O’Neil shrugged. “No idea. Her boss didn’t know who. Maybe Pell saw them and followed.”

“Next of kin?”

“Nobody here, doesn’t look like,” the Coroner’s Division officer said. “Her parents’re in Denver. I’ll make that call when I get back to the office.”

“TOD?”

“Last night, maybe seven to nine. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”

Pell had left little evidence behind, except a few faint footsteps in the sand that seemed to lead toward the beach then were lost in the pale grass littering the dunes. No other prints or tread marks were visible.

What was in the files he’d stolen? What didn’t he want them to know?

Kellogg was walking around the area, getting a feel for the crime scene, maybe considering it in light of his specialty, cult mentality.

Dance told O’Neil about Rebecca’s idea that Pell was after a big score, presumably so that he could buy an enclave somewhere.

“‘Mountaintop’ was what Linda said. And the big score might’ve been the Croyton break-in.” She added her idea that maybe Pell had hidden something of Croyton’s in the getaway car.

“I think it was why he was searching Visual-Earth. To check the place out.”

“Interesting theory,” O’Neil said. He and Dance would often brainstorm when they were working cases together. They’d occasionally come up with some truly bizarre theories about the crimes they were investigating. Sometimes those theories actually turned out to be right.

Dance told TJ to check out the status of the vehicle Pell had been driving on the night of the Croyton murders and if there’d been an inventory of the car’s contents. “And see if Pell owns property anywhere in the state.”

“Will do, boss.”

Dance looked around. “Why’d he abandon the car here? He could’ve gone east into the woods, and nobody would’ve found it for days. It’s a lot more visible here.”

Michael O’Neil pointed at a narrow pier extending into the ocean. “The T-bird’s out of commission. He’s ditched the stolen Ford Focus by now. Maybe he got away by boat.”

“Boat?” Dance asked.

“His footsteps go that way. None head back to the road.”

Kellogg was nodding but slowly, and the motion said, I don’t think so. “It’s a little rough, don’t you think, to dock a boat there?”

“Not for somebody who knows what they’re doing.”

“Could you?”

“Me? Sure. Depending on the wind.”

A pause as Winston Kellogg looked over the scene. Rain started coming down steadily. He didn’t seem to notice. “My thinking is that he started that way for some reason, maybe to lead us off. But then he turned and headed back over the dunes to the road, met his accomplice somewhere along here.”