Roadside Crosses (Kathryn Dance 2)

O'Neil looked shocked. "It was Harper. Tactics. He nearly got his flunky collared, though. Oh, I would've pushed the button on that one." She added, "I've got Sheedy on the case."

"George? Good. Tough. You need tough."

"Oh, and then Overby let Harper into CBI. To go through my files."

"No!"

"I think he was looking to see if I suppressed evidence or tinkered with the files about the Juan Millar case. Overby said he went through your office's files too."

"MCSO?" he asked. Dance could read his anger like a red highway flare. "Did Overby know Harper was making a case against Edie?"

"I don't know. At the least he should've thought: What the hell is this guy from San Francisco prowling around in our files for? 'Caseload evaluations.' Ridiculous." Her own fury swelled again and, with effort, she finally managed to bank it.

They approached the spot where the cross was planted, on the shoulder of the road. The memorial was like the earlier one: broken-off branches bound with wire, and a cardboard disk with today's date on it.

At the base was another bouquet of red roses.

She couldn't help but think: Whose murder would this one represent?

And ten more waiting.

This cross had been left on a deserted stretch of barely paved road about a mile from the water. Not highly traveled, this route was a little-known shortcut to Highway 68. Ironically, this was one of the roads that would lead to that new highway that Chilton had written about in his blog.

Standing on a side road near the cross was the witness, a businessman in his forties, to look at him, into real estate or insurance, Dance guessed. He was round, his belly carrying his blue dress shirt well over a tired belt. His hair had receded and she saw sun freckles on his round forehead and balding crown. He stood beside a Honda Accord that had seen better days.

They approached and O'Neil said to her, "This is Ken Pfister."

She shook his hand. The deputy said he was going to supervise the crime scene search and headed across the street.

"Tell me what you saw, Mr. Pfister."

"Travis. Travis Brigham."

"Did you know it was him?"

A nod. "I saw his picture online when I was at lunch about a half hour ago. That's how I recognized him."

"Could you tell me exa

ctly what you saw?" she asked. "And when?"

"Okay, it was around eleven this morning. I had a meeting in Carmel. I run an Allstate agency." He said this proudly.

Got that one right, she thought.

"I left about ten-forty and was driving back to Monterey. Took this shortcut. It'll be nice when that new highway's open, won't it?"

She smiled noncommittally, not a smile really.

"And I pulled off onto that side road"--he gestured--"to make some phone calls." He gave a broad smile. "Never drive and talk. That's my rule."

Dance's lifted eyebrow prodded him to continue.

"I looked out my windshield and I saw him walking along the shoulder. From that direction. He didn't see me. He was kind of shuffling his feet. It seemed like he was talking to himself."

"What was he wearing?"

"One of those hooded sweatshirts like the kids have."