Roadside Crosses

quickly. He’s a tough guy. Works mostly with six or seven different departments in the state. Ombudsman’s his official title. Unofficially he’s a fixer. You see that movie Michael Clayton ?”
    “With George Clooney, sure. Twice.”
    “Twice?”
    “George Clooney.”
    “Ah. Well, that’s what Royce does. Lately he’s been doing a lot of work for senior people in the lieutenant governor’s office, the state energy commission, the EPA, and the Finance Committee of the Assembly. If there’s a problem, he’s there.”
    “What sort of problem?”
    “Committee disagreements, scandals, public relations, pilfering, contract disputes. I’m still waiting to hear back on more details.”
    “Let me know if there’s anything I can use.” Picking one of the man’s favorite verbs.
    “Use? To do what?”
    “We had a falling-out, Royce and me.”
    “So you want to blackmail him?”
    “That’s a strong word. Let’s just say I’d like to keep my job.”
    “I want you to keep your job too, boss. You let me get away with murder. Hey, what’s with Avery?”
    “Rey’s tailing him.”
    “Love that word. Almost as good as ‘shadow.’ ”
    “What’s the progress on Chilton’s list of suspects?”
    TJ explained that tracking them down was going slowly. People had moved or were unlisted, they were out, names had changed.
    “Give me half,” she said. “I’ll get going on it too.”
    The young agent handed her a sheet of paper. “I’ll give you the small list,” he said, “because you’re my favorite boss.”
    Dance looked over the names, considering how best to proceed. She heard in her mind Jon Boling’s words. We give away too much information about ourselves online. Way too much.
    Kathryn Dance decided she’d get to the official databases in a while—National Criminal Information Center, Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, California Open Warrants and consolidated DMV.
    For now, she’d stick to Google.
    GREG SCHAEFFER STUDIED James Chilton, who sat bloodied and frightened before him.
    Schaeffer had been using the pseudonym Greg Ashton to get close to Chilton without arousing suspicions.
    Because the name “Schaeffer” might raise alarms in the blogger.
    But then again it might not have; it wouldn’t surprise Schaeffer one bit if Chilton regularly forgot about the victims who suffered because of his blog.
    This thought infuriated Schaeffer all the more and when Chilton started to sputter, “Why—?” he slugged him once more.
    The blogger’s head snapped back against the upper part of his desk chair and he grunted. Which was all fine, but the son of a bitch wasn’t looking terrified enough to satisfy Schaeffer.
    “Ashton! Why’re you doing this?”
    Schaeffer leaned forward, gripped Chilton by the collar. He whispered, “You’re going to read a statement. If you don’t sound sincere, if you don’t sound remorseful, your wife will die. Your children too. I know they’ll be home from camp soon. I’ve been following them. I know the schedule.” He turned to Chilton’s wife. “And I know your brother’s with them. He’s a big guy, but he’s not bulletproof.”
    “Oh, God, no!” Patrizia gasped, dissolving into tears. “Please!”
    And now, at last, there was real fear in Chilton’s face. “No, don’t hurt my family! Please, please . . . I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt them.”
    “Read the statement and sound like you mean it,” Schaeffer warned, “then I’ll leave them alone. I’ll tell you, Chilton, I’ve got nothing but sympathy for them. They deserve a better life than being with a piece of shit like you.”
    “I’ll read it,” the blogger said. “But who are you? Why are you doing this? You owe me an answer.”
    Schaeffer was seized by a wave of fury. “ Owe you?” he growled. “Owe you? You arrogant asshole!” He slammed his fist into Chilton’s cheek once more, leaving the man stunned. “I owe you nothing.” He leaned forward and snapped, “Who am I, who am I? Do you know anybody whose lives you destroy? No, of course not. Because you sit in that fucking chair, a million miles away from real life, and you say whatever you want to say. You type some shit on your keyboard, send it out into the world and then you’re on to something else. Does the concept of consequences mean anything to you? Accountability?”
    “I try to be accurate. If I got something wrong—”
    Schaeffer burned. “You are so fucking blind. You don’t