She couldn’t tell if he was lying. And she understood why: Dance was breaking the oldest rule in kinesic interrogation. She was being emotional. When that happened, all her skills fell by the wayside. She had no idea if her boss had betrayed her or not.
“He was looking through our files to see if I’d altered anything about the Millar situation.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
The tension in the room hummed.
Then it vanished, as Overby gave a reassuring smile. “Ah, you’re worrying too much, Kathryn. There’ll be an investigation, and the case will all go away. You don’t have a thing to worry about.”
Did he know something? Eagerly, she asked, “Why do you say that, Charles?”
He looked surprised. “Because she’s innocent, of course. Your mother’d never hurt anyone. You know that.”
DANCE RETURNED TO the Gals’ Wing, to the office of her fellow agent Connie Ramirez. The short, voluptuous Latina, with black, black hair always sprayed meticulously in place, was the most decorated agent in the regional office and one of the most recognized in the entire CBI. The forty-year-old agent had been offered executive positions with CBI headquarters in Sacramento — the FBI had sought her out too — but her family had come out of the local lettuce and artichoke fields and nothing was going to displace her from blood. The agent’s desk was the antithesis of Dance’s — organized and tidy. Framed citations hung on the walls but the biggest photos were of her children, three strapping boys, and Ramirez and her husband.
“Hey, Con.”
“How’s your mom doing?”
“You can imagine.”
“This’s such nonsense,” she said with a faint trace of a melodious accent.
“Actually, why I’m here. Need a favor. A big one.”
“Whatever I can do, you know that.”
“I’ve got Sheedy on board.”
“Ah, the cop-buster.”
“But I don’t want to wait for discovery to get some of the details. I asked Henry for the hospital’s visitor shuts the day Juan died but he’s stonewalling.”
“What? Henry? You’re his friend.”
“Harper’s got him scared.”
Ramirez nodded knowingly. “You want me to try?”
“If you can.”
“You bet, I’ll get over there as soon as I finish interviewing this witness.” She tapped a folder for a big drug case she was running.
“You’re the best.”
The Latina agent grew solemn. “I know how I’d feel if it was my mother. I’d go down there and rip Harper’s throat out.”
Dance gave a wan smile at the petite woman’s declaration. As she headed for her office, her phone trilled. She glanced at “Sheriff’s Office” on Caller ID, hoping it was O’Neil.
It wasn’t.
“Agent Dance.” The deputy identified himself. “Have to tell you. CHP called in. I’ve got some bad news.”
Chapter 18
JAMES CHILTON WAS taking a break from ridding the world of corruption and depravity.
He was helping a friend move.
After the call from the MCSO, Kathryn Dance had rung up Chilton at his home and been directed by Patrizia to this modest, beige California ranch house on the outskirts of Monterey. Dance parked near a large U-Haul truck, plucked the iPod ear buds out and climbed from her car.
In jeans and a T-shirt, sweating, Chilton was wrangling a large armchair up the stairs and into the house. A man with corporate-trimmed hair and wearing shorts and a sweat-limp polo shirt was carting a stack of boxes behind the blogger. A Realtor’s sign in the front yard diagonally reported, SOLD.
Chilton came out the front door and walked two steps to the gravel path, bordered by small boulders and potted plants. He joined Dance, wiped his forehead and, being so sweaty and streaked with dust and dirt, nodded in lieu of shaking her hand. “Pat called. You wanted to see me, Agent Dance? Is this about the Internet addresses?”
“No. We’ve got them. Thanks. This is something else.”
The other man joined them, fixing Dance with a pleasant, curious gaze.
Chilton introduced them. The man was Donald Hawken.
Familiar. Then Dance recalled: The name appeared in Chilton’s blog — in “On the Home Front,” the personal section, she believed. Not one of the controversial posts. Hawken was returning to Monterey from San Diego.
“Moving day, it looks like,” she said.
Chilton explained, “Agent Dance is investigating that case involving the posts on The Report. ”
Hawken, tanned and toned, frowned sympathetically. “And I understand there was another girl attacked. We were listening to the news.”
Dance remained circumspect as always about giving away information, even to concerned citizens.
The blogger explained that the Chiltons and Hawken and his first wife had been close friends a few years ago. The women had hosted dinner parties, the men had golfed regularly — at the anemic Pacific Grove course and, on flush days, at Pebble Beach. About three years ago the Hawkens had moved to San Diego, but he had recently remarried, was selling his company and coming back here.
“Could I talk to you for a minute?” Dance asked Chilton.
As Hawken returned to the U-Haul, the blogger and Dance walked to her Crown Vic. He cocked his head and waited, breathing hard from lugging the furniture into the house.
“I just got a call from the sheriff’s office. The Highway Patrol found another cross. With today’s date on it.”
His face fell. “Oh, no. And the boy?”
“No idea of his whereabouts. He’s disappeared. And it looks like he’s armed.”
“I heard on the news,” Chilton said, grimacing. “How’d he get a gun?”
“Stole it from his father.”
Chilton’s face tightened angrily. “Those Second Amendment people… I took them on last year. I’ve never had so many death threats in my life.”
Dance got to the crux of her mission. “Mr. Chilton, I want you to suspend your blog.”
“What?”
“Until we catch him.”
Chilton laughed. “That’s absurd.”
“Have you read the postings?”
“It’s my blog. Of course I read them.”
“The posters are getting even more vicious. Don’t give Travis any more fodder.”