Roadside Crosses

maybe footprints or bicycle tire tread marks in areas that were roped off for construction. Here’s a list of locations.” She’d written down several earlier in the car.
    Concern on his face, he looked over the list then slipped the sheet into his shirt pocket and crossed his arms. This in itself meant little kinesically, since she hadn’t had time to get a baseline reading. But arm and leg crossing are defensive gestures and can signify discomfort. “You want me to give you a list of employees who’ve worked around there? Since the killings began, I assume.”
    “Exactly. It would be a big help.”
    “I assume you’d like this sooner rather than later.”
    “As soon as possible.”
    “I’ll do what I can.”
    She thanked him and walked back to the car, then drove out of the parking lot and up the road. Dance pulled up beside a dark blue Honda Accord nearby. She was pointed the opposite way, so her open window was two feet from Rey Carraneo’s. He sat in the driver’s seat of the Honda in shirtsleeves, without a tie. She’d seen him dressed this casually only twice before: at a Bureau picnic and one very bizarre barbecue at Charles Overby’s house.
    “He’s got the bait,” Dance said. “I have no idea if he’ll bite.”
    “How did he react?”
    “Hard to call. I didn’t have time to take a baseline. But my sense was that he was struggling to seem calm and cooperative. He was more nervous than he let on. I’m also not so sure about one of his helpers.” She described the man in the leather jacket. “Either one of them leaves, stay close.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    PATRIZIA CHILTON OPENED the door and nodded to Greg Ashton, the man her husband called an Über Blogger—in that cute but slightly obnoxious way of Jim’s.
    “Hi, Pat,” Ashton said. They shook hands. The slim man, in expensive tan slacks and a nice sports coat, nodded toward the squad car sitting in the road. “That deputy? He wouldn’t give anything away. But he’s here because of those killings, right?”
    “They’re just taking precautions.”
    “I’ve been following the story. You must be pretty upset.”
    She gave a stoic smile. “That’s putting it mildly. It’s been a nightmare.” She liked being able to admit to how she felt. She couldn’t always do that with Jim. She believed she had to be supportive. In fact, she was sometimes furious at his role as a relentless investigative journalist. It was important, she understood, but sometimes she just plain hated the blog.
    And now . . . endangering the family and forcing them to move to a hotel? This morning she’d had to ask her brother, a big man who’d been a bouncer in college, to escort the boys to their day camp, stay there and bring them back.
    She bolted the door behind them. “Can I get you anything?” Patrizia asked Ashton.
    “No, no, I’m fine, thanks.”
    Patrizia walked him to the door of her husband’s office, her eyes taking in the backyard through a large window in the hallway.
    A tap of concern in her chest.
    Had she seen something in the bushes behind the house? Was it a person?
    She paused.
    “Something wrong?” Ashton asked.
    Her heart was pounding hard. “I . . . Nothing. Probably just a deer. I have to say this whole case has got my nerves shaken.”
    “I don’t see anything.”
    “It’s gone,” she said. But was it? She couldn’t tell. Yet she didn’t want to alarm their guest. Besides, all the windows and doors were locked.
    They arrived at her husband’s office and stepped inside. “Honey,” she said. “It’s Greg.”
    “Ah, right on time.”
    The men shook hands.
    Patrizia said, “Greg said he doesn’t care for anything. How ’bout you, honey?”
    “No, I’m fine. Any more tea and I’ll be in the bathroom for the whole meeting.”
    “Well, I’ll leave you two boys to do your work and get back to packing.” Her heart sank again at the thought of moving into a hotel. She hated being driven from her home. At least the boys would consider it an adventure.
    “Actually,” Ashton said, “hold on a minute, Pat. I’m going to do a video of Jim’s operation to post on mysite. I want to include you too.” He set his briefcase on the table and opened it up.
    “Me?” Patrizia gasped. “Oh, no. I haven’t done my hair. And my makeup.”
    Ashton said, “First of all, you look fantastic. But most important, blogging isn’t about hair and makeup. It’s about authenticity. I’ve shot dozens of these and