Jeffery Deaver - Roadside Crosses

"Exactly."

The deputy fell silent for a moment. His thoughts had apparently arrived at the exact spot where Dance's awaited. "He's dead, isn't he?" the deputy asked. "Travis?"

Dance sighed at this harsh corollary of her theory. "It's possible. But I'm hoping not. I like to think he's just being held somewhere."

"The poor kid was in the wrong place at the wrong time." Rocking back and forth. "So, to find where the real perp is, we've got to figure out who's the intended victim. It's not somebody who posted an attack on Travis; they were just set up to mislead us."

"My theory?" Dance offered.

O'Neil looked at her with a coy smile. "Whoever the perp is, he's really after Chilton?"

"Yep. The perp was setting the stage, first going after people who'd criticized Travis, then those friendly with Chilton and finally the blogger himself."

"Somebody who doesn't want to be investigated."

Dance replied, "Or who wants revenge for something he'd posted in the past."

"Okay, all we need to find out is who wants to kill James Chilton," Michael O'Neil said.

Dance gave a sour laugh. "The easier question is: Who doesn't?"

James?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. The blogger said, "Agent Dance." His voice sounded weary. "More bad news?"

"I've found some evidence that suggests Travis isn't leaving the crosses."

"What?"

"I'm not positive, but the way things are looking, the boy could be a scapegoat and somebody's making it look like he's the killer."

Chilton whispered, "And he was innocent all along?"

"I'm afraid so." Dance explained what she'd learned-about who was really behind the wheel of the car on June 9-and about the likelihood of the evidence being planted.

"And I think you're the ultimate target," she added.

"Me?"

"You've posted some pretty inflammatory stories throughout your career. And you're writing now about controversial topics. I think some people'd be happy to see you stop. You've been threatened before, I assume."

"Plenty of times."

"Go back through your blog, find the names of everybody who's threatened you, who might want to get even for something you've said, or who's concerned that you're investigating something now they might not want published. Pick the most credible suspects. And go back a few years."

"Sure. I'll come up with a list. But you think I'm really at risk?"

"I do, yes."

He fell silent. "I'm worried about Pat and the boys. Do you think we should leave the area? Maybe go to our vacation house? It's in Hollister. Or get a hotel room?"

"Probably the hotel's safer. You'd be on record as owning the other house. I can arrange for you to check into one of the motels we use for witnesses. It'll be under a pseudonym."

"Thanks. Give us a few hours. Pat'll get things packed up, and we'll leave right after a meeting I have scheduled."

"Good."

She was about to hang up when Chilton said, "Wait. Agent Dance, one thing?"

"What?"

"I've got an idea-of who might be number one on the list."

"I'm ready to write."

"You won't need a pen and paper," Chilton replied.

DANCE AND REY Carraneo slowly approached the luxurious house of Arnold Brubaker, the man behind the desalination plant that would, according to James Chilton, destroy the Monterey Peninsula.

It was Brubaker whom Chilton fingered as the number-one choice of suspect. Either the desalination tsar himself, or a person hired by him. And Dance thought this was likely. She was online on the car's computer, reading the "Desalinate…and Devastate" thread on the June 28 posting.

http://www.thechiltonreport.com/html/june28.html

From Chilton's reporting and the posts, Dance deduced that the blogger had found out about the man's Las Vegas connections, which suggested organized crime, and the man's private real estate dealings, which hinted at secrets he might not want exposed.

"Ready?" Dance asked Carraneo as she logged off.

The young agent nodded, and they climbed from the car.

She knocked on the door.

Finally the red-faced entrepreneur-flushed from the sun, not booze, Dance deduced-answered the knock. He was surprised to see visitors. He blinked and said nothing for a moment. "From the hospital. You're…?"

"Agent Dance. This is Agent Carraneo."

His eyes zipped behind her.

Looking for backup? she wondered.

And if so, for her backup? Or Brubaker's own?

She felt a trickle of fear. People who kill for money were the most ruthless, in her estimation.

"We're following up on that incident with Mr. Chilton. You mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"What? That prick filed charges after all? I thought we-"

"No, no charges. Can we come in?"

The man remained suspicious. His eyes avoiding Dance's, he nodded them inside and blurted, "He's crazy, you know. I mean, I think he's certifiable."

Dance gave a noncommittal smile.

With another glance outside, Brubaker closed the door. He locked it.

They walked through the house, impersonal, many rooms empty of furniture. Dance believed she heard a creak from nearby. Then another from a different room.

Was the house settling, or did Brubaker have assistants here?

Assistants, or muscle?

They walked into an office filled with papers, blueprints, pictures, photographs, legal documents. A carefully constructed scale model of the desalination plant took up one of the tables.

Brubaker lifted several huge bound reports off chairs and gestured them to sit. He did too, behind a large desk.

Dance noticed certificates on the wall. There were also pictures of Brubaker with powerful-looking men in suits-politicians or other businesspeople. Interrogators love office walls; they reveal much about people. From these particular pictures she deduced that Brubaker was smart (degrees and professional course completions) and savvy politically (honors and keys from cities and counties). And tough; his company apparently had built desalination plants in Mexico and Colombia. Photos showed him surrounded by sunglassed, vigilant men-security guards. The men were the same in all of the pictures, which meant they were Brubaker's personal minders, not provided by the local government. One held a machine gun.

Were they the source of the creaks nearby-which she'd heard again, closer, it seemed?

Dance asked about the desalination project, and he launched into a lengthy sales pitch about the latest technology the plant would use. She caught words like "filtration," "membranes," "freshwater holding tanks." Brubaker gave them a short lecture on the reduced costs of new systems that was making desalination economically feasible.

She took in little information, but instead feigned interest and soaked up his baseline behavior.

Her first impression was that Brubaker didn't seem troubled at their presence, though High Machs were rarely moved by any human connections-whether romantic, social or professional. They even approached confrontation with equanimity. It was one aspect that made them so efficient. And potentially dangerous.

Dance would have liked more time to gather baseline information, but she felt a sense of urgency so she stopped his spiel and asked, "Mr. Brubaker, where were you at one p.m. yesterday and eleven a.m. today?"

The times of Lyndon Strickland's and Mark Watson's deaths.

"Well, why?" A smile. But Dance had no idea what was behind it.

"We're looking into certain threats against Mr. Chilton."

True, though not, of course, the whole story.

"Oh, he libels me, and now I'm accused?"

"We're not accusing you, Mr. Brubaker. But could you answer my question, please?"

"I don't have to. I can ask you to leave right now."