Roadside Crosses

bounded up. Boling crouched and hugged them as they double-teamed him.
    “Okay, guys, outside!” Dance commanded. She flung Milk Bones out the back door and the dogs charged down the steps and into the backyard.
    Boling stood, wiped his face from the licks and laughed. He reached into the shopping bag. “I decided to bring sugar for a hostess gift.”
    “Sugar?”
    “Two versions: fermented.” He extracted a bottle of Caymus Conundrum white wine.
    “Nice.”
    “And baked.” A bag of cookies emerged. “I remembered the way you looked at them in the office when your assistant was trying to fatten me up.”
    “Caught that did you?” Dance laughed. “You’d be a good kinesic interviewer. We have to be observant.”
    His eyes were excited, she could see. “Got something to show you. Can we sit down somewhere?”
    She directed him into the living room, whereBoling unpacked yet another laptop, a big one, a brand she didn’t recognize. “Irv did it,” he announced.
    “Irv?”
    “Irving Wepler, the associate I was telling you about. One of my grad students.”
    So, not Bambi or Tiff.
    “Everything on Travis’s laptop is in here now.”
    He began typing. In an instant the screen came to life. Dance didn’t know computers could respond so quickly.
    From the other room, Maggie hit a sour note on the keyboard.
    “Sorry.” Dance winced.
    “C sharp,” Boling said without looking up from the screen.
    Dance was surprised. “You a musician?”
    “No, no. But I have perfect pitch. Just a fluke. And I don’t know what to do with it. No musical talent whatsoever. Not like you.”
    “Me?” She hadn’t told him her avocation.
    A shrug. “Thought it might not be a bad idea to check you out. I didn’t expect you to have more Google hits as a songcatcher than a cop. . . . Oh, can I say cop?”
    “So far it’s not a politically incorrect term.” Dance went on to explain that she was a failed folksinger but had found musical redemption in the project that she and Martine Christensen operated—a website called American Tunes, the name echoing Paul Simon’s evocative anthem to the country from the 1970s. The site was a lifesaver for Dance, who often had to dwell in some very dark places because of her work. Therewas nothing like music to pull her safely out of the minds of the criminals she pursued.
    Although the common term was “songcatcher,” Dance told him, the job description was technically “folklorist.” Alan Lomax was the most famous—he’d roam the hinterland of America, collecting traditional music for the Library of Congress in the midtwentieth century. Dance too traveled around the country, when she could, to collect music, though not Lomax’s mountain, blues and bluegrass. Today’s homegrown American songs were African, Afro-pop, Cajun, Latino, Caribbean, Nova Scotian, East Indian and Asian.
    American Tunes helped the musicians copyright their original material, offered the music for sale via download and distributed to them the money listeners paid.
    Boling seemed interested. He too, it seemed, trekked into the wilderness once or twice a month. He’d been a serious rock climber at one time, he explained, but had given that up.
    “Gravity,” he said, “is nonnegotiable.”
    Then he nodded toward the bedroom that was the source of the music. “Son or daughter?”
    “Daughter. The only strings my son’s familiar with come on a tennis racket.”
    “She’s good.”
    “Thank you,” Dance said with some pride; she had worked hard to encourage Maggie. She practiced with the girl and, more time-consuming, chauffeured her to and from piano lessons and recitals.
    Boling typed and a colorful page popped up on the laptop’s screen. But then his body language changedsuddenly. She noticed he was looking over her shoulder, toward the doorway.
    Dance should have guessed. She’d heard the keyboard fall silent thirty seconds before.
    Then Boling was smiling. “Hi, I’m Jon. I work with your mom.”
    Wearing a backward baseball cap, Maggie was standing in the doorway. “Hello.”
    “Hats in the house,” Dance reminded.
    Off it came. Maggie walked right up to Boling. “I’m Maggie.” Nothing shy about my girl, Dance reflected, as the ten-year-old pumped his hand.
    “Good grip,” the professor told her. “And good touch on the keyboard.”
    The girl beamed. “You play anything?”
    “CDs and downloads. That’s it.”
    Dance looked up and wasn’t surprised to see