Roadside Crosses: A Kathryn Dance Novel (42 page)

Dance said reasonably, “There’s been a series of very serious crimes, Mr. Brubaker. We’re looking into all possibilities. You have a grudge against James Chilton, and you’ve assaulted him once already.”

“And, really,” he said in a dismissive tone, “do you think it’d be the smartest thing in the world to get into a public brawl with a man I’m secretly trying to kill?”

Either very stupid or very smart, Dance responded silently. She then asked, “Where were you at the times
I mentioned? You can tell us, or you can refuse and we’ll keep investigating.”

“You’re as much of a prick as Chilton is. Actually, Agent Dance, you’re worse. You hide behind your shield.”

Carraneo stirred but said nothing.

She too was silent. Either he was going to tell them or he was going to throw them out.

Wrong, Dance realized. There was a third option, one that had been percolating since she’d been listening to the eerie creaks in the seemingly deserted house.

Brubaker was going for a weapon.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he whispered, and, eyes wide in anger, yanked open the top desk drawer. His hand shot inside.

Dance flashed on her children’s faces, then her husband’s and then Michael O’Neil’s.

Please, she thought, praying for speed. . . .

“Rey, behind us! Cover!”

And when Brubaker looked up he was staring into the muzzle of her Glock pistol, while Carraneo was facing the opposite way, aiming at the door to the office.

Both agents were crouching.

“Jesus, take it easy!” he cried.

“Clear so far,” Carraneo said.

“Check it out,” she ordered.

The young man eased to the door and, standing to the side, pushed it open with his foot. “Clear.”

He spun around to cover Brubaker.

“Lift your hands slowly,” Dance said, her Glock steady enough. “If you have a weapon in your hand,
drop it immediately. Don’t lift it or lower it. Just drop it. If you don’t—now—we will shoot. Understand?”

Arnold Brubaker gasped. “I don’t have a gun.”

She didn’t hear a weapon hit the expensive floor, but he was lifting his hands very slowly.

Unlike Dance’s, they weren’t shaking at all.

In the developer’s ruddy fingers was a business card, which he flicked toward her contemptuously. The agents holstered their weapons. They sat.

Dance looked at the card, reflecting that a situation that couldn’t get any more awkward just had. On the card was the gold-embossed seal of the Department of Justice—the eagle and the fine print. She knew FBI agents’ cards very well. She still had a large box of them at home: her husband’s.

“At the time you mentioned, yesterday, I was meeting with Amy Grabe.” Special agent in charge of the San Francisco office of the Bureau. “We were meeting here and at the site. From about eleven a.m. to three p.m.”

Oh.

Brubaker said, “Desalination and water-based infrastructure projects are terrorist targets. I’ve been working with Homeland Security and the FBI to make sure that if the project gets under way, there’ll be adequate security.” He looked at her calmly and with contempt. The tip of his tongue touched a lip. “I’m hoping it will be
federal
officers involved. I’m losing confidence in the local constabulary.”

Kathryn Dance wasn’t about to apologize. She’d check with SAC Amy Grabe, whom she knew and, despite differences of opinion, respected. And even though an alibi wouldn’t absolve him from hiring a
thug to commit the actual crimes, it was hard for Dance to believe that a man working closely with the FBI and DHS would risk murder. Besides, everything about Brubaker’s demeanor suggested he was telling the truth.

“All right, Mr. Brubaker. We’ll check out what you’re telling us.”

“I hope you do.”

“I appreciate your time.”

“You can find your own way out,” he snapped.

Carraneo cast a sheepish glance her way. Dance rolled her eyes.

When they were at the door, Brubaker said, “Wait. Hold on.” The agents turned. “Well, was I right?”

“Right?”

“That you think somebody killed the boy and set him up to be the fall guy in some plot to kill Chilton?”

A pause. Then she thought: Why not? She answered, “We think it’s possible, yes.”

“Here.” Brubaker jotted something on a slip of paper and offered it. “He’s somebody you ought to be looking at. He’d love for the blog—and the blogger—to disappear.”

Dance glanced at the note.

Wondering why she hadn’t thought of the suspect herself.

PARKED ON A
dusty street near the small town of Marina, five miles north of Monterey, Dance was alone in her Crown Vic, on the phone with TJ.

“Brubaker?” she asked.

“No criminal record,” he told her. And his work—and the alibi—with the FBI was confirmed.

He still might’ve hired somebody for the job, but this information did ease him out of the hot seat.

Attention was now on the man whose name Brubaker had given her. The name on the slip of paper was Clint Avery and she was presently gazing at him from about one hundred yards away, through a chain-link fence—topped with razor wire—that surrounded his massive construction company.

The name Avery had never come up as someone involved in the case. For very good reason: The builder had never posted on the blog and Chilton had never written about him in
The Report.

Not by name, that is. The “Yellow Brick Road” thread didn’t mention Avery specifically. But questioned the government’s decision to build the highway and the bidding process, by implication also criticizing
the contractor—which Dance should have known was Avery Construction, since she’d been flagged down by a company team at the site of the highway work when she’d been on her way to Caitlin Gardner’s summer school two days ago. She hadn’t put the two pieces together.

TJ Scanlon now told her, “Seems that Clint Avery was connected with a company investigated for using substandard materials about five years ago. Investigation got dropped real fast. Maybe Chilton’s reporting might get the case reopened.”

A good motive to kill the blogger, Dance agreed. “Thanks, TJ. That’s good. . . . And Chilton’s got you the list of other suspects?”

“Yep.”

“Any others stand out?”

“Not yet, boss. But I’m glad I don’t have as many enemies as he does.”

She gave a brief laugh and they disconnected.

From the distance, Dance continued to study Clint Avery. She’d seen pictures of him a dozen times—on the news and in the papers. He was hard to miss. Though he would certainly have been a millionaire many times over, he was dressed the same as any other worker: a blue shirt sprouting pens in the breast pocket, tan work slacks, boots. The sleeves were rolled up and she spotted a tattoo on his leathery forearm. In his hand was a yellow hard hat. A big walkie-talkie sat on his hip. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a six-shooter; his broad, mustachioed face looked like a gunslinger’s.

She started the engine and drove through the gates. Avery noticed her car. He squinted slightly and
seemed to recognize hers immediately as a government car. He concluded his discussion with a leather-jacketed man, who walked away. Quickly.

She parked. Avery Construction was a no-nonsense company, devoted to one purpose: building things. Huge stores of construction materials, bulldozers, Cats, backhoes, trucks and jeeps. There was a concrete plant on the premises and what appeared to be metal-and wood-working shops, large diesel tanks for feeding the vehicles, Quonset huts and storage sheds. The main office was made up of a number of large, functional buildings, all low. No graphic designer or landscaper had been involved in the creation of Avery Construction.

Dance identified herself. The head of the company was cordial and shook hands, his eyes crinkling lines into the tanned face as he glanced at her ID.

“Mr. Avery, we’re hoping you can help us. You’re familiar with the crimes that have been occurring around the Peninsula?”

“The Mask Killer, that boy, sure. I heard someone else was killed today. Terrible. How can I help you?”

“The killer’s leaving roadside memorials as a warning that he’s going to commit more crimes.”

He nodded. “I’ve seen that on the news.”

“Well, we’ve noticed something curious. Several of the crosses have been left near sites of your construction projects.”

“They have?” Now a frown, his brow creasing significantly. Was it out of proportion to the news? Dance couldn’t tell. Avery started to turn his head, then stopped. Had he instinctively been looking toward his leather-jacketed associate?

“How can I help?”

“We want to talk to some of your employees to see if they’ve noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“Such as?”

“Passersby behaving suspiciously, unusual objects, maybe footprints or bicycle tire tread marks in areas that were roped off for construction. Here’s a list of locations.” She’d written down several earlier in the car.

Concern on his face, he looked over the list then slipped the sheet into his shirt pocket and crossed his arms. This in itself meant little kinesically, since she hadn’t had time to get a baseline reading. But arm and leg crossing are defensive gestures and can signify discomfort. “You want me to give you a list of employees who’ve worked around there? Since the killings began, I assume.”

“Exactly. It would be a big help.”

“I assume you’d like this sooner rather than later.”

“As soon as possible.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

She thanked him and walked back to the car, then drove out of the parking lot and up the road. Dance pulled up beside a dark blue Honda Accord nearby. She was pointed the opposite way, so her open window was two feet from Rey Carraneo’s. He sat in the driver’s seat of the Honda in shirtsleeves, without a tie. She’d seen him dressed this casually only twice before: at a Bureau picnic and one very bizarre barbecue at Charles Overby’s house.

“He’s got the bait,” Dance said. “I have no idea if he’ll bite.”

“How did he react?”

“Hard to call. I didn’t have time to take a baseline. But my sense was that he was struggling to seem calm and cooperative. He was more nervous than he let on. I’m also not so sure about one of his helpers.” She described the man in the leather jacket. “Either one of them leaves, stay close.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

PATRIZIA CHILTON OPENED
the door and nodded to Greg Ashton, the man her husband called an Über Blogger—in that cute but slightly obnoxious way of Jim’s.

“Hi, Pat,” Ashton said. They shook hands. The slim man, in expensive tan slacks and a nice sports coat, nodded toward the squad car sitting in the road. “That deputy? He wouldn’t give anything away. But he’s here because of those killings, right?”

“They’re just taking precautions.”

“I’ve been following the story. You must be pretty upset.”

She gave a stoic smile. “That’s putting it mildly. It’s been a nightmare.” She liked being able to admit to how she felt. She couldn’t always do that with Jim. She believed she had to be supportive. In fact, she was sometimes furious at his role as a relentless investigative journalist. It was important, she understood, but sometimes she just plain hated the blog.

And now . . . endangering the family and forcing them to move to a hotel? This morning she’d had to ask her brother, a big man who’d been a bouncer in college, to escort the boys to their day camp, stay there and bring them back.

She bolted the door behind them. “Can I get you anything?” Patrizia asked Ashton.

“No, no, I’m fine, thanks.”

Patrizia walked him to the door of her husband’s office, her eyes taking in the backyard through a large window in the hallway.

A tap of concern in her chest.

Had she seen something in the bushes behind the house? Was it a person?

She paused.

“Something wrong?” Ashton asked.

Her heart was pounding hard. “I . . . Nothing. Probably just a deer. I have to say this whole case has got my nerves shaken.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“It’s gone,” she said. But was it? She couldn’t tell. Yet she didn’t want to alarm their guest. Besides, all the windows and doors were locked.

They arrived at her husband’s office and stepped inside. “Honey,” she said. “It’s Greg.”

“Ah, right on time.”

The men shook hands.

Patrizia said, “Greg said he doesn’t care for anything. How ’bout you, honey?”

“No, I’m fine. Any more tea and I’ll be in the bathroom for the whole meeting.”

“Well, I’ll leave you two boys to do your work and get back to packing.” Her heart sank again at the thought of moving into a hotel. She hated being driven from her home. At least the boys would consider it an adventure.

“Actually,” Ashton said, “hold on a minute, Pat. I’m going to do a video of Jim’s operation to post on my
site. I want to include you too.” He set his briefcase on the table and opened it up.

“Me?”
Patrizia gasped. “Oh, no. I haven’t done my hair. And my makeup.”

Ashton said, “First of all, you look fantastic. But most important, blogging isn’t about hair and makeup. It’s about authenticity. I’ve shot dozens of these and I’ve never let anybody so much as put on lipstick.”

“Well, I guess.” Patrizia was distracted, thinking about the motion she’d seen behind the house. She should tell the deputy out front about it.

Ashton laughed. “It’s only a webcam anyway, medium resolution.” He held up the small video camera.

“You’re not going to ask me questions, are you?” She was growing panicky at the thought. Jim’s blog alone had hundreds of thousands of viewers. Greg Ashton’s probably had many more. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“It’ll be sound bites. Just talk about what it’s like to be married to a blogger.”

Her husband laughed. “I’ll bet she has plenty to say.”

“We can do as many takes as you want.” Ashton set a tripod up in the corner of the room and mounted the camera.

Jim straightened his desktop, organizing the dozens of stacks of journals and papers. Ashton laughed and shook a finger. “We want it authentic, Jim.”