Roadside Crosses

on to her.
    “And Jon . . .” Overby tried to recall.
    “Boling.”
    Harper gave the professor a distracted glance. Said nothing to him.
    The man from San Francisco had an unrevealing face and perfectly trimmed black hair. He wore a conservative navy blue suit and white shirt, a red-and-blue striped tie. On his lapel was an American flag pin. His cuffs were perfectly starched, though she noticed a few stray gray threads at the ends. A professional state’s attorney, long after his colleagues had gone into private practice and were making buckets of money. She put him in his early fifties.
    “What brings you to Monterey?” she asked.
    “Caseload evaluations.” Offering nothing more.
    Robert Harper seemed to be one of those people who, if he had nothing to say, was comfortable with silence. Dance believed too she recognized in his facean intensity, a sense of devotion to his mission, akin to what she’d seen in the Reverend Fisk’s face at the hospital protest. Though how much of a mission caseload analysis would entail was a mystery to her.
    He turned his attention to her briefly. She was used to being looked over, but usually by suspects; Harper’s perusal was unsettling. It was as if she held the key to an important mystery for him.
    Then he said to Overby, “I’m going to be outside for a few minutes, Charles. If you could keep the door to the conference room locked, I’d appreciate it.”
    “Sure. Anything else you need, just let me know.”
    A chilly nod. Then Harper was gone, fishing a phone from his pocket.
    “What’s the story with him ?” Dance asked.
    “Special prosecutor from Sacramento. Had a call from upstairs—”
    The attorney general.
    “—to cooperate. He wants to know about our caseload. Maybe something big’s going down and he needs to see how busy we are. He spent some time at the sheriff’s office too. Wish he’d go back and bug them. Fellow’s a cold fish. Don’t know what to say to him. Tried some jokes. They fell flat.”
    But Dance was thinking about the Tammy Foster case; Robert Harper was gone from her mind.
    She and Boling returned to her office and she’d just sat down at her desk when O’Neil called. She was pleased. She guessed he’d have the results of the analysis of the bike tread dirt and the gray fiber from the sweatshirt.
    “Kathryn, we have a problem.” His voice was troubled.
    “Go on.”
    “Well, first, Peter says the gray fiber they found in the cross? It matches what we found at Travis’s.”
    “So he is the one. What’d the magistrate say about the warrant?”
    “Didn’t get that far. Travis’s on the run.”
    “What?”
    “He didn’t show up for work. Or, he did show up—there were fresh bike tread marks behind the place. He snuck into the back room, stole some bagels and some cash from the purse of one of the workers . . . and a butcher’s knife. Then he disappeared. I called his parents, but they haven’t heard from him and claim they don’t have any idea where he might go.”
    “Where are you?”
    “In my office. I’m going to put out a detain alert on him. Us, Salinas, San Benito, surrounding counties.”
    Dance rocked back, furious with herself. Why hadn’t she planned better and had somebody follow the boy when he left his house? She’d managed to establish his guilt—and simultaneously let him slip through her fingers.
    And, hell, now she’d have to tell Overby what had happened.
    But you didn’t bring him in?
    “There’s something else. When I was at the bagel place, I looked up the alley. There’s that deli near Safeway.”
    “Sure, I know it.”
    “They have a flower stand on the side of the building.”
    “Roses!” she said.
    “Exactly. I talked to the owner.” O’Neil’s voice went flat. “Yesterday, somebody snuck up to the place and stole all the bouquets of red roses.”
    She understood now why he was sounding so grave. “All? . . . How many did he take?”
    A slight pause. “A dozen. It looks like he’s just getting started.”

Chapter 12
    DANCE’S PHONE RANG . A glance at Caller ID.
    “TJ. Was just about to call you.”
    “Didn’t have any luck with security cameras but there’s a sale on Blue Mountain Jamaican coffee at Java House. Three pounds for the price of two. Still sets you back close to fifty bucks. But that coffee is the best.”
    She made no response to his banter. He noticed it. “What’s up, boss?”
    “Change of plans, TJ.” She told him about Travis