Roadside Crosses (Kathryn Dance 2)

The girl was delivering crippling blows to an opponent. Finally the creature fell over dead and her avatar climbed on top of the body and pulled its head off. "Like, yeah?" She didn't glance up.

"The boy who was just here, playing DQ. Where is he?"

"Like, I don't know. Jimmy walked past and said something and he left. A minute ago."

"Who's Jimmy?"

"You know, the clerk."

Goddamn! I just paid forty dollars to that shit to tip off Travis. Some cop I am.

Boling glared at the clerk, who remained conspicuously lost in his novel.

The professor slammed through the exit door and sprinted outside. His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, stung. He paused in the alleyway, squinting left and right. Then caught a glimpse of a young man, walking quickly away, head down.

Don't do anything stupid, he told himself. He pulled his BlackBerry from its holster.

Ahead of him, the boy broke into a run.

After exactly one second of debate, Jon Boling did too.

Chapter 29

HAMILTON ROYCE, THE ombudsman from the attorney general's office in Sacramento, disconnected the phone. It drooped in his hand as he reflected on the conversation he'd just had--a conversation conducted in the language known as Political and Corporate Euphemism.

He lingered in the halls of the CBI, considering options.

Finally he returned to Charles Overby's office.

The agent-in-charge was sitting back in his chair watching a press report about the case streaming on his computer. How the police had come close to catching the killer at the house of a friend of the blogger's but had missed him and he'd escaped possibly to terrorize more people on the Monterey Peninsula.

Royce reflected that simply reporting that the police had saved the friend didn't have quite the stay-tuned-or-else veneer of the approach the network had chosen to take.

Overby typed and a different station came up. The special report anchor apparently preferred Travis to be the "Video Game Killer," rather than defining him by masks or roadside crosses. He went on to describe how the boy tormented his victims before he killed them.

Never mind that only one person had died or that the bastard got shot in the back of the head, fleeing. Which would tend to minimize the torment.

Finally he said, "Well, Charles, they're getting more concerned. The AG." He lifted his phone like he was showing a shield during a bust.

"We're all pretty concerned," Overby echoed. "The whole Peninsula's concerned. It's really

our priority now. Like I was saying." His face was cloudy. "But is Sacramento having a problem with how we're handling the case?"

"Not per se." Royce let this nonresponse buzz around Overby's head like a strident hornet.

"We're doing everything we can."

"I like that agent of yours. Dance."

"Oh, she's top-notch. Nothing gets by her."

A leisurely nod, a thoughtful nod. "The AG feels bad about those victims. I feel bad about them." Royce poured sympathy into his voice, and tried to recall the last time he really felt bad. Probably when he missed his daughter's emergency appendectomy because he was in bed with his mistress.

"A tragedy."

"I know I'm sounding like a broken record. But I really do feel that that blog is the problem."

"It is," Overby agreed. "It's the eye of the hurricane."