Jeffery Deaver - Roadside Crosses

"Are you okay with my doing that?" She asked this because it was clear he wasn't.

"I'm not sure."

She laughed. "Why not? He went through my desk. Maryellen saw him. He used state police for his own agenda."

Overby's eyes dipped to the papers on his desk. They were as ordered as could be. "Well, it'll take up our time and resources. And it could be…awkward for us."

"Awkward?"

"Bring us into that interagency crap. I hate that."

This was hardly an argument. Life in state government is all about interagency crap.

At the end of a chewy silence, Overby seemed to come up with a thought. His eyebrow lifted a bit. "Besides, I think you might not have time to pursue it."

"I'll fit it in, Charles."

"Well, the thing is, there's this…" He found a file on his credenza and extracted a stapled document several pages long.

"What's that?"

"Matter of fact"-the second eyebrow joined in-"it's from the AG's office." He pushed the papers forward across the desk. "It seems there was a complaint made against you."

"Me?"

"Apparently you made racist remarks to a county employee."

"Charles, that's crazy."

"Ah, well, it went all the way to Sacramento."

"Who complained?"

"Sharanda Evans. County Social Services."

"I've never met her. It's a mistake."

"She was at Monterey Bay Hospital when your mother was arrested. She was looking after your children."

Oh, the woman who'd collected Wes and Maggie from the hospital play area.

"Charles, she wasn't 'looking after' them. She was taking them into custody. She didn't even try to call me."

"She claims you uttered racist comments."

"Jesus Christ, Charles, I said she was incompetent. That's all."

"She didn't interpret it that way. Now, since you generally have a good reputation and no history of problems in the past, the AG's not inclined to open a formal complaint. Still, it's got to be looked into."

He seemed torn about this dilemma.

But not that torn.

"He wanted some input from people on the ground about how to proceed."

From Overby himself, he meant. And she understood too exactly what was going on here: Dance had embarrassed Overby in front of Royce. Maybe the ombudsman had gotten the impression that the man couldn't control his employees. A CBI-instigated complaint against Royce would call Overby's leadership into question.

"Of course you're not racist. But the woman's pretty hot under the collar about it, this Ms. Evans." He stared at the inverted letter in front of Dance the way one would gaze at autopsy photos.

How long've you had this job?…Either not long enough, or way too long.

Kathryn Dance realized that her boss was negotiating: If she didn't go any further with the complaint about Royce's impropriety, Overby would tell the AG that the social worker's claim had been fully investigated and that there was no merit to it.

If Dance did pursue the Royce matter, she might lose her job.

This sat between them for a moment. Dance was surprised that Overby was showing no kinesic evidence that he was feeling stress. She, on the other hand, observed her foot bobbing like a piston.

I think I have the big picture, Dance thought cynically. She came close to saying it, but didn't.

Well, she had a decision to make.

Debating.

He tapped the complaint report with his fingers. "A shame when things like this happen. We have our core work, then other stuff intrudes."

After the Roadside Cross Case, after the roller-coaster with the J. Doe case in Los Angeles, after the harrowing days worrying about her mother, Dance decided she didn't have the heart for a fight, not over this.

"If you think a complaint against Royce would be too distracting, Charles, I'll respect that, of course."

"It's best probably. Let's get back to work-that's what we need to do. And this we'll just put away too." He took the complaint and slipped it into the file.

How blatant can we be, Charles?

He smiled. "No more distractions."

"Back to work," Dance echoed.

"Okay, I see it's late. Have a good weekend. And thanks for wrapping the case, Kathryn."

"Good night, Charles." Dance rose and left the office. She wondered if he felt as unclean as she did.

She doubted it very, very much.

Dance returned to the Gals' Wing and was just at her office door when a voice behind her called, "Kathryn?"

She turned to see somebody she didn't recognize at first. Then it struck her-it was David Reinhold, the young deputy from the sheriff's office. He wasn't in uniform, but was wearing jeans, a polo shirt and jacket. He smiled and glanced down. "Off duty." He approached her and stopped a few feet away. "Hey, I heard about the Roadside Cross Case."

"Kind of a surprise," she said."

His hands were jammed in his pockets. He seemed nervous. "I'll say. That boy'll be okay, though?"

"He'll be fine."

"And Chilton? Did he confess?"

"I bet he doesn't need to. We've got him on witnesses and PE. Cold."

She nodded toward her office, lifting an eyebrow, inviting him inside.

"I have some things to take care of… I stopped by earlier and you were out."

A curious thing to say. And she noted that he seemed even more nervous now. His body language was giving off high amperage of stress.

"I just wanted to say, I've really enjoyed working with you."

"Appreciate your help."

"You're a very special person," Reinhold stammered.

Uh-oh. Where was this going?

Reinhold was avoiding her eyes. He cleared his throat. "I know you don't really know me very well."

He's at least a decade younger than I am, she thought. He's a kid. Dance was struggling to keep from smiling or looking too maternal. She wondered where he was going to invite her on a date.

"Anyway, what I'm trying to say is…"

But he said nothing, just pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

"What I'm trying to say is that I hope you'll consider my application to join the CBI." Reinhold added, "Most older people in police work aren't very good mentors. I know you'd be different. I'd appreciate the chance to learn from you."

Struggling not to laugh, Dance said, "Well, David, thanks. I don't think we're hiring right at the moment. But I promise you, when we do, I'll make sure to get this to the top of the list."

"Really?" He beamed.

"You bet. You have a good night now, David. And thanks again for your help."

"Thanks, Kathryn. You're the best."

For an older person…

Smiling, she walked into her office and dropped heavily into her chair. She sat, staring at the entwined tree trunks outside her window. Her cell phone chimed. Not much in the mood to talk to anybody, she looked down at the Caller ID window.

After three rings of debate she hit "Answer."

A butterfly eased along the fence and vanished into the neighbor's yard. It wasn't the time of year for Monarchs, the migratory lepidoptera that gave Pacific Grove its subtitle of "Butterfly Town, U.S.A.," and Kathryn Dance wondered what kind it was.

She was sitting on the Deck, which was slick from the late-afternoon fog. It was quiet now, she was alone. The children and the dogs were at her parents'. She wore faded jeans, a green sweatshirt, stylish Wish shoes, from the Brown company's Fergie line-a treat she'd allowed herself after the conclusion of the case. She sipped white wine.

Her laptop was open in front of her. Dance had logged on as a temporary administrator to The Chilton Report after she'd found the access pass codes in one of James Chilton's files. She consulted the book she'd been reading from, finished typing the text and uploaded it.

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