
“That’s right.”
“Can we see them?”
Nagle picked up the Canon and began to push buttons. She and O’Neilhunched close over the tiny screen on the back. Dance detected a new aftershave. She felt comfort in his proximity.
The writer scrolled through the
“We don’t know what he has in mind,” Dance told the woman. “We have no reason to believe you’re in danger, but—”
“Oh, Daniel wouldn’t hurt me,” she said quickly.
“Still, you might want to tell your local police.”
“Well, I’ll think about it.” Then she added, “Is there a hotline I can call and find out what’s going on?”
“We don’t have anything set up like that. But the press’s covering it closely. You can get the details on the news as fast as we know them.”
“Well, my brother doesn’t have a television.”
No TV?
“Well, if there are any significant developments, I’ll let you know. And if you can think of anything else, please call.” Dance gave her the phone numbers and hung up.
A few moments later CBI chief Charles Overby strode into the room. “Press conference went well, I think. They asked some prickly questions. They always do. But I fielded them okay, I have to say. Stayed one step ahead. You see it?” He nodded at the TV in the corner. No one had bothered to turn up the volume to hear his performance.
“Missed it, Charles. Been on the phone.”
“Who’s he?” Overby asked. He’d been staring at Nagle as if he should know him.
Dance introduced them, then the writer instantly disappeared from the agent in charge’s radar screen. “Any progress at all?” A glance at the maps.
“No reports anywhere,” Dance told him. Then explained that she’d contacted two of the women who’d been in Pell’s Family. “One’s from San Diego, one’s from Portland, and we’re looking for the other right now. At least we know the first two aren’t the accomplice.”
“Because you believe them?” Overby asked. “You could tell that from the tone of their voices?”
None of the officers in the room said anything. So it was up to Dance tolet her boss know he’d missed the obvious. “I don’t think they could’ve set the gas bombs and gotten back home by now.”
A brief pause. Overby said, “Oh, you called them where they live. You didn’t say that.”
Kathryn Dance, former reporter and jury consultant, had played in the real world for a long time. She avoided TJ’s glance and said, “You’re right, Charles, I didn’t. Sorry.”
The CBI head turned to O’Neil. “This’s a tough one, Michael. Lots of angles. Sure glad you’re available to help us out.”
“Glad to do what I can.”
This was Charles Overby at his best. Using the words “help us” to make clear who was running the show, while also tacitly explaining that O’Neil and the MCSO were on the line too.
Stash the blame . . .
Overby announced he was headed back to the CBI office and left the conference room.
Dance now turned to Morton Nagle. “Do you have any research about Pell I could look at?”
“Well, I suppose. But why?”
“Maybe help us get some idea of where he’s going,” O’Neil said.
“Copies,” the writer said. “Not the originals.”
“That’s fine,” Dance told him. “One of us’ll come by later and pick them up. Where’s your office?”
Nagle worked out of a house he was renting in Monterey. He gave Dance the address and phone number, then began packing up his camera bag.
Dance glanced down at it. “Hold on.”
Nagle noticed her eyes on the contents. He smiled. “I’d be happy to.”
“I’m sorry?”
He picked up a copy of one of his true-crime books, Blind Trust , and with a flourish autographed it for her.
“Thanks.” She set it down and pointed at what she’d actually been looking at. “Your camera. Did you take any pictures this morning? Before the fire?”
“Oh.” He smiled wryly at the misunderstanding. “Yes, I did.”
“It’s digital?”
“That’s right.”
“Can we see them?”
Nagle picked up the Canon and began to push buttons. She and O’Neilhunched close over the tiny screen on the back. Dance detected a new aftershave. She felt comfort in his proximity.
The writer scrolled through the
Similar Books
