Roadside Crosses

mother’s attention continued to be drawn outside. Her face was troubled.
    “You’d think they’d have more important things to do. That reverend gave a speech the other day. Fire and brimstone. And the hatred in their faces. It’s vile.”
    “Have you seen Juan’s parents?”
    Edie Dance had spent some time comforting the burned officer’s family, his mother in particular. She had known that Juan Millar probably wouldn’t survive, but she’d done everything she could to make the shocked and bewildered couple understand that he was getting the best care possible. Edie had told her daughter that the woman’s emotional pain was as great as her son’s physical agony.
    “No, they haven’t been back. Julio has. He was here this morning.”
    “He was? Why?”
    “Maybe collecting his brother’s personal effects. I don’t know. . . .” Her voice faded. “He was just staring at the room where Juan died.”
    “Has there been an inquiry?”
    “Our board of ethics was looking into it. And a few policemen have been here. Some county deputies. But when they look at the report—and see the pictures of his injuries—nobody’s actually that upset that he died. It really was merciful.”
    “Did Julio say anything to you when he was here today?”
    “No, he didn’t talk to anybody. You ask me, he’s a bit scary. And I couldn’t help but remember what he did to you.”
    “He was temporarily insane,” Dance said.
    “Well, that’s no excuse for attacking my daughter,” Edie said with a staunch smile. Then her eyes slipped out the glass doors and examined the protesters once more. A dark look. She said, “I better get back to my station.”
    “If it’s okay, could Dad bring Wes and Maggie over here later? He’s got a meeting at the aquarium. I’ll pick them up.”
    “Of course, honey. I’ll park ’em in the kids’ play area.”
    Edie Dance headed off once more, glancing outside. Her visage was angry and troubled. It seemed to say: You’ve got no business being here, disrupting our work.
    Dance left the hospital with a glance toward Reverend R. Samuel Fisk and his bodyguard or whoever the big man was. They’d joined several other protesters, clasped hands and lowered their heads in prayer.
    “TAMMY’S COMPUTER,” DANCE said to Michael O’Neil.
    He lifted an eyebrow.
    “It’s got the answer. Well, maybe not the answer. But an answer. To who attacked her.”
    They were sipping coffee as they sat outside at Whole Foods in Del Monte Center, an outdoor plaza anchored by Macy’s. She once calculated that she’d bought at least fifty pairs of shoes here—footwear, her tranquilizer. In fairness, though, that otherwise embarrassing number of purchases had taken place over a few years. Often, but not always, on sale.
    “Online stalker?” O’Neil asked. The food they ate wasn’t poached eggs with delicate hollandaise sauce and parsley garnish, but a shared raisin bagel with low-fat cream cheese in a little foil envelope.
    “Maybe. Or a former boyfriend who threatened her, or somebody she met on a social networking site. But I’m sure she knows his identity, if not him personally. I’m leaning toward somebody from her school. Stevenson.”
    “She wouldn’t say, though?”
    “Nope, claimed it was a Latino gangbanger.”
    O’Neil laughed. A lot of fake insurance claims started with, “A Hispanic in a mask broke into my jewelry store.” Or “Two African-Americans wearing masks pulled guns and stole my Rolex.”
    “No description, but I think he was wearing a sweatshirt, a hoodie. She gave a different negation response when I mentioned that.”
    “Her computer,” O’Neil mused, hefting his heavy briefcase onto the table and opening it. He consulted a printout. “The good news: We’ve got it in evidence. A laptop. It was in the backseat of her car.”
    “And the bad news is it went for a swim in the Pacific Ocean?”
    “ ‘Significant seawater damage,’ ” he quoted.
    Dance was discouraged. “We’ll have to send it to Sacramento or the FBI up in San Jose. It’ll take weeks to get back.”
    They watched a hummingbird brave the crowds to hover for breakfast at a red hanging plant. O’Neil said, “Here’s a thought. I was talking to a friend of mine in the Bureau up there. He’d just been to a presentation on computer crime. One of the speakers was local—a professor in Santa Cruz.”
    “UC?”
    “Right.”
    One of Dance’s alma maters.
    “He said the guy was