Roadside Crosses

assistant from L.A.
    Earlier this month, Dance and O’Neil had run a case in Monterey—the convicted cult leader and killer Daniel Pell had escaped from prison and remained on the Peninsula, targeting more victims. One of the people involved in the case had turned out to be somebody very different from the person Dance and her fellow officers had believed. The consequences of that involved yet another murder.
    Dance adamantly wanted to pursue the perp. But there was much pressure not to follow up—from some very powerful organizations. Dance wouldn’t take no for an answer, though, and while the Monterey prosecutor had declined to handle the case, she and O’Neil learned that the perp had killed earlier—in Los Angeles. District Attorney Seybold, who worked regularly with Dance’s organization, the California Bureau of Investigation, and was a friend of Dance’s, agreed to bring charges in L.A.
    Several witnesses, though, were in the Monterey area, including Dance and O’Neil, and so Seybold had come here for the day to take statements. The clandestine nature of the get-together was due to the perp’s connections and reputation. In fact, for the time being they weren’t even using the killer’s real name. The case was known internally as The People v. J. Doe.
    As they sat, Seybold said, “We might have a problem, I have to tell you.”
    The butterflies Dance had felt earlier—that something would go wrong and the case would derail—returned.
    The prosecutor continued, “The defense’s made a motion to dismiss based on immunity. I honestly can’t tell you what the odds are it’ll succeed. The hearing’s scheduled for day after tomorrow.”
    Dance closed her eyes. “No.” Beside her O’Neil exhaled in anger.
    All this work . . .
    If he gets away, Dance thought . . . but then realized she had nothing to add to that, except: If he gets away, I lose.
    She felt her jaw trembling.
    But Seybold said, “I’ve got a team putting together the response. They’re good. The best in the office.”
    “Whatever it takes, Ernie,” Dance said. “I want him. I want him real bad.”
    “A lot of people do, Kathryn. We’ll do everything we can.”
    If he gets away . . .
    “But I want to proceed as if we’re going to win.” He said this confidently, which reassured Dance somewhat. They got started, Seybold asking dozens of questions about the crime—what Dance and O’Neil had witnessed and the evidence in the case.
    Seybold was a seasoned prosecutor and knew what he was doing. After an hour of interviewing them both, the wiry man sat back and said he had enough for the time being. He was momentarily expecting another witness—a local state trooper—who had also agreed to testify.
    They thanked the prosecutor, who agreed to call them the instant the judge ruled in the immunity hearing.
    As Dance and O’Neil walked back to the lobby, he slowed, a frown on his face.
    “What?” she asked.
    “Let’s play hooky.”
    “What do you mean?”
    He nodded at the beautiful garden restaurant, overlooking a canyon with the sea beyond. “It’s early. When was the last time anybody in a white uniform brought you eggs Benedict?”
    Dance considered. “What year is it again?”
    He smiled. “Come on. We won’t be that late.”
    A glance at her watch. “I don’t know.” Kathryn Dance hadn’t played hooky in school, much less as a senior agent with the CBI.
    Then she said to herself: Why’re you hesitating? You love Michael’s company, you get to spend hardly any downtime with him.
    “You bet.” Feeling like a teenager again, though now in a good way.
    They were seated beside each other at a banquette near the edge of the deck, overlooking the hills. The early sun was out and it was a clear, crisp June morning.
    The waiter—not fully uniformed, but with a suitably starched white shirt—brought them menus and poured coffee. Dance’s eyes strayed to the page on which the restaurant bragged of their famous mimosas. No way, she thought, and glanced up to see O’Neil looking at exactly the same item.
    They laughed.
    “When we get down to L.A. for the grand jury, or the trial,” he said, “champagne then.”
    “Fair enough.”
    It was then that O’Neil’s phone trilled. He glanced at Caller ID. Dance was immediately aware of his body language changing—shoulders slightly higher, arms closer to his body, eyes focused just past the screen.
    She knew whom the call was from, even before he said