Roadside Crosses (Kathryn Dance 2)

"Not yet, boss. But I'm glad I don't have as many enemies as he does."

She gave a brief laugh and they disconnected.

From the distance, Dance continued to study Clint Avery. She'd seen pictures of him a dozen times--on the news and in the papers. He was hard to miss. Though he would certainly have been a millionaire many times over, he was dressed the same as any other worker: a blue shirt sprouting pens in the breast pocket, tan work slacks, boots. The sleeves were rolled up and she spotted a tattoo on his leathery forearm. In his hand was a yellow hard hat. A big walkie-talkie sat on his hip. She wouldn't have been surprised to see a six-shooter; his broad, mustachioed face looked like a gunslinger's.

She started the engine and drove through the gates. Avery noticed her car. He squinted slightly and seemed to recognize hers immediately as a government car. He concluded his discussion with a leather-jacketed man, who walked away. Quickly.

She parked. Avery Construction was a no-nonsense company, devoted to one purpose: building things. Huge stores of construction materials, bulldozers, Cats, backhoes, trucks and jeeps. There was a concrete plant on the premises and what appeared to be metal-and wood-working shops, large diesel tanks for feeding the vehicles, Quonset huts and storage sheds. The main office was made up of a number of large, functional buildings, all low. No graphic designer or landscaper had been involved in the creation of Avery Construction.

Dance identified herself. The head of the company was cordial and shook hands, his eyes crinkling lines into the tanned face as he glanced at her ID.

"Mr. Avery, we're hoping you can help us. You're familiar with the crimes that have been occurring around the Peninsula?"

"The Mask Killer, that boy, sure. I heard someone else was killed today. Terrible. How can I help you?"

"The killer's leaving roadside memorials as a warning that he's going to commit more crimes."

He nodded. "I've seen that on the news."

"Well, we've noticed something curious. Several of the crosses have been left near sites of your construction projects."

"They have?" Now a frown, his brow creasing significantly. Was it out of proportion to the news? Dance couldn't tell. Avery started to turn his head, then stopped. Had he instinctively been looking toward his leather-jacketed associate?

"How can I help?"

"We want to talk to some of your employees to see if they've noticed anything out of the ordinary."

"Such as?"

"Passersby behaving suspiciously, unusual objects, maybe footprints or bicycle tire tread marks in areas that were roped off for construction. Here's a list of locations." She'd written down several earlier in the car.

Concern on his face, he looked over the list then slipped the sheet into his shirt pocket and crossed his arms. This in itself meant little kinesically, since she hadn't had time to get a baseline reading. But arm and leg crossing are defensive gestures and can signify discomfort. "You want me to give you a list of employees who've worked around there? Since the killings began, I assume."

"Exactly. It would be a big help."

"I assume

you'd like this sooner rather than later."

"As soon as possible."

"I'll do what I can."

She thanked him and walked back to the car, then drove out of the parking lot and up the road. Dance pulled up beside a dark blue Honda Accord nearby. She was pointed the opposite way, so her open window was two feet from Rey Carraneo's. He sat in the driver's seat of the Honda in shirtsleeves, without a tie. She'd seen him dressed this casually only twice before: at a Bureau picnic and one very bizarre barbecue at Charles Overby's house.

"He's got the bait," Dance said. "I have no idea if he'll bite."

"How did he react?"

"Hard to call. I didn't have time to take a baseline. But my sense was that he was struggling to seem calm and cooperative. He was more nervous than he let on. I'm also not so sure about one of his helpers." She described the man in the leather jacket. "Either one of them leaves, stay close."

"Yes, ma'am."

PATRIZIA CHILTON OPENED the door and nodded to Greg Ashton, the man her husband called an Uber Blogger--in that cute but slightly obnoxious way of Jim's.

"Hi, Pat," Ashton said. They shook hands. The slim man, in expensive tan slacks and a nice sports coat, nodded toward the squad car sitting in the road. "That deputy? He wouldn't give anything away. But he's here because of those killings, right?"

"They're just taking precautions."