Roadside Crosses: A Kathryn Dance Novel

by Jeffery Deaver

  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.

  Chapter 34

  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 s
upportive. 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.”

  Another laugh. “Okay. Fair enough.” Jim replaced the papers and magazines.

  Patrizia looked at herself in a small decorative mirror up on the wall, and ran her fingers through her hair. No, she decided defiantly. She was going to get fixed up, no matter what he said. She turned to tell Ashton this.

  She had only a moment to blink, and no time to protect herself, when Ashton’s fist swung directly into her cheek and collided hard with bone, breaking skin and knocking her to the floor.

  Eyes wide in horror and bewilderment, Jim leapt toward him.

  And froze as Ashton thrust a gun into his face.

  “No!” Patrizia cried, scrabbling to her feet. “Don’t hurt him!”

  Ashton tossed Patrizia a roll of duct tape and ordered her to bind her husband’s hands behind him.

  She hesitated.

  “Do it!”

  Hands shaking, tears streaming, confused, she did as she’d been told.

  “Honey,” she whispered as she wrapped his hand behind the chair. “I’m scared.”

  “Do what he says,” her husband told her. Then he glared at Ashton. “What the hell is this?”

  Ashton ignored him and dragged Patrizia by the hair to the corner. She squealed, tears falling. “No . . . no. It hurts. No!”

  Ashton taped her hands as well.

  “Who are you?” Jim whispered.

  But Patrizia Chilton could answer that one herself. Greg Ashton was the Roadside Cross Killer.

  Ashton noticed Jim looking outside. He muttered, “The deputy? He’s dead. There’s nobody to help you.”

  Ashton pointed the video camera at Jim’s pale, horrified face, tears welling in his eyes. “You want more hits on your precious Report, Chilton? Well, you’re going to get ’em. I’ll bet it’ll be a record. I don’t think we’ve ever seen a blogger killed on webcam before.”

  Chapter 35

  KATHRYN DANCE WAS back at CBI headquarters. She was disappointed to learn that Jonathan Boling had returned to Santa Cruz. But since he’d come up with the platinum find—Stryker, well, Jason—there wasn’t much else for him to do at the moment.

  Rey Carraneo called in with some interesting news. He explained that Clint Avery had left his company ten minutes ago. The agent had followed him along the winding roads in the Pastures of Heaven, the name that literary legend John Steinbeck had given to the lush, agriculturally fertile area. There he’d stopped twice, on the shoulder. Both times he’d met with someone. First, two somber men—dressed like cowboys—in a fancy pickup truck. The second time, a white-haired man in a nice suit, behind the wheel of a Cadillac. The meetings seemed suspicious; Avery was clearly nervous. Carraneo had gotten the plates and was running profiles.

  Avery was now headed toward Carmel, Carraneo right behind him.

  Dance was discouraged. She’d hoped that her meeting with Avery would flush the construction boss—force him to speed to a safe house, where he’d stashed evidence—and perhaps Travis himself.

  But apparently not.

  Still, the men Avery’d met with might’ve been hired guns who were behind the killings. The DMV report would give her some clues, if not answers.

  TJ stuck his head in her doorway. “Hey, boss, you still interested in Hamilton Royce?”

  The man who was probably at that very moment considering how to bring her career down in flames. “Give me a one-minute précis.”

  “A what?” TJ asked.

  “Synopsis. Summary. Digest.”

  “‘Précis’ is a word? Learn something new every day. . . . Okay. Royce’s a former lawyer. Left practice mysteriously and quickly. He’s a tough guy. Works mostly with six or seven different departments in the state. Ombudsman’s his official title. Unofficially he’s a fixer. You see that movie Michael Clayton?”

  “With George Clooney, sure. Twice.”

  “Twice?”

  “George Clooney.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s what Royce does. Lately he’s been doing a lot of work for senior people in the lieutenant governor’s office, the state energy commission, the EPA, and the Finance Committee of the Assembly. If there’s a problem, he’s there.”

  “What sort of problem?”

  “Committee disagreements, scandals, public relations, pilfering, contract disputes. I’m still waiting to hear back on more details.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can use.” Picking one of the man’s favorite verbs.

  “Use? To do what?”

  “We had a falling-out, Royce and me.”

  “So you want to blackmail him?”

  “That’s a strong word. Let’s just say I’d like to keep my job.”

  “I want you to keep your job too, boss. You let me get away with murder. Hey, what’s with Avery?”

  “Rey�
��s tailing him.”

  “Love that word. Almost as good as ‘shadow.’ ”

  “What’s the progress on Chilton’s list of suspects?”

  TJ explained that tracking them down was going slowly. People had moved or were unlisted, they were out, names had changed.

  “Give me half,” she said. “I’ll get going on it too.”

  The young agent handed her a sheet of paper. “I’ll give you the small list,” he said, “because you’re my favorite boss.”

  Dance looked over the names, considering how best to proceed. She heard in her mind Jon Boling’s words. We give away too much information about ourselves online. Way too much.

  Kathryn Dance decided she’d get to the official databases in a while—National Criminal Information Center, Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, California Open Warrants and consolidated DMV.

  For now, she’d stick to Google.

  GREG SCHAEFFER STUDIED James Chilton, who sat bloodied and frightened before him.

  Schaeffer had been using the pseudonym Greg Ashton to get close to Chilton without arousing suspicions.

  Because the name “Schaeffer” might raise alarms in the blogger.

  But then again it might not have; it wouldn’t surprise Schaeffer one bit if Chilton regularly forgot about the victims who suffered because of his blog.

  This thought infuriated Schaeffer all the more and when Chilton started to sputter, “Why—?” he slugged him once more.

  The blogger’s head snapped back against the upper part of his desk chair and he grunted. Which was all fine, but the son of a bitch wasn’t looking terrified enough to satisfy Schaeffer.

  “Ashton! Why’re you doing this?”

  Schaeffer leaned forward, gripped Chilton by the collar. He whispered, “You’re going to read a statement. If you don’t sound sincere, if you don’t sound remorseful, your wife will die. Your children too. I know they’ll be home from camp soon. I’ve been following them. I know the schedule.” He turned to Chilton’s wife. “And I know your brother’s with them. He’s a big guy, but he’s not bulletproof.”