“No,” Dance said. “I wanted to ask you first.”

He seemed satisfied that he wasn’t being outmaneuvered. Still, he shook his head. “Airfare, guards, transportation…red tape. I really doubt I could get it through Sacramento. It’s too out of the box.” He noticed a frayed thread on his cuff and plucked it out. “I’m afraid I have to say no. Utah. I’m sure that’s where he’s headed now. After the scare at Moss Landing. It’d be crazy for him to stay around. Is the USP surveillance team up and running?”

“Yep,” TJ told him.

“Utah’d be good. Real good.”

Meaning, Dance understood: They nail him and CBI gets the credit, with no more loss of life in California. USP misses him, it’s their flub.

“Charles, I’m sure Utah’s a false lead. He’s not going to point us there and—”

“Unless,” her boss said triumphantly, “it’s a double twist. Think about it.”

“I did, and it’s not Pell’s profile. I really want to go forward with my idea.”

“I’m not sure….”

A voice from behind her. “Can I ask what that idea is?”

Dance turned to see a man in a dark suit, powder blue shirt and striped blue-and-black tie. Not classically handsome—he had a bit of a belly, prominent ears and, if he were to look down, a double chin would blossom. But he had unwavering, amused brown eyes and a flop of hair, identical brown, that hung over his forehead. His posture and appearance suggested an easy-going nature. He had a faint smile on narrow lips.

Overby asked, “Can I help you?”

Stepping closer, the man offered an FBI identification card. Special Agent Winston Kellogg.

“The babysitter is in the building,” TJ said, sotto voce, his hand over his mouth. She ignored him.

“Charles Overby. Thanks for coming, Agent Kellogg.”

“Please, call me Win. I’m with the bureau’s MVCC.”

“That’s—”

“Multiple Victims Coercive Crimes Division.”

“That’s the new term for cults?” Dance asked.

“We used to call it Cult Unit actually. But that wasn’t PCP.”

TJ frowned. “Drugs?”

“Not a politically correct phrase.”

She laughed. “I’m Kathryn Dance.”

“TJ Scanlon.”

“Thomas Jefferson?”

TJ gave a cryptic smile. Even Dance didn’t know his full name. It might even have been just TJ.

Addressing all of the CBI agents, Kellogg offered, “I want to say something up front. Yeah, I’m the Fed. But I don’t want to ruffle feathers. I’m here as a consultant—to give you whatever insights I can about how Pell thinks and acts. I’m happy to take the backseat.”

Even if he didn’t mean it 100 percent, Dance gave him credit for the reassurance. It was unusual in the world of law enforcement egos to hear one of the Washington folk say something like this.

“Appreciate that,” Overby said.