Roadside Crosses

The room was empty. She glanced up the hall toward the intensive care unit. She headed in that direction and pushed through the door.
    Dance blinked as she turned to the room where Juan Millar had died. It was cordoned off with yellow police tape. Signs read Do Not Enter. Crime Scene. It was Harper’s doing, she reflected angrily. This was idiocy. There were only five intensive care rooms down here—three were occupied—and the prosecutor had sealed one of them? What if two more patients were admitted? And what’s more, she thought, the crime had taken place nearly a month ago, the room occupied by presumably a dozen patients since then, not to mention cleaned by fastidious crews. There couldn’t possibly be more evidence to collect.
    Grandstanding and public relations.
    She started away.
    And nearly ran right into Juan Millar’s brother, Julio, the man who had attacked her earlier in the month.
    The dark, compact man, in a dark suit, pulled up short, eyes fixed on her. He was carrying a folder of papers, which sagged in his hand, as he stared at Dance, only four or five feet away.
    Dance tensed and stepped back slightly, to give her time to get to her pepper spray or cuffs. If he came at her again she was prepared to defend herself, though she could imagine what the media would do with the story of the daughter of a suspected mercy killer Macing the brother of the euthanized victim.
    But Julio simply stared at her with a curious look—not of anger or hate, but almost amusement at the coincidence of running into her. He whispered, “Your mother . . . how could she?”
    The words sounded rehearsed, as if he’d been waiting for the chance to recite them.
    Dance began to speak, but Julio clearly expected no response. He walked slowly out of the door that led to the back exit.
    And that was it.
    No harsh words, no threats, no violence.
    How could she?
    Her heart pounding furiously from the bewildering confrontation, she recalled that her mother had said Julio had been here earlier. Dance wondered why he was back now.
    With a last glance at the police tape, Dance left the ICU and walked to the office of the head of security.
    “Oh, Agent Dance,” Henry Bascomb said, blinking.
    She smiled a greeting. “They’ve got the room taped off?”
    “You were back there?” he asked.
    Dance immediately noted the stress in the man’s posture and voice. He was thinking quickly and he was uneasy. What was that about? Dance wondered.
    “Sealed off?” she repeated.
    “Yeah, that’s right, ma’am.”
    Ma’am? Dance nearly laughed at the formal word. She, O’Neil, Bascomb and some of his former deputy buddies had shared beer and quesadillas down on Fisherman’s Wharf a few months ago. She decided to get to the nut of it: “I’ve only got a minute or two, Henry. It’s about my mother’s case.”
    “How’s she doing?”
    Dance was thinking: I don’t know any better than you do, Henry. She said, “Not great.”
    “Give her my best.”
    “I’ll do that. Now, I’d like to see the employee and front desk logs of who was at the hospital when Juan died.”
    “Sure.” Only he didn’t mean sure at all. He meant what he said next: “But the thing is, I can’t.”
    “Why’s that, Henry?”
    “I’ve been told I can’t let you see anything. No paperwork. We’re not even supposed to be talking to you.”
    “Whose orders?”
    “The board,” Bascomb said tentatively.
    “And?” Dance continued, prodding.
    “Well, it was Mr. Harper, that prosecutor. He talked to the board. And the chief of staff.”
    “But that’s discoverable information. The defense attorney has a right to it.”
    “Oh, I know that. But he said that’s how you’ll have to get it.”
    “I don’t want to take it. Just look through it, Henry.”
    There was absolutely nothing illegal about her looking through the material, and it wouldn’t ultimately affect the case because what was contained in the logs and sign-in sheets would come out eventually.
    Bascomb’s face revealed how torn he was. “I understand. But I can’t. Not unless there’s a subpoena.”
    Harper had spoken to the security chief for one purpose only: to bully Dance and her family.
    “I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly.
    “No, that’s okay, Henry. Did he give you a reason?”
    “No.” He said this too quickly, and Dance could easily see eye aversion that differed from what she knew of the man’s baseline behavior.
    “What did he say, Henry?”
    A