Roadside Crosses: A Kathryn Dance Novel

by Jeffery Deaver

  Caitlin’s mother, her face white and bewildered, eased forward tentatively. She put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. The girl stiffened momentarily and then surrendered, sobbing and pressing her head against her mother’s chest.

  After a few minutes, the woman, crying herself, looked at Dance. “What’s going to happen?”

  “You and your husband should find a lawyer for Caitlin. Then call the police right away. She should surrender voluntarily. The sooner the better.”

  Caitlin wiped her face. “It’s hurt so bad, lying. I was going to say something. I really, really was. But then people started to attack Travis—all those things they said—and I knew if I told the truth they’d attack me.” She lowered her head. “I couldn’t do it. All those things people’d say about me . . . they’d be up on their site forever.”

  More worried about her image than the deaths of her friends.

  But Dance wasn’t here to expiate the teenager’s guilt. All she’d needed was confirmation of her theory that Travis had taken the fall for Caitlin. She rose and left the mother and daughter, offering the briefest of farewells.

  Outside, jogging toward her car, she hit speed-dial button three—Michael O’Neil.

  He answered on the second ring. Thank God the Other Case wasn’t keeping him completely incommunicado.

  “Hey.” He sounded tired.

  “Michael.”

  “What’s wrong?” He’d grown alert; apparently her tone told stories too.

  “I know you’re swamped, but any chance I could come by? I need to brainstorm. I’ve found something.”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Travis Brigham isn’t the Roadside Cross Killer.”

  DANCE AND O’NEIL were in his office in the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office in Salinas.

  The windows looked out on the courthouse, in front of which were two dozen of the Life First protesters, along with the wattle-necked Reverend Fisk. Apparently bored with protesting in front of Stuart and Edie Dance’s empty house, they’d moved to where they stood a chance of getting some publicity. Fisk was talking to the associate she’d seen earlier: the brawny redheaded bodyguard.

  Dance turned away from the window and joined O’Neil at his unsteady conference table. The place was filled with ordered stacks of files. She wondered which were related to the Indonesian container case. O’Neil rocked back on two legs of a wooden chair. “So, let’s hear it.”

  She explained quickly about how the investigation had led to Jason and then into the DimensionQuest game and ultimately to Caitlin Gardner and the confession that Travis had taken the fall for her.

  “Infatuation?” he asked.

  But Dance said, “Sure, that’s part of it. But there’s something else going on. She wants to go to medical school. That’s important to Travis.”

  “Medical school?”

  “Medicine, healing. In that game he plays, DimensionQuest, Travis is a famous healer. I’m thinking one of the reasons he protected her was because of that. His avatar is Medicus. A doctor. He feels a connection to her.”

  “That’s a little farfetched, don’t you think? After all, it’s just a game.”

  “No, Michael, it’s more than a game. The real world and the synth world are getting closer and closer, and people like Travis are living in both. If he’s a respected healer in DimensionQuest he’s not going to be a vindictive killer in the real world.”

  “So he takes the fall for Caitlin’s crash, and whatever people say about him in the blog, the last thing in the world he wants is to draw attention to himself by attacking anybody.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But Kelley . . . before she passed out she told the medic that it was Travis who attacked her.”

  Dance shook her head. “I’m not sure she actually saw him. She assumed it was him, maybe because she knew she’d posted about him and the mask at her window was from the DimensionQuest game. And the rumors were he was behind the attacks. But I think the real killer was wearing a mask or got her from behind.”

  “How do you deal with the physical evidence? Planted?”

  “Right. It’d be easy to read up online about Travis, to follow him, learn about his job at the bagel place, his bicycle, the fact that he plays DQ all the time. The killer could have made one of those masks, stolen the gun from Bob Brigham’s truck, planted the trace evidence at the bagel shop and stolen the knife when the employees weren’t looking. Oh, and something else: the M&M’s? The flecks of wrapper at the crime scene?”

  “Right.”

  “Had to be planted. Travis wouldn’t eat chocolate. He bought packets for his brother. He was worried about his acne. He had books in his room about what foods to avoid. The real killer didn’t know that. He must’ve seen Travis buy M&M’s at some point and assumed they were a favorite candy, so he left some trace of the wrapper at the scene.”

  “And the sweatshirt fibers?”

  “There was a posting in The Report about the Brigham family being so poor that they couldn’t afford a washer and dryer. And it mentioned which laundromat they went to. I’m sure the real perp read that and staked the place out.”

  O’Neil nodded. “And stole a hooded sweatshirt when the mother was out or wasn’t looking.”

  “Yep. And there were some pictures posted in the blog under Travis’s name.” O’Neil hadn’t seen the drawings and she described them briefly, omitting the fact that the last one bore a resemblance to her. Dance continued, “They were crude, what an adult would think of a teenager’s drawing. But I saw some pictures that Travis had done—of surgery. He’s a great artist. Somebody else drew them.”

  “It would explain why nobody’s been able to find the real killer, despite the manhunt. He pulls on a hoodie for the attack, then throws it and the bicycle in his trunk and drives off down the street like anybody else. Hell, he could be fifty years old. Or he could be a she, now that I think about it.”

  “Exactly.”

  The deputy fell silent for a moment. His thoughts had apparently arrived at the exact spot where Dance’s awaited. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” the deputy asked. “Travis?”

  Dance sighed at this harsh corollary of her theory. “It’s possible. But I’m hoping not. I like to think he’s just being held somewhere.”

  “The poor kid was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Rocking back and forth. “So, to find where the real perp is, we’ve got to figure out who’s the intended victim. It’s not somebody who posted an attack on Travis; they were just set up to mislead us.”

  “My theory?” Dance offered.

  O’Neil looked at her with a coy smile. “Whoever the perp is, he’s really after Chilton?”

  “Yep. The perp was setting the stage, first going after people who’d criticized Travis, then those friendly with Chilton and finally the blogger himself.”

  “Somebody who doesn’t want to be investigated.”

  Dance replied, “Or who wants revenge for something he’d posted in the past.”

  “Okay, all we need to find out is who wants to kill James Chilton,” Michael O’Neil said.

  Dance gave a sour laugh. “The easier question is: Who doesn’t?”

  Chapter 33

  “JAMES?”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. The blogger said, “Agent Dance.” His voice sounded weary. “More bad news?”

  “I’ve found some evidence that suggests Travis isn’t leaving the crosses.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not positive, but the way things are looking, the boy could be a scapegoat and somebody’s making it look like he’s the killer.”

  Chilton whispered, “And he was innocent all along?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Dance explained what she’d learned—about who was really behind the wheel of the car on June 9—and about the likelihood of the evidence being planted.

  “And I think you’re the ultimate target,” she added.

  “Me?”

  “You’ve p
osted some pretty inflammatory stories throughout your career. And you’re writing now about controversial topics. I think some people’d be happy to see you stop. You’ve been threatened before, I assume.”

  “Plenty of times.”

  “Go back through your blog, find the names of everybody who’s threatened you, who might want to get even for something you’ve said, or who’s concerned that you’re investigating something now they might not want published. Pick the most credible suspects. And go back a few years.”

  “Sure. I’ll come up with a list. But you think I’m really at risk?”

  “I do, yes.”

  He fell silent. “I’m worried about Pat and the boys. Do you think we should leave the area? Maybe go to our vacation house? It’s in Hollister. Or get a hotel room?”

  “Probably the hotel’s safer. You’d be on record as owning the other house. I can arrange for you to check into one of the motels we use for witnesses. It’ll be under a pseudonym.”

  “Thanks. Give us a few hours. Pat’ll get things packed up, and we’ll leave right after a meeting I have scheduled.”

  “Good.”

  She was about to hang up when Chilton said, “Wait. Agent Dance, one thing?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got an idea—of who might be number one on the list.”

  “I’m ready to write.”

  “You won’t need a pen and paper,” Chilton replied.

  DANCE AND REY Carraneo slowly approached the luxurious house of Arnold Brubaker, the man behind the desalination plant that would, according to James Chilton, destroy the Monterey Peninsula.

  It was Brubaker whom Chilton fingered as the number-one choice of suspect. Either the desalination tsar himself, or a person hired by him. And Dance thought this was likely. She was online on the car’s computer, reading the “Desalinate . . . and Devastate” thread on the June 28 posting.

  Http://www.thechiltonreport.com/html/june28.html

  From Chilton’s reporting and the posts, Dance deduced that the blogger had found out about the man’s Las Vegas connections, which suggested organized crime, and the man’s private real estate dealings, which hinted at secrets he might not want exposed.

  “Ready?” Dance asked Carraneo as she logged off.

  The young agent nodded, and they climbed from the car.

  She knocked on the door.

  Finally the red-faced entrepreneur—flushed from the sun, not booze, Dance deduced—answered the knock. He was surprised to see visitors. He blinked and said nothing for a moment. “From the hospital. You’re . . . ?”

  “Agent Dance. This is Agent Carraneo.”

  His eyes zipped behind her.

  Looking for backup? she wondered.

  And if so, for her backup? Or Brubaker’s own?

  She felt a trickle of fear. People who kill for money were the most ruthless, in her estimation.

  “We’re following up on that incident with Mr. Chilton. You mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “What? That prick filed charges after all? I thought we—”

  “No, no charges. Can we come in?”

  The man remained suspicious. His eyes avoiding Dance’s, he nodded them inside and blurted, “He’s crazy, you know. I mean, I think he’s certifiable.”

  Dance gave a noncommittal smile.

  With another glance outside, Brubaker closed the door. He locked it.

  They walked through the house, impersonal, many rooms empty of furniture. Dance believed she heard a creak from nearby. Then another from a different room.

  Was the house settling, or did Brubaker have assistants here?

  Assistants, or muscle?

  They walked into an office filled with papers, blueprints, pictures, photographs, legal documents. A carefully constructed scale model of the desalination plant took up one of the tables.

  Brubaker lifted several huge bound reports off chairs and gestured them to sit. He did too, behind a large desk.

  Dance noticed certificates on the wall. There were also pictures of Brubaker with powerful-looking men in suits—politicians or other businesspeople. Interrogators love office walls; they reveal much about people. From these particular pictures she deduced that Brubaker was smart (degrees and professional course completions) and savvy politically (honors and keys from cities and counties). And tough; his company apparently had built desalination plants in Mexico and Colombia. Photos showed him surrounded by sunglassed, vigilant men—security guards. The men were the same in all of the pictures, which meant they were Brubaker’s personal minders, not provided by the local government. One held a machine gun.

  Were they the source of the creaks nearby—which she’d heard again, closer, it seemed?

  Dance asked about the desalination project, and he launched into a lengthy sales pitch about the latest technology the plant would use. She caught words like “filtration,” “membranes,” “freshwater holding tanks.” Brubaker gave them a short lecture on the reduced costs of new systems that was making desalination economically feasible.

  She took in little information, but instead feigned interest and soaked up his baseline behavior.

  Her first impression was that Brubaker didn’t seem troubled at their presence, though High Machs were rarely moved by any human connections—whether romantic, social or professional. They even approached confrontation with equanimity. It was one aspect that made them so efficient. And potentially dangerous.

  Dance would have liked more time to gather baseline information, but she felt a sense of urgency so she stopped his spiel and asked, “Mr. Brubaker, where were you at one p.m. yesterday and eleven a.m. today?”

  The times of Lyndon Strickland’s and Mark Watson’s deaths.

  “Well, why?” A smile. But Dance had no idea what was behind it.

  “We’re looking into certain threats against Mr. Chilton.”

  True, though not, of course, the whole story.

  “Oh, he libels me, and now I’m accused?”

  “We’re not accusing you, Mr. Brubaker. But could you answer my question, please?”

  “I don’t have to. I can ask you to leave right now.”

  This was true. “You can refuse to cooperate. But we’re hoping you won’t.”

  “You can hope all you want,” he snapped. The smile now grew triumphant. “I see what’s going on here. Could it be that you got it all wrong, Agent Dance? That maybe it isn’t some psychotic teenager who’s been gutting people like in some bad horror film. But somebody who’s been using the kid, setting him up to take the fall for killing James Chilton?”

  That was pretty good, Dance thought. But did it mean that he was threatening them? If he was the “somebody” he referred to, then, yes, he was.

  Carraneo stole a brief glance at her.

  “Which means you’ve pretty much had the wool pulled over your eyes.”

  There were too many important rules in interviewing and interrogation for any of them to be number one, but high at the top was: Never let the personal insults affect you.

  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.”