“Right. So they probably came from a store, not clipped from somebody’s yard.”
TJ said, “But, boss, you can buy roses about a thousand places on the Peninsula.”
“I’m not saying it’s leading us to his doorstep,” Dance said. “I’m saying it’s a fact we might be able to use. And don’t jump to conclusions. They might’ve been stolen. ” She felt grumpy, hoped it didn’t come off that way.
“Gotcha, boss.”
“Where exactly was the cross?”
“Highway One. Just south of Marina.” He touched a location on Dance’s wall map.
“Any witnesses to leaving the cross?” Dance now asked the deputy.
“No, ma’am, not according to the CHP. And there are no cameras along that stretch of highway. We’re still looking.”
“Any stores?” O’Neil asked, just as Dance took a breath to ask the identical question.
“Stores?”
O’Neil was looking at the map. “On the east side of the highway. In those strip malls. Some of them have to have security cameras. Maybe one was pointed toward the spot. At least we could get a make and model of the car — if he was in one.”
“TJ,” Dance said, “check that out.”
“You got it, boss. There’s a good Java House there. One of my favorites.”
“I’m so pleased.”
A shadow appeared in her doorway. “Ah. Didn’t know we were convening here.”
Charles Overby, the recently appointed agent in charge of this CBI branch, walked into her office. In his midfifties, tanned; the pear-shaped man was athletic enough to get out on the golf or tennis courts several times a week but not so spry to keep up a long volley without losing his breath.
“I’ve been in my office for… well, quite some time.”
Dance ignored TJ’s subtle glance at his wristwatch. She suspected that Overby had rolled in a few minutes ago.
“Charles,” she said. “Morning. Maybe I forgot to mention where we’d be meeting. Sorry.”
“Hello, Michael.” A nod toward TJ too, whom Overby sometimes gazed at curiously as if he’d never met the junior agent — though that might have just been disapproval of TJ’s fashion choices.
Dance had in fact informed Overby of the meeting. On the drive here from the Peninsula Garden Hotel, she’d left a message on his voice mail, giving him the troubling news of the immunity hearing in L.A. and telling him of the plan to get together here, in her office. Maryellen had told him about the meeting too. But the CBI chief hadn’t responded. Dance hadn’t bothered to call back, since Overby usually didn’t care much for the tactical side of running cases. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d declined attending this meeting altogether. He wanted the “big picture,” a recent favorite phrase. (TJ had once referred to him as Charles Overview; Dance had hurt her belly laughing.)
“Well. This girl-in-the-trunk thing… the reporters are calling already. I’ve been stalling. They hate that. Brief me.”
Ah, reporters. That explained the man’s interest.
Dance told him what they knew at this point, and what their plans were.
“Think he’s going to try it again? That’s what the anchors are saying.”
“That’s what they’re speculating, ” Dance corrected delicately.
“Since we don’t know why he attacked her in the first place, Tammy Foster, we can’t say,” O’Neil said.
“And the cross is connected? It was left as a message?”
“The flowers match forensically, yes.”
“Ouch. I just hope it doesn’t turn into a Summer of Sam thing.”
“A… what’s that, Charles?” Dance asked.
“That guy in New York. Leaving notes, shooting people.”
“Oh, that was a movie.” TJ was their reference librarian of popular culture. “Spike Lee. The killer was Son of Sam.”
“I know,” Overby said quickly. “Just making a pun. Son and Summer.”
“We don’t have any evidence one way or the other. We don’t know anything yet, really.”
Overby was nodding. He never liked not having answers. For the press, for his bosses in Sacramento. That made him edgy, which in turn made everybody else edgy too. When his predecessor, Stan Fishburne, had had to retire unexpectedly on a medical and Overby had assumed the job, dismay was the general mood. Fishburne was the agents’ advocate; he’d take on anybody he needed to in supporting them. Overby had a different style. Very different.
“I got a call from the AG already.” Their ultimate boss. “Made the news in Sacramento. CNN too. I’ll have to call him back. I wish we had something specific.”
“We should know more soon.”
“What’re the odds that it was just a prank gone bad? Like hazing the pledges. Fraternity or sorority thing. We all did that in college, didn’t we?”
Dance and O’Neil hadn’t been Greek. She doubted TJ had been, and Rey Carraneo had gotten his bachelor’s in criminal justice at night while working two jobs.
“Pretty grim for a practical joke,” O’Neil said.
“Well, let’s keep it as an option. I just want to make sure that we stay away from panic. That won’t help anything. Downplay any serial-actor angle. And don’t mention the cross. We’re still reeling from that case earlier in the month, the Pell thing.” He blinked. “How did the deposition go, by the way?”
“A delay.” Had he not listened to her message at all?
“That’s good.”
“Good?” Dance was still furious about the motion to dismiss.
Overby blinked. “I mean it frees you up to run this Roadside Cross Case.”
Thinking about her old boss. Nostalgia can be such sweet pain.
“What are the next steps?” Overby asked.
“TJ’s checking out the security cameras at the stores and car dealerships near where the cross was left.” She turned to Carraneo. “And, Rey, could you canvass around the parking lot where Tammy was abducted?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What’re you working on now, Michael, at MCSO?” Overby asked.
“Running a gang killing, then the Container Case.”