Roadside Crosses

office in Sacramento, disconnected the phone. It drooped in his hand as he reflected on the conversation he’d just had—a conversation conducted in the language known as Political and Corporate Euphemism.
    He lingered in the halls of the CBI, considering options.
    Finally he returned to Charles Overby’s office.
    The agent-in-charge was sitting back in his chair watching a press report about the case streaming on his computer. How the police had come close to catching the killer at the house of a friend of the blogger’s but had missed him and he’d escaped possibly to terrorize more people on the Monterey Peninsula.
    Royce reflected that simply reporting that the police had saved the friend didn’t have quite the stay-tuned-or-else veneer of the approach the network had chosen to take.
    Overby typed and a different station came up. The special report anchor apparently preferred Travis to be the “Video Game Killer,” rather than defining himby masks or roadside crosses. He went on to describe how the boy tormented his victims before he killed them.
    Never mind that only one person had died or that the bastard got shot in the back of the head, fleeing. Which would tend to minimize the torment.
    Finally he said, “Well, Charles, they’re getting more concerned. The AG.” He lifted his phone like he was showing a shield during a bust.
    “We’re all pretty concerned,” Overby echoed. “The whole Peninsula’s concerned. It’s really our priority now. Like I was saying.” His face was cloudy. “But is Sacramento having a problem with how we’re handling the case?”
    “Not per se.” Royce let this nonresponse buzz around Overby’s head like a strident hornet.
    “We’re doing everything we can.”
    “I like that agent of yours. Dance.”
    “Oh, she’s top-notch. Nothing gets by her.”
    A leisurely nod, a thoughtful nod. “The AG feels bad about those victims. I feel bad about them.” Royce poured sympathy into his voice, and tried to recall the last time he really felt bad. Probably when he missed his daughter’s emergency appendectomy because he was in bed with his mistress.
    “A tragedy.”
    “I know I’m sounding like a broken record. But I really do feel that that blog is the problem.”
    “It is,” Overby agreed. “It’s the eye of the hurricane.”
    Which is calm and frames a beautiful blue sky, Royce corrected silently.
    The CBI chief offered, “Well, Kathryn did getChilton to post a plea for the boy to come in. And he gave us some details about the server—a proxy in Scandinavia.”
    “I understand. It’s just . . . as long as that blog’s up, it’s a reminder that the job isn’t getting done.” Meaning: By you. “I keep coming back to that question about something helpful to us, something about Chilton.”
    “Kathryn said she’d keep an eye peeled.”
    “She’s busy. I wonder if there’s something in what she’s already found. I don’t really want to deflect Agent Dance from the case. I wonder if I should take a gander.”
    “You?”
    “You wouldn’t mind, would you, Charles? If I just took a peek at the files. I could bring perspective. My impression, actually, is that Kathryn’s maybe too kind.”
    “Too kind?”
    “You were sharp, Charles, to hire her.” The agent in charge accepted this compliment, though, Royce knew, Kathryn Dance had predated Overby’s presence in the CBI here by four years. He continued, “Clever. You saw she was an antidote to the cynicism of old roosters like you and me. But the price of that is a certain . . . naivete.”
    “You think she’s got something on Chilton and doesn’t know it?”
    “Could be.”
    Overby was looking tense. “Well, I’ll apologize for her. Put it down to distraction, why don’t we? Her mother’s case. Not focusing up to par. She’s doing the best she can.”
    Hamilton Royce was known for his ruthlessness. But he would never have sold out a loyal member of his team with a comment like that. He reflected that it was almost impressive to see the top three darker qualities of human nature displayed so boldly: cowardice, pettiness and betrayal. “Is she in?”
    “Let me find out.” Overby made a call and spoke to someone who Royce deduced was Dance’s assistant. He hung up.
    “She’s still at the crime scene at the Hawken house.”
    “So, then, I’ll just have a look-see.” But then Royce seemed to have a thought. “Of course, probably better if I weren’t