Chilton’s wife continued through the photos. From the pictures of the woman in her youth — at Carmel Beach, Point Lobos, the Mission — Dance guessed she was a native. Patrizia explained that, yes, she was; in fact, she’d grown up in this very house. “My father had been living here alone for years. When he passed, about three years ago, Jim and I moved in.”
Dance liked the idea of a family home, passed down from generation to generation. She reflected that Michael O’Neil’s parents still lived in the oceanview house where he and his siblings had grown up. With his father suffering from senility, his mother was thinking of selling the place and moving into a retirement community. But O’Neil was determined to keep the property in the family.
As Patrizia was pointing out photos that displayed the family’s exhausting athletic accomplishments — golf, soccer, tennis, triathlons — Dance heard voices in the front hall.
She turned to see two men. Chilton — she recognized him from the pictures — wore a baseball cap, green polo shirt and chinos. Blondish hair eased in tufts from under the hat. He was tall and apparently in good shape, with only a bit of belly swelling above his belt. He was speaking to another man, sandy-haired, wearing jeans, a white shirt and a brown sports coat. Dance started toward them but Chilton quickly ushered the man out of the door. Her kinesic reading was that he didn’t want the visitor, whoever he was, to know that a law enforcement agent had come to see him.
Patrizia repeated, “He’ll just be a minute.”
But Dance sidestepped her and continued into the hall, sensing the wife stiffen, protective of her husband. Still, an interviewer has to take immediate charge of the situation; subjects can’t set the rules. But by the time Dance got to the front door Chilton was back and the rental car heading off, gravel crunching under tires.
His green eyes — similar to her shade — turned their attention her way. They shook hands and she read in the blogger’s face, tanned and freckled, curiosity and a certain defiance, more than wariness.
Another flash of the ID. “Could we talk somewhere for a few minutes, Mr. Chilton?”
“My office, sure.”
He led her up the hall. The room they entered was modest and a mess, filled with towers of magazines and clippings and computer printouts. Underscoring what she’d learned from Jon Boling, the officer revealed that indeed the reporter’s game was changing: small rooms in houses and apartments just like this were replacing city-desk rooms of newspapers. Dance was amused to see a cup of tea beside his computer — the scent of chamomile filled the room. No cigarettes, coffee or whisky for today’s hard-edged journalists, apparently.
They sat and he lifted his eyebrow. “So he’s been complaining, has he? But I’m curious. Why the police, why not a civil suit?”
“How’s that?” Dance was confused.
Chilton rocked back in his chair, removed his cap, rubbed his balding head and slipped the hat back on. He was irritated. “Oh, he bitches about libel. But it’s not defamation if it’s true. Besides, even if what I wrote was false, which it isn’t, libel’s not a crime in this country. Would be in Stalinist Russia, but it’s not here yet. So why’re you involved?” His eyes were keen and probing, his mannerisms intense; Dance could imagine how it might soon get tiring to spend much time in his presence.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Aren’t you here because of Arnie Brubaker?”
“No. Who’s that?”
“He’s the man who wants to destroy our shoreline by putting in that desalination plant.”
She recalled the blog postings in The Chilton Report critical of the plant. And the bumper sticker.
“No, this has nothing to do with that.”
Chilton’s forehead crinkled. “He’d love to stop me. I thought maybe he’d trumped up some criminal complaint. But sorry. I was making assumptions.” The defensiveness in his face relaxed. “It’s just, well, Brubaker’s really a… pain.”
Dance wondered what the intended descriptive of the developer was going to have been.
“Excuse me.” Patrizia appeared in the doorway and brought her husband a fresh cup of tea. She asked Dance if she’d like anything. She was smiling now but still eyed the agent suspiciously.
“Thanks, no.”
Chilton nodded at the tea and charmingly winked his thanks to his wife. She left and closed the door behind her.
“So, what can I do for you?”
“Your blog about the roadside crosses.”
“Oh, the car accident?” He regarded Dance closely. Some of the defensiveness was back; she could read the stress in his posture. “I’ve been following the news. That girl was attacked, the press is saying, because she posted something on the blog. The posters are starting to say the same thing. You want the boy’s name.”
“No. We have it.”
“Is he the one who tried to drown her?”
“It seems so.”
Chilton said quickly, “I didn’t attack him. My point was, did the police drop the ball on the investigation and did Caltrans adequately maintain the road? I said up front that he wasn’t to blame. And I censored his name.”
“It didn’t take long for a mob to form and find out who he is.”
Chilton’s mouth twisted. He’d taken the comment as criticism of him or the blog, which it wasn’t. But he conceded. “That does happen. Well, what can I do for you?”
“We have reason to believe that Travis Brigham may be considering attacking other people who posted comments against him.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but we have to consider it’s a possibility.”
Chilton grimaced. “I mean, can’t you arrest him?”
“We’re looking for him now. We aren’t sure where he is.”
“I see.” Chilton said this slowly and Dance could see from his lifted shoulders and the tension in his neck he was wondering what exactly she wanted. The agent considered Jon Boling’s advice and said, “Now, your blog is known all over the world. It’s very respected. That’s one of the reasons so many people are posting on it.”
The flash of pleasure in his eyes was faint but obvious to Dance; it told her that even obvious flattery went down very well with James Chilton.