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’Neil hunched close over the tiny screen on the back. Dance detected a new aftershave. She felt comfort in his proximity.

The writer scrolled through the pictures. Most of them were of people walking into the courthouse, a few artistic shots of the front of the building in the fog.

Then the detective and the agent simultaneously said, “Wait.” The image they were looking at depicted the driveway that led to where the fire had occurred. They could make out someone behind a car, just the back visible, wearing a blue jacket, a baseball cap and sunglasses.

“Look at the arm.”

Dance nodded. It seemed the person’s arm trailed behind, as if wheeling a suitcase.

“Is that time stamped?”

Nagle called up the readout. “Nine twenty-two.”

“That’d work out just right,” Dance said, recalling the fire marshal’s estimate of the time the gas bomb had been planted. “Can you blow up the image?”

“Not in the camera.”