Roadside Crosses: A Kathryn Dance Novel (54 page)

Overby’s eyes dipped to the papers on his desk. They were as ordered as could be. “Well, it’ll take up
our time and resources. And it could be . . . awkward for us.”

“Awkward?”

“Bring us into that interagency crap. I hate that.”

This was hardly an argument. Life in state government is all about interagency crap.

At the end of a chewy silence, Overby seemed to come up with a thought. His eyebrow lifted a bit. “Besides, I think you might not have time to pursue it.”

“I’ll fit it in, Charles.”

“Well, the thing is, there’s this. . . .” He found a file on his credenza and extracted a stapled document several pages long.

“What’s that?”

“Matter of fact”—the second eyebrow joined in—“it’s
from
the AG’s office.” He pushed the papers forward across the desk. “It seems there was a complaint made against you.”

“Me?”

“Apparently you made racist remarks to a county employee.”

“Charles, that’s crazy.”

“Ah, well, it went all the way to Sacramento.”

“Who complained?”

“Sharanda Evans. County Social Services.”

“I’ve never met her. It’s a mistake.”

“She was at Monterey Bay Hospital when your mother was arrested. She was looking after your children.”

Oh, the woman who’d collected Wes and Maggie from the hospital play area.

“Charles, she wasn’t ‘looking after’ them. She was
taking them into custody. She didn’t even try to call me.”

“She claims you uttered racist comments.”

“Jesus Christ, Charles, I said she was incompetent. That’s all.”

“She didn’t interpret it that way. Now, since you generally have a good reputation and no history of problems in the past, the AG’s not inclined to open a formal complaint. Still, it’s got to be looked into.”

He seemed torn about this dilemma.

But not that torn.

“He wanted some input from people on the ground about how to proceed.”

From Overby himself, he meant. And she understood too exactly what was going on here: Dance had embarrassed Overby in front of Royce. Maybe the ombudsman had gotten the impression that the man couldn’t control his employees. A CBI-instigated complaint against Royce would call Overby’s leadership into question.

“Of
course
you’re not racist. But the woman’s pretty hot under the collar about it, this Ms. Evans.” He stared at the inverted letter in front of Dance the way one would gaze at autopsy photos.

How long’ve you had this job? . . . Either not long enough, or way
too
long.

Kathryn Dance realized that her boss was negotiating: If she didn’t go any further with the complaint about Royce’s impropriety, Overby would tell the AG that the social worker’s claim had been fully investigated and that there was no merit to it.

If Dance did pursue the Royce matter, she might lose her job.

This sat between them for a moment. Dance was surprised that Overby was showing no kinesic evidence that he was feeling stress. She, on the other hand, observed her foot bobbing like a piston.

I think I have the
big picture,
Dance thought cynically. She came close to saying it, but didn’t.

Well, she had a decision to make.

Debating.

He tapped the complaint report with his fingers. “A shame when things like this happen. We have our core work, then other stuff intrudes.”

After the Roadside Cross Case, after the roller-coaster with the J. Doe case in Los Angeles, after the harrowing days worrying about her mother, Dance decided she didn’t have the heart for a fight, not over this.

“If you think a complaint against Royce would be too distracting, Charles, I’ll respect that, of course.”

“It’s best probably. Let’s get back to work—that’s what we need to do. And this we’ll just put away too.” He took the complaint and slipped it into the file.

How blatant can we be, Charles?

He smiled. “No more distractions.”

“Back to work,” Dance echoed.

“Okay, I see it’s late. Have a good weekend. And thanks for wrapping the case, Kathryn.”

“Good night, Charles.” Dance rose and left the office. She wondered if he felt as unclean as she did.

She doubted it very, very much.

Dance returned to the Gals’ Wing and was just at her office door when a voice behind her called, “Kathryn?”

She turned to see somebody she didn’t recognize at first. Then it struck her—it was David Reinhold, the young deputy from the sheriff’s office. He wasn’t in uniform, but was wearing jeans, a polo shirt and jacket. He smiled and glanced down. “Off duty.” He approached her and stopped a few feet away. “Hey, I heard about the Roadside Cross Case.”

“Kind of a surprise,” she said.

His hands were jammed in his pockets. He seemed nervous. “I’ll say. That boy’ll be okay, though?”

“He’ll be fine.”

“And Chilton? Did he confess?”

“I bet he doesn’t need to. We’ve got him on witnesses and PE. Cold.” She nodded toward her office, lifting an eyebrow, inviting him inside.

“I have some things to take care of. . . . I stopped by earlier and you were out.”

A curious thing to say. And she noted that he seemed even more nervous now. His body language was giving off high amperage of stress.

“I just wanted to say, I’ve really enjoyed working with you.”

“Appreciate your help.”

“You’re a very special person,” Reinhold stammered.

Uh-oh. Where was this going?

Reinhold was avoiding her eyes. He cleared his throat. “I know you don’t really know me very well.”

He’s at least a decade younger than I am, she thought. He’s a kid. Dance was struggling to keep from smiling or looking too maternal. She wondered where he was going to invite her on a date.

“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is . . .”

But he said nothing, just pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

“What I’m trying to say is that I hope you’ll consider my application to join the CBI.” Reinhold added, “Most older people in police work aren’t very good mentors. I know you’d be different. I’d appreciate the chance to learn from you.”

Struggling not to laugh, Dance said, “Well, David, thanks. I don’t think we’re hiring right at the moment. But I promise you, when we do, I’ll make sure to get this to the top of the list.”

“Really?” He beamed.

“You bet. You have a good night now, David. And thanks again for your help.”

“Thanks, Kathryn. You’re the best.”

For an older person . . .

Smiling, she walked into her office and dropped heavily into her chair. She sat, staring at the entwined tree trunks outside her window. Her cell phone chimed. Not much in the mood to talk to anybody, she looked down at the Caller ID window.

After three rings of debate she hit “Answer.”

A BUTTERFLY EASED
along the fence and vanished into the neighbor’s yard. It wasn’t the time of year for monarchs, the migratory lepidoptera that gave Pacific Grove its subtitle of “Butterfly Town, U.S.A.,” and Kathryn Dance wondered what kind it was.

She was sitting on the Deck, which was slick from the late-afternoon fog. It was quiet now, she was alone. The children and the dogs were at her parents’. She wore faded jeans, a green sweatshirt, stylish Wish shoes, from the Brown company’s Fergie line—a treat she’d allowed herself after the conclusion of the case. She sipped white wine.

Her laptop was open in front of her. Dance had logged on as a temporary administrator to
The Chilton Report
after she’d found the access pass codes in one of James Chilton’s files. She consulted the book she’d been reading from, finished typing the text and uploaded it.

Http://www.thechiltonreport.com/html/final.html

Dance read the results. Gave a faint smile.

Then logged off.

She heard heavy footsteps on the stairs leading up from the side of the house and turned to see Michael O’Neil.

“Hey.” He smiled.

She had been expecting a phone call about the magistrate’s ruling in Los Angeles as to whether the J. Doe case would proceed; he’d seemed so preoccupied at the hospital, she hadn’t expected him to show up here in person. No matter, Michael O’Neil was always welcome. She tried to read his expression. She was usually good at this—she knew him so well—but he still had on a poker face.

“Wine?”

“Sure.”

She retrieved a second glass from the kitchen and poured him his favorite red.

“I can’t stay long.”

“Okay.” Dance could barely control herself. “Well?”

The smile escaped. “We won. Got the word twenty minutes ago. The judge blew the defense out of the water.”

“For real?” Dance asked, slipping into adolescent-speak.

“Yep.”

She rose and hugged him hard. His arms slid around her back and pressed her to his solid chest.

They stepped apart and clinked glasses.

“Ernie presents to the grand jury in two weeks. There’s no doubt they’ll return a bill. They want us down there on Tuesday, nine a.m., to plan out the testimony. You up for a trip?”

“Oh, you bet I am.”

O’Neil moved to the railing. He was gazing out into the backyard, staring at a wind chime that Dance had been meaning to pick up from the spot, where she’d dumped it on a windy—and sleepless—night some time ago. He fell silent.

Something was coming, Dance could tell.

She grew alarmed. What was the story? Illness?

Was he moving?

He continued, “I was wondering . . .”

She waited. Her breath was fast. The wine in her glass rocked like the turbulent Pacific.

“The meeting’s on Tuesday and I was wondering if you wanted to stay down in L.A. a few extra days. We could see the sights. Get those eggs Benedict we were hoping for. Or maybe we could go out for sushi in West Hollywood and watch people trying to be cool. I could even buy a black shirt.” He was rambling.

Which Michael O’Neil never did. Ever.

Dance blinked. Her heart thudded as fast as the wings of the hummingbird hovering over the crimson feeder nearby. “I . . .”

He laughed and his shoulders slumped. She couldn’t imagine what her expression looked like. “Okay. There’s something else I guess I ought to say.”

“Sure.”

“Anne’s leaving.”

“What?” She gasped.

Michael O’Neil’s face was an amalgam of emotion: hope, uncertainty, pain. Perhaps the most obvious was bewilderment.

“She’s moving to San Francisco.”

A hundred questions filled her mind. She asked the first, “The children?”

“They’ll be with me.”

This news wasn’t surprising. There was no better father than Michael O’Neil. And Dance had always had her doubts about Anne’s skills at mothering, and about her desire to handle the job.

Of course, she realized. The split-up was the source of O’Neil’s troubled look at the hospital. She remembered his eyes, how hollow they seemed.

He continued, speaking with the clipped tone of somebody who’d been doing a lot of rapid-fire—and not wholly realistic—planning. Men were guilty of this more often than women. He was telling her about the children’s visiting their mother, about the reactions of his family and Anne’s, about lawyers, about what Anne would be doing in San Francisco. Dance nodded, concentrating on his words, encouraging, mostly just letting him talk.

She picked up immediately on the references to “this gallery owner” and a “friend of Anne’s in San Francisco” and “he.” The deduction she made didn’t truly surprise her, though she was furious with the woman for hurting O’Neil.

And hurt he was, devastated, though he didn’t know it yet.

And me? Dance thought. How do
I
feel about this?

Then she promptly tucked that consideration away, refusing to examine it right now.

O’Neil stood like a schoolboy who’d asked a girl to the eighth-grade dance. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d jammed his hands into his pockets and
stared down at his shoe tips. “So I was just wondering, about next week. A few extra days?”

Where do we go from here? Dance thought. If she could hover over herself, looking down as a kinesic analyst, what was her body language saying? She was, on the one hand, deeply moved by the news. On the other, she was as cautious as a war-zone soldier approaching a roadside package.

The appeal of a trip with Michael O’Neil was almost overwhelming.

Yet the answer, of course, could not be yes. For one thing, O’Neil needed to be there for his children, completely there, one hundred percent there. They might not—
should
not—have been told about their parents’ problems at this point. Yet they would know something. Children’s intuition is a primary force of nature.

But there was another reason for Dance and O’Neil not to share personal time in Los Angeles.

And, coincidentally, it appeared just now.

“Hello?” called a man’s voice from the side yard.

Dance held Michael O’Neil’s eye, gave a tight smile and called, “Up here. In the back.”

More footsteps on the stairs and Jonathan Boling joined them. He gave a smile to O’Neil and the two men shook hands. Like Dance, he was in jeans. His knit shirt was black, under a Lands’ End windbreaker. He wore hiking boots.

“I’m a little early.”

“Not a problem.”

O’Neil was smart, and more, he was savvy. Dance could see that he understood instantly. His first reaction was dismay that he’d put her in a difficult position.

His eyes offered a sincere apology.

And hers insisted that none was necessary.

O’Neil was amused too and gave Dance a smile not unlike the one they’d shared when last year they’d heard on the car radio the Sondheim song “Send in the Clowns,” about potential lovers who just can’t seem to get together.

Timing, they both knew, was everything.

Dance said evenly, “Jonathan and I are going to Napa for the weekend.”

“Just a little get-together at my parents’ place. I always like to bring along somebody to run interference.” Boling was downplaying the getaway. The professor was smart too—he’d seen Dance and O’Neil together—and understood that he’d walked into the middle of something now.