“Well, I’ll leave you two boys to do your work and get back to packing.” Her heart sank again at the thought of moving into a hotel. She hated being driven from her home. At least the boys would consider it an adventure.
“Actually,” Ashton said, “hold on a minute, Pat. I’m going to do a video of Jim’s operation to post on my site. I want to include you too.” He set his briefcase on the table and opened it up.
“Me?” Patrizia gasped. “Oh, no. I haven’t done my hair. And my makeup.”
Ashton said, “First of all, you look fantastic. But most important, blogging isn’t about hair and makeup. It’s about authenticity. I’ve shot dozens of these and I’ve never let anybody so much as put on lipstick.”
“Well, I guess.” Patrizia was distracted, thinking about the motion she’d seen behind the house. She should tell the deputy out front about it.
Ashton laughed. “It’s only a webcam anyway, medium resolution.” He held up the small video camera.
“You’re not going to ask me questions, are you?” She was growing panicky at the thought. Jim’s blog alone had hundreds of thousands of viewers. Greg Ashton’s probably had many more. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“It’ll be sound bites. Just talk about what it’s like to be married to a blogger.”
Her husband laughed. “I’ll bet she has plenty to say.”
“We can do as many takes as you want.” Ashton set a tripod up in the corner of the room and mounted the camera.
Jim straightened his desktop, organizing the dozens of stacks of journals and papers. Ashton laughed and shook a finger. “We want it authentic, Jim.”
Another laugh. “Okay. Fair enough.” Jim replaced the papers and magazines.
Patrizia looked at herself in a small decorative mirror up on the wall, and ran her fingers through her hair. No, she decided defiantly. She was going to get fixed up, no matter what he said. She turned to tell Ashton this.
She had only a moment to blink, and no time to protect herself, when Ashton’s fist swung directly into her cheek and collided hard with bone, breaking skin and knocking her to the floor.
Eyes wide in horror and bewilderment, Jim leapt toward him.
And froze as Ashton thrust a gun into his face.
“No!” Patrizia cried, scrabbling to her feet. “Don’t hurt him!”
Ashton tossed Patrizia a roll of duct tape and ordered her to bind her husband’s hands behind him.
She hesitated.
“Do it!”
Hands shaking, tears streaming, confused, she did as she’d been told.
“Honey,” she whispered as she wrapped his hand behind the chair. “I’m scared.”
“Do what he says,” her husband told her. Then he glared at Ashton. “What the hell is this?”
Ashton ignored him and dragged Patrizia by the hair to the corner. She squealed, tears falling. “No… no. It hurts. No!”
Ashton taped her hands as well.
“Who are you?” Jim whispered.
But Patrizia Chilton could answer that one herself. Greg Ashton was the Roadside Cross Killer.
Ashton noticed Jim looking outside. He muttered, “The deputy? He’s dead. There’s nobody to help you.”
Ashton pointed the video camera at Jim’s pale, horrified face, tears welling in his eyes. “You want more hits on your precious Report, Chilton? Well, you’re going to get ’em. I’ll bet it’ll be a record. I don’t think we’ve ever seen a blogger killed on webcam before.”
Chapter 35
KATHRYN DANCE WAS back at CBI headquarters. She was disappointed to learn that Jonathan Boling had returned to Santa Cruz. But since he’d come up with the platinum find — Stryker, well, Jason — there wasn’t much else for him to do at the moment.
Rey Carraneo called in with some interesting news. He explained that Clint Avery had left his company ten minutes ago. The agent had followed him along the winding roads in the Pastures of Heaven, the name that literary legend John Steinbeck had given to the lush, agriculturally fertile area. There he’d stopped twice, on the shoulder. Both times he’d met with someone. First, two somber men — dressed like cowboys — in a fancy pickup truck. The second time, a white-haired man in a nice suit, behind the wheel of a Cadillac. The meetings seemed suspicious; Avery was clearly nervous. Carraneo had gotten the plates and was running profiles.
Avery was now headed toward Carmel, Carraneo right behind him.
Dance was discouraged. She’d hoped that her meeting with Avery would flush the construction boss — force him to speed to a safe house, where he’d stashed evidence — and perhaps Travis himself.
But apparently not.
Still, the men Avery’d met with might’ve been hired guns who were behind the killings. The DMV report would give her some clues, if not answers.
TJ stuck his head in her doorway. “Hey, boss, you still interested in Hamilton Royce?”
The man who was probably at that very moment considering how to bring her career down in flames. “Give me a one-minute précis.”
“A what?” TJ asked.
“Synopsis. Summary. Digest.”
“‘Précis’ is a word? Learn something new every day… . Okay. Royce’s a former lawyer. Left practice mysteriously and quickly. He’s a tough guy. Works mostly with six or seven different departments in the state. Ombudsman’s his official title. Unofficially he’s a fixer. You see that movie Michael Clayton?”
“With George Clooney, sure. Twice.”
“Twice?”
“George Clooney.”
“Ah. Well, that’s what Royce does. Lately he’s been doing a lot of work for senior people in the lieutenant governor’s office, the state energy commission, the EPA, and the Finance Committee of the Assembly. If there’s a problem, he’s there.”
“What sort of problem?”
“Committee disagreements, scandals, public relations, pilfering, contract disputes. I’m still waiting to hear back on more details.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can use.” Picking one of the man’s favorite verbs.
“Use? To do what?”
“We had a falling-out, Royce and me.”
“So you want to blackmail him?”