About four thousand dollars. The bills were crisp and ordered, as if he’d gotten them from a bank or an ATM, not from buyers in drug deals. Dance added the box to the evidence they’d take back. Not only did she not want to fund Travis’s escape, if he came back for it, but she didn’t doubt that his father would pilfer the money in an instant, if he found the stash.
“There’s this,” Carraneo said. He was holding up printouts of pictures, mostly candids, of pretty girls about high school age, taken around Robert Louis Stevenson High School. None obscene or taken up the girls’ skirts, though, or of locker rooms or bathrooms.
Stepping outside the room, Dance asked Sonia, “Do you know who they are?”
Neither parent did.
She turned back to the pictures. She realized that she’d seen one of the girls before — in a news story about the June 9 crash. Caitlin Gardner, the girl who’d survived. The photo was more formal than the others — the pretty girl looking off to the side, smiling blandly. Dance turned the thin, glossy rectangle of paper over and noted a portion of a picture of a sports team on the other side. Travis had cut the picture out of a yearbook.
Had he asked Caitlin for a picture and been refused? Or had he been too shy even to ask?
The agents searched for a half hour but found no clues as to where Travis might be, no phone numbers, email addresses or friends’ names. He kept no address book or calendar.
Dance wanted to see what was on his laptop. She opened the lid. It was in hibernate mode and booted up immediately. She wasn’t surprised when it asked for a password. Dance asked the boy’s father, “Do you have any idea what the code is?”
“Like he’d tell us.” He gestured at the computer. “Now, that’s the problem right there, you know. That’s what went wrong, playing all those games. All the violence. They shoot people and cut them up, do all kinds of shit.”
Sonia seemed to reach a breaking point. “Well, you played soldier when you were growing up, I know you did. All boys play games like that. It doesn’t mean they turn into killers!”
“That was a different time,” he muttered. “It was better, healthier. We only played killing Indians and Viet Cong. Not normal people.”
Carrying the laptop, notebooks, strongbox and hundreds of pages of printouts and notes and pictures, Dance and Carraneo walked to the door.
“Did you ever think about one thing?” Sonia asked.
Dance paused, turned.
“That even if he did it, went after those girls, that maybe it wasn’t his fault. All those terrible things that they said about him just pushed him over the edge. They attacked him, with those words, those hateful words. And my Travis never said a single word against any one of them.” She controlled her tears. “He’s the victim here.”
Chapter 16
ON THE HIGHWAY to Salinas, not far from beautiful Laguna Seca race-course, Kathryn Dance braked her unmarked Ford to a halt in front of a construction worker holding a portable stop sign. Two large bulldozers slowly traversed the highway in front of her, shooting ruddy dust into the air.
She was on the phone with Deputy David Reinhold, the young officer who’d delivered Tammy Foster’s computer to her and Boling. Rey Carraneo had sped to the MCSO Crime Scene Unit in Salinas and dropped Travis’s Dell off for processing into evidence.
“I’ve logged it in,” Reinhold told her. “And run it for prints and other trace. Oh, and it probably wasn’t necessary, Agent Dance, but I ran a nitrate swab for explosives too.”
Computers were occasionally booby-trapped — not as IED weapons, but to destroy compromising data contained in the files.
“Good, Deputy.”
The officer certainly had initiative. She recalled his quick blue eyes and his smart decision to pull out the battery of Tammy’s computer.
“Some of the prints are Travis’s,” the young deputy said. “But there are others too. I ran them. A half dozen were from Samuel Brigham.”
“The boy’s brother.”
“Right. And a few others. No match in AIFIS. But I can tell you they’re larger, probably male.”
Dance wondered if the boy’s father had tried to get inside.
Reinhold said, “I’m happy to try to crack into the system, if you want. I’ve taken some courses.”
“Appreciate it, but I’m having Jonathan Boling — you met him in my office — handle that.”
“Sure, Agent Dance. Whatever you’d like. Where are you?”
“I’m out now, but you can have it delivered to the CBI. Have Agent Scanlon take custody. He’ll sign the card and receipt.”
“I’ll do it right now, Kathryn.”
They disconnected and she looked around impatiently, waiting for the construction flagman to allow her through. She was surprised to see the area dug up so completely — dozens of trucks and road-grading equipment were tearing apart the ground. She’d driven here just last week and the work hadn’t yet begun.
This was the big highway project that Chilton had written about in the blog, the shortcut to Highway 101, in the thread titled “Yellow Brick Road,” suggesting gold — and wondering if somebody was profiting illegally on the project.
She noted that the equipment belonged to Clint Avery Construction, one of the largest companies on the Peninsula. The workers here were large men, working hard, sweaty. They were mostly white, which was unusual. Much of the labor on the Peninsula was performed by Latino workers.
One of them looked at her solemnly — recognizing her car for an unmarked law enforcement vehicle — but he made no special effort to speed her through.
Finally, at his leisure, he waved the traffic on, his eyes looking over Dance closely, it seemed to her.