Roadside Crosses

relations is my take.”
    O’Neil offered, “I almost feel sorry for Chilton.”‘
    “Spend ten minutes with him; you’ll feel different.”
    The deputy chuckled.
    “I was going to call you anyway, Michael. I’ve asked Mom and Dad over tonight for dinner. She needs the support. Love it if you could come.” She added, “You and Anne and the kids.”
    A pause. “I’ll try. I’m really swamped on this Container Case. And Anne went up to San Francisco. A gallery’s going to be hanging a show of her recent photos.”
    “Really? That’s impressive.” Dance recalled the one-sided conversation yesterday about Anne O’Neil’s impending trip at their attempted breakfast after meeting with Ernie Seybold. Dance had several opinions about the woman, the most unblemished of which had to do with her talent as a photographer.
    They disconnected and Dance continued toward her car, unraveling the iPod ear buds. She needed a hit of music. She was scrolling through tunes, trying to decide on Latino or Celtic, when her phone buzzed. Caller ID announced Jonathan Boling.
    “Hi,” she said.
    “It’s all over the CBI here, Chilton was attacked. What happened? Is he all right?”
    She gave him the details. He was relieved nobody had been hurt seriously, but she could tell from his voice quality that he had some news for her. She fell silent and he asked, “Kathryn, you near the office?”
    “I wasn’t planning on heading back. I’ve got to pick up the kids and work from home for a while.” She didn’t tell him that she wanted to avoid Hamilton Royce and Overby. “Why?”
    “Couple things. I’ve got names of posters who’vesupported Chilton. The good news, I suppose, is that there aren’t a lot. But that’s typical. In blogs more people are contrarians than supporters.”
    “Email me the list, and I’ll start calling them from home. What else?”
    “We’ll have Travis’s computer cracked in the next hour or so.”
    “Really? Oh, that’s great.” Tiffany or Bambi was a pretty good hacker, apparently.
    “I’m going to mirror his disk on a separate drive. I thought you’d want to see it.”
    “You bet.” Dance had a thought. “You have plans tonight?”
    “No, I’ve put my cat burglary plans on hold while I’m helping you guys.”
    “Bring the computer over to my house. I’m having my mother and father and a few friends over for dinner.”
    “Well, sure.”
    She gave him the address and a time.
    They disconnected.
    As Dance stood beside her car in the hospital parking lot she noticed several aides and nurses leaving for the day. They were staring at her.
    Dance knew several of them and smiled. One or two nodded in greeting but the response was tepid, if not chilly. Of course, she realized, they’d be thinking: I’m looking at the daughter of a woman who might have committed murder.

Chapter 22
    “I’LL CARRY THE groceries,” Maggie announced as Dance’s Pathfinder squealed to a stop in front of their house.
    The girl had been feeling independent lately. She grabbed the largest bag. There were four of them; after picking up the children at Martine’s, they’d stopped at Safeway for a shopping frenzy. If everyone she’d invited showed up, the dinner party would include nearly a dozen people, among them youngsters with serious appetites.
    Listing under the weight of two bags gripped in one hand—an older-brother thing—Wes asked his mother, “When’s Grandma coming over?”
    “In a little while, I hope. . . . There’s a chance she might not come.”
    “No, she said she’s coming.”
    Dance gave a confused smile. “You talked to her?”
    “Yeah, she called me at camp.”
    “Me too,” Maggie offered.
    So she’d called to reassure the children she was all right. But Dance’s face flushed. Why hadn’t she called her ?
    “Well, it’s great she’ll be able to make it.”
    They carried the bags inside.
    Dance went into her bedroom, accompanied by Patsy.
    She glanced at the gun lockbox. Travis was expanding his targets, and he knew she was one of the officers pursuing him. And she couldn’t forget the possible threat—the cross—in her backyard last night. Dance decided to keep the weapon with her. Ever-fastidious about weapons in a household with children, though, she locked the black gun away for a few minutes to take a shower. She stripped off her clothes energetically and stepped into the stream of hot water—trying unsuccessfully to flush away the residue of the