Roadside Crosses

soon get tiring to spend much time in his presence.
    “I’m not sure what you mean.”
    “Aren’t you here because of Arnie Brubaker?”
    “No. Who’s that?”
    “He’s the man who wants to destroy our shoreline by putting in that desalination plant.”
    She recalled the blog postings in The Chilton Report critical of the plant. And the bumper sticker.
    “No, this has nothing to do with that.”
    Chilton’s forehead crinkled. “He’d love to stop me. I thought maybe he’d trumped up some criminal complaint. But sorry. I was making assumptions.” The defensiveness in his face relaxed. “It’s just, well, Brubaker’s really a . . . pain.”
    Dance wondered what the intended descriptive of the developer was going to have been.
    “Excuse me.” Patrizia appeared in the doorway and brought her husband a fresh cup of tea. She asked Dance if she’d like anything. She was smiling now but still eyed the agent suspiciously.
    “Thanks, no.”
    Chilton nodded at the tea and charmingly winked his thanks to his wife. She left and closed the door behind her.
    “So, what can I do for you?”
    “Your blog about the roadside crosses.”
    “Oh, the car accident?” He regarded Dance closely. Some of the defensiveness was back; she could read the stress in his posture. “I’ve been following the news. That girl was attacked, the press is saying, because she posted something on the blog. The posters are starting to say the same thing. You want the boy’s name.”
    “No. We have it.”
    “Is he the one who tried to drown her?”
    “It seems so.”
    Chilton said quickly, “I didn’t attack him. My point was, did the police drop the ball on the investigation and did Caltrans adequately maintain the road? I said up front that he wasn’t to blame. And I censored his name.”
    “It didn’t take long for a mob to form and find out who he is.”
    Chilton’s mouth twisted. He’d taken the comment as criticism of him or the blog, which it wasn’t. But he conceded. “That does happen. Well, what can I do for you?”
    “We have reason to believe that Travis Brigham may be considering attacking other people who posted comments against him.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “No, but we have to consider it’s a possibility.”
    Chilton grimaced. “I mean, can’t you arrest him?”
    “We’re looking for him now. We aren’t sure where he is.”
    “I see.” Chilton said this slowly and Dance could see from his lifted shoulders and the tension in his neck he was wondering what exactly she wanted. The agent considered Jon Boling’s advice and said,“Now, your blog is known all over the world. It’s very respected. That’s one of the reasons so many people are posting on it.”
    The flash of pleasure in his eyes was faint but obvious to Dance; it told her that even obvious flattery went down very well with James Chilton.
    “But the problem is that all the posters attacking Travis are potential targets. And the number’s increasing every hour.”
    “ The Report has one of the highest hit ratings in the country. It’s the most-read blog in California.”
    “I’m not surprised. I really enjoy it.” Keeping an eye on her own mannerisms, so as not to telegraph the deception.
    “Thank you.” A full smile joined the eye crinkle.
    “But see what we’re facing: Every time somebody posts to the ‘Roadside Crosses’ thread they become a possible target. Some of those people are completely anonymous, some are out of the area. But some are nearby and we’re afraid Travis will find out their identities. And then he’ll go after them too.”
    “Oh,” Chilton said, his smile vanishing. His quick mind made the leap. “And you’re here for their Internet addresses.”
    “For their protection.”
    “I can’t give those out.”
    “But these people are at risk.”
    “This country operates on the principle of separation of media and state.” As if this flippant recitation skewered her argument.
    “That girl was thrown into a trunk and left to drown. Travis could be planning another attack right now.”
    Chilton held up a finger, shushing her like a schoolteacher. “It’s a slippery slope. Agent Dance, who do you work for? Your ultimate boss?”
    “The attorney general.”
    “Okay, well, say I give you the addresses of posters on the ‘Roadside Crosses’ thread. Then next month you come back and ask for the address of a whistleblower who was fired by the attorney general for, oh, let’s pick