Jeffery Deaver - Roadside Crosses

There are several types. Manipulators, or "High Machiavellians" (after the Italian political philosopher who, literally, wrote the book on ruthlessness), see absolutely nothing wrong with lying; they use deceit as a tool to achieve their goals in love, business, politics or crime and are very, very good at deception. Other types include social liars, who lie to entertain; adaptors, insecure people who lie to make positive impressions; and actors, who lie for control.

Dance decided Tammy was a combination of adaptor and actor. Her insecurities would make her lie to boost her fragile ego, and she would lie to get her way.

Once a kinesic analyst answers these four questions, the rest of the process is straightforward: She continues questioning the subject, noting carefully those queries that elicit stress reactions-indicators of deception. Then she keeps returning to those questions, and related ones, probing further, closing in on the lie, and noting how the subject is handling the increasing levels of stress. Is she angry, in denial, depressed or trying to bargain her way out of the situation? Each of these states requires different tools to force or trick or encourage the subject to finally tell the truth.

This is what Dance did now, sitting forward a bit to put herself in a close but not invasive "proxemic zone"-about three feet away from Tammy. This would make her uneasy, but not overly threatened. Dance kept a faint smile on her face and decided not to exchange her gray-rimmed glasses for her black frames-her "predator specs"-which she wore to intimidate High Mach subjects.

"That's very helpful, Tammy, everything you've said. I really appreciate your cooperation."

The girl smiled. But she also glanced at the door. Dance read: guilt.

"But one thing," the agent added, "we have some reports from the crime scene. Like on CSI, you know?"

"Sure. I watch it."

"Which one do you like?"

"The original. You know, Las Vegas."

"That's the best, I hear." Dance had never seen the show. "But from the evidence it doesn't seem like there were two people. Either in the parking lot or at the beach."

"Oh. Well, like I said, it was just a, like, feeling."

"And one question I had. That clanking you heard? See, we didn't find any other car wheel tread marks either. So we're real curious how he got away. Let's go back to the bicycle. I know you didn't think that was the sound in the car, the clanking, but any way it could have been, you think?"

"A bicycle?"

Repeating a question is often a sign of deception. The subject is trying to buy time to consider the implications of an answer and to make up something credible.

"No, it couldn't. How could he get it inside?" Tammy's denial was too fast and too adamant. She'd considered a bicycle too but didn't want to admit the possibility, for some reason.

Dance lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, I don't know. One of my neighbors has a Camry. It's a pretty big car."

The girl blinked; she was surprised, it seemed, that Dance knew the make of her car. That the agent had done her homework was making Tammy uneasy. She looked at the window. Subconsciously, she was seeking a route of escape from the unpleasant anxiety. Dance was on to something. She felt her own pulse tap harder.

"Maybe. I don't know," Tammy said.

"So, he could've had a bike. That might mean he was somebody your age, a little younger. Adults ride bikes, sure, but you see teenagers with them more. Hey, what do you think about it being somebody in school with you?"

"School? No way. Nobody I know would do something like that."

"Anybody ever threaten you? Have any fights with anybody at Stevenson?"

"I mean, Brianna Crenshaw was pissed when I beat her for cheerleader. But she started going out with Davey Wilcox. Who I had a crush on. So it kind of evened out." A choked laugh.

Dance smiled too.

"No, it was this gang guy. I'm sure of it." Her eyes grew wide. "Wait, I remember now. He made a call. Probably to the gang leader. I could hear him open his phone and he said, 'Ella esta en el coche.' "

She's in the car, Dance translated to herself. She asked Tammy, "You know what that means?"

"Something like 'I've got her in the car.'"

"You're studying Spanish?"

"Yeah." This was all very breathless and told in a voice with a higher pitch than normal. Her eyes locked onto Dance's but her hand flicked her hair away and paused to scratch her lip.

The Spanish quotation was a complete lie.

"What I'm thinking," Dance began reasonably, "is that he was just pretending to be a gangbanger. To cover up his identity. That means there was another reason to attack you."

"Like, why?"

"That's what I'm hoping you can help me with. You get any look at him at all?"

"Not really. He was behind me the whole time. And it was really, really dark in the parking lot. They ought to put lights in. I think I'm going to sue the club. My father's a lawyer in San Mateo."

The angry posturing was meant to deflect Dance's questioning; Tammy had seen something.

"Maybe as he came up toward you, you saw a reflection in the windows."

The girl was shaking her head no. But Dance persisted. "Just a glimpse. Think back. It's always cold at night here. He wouldn't've been in shirtsleeves. Was he wearing a jacket? A leather one, cloth? A sweater? Maybe a sweatshirt. A hoodie?"

Tammy said no to all of them, but some no's were different from others.

Dance then noticed the girl's eyes zip to a bouquet of flowers on the table. Beside it the get-well card read: Yo, girl, get your a** out of there soon! Love J, P, and the Beasty Girl.

Kathryn Dance looked at herself as a journeyman law enforcer who succeeded largely because of doing her homework and not taking no for an answer. Occasionally, though, her mind did a curious jump. She'd pack in the facts and impressions and suddenly there'd be an unexpected leap-a deduction or conclusion that seemed to arise as if by magic.

A to B to X…

This happened now, seeing Tammy look at the flowers, eyes troubled.

The agent took a chance.

"See, Tammy, we know that whoever attacked you also left a roadside cross-as a message of some sort."

The girl's eyes grew wide.

Gotcha, Dance thought. She does know about the cross.

She continued her improvised script, "And messages like that are always sent by people who know the victims."

"I…I heard him speaking Spanish."

Dance knew this was a lie, but she'd learned that with subjects who had a personality type like Tammy's, she needed to leave them an escape route, or they'd shut down completely. She said agreeably, "Oh, I'm sure you did. But I think he was trying to cover up his identity. He wanted to fool you."

Tammy was miserable, the poor thing.

Who terrified her so much?

"First of all, Tammy, let me reassure you that we'll protect you. Whoever did this won't get near you again. I'm going to have a policeman stay outside your door here. And we'll have one at your house too until we catch the person who did this."

Relief in her eyes.

"Here's a thought: What about a stalker? You're very beautiful. I'll bet you have to be pretty careful."

A smile-very cautious, but pleased nonetheless at the compliment.

"Anybody been hassling you?"

The young patient hesitated.

We're close. We're really close.

But Tammy backed away. "No."

Dance did too. "Have you had any problems with people in your family?" This was a possibility. She'd checked. Her parents were divorced-after a tough courtroom battle-and her older brother lived away from home. An uncle had a domestic abuse charge.

But Tammy's eyes made it clear that relatives probably weren't behind the attack.