Roadside Crosses

this.”
    Relief in her eyes.
    “Here’s a thought: What about a stalker? You’re very beautiful. I’ll bet you have to be pretty careful.”
    A smile—very cautious, but pleased nonetheless at the compliment.
    “Anybody been hassling you?”
    The young patient hesitated.
    We’re close. We’re really close.
    But Tammy backed away. “No.”
    Dance did too. “Have you had any problems with people in your family?” This was a possibility. She’d checked. Her parents were divorced—after a tough courtroom battle—and her older brother lived away from home. An uncle had a domestic abuse charge.
    But Tammy’s eyes made it clear that relatives probably weren’t behind the attack.
    Dance continued to fish. “You have any trouble with anybody you’ve been e-mailing? Maybe somebody you know online, through Facebook or MySpace? That happens a lot nowadays.”
    “No, really. I’m not online that much.” She was flicking fingernail against fingernail, the equivalent of wringing hands.
    “I’m sorry to push, Tammy. It’s just so important to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
    Then Dance saw something that struck her like a slap. In the girl’s eyes was a recognition response—a faint lifting of the brows and lids. It meant that Tammy was afraid that this would happen again—but, since she’d have her police guard, the implication was that the attacker was a threat to others too.
    The girl swallowed. She was clearly in the denial phase of stress reaction, which meant she was hunkered down, defenses raised high.
    “It was somebody I didn’t know. I swear to God.”
    A deception flag: “I swear.” The deity reference too. It was as if she were shouting, I’m lying! I want to tell the truth but I’m afraid.
    Dance said, “Okay, Tammy. I believe you.”
    “Look, I’m really, really tired. I think maybe I don’t want to say anything else until my mom gets here.”
    Dance smiled. “Of course, Tammy.” She rose and handed the girl one of her business cards. “If you could think about it a bit more and let us know anything that occurs to you.”
    “I’m sorry I’m, like, not all that helpful.” Eyes down. Contrite. Dance could see that the girl hadused pouting and insincere self-deprecation in the past. The technique, mixed with a bit of flirt, would work with boys and her father; women wouldn’t let her get away with it.
    Still, Dance played to her. “No, no, you’ve been very helpful. Gosh, honey, look at all you’ve been through. Get some rest. And put on some sitcoms.” A nod at the TV. “They’re good for the soul.”
    Walking out the door, Dance reflected: another few hours and she might have gotten the girl to tell the truth, though she wasn’t sure; Tammy was clearly terrified. Besides, however talented the interrogator, sometimes subjects simply would not tell what they knew.
    Not that it mattered. Kathryn Dance believed she’d learned all the information she needed.
    A to B to X . . .

Chapter 6
    IN THE LOBBY of the hospital Dance used a pay phone—no mobiles allowed—and called in a deputy to guard Tammy Foster’s room. She then went to reception and had her mother paged.
    Three minutes later Edie Dance surprised her daughter by approaching not from her station at Cardiac Care but from the intensive care wing.
    “Hi, Mom.”
    “Katie,” said the stocky woman with short gray hair and round glasses. Around her neck was an abalone and jade pendant that she’d made herself. “I heard about the attack—that girl in the car. She’s upstairs.”
    “I know. I just interviewed her.”
    “She’ll be okay, I think. That’s the word. How did your meeting go this morning?”
    Dance grimaced. “A setback, it looks like. The defense is trying to get the case dismissed on immunity.”
    “Doesn’t surprise me” was the cold response. Edie Dance was never hesitant to state her opinions. She had met the suspect, and when she learned what he’d done, she’d grown furious—an emotion evident to Dance in the woman’s calm visageand faint smile. Never raising her voice. But eyes of steel.
    If looks could kill, Dance remembered thinking about her mother when she was young.
    “But Ernie Seybold’s a bulldog.”
    “How’s Michael?” Edie Dance had always liked O’Neil.
    “Fine. We’re running this case together.” She explained about the roadside cross.
    “No, Katie! Leaving a cross before somebody dies? As a message?”
    Dance nodded. But she noted that her