Jeffery Deaver - Roadside Crosses

"I'm so sorry."

"And it looks like the attacks are going to continue." She explained about the stolen bouquets.

"Twelve of them?" His voice registered dismay.

"He's not going to stop until he's killed everybody who's attacked him in your blog. I'm going to ask you again, will you please give us the Internet addresses of the people who've posted?"

"No."

Goddammit. Dance shivered in rage.

"Because if I did, it would be a breach of trust. I can't betray my readers."

That again. She muttered, "Listen to me-"

"Please, Agent Dance, just hear me out. But what I will do…write this down. My hosting platform is Central California Internet Services. They're in San Jose." He gave her the address and phone number, as well as a personal contact. "I'll call them right now and tell them I won't object to their giving you the addresses of everybody who's posted. If they want a warrant, that's their business, but I won't fight it."

She paused. She wasn't sure of the technical implications but she thought he'd just agreed to what she'd asked for, while saving some journalistic face.

"Well…thank you."

They hung up and Dance called to Boling, "I think we can get the IP addresses."

"What?"

"Chilton's had a change of heart."

"Sweet," he said, smiling, and seemed like a boy who'd just been told his father'd gotten tickets to a play-off game.

Dance gave it a few minutes and called the hosting company. She was skeptical both that Chilton had called and the service itself would give up the information without a court battle. But to her surprise the representative she spoke with said, "Oh, Mr. Chilton just called. I've got the IP addresses of the posters. I've okayed forwarding them to a dot-gov location."

She smiled broadly, and gave the hosting employee her email address.

"They're on their way. I'll go back to the blog every few hours or so and get the addresses of the new posters."

"You're a lifesaver…literally."

The man said grimly, "This is about that boy who's getting even with people, right? The Satanist? Is it true they found biological weapons in his locker?"

Brother, Dance thought. The rumors were spreading faster than the Mission Hills fire a few years ago.

"We're not sure what's happening at this point." Always noncommittal.

They disconnected. And a few minutes later her computer dinged with incoming mail.

"Got it," Dance said to Boling. He rose and walked behind her, put his hand on her chair back, leaning forward. She smelled subtle aftershave. Pleasant.

"Okay. Good. Of course, you know those are the raw computer addresses. We've got to contact all the providers and find out names and physical addresses. I'll get right on it."

She printed out the list-it contained about thirty individuals' names-and handed it to him. He disappeared back into his corner of the lair and hunkered down in front of his computer.

"May have something, boss." TJ had been posting pictures of the mask on the Web and in blogs and asking if anybody knew its source. He ran his hand through his curly red hair. "Pat me on the back."

"What's the story?"

"The mask is of some character in a computer game." A glance at the mask. "Qetzal."

"What?"

"That's his name. Or its name. A demon who kills people with these beams from its eyes. And it can only moan because somebody laced up the lips."

Dance asked, "So it's getting even with people who have the ability to communicate."

"Didn't really run a Dr. Phil on him, boss," TJ said.

"Fair enough." She smiled.

"The game," TJ continued, "is DimensionQuest. "

"It's a Morpeg," Boling announced, without looking up from his own computer.

"What's that?"

" DimensionQuest is an M-M-O-R-P-G-massively multiplayer online role-playing game. I call them 'Morpegs.' And DQ is one of the most popular."

"Helpful to us?"

"I don't know yet. We'll see when we get into Travis's computer."

Dance liked the professor's confidence. "When," not "if." She sat back, pulled out her cell phone and called her mother. Still no answer.

Finally she tried her father.

"Hey, Katie."

"Dad. How's Mom? She never called me."

"Oh." A hesitation. "She's upset, of course. I think she's just not in the mood to talk to anybody."

Dance wondered how long her mother's conversation had been with Dance's sister, Betsey, last night.

"Has Sheedy said anything else?"

"No. He's doing some research, he said."

"Dad, Mom didn't say anything, did she? When she was arrested?"

"To the police?"

"Or to Harper, the prosecutor?"

"No."

"Good."

She felt an urge to ask him to put her mother on the phone. But she didn't want the rejection if she said no. Dance said brightly, "You are coming over for dinner tonight? Right?"

He assured her they would, though his tone really meant that they'd try.

"I love you, Dad. Tell Mom too."

"Bye, Katie."

They hung up. Dance stared at the phone for a few minutes. Then she strode up the hall and into her boss's office, entering without knocking.

Overby was just hanging up. He nodded at the phone. "Kathryn, any leads in the Morgan girl's attack? Something about biochemicals? News Nine called."

She closed the door. Overby eyed her uneasily.

"No biological weapons, Charles. It was just rumors."

Dance ran through the leads: the mask, the state vehicle, Caitlin Gardner's report that Travis liked the seashore, the household chemicals. "And Chilton's cooperating. He gave the Internet addresses of the posters."

"That's good." Overby's phone rang. He glanced at it but let his assistant pick up.

"Charles, did you know my mother was going to be arrested?"

He blinked. "I…no, of course not."

"What'd Harper tell you?"

"That he was checking the caseloads." Starch in his words. Defensive. "What I said yesterday."

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."