Jeffery Deaver - Roadside Crosses

This was true. "You can refuse to cooperate. But we're hoping you won't."

"You can hope all you want," he snapped. The smile now grew triumphant. "I see what's going on here. Could it be that you got it all wrong, Agent Dance? That maybe it isn't some psychotic teenager who's been gutting people like in some bad horror film. But somebody who's been using the kid, setting him up to take the fall for killing James Chilton?"

That was pretty good, Dance thought. But did it mean that he was threatening them? If he was the "somebody" he referred to, then, yes, he was.

Carraneo stole a brief glance at her.

"Which means you've pretty much had the wool pulled over your eyes."

There were too many important rules in interviewing and interrogation for any of them to be number one, but high at the top was: Never let the personal insults affect you.

Dance said reasonably, "There's been a series of very serious crimes, Mr. Brubaker. We're looking into all possibilities. You have a grudge against James Chilton, and you've assaulted him once already."

"And, really," he said in a dismissive tone, "do you think it'd be the smartest thing in the world to get into a public brawl with a man I'm secretly trying to kill?"

Either very stupid or very smart, Dance responded silently. She then asked, "Where were you at the times I mentioned? You can tell us, or you can refuse and we'll keep investigating."

"You're as much of a prick as Chilton is. Actually, Agent Dance, you're worse. You hide behind your shield."

Carraneo stirred but said nothing.

She too was silent. Either he was going to tell them or he was going to throw them out.

Wrong, Dance realized. There was a third option, one that had been percolating since she'd been listening to the eerie creaks in the seemingly deserted house.

Brubaker was going for a weapon.

"I've had enough of this," he whispered, and, eyes wide in anger, yanked open the top desk drawer. His hand shot inside.

Dance flashed on her children's faces, then her husband's and then Michael O'Neil's.

Please, she thought, praying for speed…

"Rey, behind us! Cover!"

And when Brubaker looked up he was staring into the muzzle of her Glock pistol, while Carraneo was facing the opposite way, aiming at the door to the office.

Both agents were crouching.

"Jesus, take it easy!" he cried.

"Clear so far," Carraneo said.

"Check it out," she ordered.

The young man eased to the door and, standing to the side, pushed it open with his foot. "Clear."

He spun around to cover Brubaker.

"Lift your hands slowly," Dance said, her Glock steady enough. "If you have a weapon in your hand, drop it immediately. Don't lift it or lower it. Just drop it. If you don't-now-we will shoot. Understand?"

Arnold Brubaker gasped. "I don't have a gun."

She didn't hear a weapon hit the expensive floor, but he was lifting his hands very slowly.

Unlike Dance's, they weren't shaking at all.

In the developer's ruddy fingers was a business card, which he flicked toward her contemptuously. The agents holstered their weapons. They sat.

Dance looked at the card, reflecting that a situation that couldn't get any more awkward just had. On the card was the gold-embossed seal of the Department of Justice-the eagle and the fine print. She knew FBI agents' cards very well. She still had a large box of them at home: her husband's.

"At the time you mentioned, yesterday, I was meeting with Amy Grabe." Special agent in charge of the San Francisco office of the Bureau. "We were meeting here and at the site. From about eleven a.m. to three p.m."

Oh.

Brubaker said, "Desalination and water-based infrastructure projects are terrorist targets. I've been working with Homeland Security and the FBI to make sure that if the project gets under way, there'll be adequate security." He looked at her calmly and with contempt. The tip of his tongue touched a lip. "I'm hoping it will be federal officers involved. I'm losing confidence in the local constabulary."

Kathryn Dance wasn't about to apologize. She'd check with SAC Amy Grabe, whom she knew and, despite differences of opinion, respected. And even though an alibi wouldn't absolve him from hiring a thug to commit the actual crimes, it was hard for Dance to believe that a man working closely with the FBI and DHS would risk murder. Besides, everything about Brubaker's demeanor suggested he was telling the truth.

"All right, Mr. Brubaker. We'll check out what you're telling us."

"I hope you do."

"I appreciate your time."

"You can find your own way out," he snapped.

Carraneo cast a sheepish glance her way. Dance rolled her eyes.

When they were at the door, Brubaker said, "Wait. Hold on." The agents turned. "Well, was I right?"

"Right?"

"That you think somebody killed the boy and set him up to be the fall guy in some plot to kill Chilton?"

A pause. Then she thought: Why not? She answered, "We think it's possible, yes."

"Here." Brubaker jotted something on a slip of paper and offered it. "He's somebody you ought to be looking at. He'd love for the blog-and the blogger-to disappear."

Dance glanced at the note.

Wondering why she hadn't thought of the suspect herself.

Parked on a dusty street near the small town of Marina, five miles north of Monterey, Dance was alone in her Crown Vic, on the phone with TJ.

"Brubaker?" she asked.

"No criminal record," he told her. And his work-and the alibi-with the FBI was confirmed.

He still might've hired somebody for the job, but this information did ease him out of the hot seat.

Attention was now on the man whose name Brubaker had given her. The name on the slip of paper was Clint Avery and she was presently gazing at him from about one hundred yards away, through a chain-link fence-topped with razor wire-that surrounded his massive construction company.

The name Avery had never come up as someone involved in the case. For very good reason: The builder had never posted on the blog and Chilton had never written about him in The Report.

Not by name, that is. The "Yellow Brick Road" thread didn't mention Avery specifically. But questioned the government's decision to build the highway and the bidding process, by implication also criticizing the contractor-which Dance should have known was Avery Construction, since she'd been flagged down by a company team at the site of the highway work when she'd been on her way to Caitlin Gardner's summer school two days ago. She hadn't put the two pieces together.

TJ Scanlon now told her, "Seems that Clint Avery was connected with a company investigated for using substandard materials about five years ago. Investigation got dropped real fast. Maybe Chilton's reporting might get the case reopened."

A good motive to kill the blogger, Dance agreed. "Thanks, TJ. That's good… And Chilton's got you the list of other suspects?"

"Yep."

"Any others stand out?"

"Not yet, boss. But I'm glad I don't have as many enemies as he does."

She gave a brief laugh and they disconnected.

From the distance, Dance continued to study Clint Avery. She'd seen pictures of him a dozen times-on the news and in the papers. He was hard to miss. Though he would certainly have been a millionaire many times over, he was dressed the same as any other worker: a blue shirt sprouting pens in the breast pocket, tan work slacks, boots. The sleeves were rolled up and she spotted a tattoo on his leathery forearm. In his hand was a yellow hard hat. A big walkie-talkie sat on his hip. She wouldn't have been surprised to see a six-shooter; his broad, mustachioed face looked like a gunslinger's.

She started the engine and drove through the gates. Avery noticed her car. He squinted slightly and seemed to recognize hers immediately as a government car. He concluded his discussion with a leather-jacketed man, who walked away. Quickly.