Roadside Crosses

front—bulky men—glanced at Dance curiously and climbed out. They looked over at the county sheriff’s office car and Deputy Miguel Herrera, who touched his radio on his hip as if wanting to call somebody to see what this was all about.
    Together the new arrivals walked toward Dance and her prisoner. They noted the handcuffs.
    In a perplexed voice, Dance said, “Who’re you?”
    “Well,” the older of the troopers said, “CHP. Who are you, ma’am?”
    She fished for her wallet in her purse and showed her ID to the troopers. “I’m Kathryn Dance, CBI. What do you want here?”
    “We’re here to take James Chilton into custody.”
    “My prisoner?”
    “Yours?”
    “That’s right. We just arrested him.” She shot a glance to Herrera.
    “Wait a minute here,” Chilton barked.
    “Quiet,” Dance ordered.
    The senior trooper said, “We have an arrest warrant for James Chilton. And a warrant to take possession of his computers, files, business records. Anything related to The Chilton Report. ”
    They displayed the paperwork.
    “That’s ridiculous,” Chilton said. “What the fuck is going on here?”
    Dance repeated bluntly, “Quiet.” Then to the troopers: “What’s the charge?”
    “Criminal trespass.”
    “At Arnold Brubaker’s property?”
    “That’s right.”
    She laughed. “That’s what I just arrested him for.”
    Both of the troopers stared at her then at Chilton, buying time, and then, independently, they nodded. Apparently there was, in their experience, no precedent for anything like this.
    “Well,” one of the officers contributed, “we have a warrant.”
    “I understand. But he’s already been arrested and the CBI already has jurisdiction over his files and computers. We’re collecting them in a few minutes.”
    “This is fucking bullshit,” Chilton blurted.
    “Sir, I’d watch your language,” the younger, and bigger, of the troopers snapped.
    The silence roared.
    Then Kathryn Dance squinted a smile into her face. “Wait. Who’s the one requested the warrant? Was it Hamilton Royce?”
    “That’s right. The AG’s office in Sacramento.”
    “Oh, sure.” Dance was relaxing. “I’m sorry, this’s a misunderstanding. I was the senior officer on the trespass on call but we had an affidavit issue and I had to delay taking him into custody. I mentioned it to Hamilton. He probably thought I was so busy on the Roadside Cross Case—”
    “That Mask Killer. That thing. You’re running that?”
    “Sure am.”
    “Freaky.”
    “It is, yep,” Dance agreed. Then continued, “Hamilton probably figured I was so busy on that one that he’d take over on the trespass.” A disparaging nod of the head. “But frankly, Mr. Chilton pissed me off so much I wanted to finish up the collar myself.”
    She gave a conspiratorial smile that the troopers joined in briefly. Then she continued, “This’s my fault. I should’ve told him. Let me make a call.” She pulled her phone off her belt and dialed. Then cocked her head. “This’s Agent Dance,” she said and explained about her arrest of James Chilton. Silence for a moment. “I’ve already collared him. . . . We’ve got the paperwork back at HQ. . . . Sure.” She nodded. “Good,” Dance said in a conclusory tone, and disconnected on the woman’s voice explaining that the temperaturewas fifty-six degrees and rain was forecast on the Monterey Peninsula tomorrow.
    “It’s all set, we’ll process him.” A smile. “Unless you really want to cool your heels at the Salinas lockup for four hours.”
    “Nup, that’s okay, Agent Dance. You need any help getting him in the car?” The big trooper was looking over James Chilton as if the blogger weighed a hundred pounds more and was capable of breaking through the cuff chain with a flex of his muscles.
    “No, that’s okay. We’ll handle it.”
    With a nod, the men walked off, climbed in their car and left.
    “Listen to me,” Chilton growled, his face red. “This is bullshit and you know it.”
    “Just relax, okay?” Dance turned him around and undid the cuffs.
    “What’s this all about?” He was rubbing his wrists. “I thought you were arresting me.”
    “I did. I’ve decided to let you go, though.”
    “Are you fucking with me?”
    “No, I’m saving you.” Dance slipped the cuffs back into her holster. Smiling, she waved to a very perplexed Herrera. He nodded back.
    “You were being set up, James.”
    Not long before, Dance had gotten a call