The smile was still there but it was a sad smile and Kathryn Dance realized that his cause was one with which she, as a mother and Major Crimes agent who’d worked plenty of rape, assault and homicide cases, could empathize.

“This’s added another wrinkle.” He gestured around him. “It’s much harder to track down victims and family members in a cold case. Herron was killed about ten years ago. I was thinking…” Nagle’s voice faded and he was frowning, though inexplicably a sparkle returned to his eyes. “Wait, wait…Oh my God, Pell didn’t have anything to do with the Herron death, did he? He confessed to get out of Capitola so he could escape from here.”

“We don’t know about that,” Dance said judiciously. “We’re still investigating.”

Nagle didn’t believe her. “Did he fake evidence? Or get somebody to come forward and lie. I’ll bet he did.”

In a low, even tone Michael O’Neil said, “We wouldn’t want there to be any rumors that might interfere with the investigation.” When the chief deputy made suggestions in this voice people always heeded the advice.

“Fine. I won’t say anything.”

“Appreciate that,” Dance said, then asked, “Mr. Nagle, do you have any information that could help us? Where Daniel Pell might be going, what he might be up to? Who’s helping him?”

With his potbelly, wispy hair and genial laugh, Nagle seemed like a middle-aged elf. He hitched up his pants. “No idea. I’m sorry. I really just got started on the project a month or so ago. I’ve been doing the background research.”

“You mentioned you plan to write about the women in Pell’s Family too. Have you contacted them?”

“Two of them. I asked if they’d be willing to let me interview them.”

O’Neil asked, “They’re out of jail?”

“Oh, yes. They weren’t involved in the Croyton murders. They got short terms, mostly for larceny-related offenses.”

O’Neil completed Dance’s thought. “Could one of them, or both, I guess, be his accomplice?”

Nagle considered this. “I can’t see it. They think Pell’s the worst thing that ever happened to them.”

“Who are they?” O’Neil asked.

“Rebecca Sheffield. She lives in San Diego. And Linda Whitfield is in Portland.”

“Have they kept out of trouble?”

“Think so. No police records I could find. Linda lives with her brother and his wife. She works for a church. Rebecca runs a consulting service for small businesses. My impression is they’ve put the past behind them.”

“You have their numbers?”

The writer flipped through a notebook of fat pages. His handwriting was sloppy and large—and the notes voluminous.

“There was a third woman in the Family,” Dance said, recalling the research she’d done for the interview.