Roadside Crosses

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 timesI 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 athug 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