Roadside Crosses

louder, and she was greeted by a brunette woman in her early forties, slender, wearing designer jeans and a white blouse, the collar turned up. A thick David Yurman knotted necklace, in silver, was at her throat.
    The shoes, Dance couldn’t help but identify, came from Italy and were knockouts.
    The agent identified herself, proffering her ID. “I called earlier. To see Mr. Chilton.”
    The woman’s face eased into the hint of a frown that typically forms when one meets law enforcers. Her name was Patrizia—she pronounced it Pa- treet -sia.
    “Jim’s just finishing up a meeting. I’ll go tell him you’re here.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Come on in.”
    She led Dance to a homey den, the walls covered with pictures of family, then disappeared into the house for a moment. Patrizia returned. “He’ll be just a moment.”
    “Thank you. These are your boys?” Dance was pointing at a picture of Patrizia, a lanky balding man she took to be Chilton and two dark-haired boys, who reminded her of Wes. They were all smiling at the camera. The woman proudly said, “Jim and Chet.”
    Chilton’s wife continued through the photos. From the pictures of the woman in her youth—at Carmel Beach, Point Lobos, the Mission—Dance guessed she was a native. Patrizia explained that, yes, she was; in fact, she’d grown up in this very house. “My father had been living here alone for years. When he passed, about three years ago, Jim and I moved in.”
    Dance liked the idea of a family home, passed down from generation to generation. She reflected that Michael O’Neil’s parents still lived in the oceanview house where he and his siblings had grown up. With his father suffering from senility, his mother was thinking of selling the place and moving into a retirement community. But O’Neil was determined to keep the property in the family.
    As Patrizia was pointing out photos that displayed the family’s exhausting athletic accomplishments—golf, soccer, tennis, triathlons—Dance heard voices in the front hall.
    She turned to see two men. Chilton—she recognized him from the pictures—wore a baseball cap, green polo shirt and chinos. Blondish hair eased in tufts from under the hat. He was tall and apparently in good shape, with only a bit of belly swelling above his belt. He was speaking to another man, sandy-haired, wearing jeans, a white shirt and a brown sports coat. Dance started toward them but Chilton quickly ushered the man out of the door. Her kinesic reading wasthat he didn’t want the visitor, whoever he was, to know that a law enforcement agent had come to see him.
    Patrizia repeated, “He’ll just be a minute.”
    But Dance sidestepped her and continued into the hall, sensing the wife stiffen, protective of her husband. Still, an interviewer has to take immediate charge of the situation; subjects can’t set the rules. But by the time Dance got to the front door Chilton was back and the rental car heading off, gravel crunching under tires.
    His green eyes—similar to her shade—turned their attention her way. They shook hands and she read in the blogger’s face, tanned and freckled, curiosity and a certain defiance, more than wariness.
    Another flash of the ID. “Could we talk somewhere for a few minutes, Mr. Chilton?”
    “My office, sure.”
    He led her up the hall. The room they entered was modest and a mess, filled with towers of magazines and clippings and computer printouts. Underscoring what she’d learned from Jon Boling, the office revealed that indeed the reporter’s game was changing: small rooms in houses and apartments just like this were replacing city-desk rooms of newspapers. Dance was amused to see a cup of tea beside his computer—the scent of chamomile filled the room. No cigarettes, coffee or whisky for today’s hard-edged journalists, apparently.
    They sat and he lifted his eyebrow. “So he’s been complaining, has he? But I’m curious. Why the police, why not a civil suit?”
    “How’s that?” Dance was confused.
    Chilton rocked back in his chair, removed his cap,rubbed his balding head and slipped the hat back on. He was irritated. “Oh, he bitches about libel. But it’s not defamation if it’s true. Besides, even if what I wrote was false, which it isn’t, libel’s not a crime in this country. Would be in Stalinist Russia, but it’s not here yet. So why’re you involved?” His eyes were keen and probing, his mannerisms intense; Dance could imagine how it might