Roadside Crosses

invite her on a date.
    “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is . . .”
    But he said nothing, just pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.
    “What I’m trying to say is that I hope you’ll consider my application to join the CBI.” Reinhold added, “Most older people in police work aren’t very good mentors. I know you’d be different. I’d appreciate the chance to learn from you.”
    Struggling not to laugh, Dance said, “Well, David, thanks. I don’t think we’re hiring right at the moment. But I promise you, when we do, I’ll make sure to get this to the top of the list.”
    “Really?” He beamed.
    “You bet. You have a good night now, David. And thanks again for your help.”
    “Thanks, Kathryn. You’re the best.”
    For an older person . . .
    Smiling, she walked into her office and dropped heavily into her chair. She sat, staring at the entwined tree trunks outside her window. Her cell phone chimed. Not much in the mood to talk to anybody, she looked down at the Caller ID window.
    After three rings of debate she hit “Answer.”

Chapter 47
    A BUTTERFLY EASED along the fence and vanished into the neighbor’s yard. It wasn’t the time of year for monarchs, the migratory lepidoptera that gave Pacific Grove its subtitle of “Butterfly Town, U.S.A.,” and Kathryn Dance wondered what kind it was.
    She was sitting on the Deck, which was slick from the late-afternoon fog. It was quiet now, she was alone. The children and the dogs were at her parents’. She wore faded jeans, a green sweatshirt, stylish Wish shoes, from the Brown company’s Fergie line—a treat she’d allowed herself after the conclusion of the case. She sipped white wine.
    Her laptop was open in front of her. Dance had logged on as a temporary administrator to The Chilton Report after she’d found the access pass codes in one of James Chilton’s files. She consulted the book she’d been reading from, finished typing the text and uploaded it.
    Http://www.thechiltonreport.com/html/final.html
    Dance read the results. Gave a faint smile.
    Then logged off.
    She heard heavy footsteps on the stairs leading up from the side of the house and turned to see Michael O’Neil.
    “Hey.” He smiled.
    She had been expecting a phone call about the magistrate’s ruling in Los Angeles as to whether the J. Doe case would proceed; he’d seemed so preoccupied at the hospital, she hadn’t expected him to show up here in person. No matter, Michael O’Neil was always welcome. She tried to read his expression. She was usually good at this—she knew him so well—but he still had on a poker face.
    “Wine?”
    “Sure.”
    She retrieved a second glass from the kitchen and poured him his favorite red.
    “I can’t stay long.”
    “Okay.” Dance could barely control herself. “Well?”
    The smile escaped. “We won. Got the word twenty minutes ago. The judge blew the defense out of the water.”
    “For real?” Dance asked, slipping into adolescent-speak.
    “Yep.”
    She rose and hugged him hard. His arms slid around her back and pressed her to his solid chest.
    They stepped apart and clinked glasses.
    “Ernie presents to the grand jury in two weeks. There’s no doubt they’ll return a bill. They want us down there on Tuesday, nine a.m., to plan out the testimony. You up for a trip?”
    “Oh, you bet I am.”
    O’Neil moved to the railing. He was gazing out into the backyard, staring at a wind chime that Dance had been meaning to pick up from the spot, where she’d dumped it on a windy—and sleepless—night some time ago. He fell silent.
    Something was coming, Dance could tell.
    She grew alarmed. What was the story? Illness?
    Was he moving?
    He continued, “I was wondering . . .”
    She waited. Her breath was fast. The wine in her glass rocked like the turbulent Pacific.
    “The meeting’s on Tuesday and I was wondering if you wanted to stay down in L.A. a few extra days. We could see the sights. Get those eggs Benedict we were hoping for. Or maybe we could go out for sushi in West Hollywood and watch people trying to be cool. I could even buy a black shirt.” He was rambling.
    Which Michael O’Neil never did. Ever.
    Dance blinked. Her heart thudded as fast as the wings of the hummingbird hovering over the crimson feeder nearby. “I . . .”
    He laughed and his shoulders slumped. She couldn’t imagine what her expression looked like. “Okay. There’s something else I guess I ought to