The Sleeping Doll by Jeffery Deaver

heart gave a jolt.
    “Just keep those hands where I can see them, how’s that?” The man wasa short, fidgety officer with the California Bureau of Investigation. Nagle read the ID dangling from his neck.
    “Hey, what—”
    “Shhhhh,” hissed the officer, who had curly red hair. “And those hands? Remember where I want ’em? . . . Hey, Rey.”
    The Latino joined them. He too had a CBI ID card. He looked Nagle up and down. Together they led him to the side of the courthouse, attracting the attention of everybody nearby.
    “Look, I don’t know—”
    “Shhhhh,” the wiry agent offered again.
    The Latino frisked him carefully and nodded. Then he lifted Nagle’s press pass off his chest and showed it to the shorter officer.
    “Hm,” he said. “This is a little out of date, wouldn’t you say?”
    “Technically, but—”
    “Sir, it’s four years out of date,” the Latino officer pointed out.
    “That’s a big bowl of technical,” his partner said.
    “I must’ve picked up the wrong one. I’ve been a reporter for—”
    “So, if we called this paper, they’d say you’re a credentialed employee?”
    If they called the paper they’d get a nonworking number.
    “Look, I can explain.”
    The short officer frowned. “You know, I sure would like an explanation. See, I was just talking to this groundskeeper, who told me that a man fitting your description was here about eight thirty this morning. There were no other reporters here then. And why would that be? Because there was no escape then. . . . Getting here before the story breaks. That’s quite a—whatta they call that, Rey?”
    “Scoop?”
    “Yeah, that’s quite a scoop. So, ’fore you do any explaining, turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
    •    •    •
    In the conference room on the second floor of the courthouse, TJ handed Dance what he’d found on Morton Nagle.
    No weapons, no incendiary fuse, no maps of the courthouse or escape routes.
    Just money, wallet, camera, tape recorder and thick notebook. Along with three true-crime books, his name on the cover and his picture on the back (appearing much younger, and hairier).
    “He’s a paperback writer,” TJ sang, not doing justice to the Beatles.
    Nagle was described in the author bio as “a former war correspondent and police reporter, who now writes books about crime. A resident of Scottsdale, Ariz., he is the author of thirteen works of nonfiction. He claims his other professions are gadabout, nomad and raconteur.”
    “This doesn’t let you off the hook,” Dance snapped. “What’re you doing here? And why were you at the courthouse before the fire?”
    “I’m not covering the escape. I got here early to get some interviews.”
    O’Neil said, “With Pell? He doesn’t give them.”
    “No, no, not Pell. With the family of Robert Herron. I heard they were coming to testify to the grand jury.”
    “What about the fake press pass?”
    “Okay, it’s been four years since I’ve been credentialed with a magazine or newspaper. I’ve been writing books full-time. But without a press pass you can’t get anywhere. Nobody ever looks at the date.”
    “ Almost never,” TJ corrected with a smile.
    Dance flipped through one of the books. It was about the Peterson murder case in California a few years ago. It seemed well written.
    TJ looked up from his laptop. “He’s clean, boss. At least no priors. DMV pic checks out too.”
    “I’m writing a book. It’s all legit. You can check.”
    He gave them the name of his editor in Manhattan. Dance called the large publishing company and spoke to the woman, whose attitude was, Oh, hell, what’s Morton got himself into now? But she confirmed that he’d signed a contract for a new book about Pell.
    Dance said to TJ, “Uncuff him.”
    O’Neil turned to the author and asked, “What’s the book about?”
    “It isn’t like any true crime you’ve read before. It’s not about the murders. That’s been