Roadside Crosses (Kathryn Dance 2)

&nbsp

; The girl was very upset now. Tension bursting. Tears dotted her eyes. She whispered, "Because it's my fault what happened."

"What do you mean?"

"The accident. It's my fault."

"Go on, Caitlin."

"See, there was this guy at the party? A guy I kind of like. Mike D'Angelo."

"At the party?"

"Right. And he was totally ignoring me. Hanging out with this other girl, Brianna, rubbing her back, you know. Right in front of me. I wanted to make him jealous, so I walked up to Travis and was hanging out with him. I gave him my car keys right in front of Mike and asked him to take me home. I was, like, oh, let's drop Trish and Vanessa off and then you and me can hang out."

"And you thought it would make Mike feel bad?"

She nodded tearfully. "It was so stupid! But he was acting like such a shit, flirting with Brianna." Her shoulders were arched in tension. "I shouldn't 've. But I was so hurt. If I hadn't done that, nothing would've happened."

This explained why Travis had been driving that night.

All to make another boy jealous.

The girl's explanation also suggested a whole new scenario. Maybe on the drive back Travis had realized that he was being used by Caitlin, or maybe he was angry at her for having a crush on Mike. Had he intentionally crashed the car? Murder/suicide--an impulsive gesture, not unheard of when it came to young love.

"So he's got to be mad at me."

"What I'm going to do is put an officer outside your house."

"Really?"

"Sure. It's still early at summer school, right? You don't have any tests coming up, do you?"

"No. We just started."

"Well, why don't you head home now?"

"You think?"

"Yeah. And stay there until we find him." Dance took down the girl's address. "If you can think of anything more--about where he might be--please let me know."

"Sure." The girl took Dance's card. Together they walked back to her crew.

FLOATING THROUGH HER ears was the haunting quena flute of Jorge Cumbo, with the South American group Urubamba. The music calmed her, and it was with some regret that Dance pulled into the Monterey Bay Hospital parking lot, parked and paused the music.

Of the protesters, only about half remained. The Reverend Fisk and his redheaded bodyguard were absent.

Probably trying to track down her mother.

Dance walked inside.

Several nurses and doctors came up to express their sympathy--two nurses wept openly when they saw their coworker's daughter.

She walked downstairs to the office of the head of security. 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.