“Quiet,” Dance ordered.
The senior trooper said, “We have an arrest warrant for James Chilton. And a warrant to take possession of his computers, files, business records. Anything related to The Chilton Report. ”
They displayed the paperwork.
“That’s ridiculous,” Chilton said. “What the fuck is going on here?”
Dance repeated bluntly, “Quiet.” Then to the troopers: “What’s the charge?”
“Criminal trespass.”
“At Arnold Brubaker’s property?”
“That’s right.”
She laughed. “That’s what I just arrested him for.”
Both of the troopers stared at her then at Chilton, buying time, and then, independently, they nodded. Apparently there was, in their experience, no precedent for anything like this.
“Well,” one of the officers contributed, “we have a warrant.”
“I understand. But he’s already been arrested and the CBI already has jurisdiction over his files and computers. We’re collecting them in a few minutes.”
“This is fucking bullshit,” Chilton blurted.
“Sir, I’d watch your language,” the younger, and bigger, of the troopers snapped.
The silence roared.
Then Kathryn Dance squinted a smile into her face. “Wait. Who’s the one requested the warrant? Was it Hamilton Royce?”
“That’s right. The AG’s office in Sacramento.”
“Oh, sure.” Dance was relaxing. “I’m sorry, this’s a misunderstanding. I was the senior officer on the trespass on call but we had an affidavit issue and I had to delay taking him into custody. I mentioned it to Hamilton. He probably thought I was so busy on the Roadside Cross Case—”
“That Mask Killer. That thing. You’re running that?”
“Sure am.”
“Freaky.”
“It is, yep,” Dance agreed. Then continued, “Hamilton probably figured I was so busy on that one that he’d take over on the trespass.” A disparaging nod of the head. “But frankly, Mr. Chilton pissed me off so much I wanted to finish up the collar myself.”
She gave a conspiratorial smile that the troopers joined in briefly. Then she continued, “This’s my fault. I should’ve told him. Let me make a call.” She pulled her phone off her belt and dialed. Then cocked her head. “This’s Agent Dance,” she said and explained about her arrest of James Chilton. Silence for a moment. “I’ve already collared him… . We’ve got the paperwork back at HQ… . Sure.” She nodded. “Good,” Dance said in a conclusory tone, and disconnected on the woman’s voice explaining that the temperature was fifty-six degrees and rain was forecast on the Monterey Peninsula tomorrow.
“It’s all set, we’ll process him.” A smile. “Unless you really want to cool your heels at the Salinas lockup for four hours.”
“Nup, that’s okay, Agent Dance. You need any help getting him in the car?” The big trooper was looking over James Chilton as if the blogger weighed a hundred pounds more and was capable of breaking through the cuff chain with a flex of his muscles.
“No, that’s okay. We’ll handle it.”
With a nod, the men walked off, climbed in their car and left.
“Listen to me,” Chilton growled, his face red. “This is bullshit and you know it.”
“Just relax, okay?” Dance turned him around and undid the cuffs.
“What’s this all about?” He was rubbing his wrists. “I thought you were arresting me.”
“I did. I’ve decided to let you go, though.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
“No, I’m saving you.” Dance slipped the cuffs back into her holster. Smiling, she waved to a very perplexed Herrera. He nodded back.
“You were being set up, James.”
Not long before, Dance had gotten a call from her assistant. Maryellen had grown suspicious when Charles Overby called once to see if Dance was in the office and then again to ask her to come to his office to discuss her job satisfaction, something he’d never done.
En route to Overby’s office, the woman had stalled and remained in the Gals’ Wing, hiding in a side corridor. Hamilton Royce slipped into her boss’s office. After five minutes or so he’d then stepped outside and made a cell phone call. Maryellen had gotten close enough to overhear part of it — Royce was calling a magistrate in Sacramento, who was apparently a friend, and asking for an arrest warrant against Chilton. Something to do with trespass.
Maryellen didn’t understand the implications of what had happened, but she called Dance immediately with the news, then continued to Overby’s office.
Dance gave Chilton an abbreviated version of the story, omitting Royce’s name.
“Who was behind it?” he fumed.
She knew the blogger would, in a posting, go after whoever was behind his arrest and she couldn’t afford the kind of publicity nightmare that would create. “I’m not divulging that. All I’ll say is that some people want your blog suspended until we catch Travis.”
“Why?”
She said sternly, “For the same reasons I wanted it shut down. To keep people from posting and giving Travis more targets.” A faint smile. “And because it looks bad for the state if we’re not doing everything we can to protect the public — which means shutting you down.”
“And stopping the blog is good for the public? I expose corruption and problems; I don’t encourage them.” Then he climbed off the soapbox. “And you arrested me so they couldn’t serve the warrant?”
“Yep.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“One of two things. The troopers’ll go back home and report to their supervisor that they can’t serve the warrant because you’re already under arrest. And it’ll go away.”
“What’s the second thing?”
A collision between excrement and fan, Dance reflected. She said nothing, merely shrugged.