Roadside Crosses

She turned to see two men. Chilton-she recognized him from the pictures-wore a baseball cap, green polo shirt and chinos. Blondish hair eased in tufts from under the hat. He was tall and apparently in good shape, with only a bit of belly swelling above his belt. He was speaking to another man, sandy-haired, wearing jeans, a white shirt and a brown sports coat. Dance started toward them but Chilton quickly ushered the man out of the door. Her kinesic reading was that he didn't want the visitor, whoever he was, to know that a law enforcement agent had come to see him.

Patrizia repeated, "He'll just be a minute."

But Dance sidestepped her and continued into the hall, sensing the wife stiffen, protective of her husband. Still, an interviewer has to take immediate charge of the situation; subjects can't set the rules. But by the time Dance got to the front door Chilton was back and the rental car heading off, gravel crunching under tires.

His green eyes-similar to her shade-turned their attention her way. They shook hands and she read in the blogger's face, ta

Another flash of the ID. "Could we talk somewhere for a few minutes, Mr. Chilton?"

"My office, sure."

He led her up the hall. The room they entered was modest and a mess, filled with towers of magazines and clippings and computer printouts. Underscoring what she'd learned from Jon Boling, the officer revealed that indeed the reporter's game was changing: small rooms in houses and apartments just like this were replacing city-desk rooms of newspapers. Dance was amused to see a cup of tea beside his computer-the scent of chamomile filled the room. No cigarettes, coffee or whisky for today's hard-edged journalists, apparently.

They sat and he lifted his eyebrow. "So he's been complaining, has he? But I'm curious. Why the police, why not a civil suit?"

"How's that?" Dance was confused.

Chilton rocked back in his chair, removed his cap, rubbed his balding head and slipped the hat back on. He was irritated. "Oh, he bitches about libel. But it's not defamation if it's true. Besides, even if what I wrote was false, which it isn't, libel's not a crime in this country. Would be in Stalinist Russia, but it's not here yet. So why're you involved?" His eyes were keen and probing, his ma

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Aren't you here because of Arnie Brubaker?"

"No. Who's that?"

"He's the man who wants to destroy our shoreline by putting in that desalination plant."

She recalled the blog postings in The Chilton Report critical of the plant. And the bumper sticker.

"No, this has nothing to do with that."

Chilton's forehead crinkled. "He'd love to stop me. I thought maybe he'd trumped up some criminal complaint. But sorry. I was making assumptions." The defensiveness in his face relaxed. "It's just, well, Brubaker's really a…pain."

Dance wondered what the intended descriptive of the developer was going to have been.

"Excuse me." Patrizia appeared in the doorway and brought her husband a fresh cup of tea. She asked Dance if she'd like anything. She was smiling now but still eyed the agent suspiciously.

"Thanks, no."

Chilton nodded at the tea and charmingly winked his thanks to his wife. She left and closed the door behind her.

"So, what can I do for you?"

"Your blog about the roadside crosses."

"Oh, the car accident?" He regarded Dance closely. Some of the defensiveness was back; she could read the stress in his posture. "I've been following the news. That girl was attacked, the press is saying, because she posted something on the blog. The posters are starting to say the same thing. You want the boy's name."

"No. We have it."

"Is he the one who tried to drown her?"

"It seems so."

Chilton said quickly, "I didn't attack him. My point was, did the police drop the ball on the investigation and did Caltrans adequately maintain the road? I said up front that he wasn't to blame. And I censored his name."

"It didn't take long for a mob to form and find out who he is."

Chilton's mouth twisted. He'd taken the comment as criticism of him or the blog, which it wasn't. But he conceded. "That does happen. Well, what can I do for you?"

"We have reason to believe that Travis Brigham may be considering attacking other people who posted comments against him."

"Are you sure?"

"No, but we have to consider it's a possibility."

Chilton grimaced. "I mean, can't you arrest him?"

"We're looking for him now. We aren't sure where he is."

"I see." Chilton said this slowly and Dance could see from his lifted shoulders and the tension in his neck he was wondering what exactly she wanted. The agent considered Jon Boling's advice and said, "Now, your blog is known all over the world. It's very respected. That's one of the reasons so many people are posting on it."

The flash of pleasure in his eyes was faint but obvious to Dance; it told her that even obvious flattery went down very well with James Chilton.

"But the problem is that all the posters attacking Travis are potential targets. And the number's increasing every hour."

"The Report has one of the highest hit ratings in the country. It's the most-read blog in California."

"I'm not surprised. I really enjoy it." Keeping an eye on her own ma

"Thank you." A full smile joined the eye crinkle.

"But see what we're facing: Every time somebody posts to the 'Roadside Crosses' thread they become a possible target. Some of those people are completely anonymous, some are out of the area. But some are nearby and we're afraid Travis will find out their identities. And then he'll go after them too."

"Oh," Chilton said, his smile vanishing. His quick mind made the leap. "And you're here for their Internet addresses."

"For their protection."

"I can't give those out."

"But these people are at risk."

"This country operates on the principle of separation of media and state." As if this flippant recitation skewered her argument.

"That girl was thrown into a trunk and left to drown. Travis could be pla

Chilton held up a finger, shushing her like a schoolteacher. "It's a slippery slope. Agent Dance, who do you work for? Your ultimate boss?"

"The attorney general."

"Okay, well, say I give you the addresses of posters on the 'Roadside Crosses' thread. Then next month you come back and ask for the address of a whistleblower who was fired by the attorney general for, oh, let's pick harassment. Or maybe you want the address of somebody who posted a comment critical of the governor. Or the president. Or-how 'bout this-someone who says something favorable about al-Qaeda? You say to me: 'You gave me the information last time. Why not again?' "

"There won't be an again."

"You say that but…" As if government employees lied with every breath. "Does this boy know you're after him?"

"Yes."

"Then he's run off somewhere, wouldn't you think? He's not going to show himself by attacking somebody else. Not if the police are looking for him." His voice was stern.

Hers was reasonable as she continued slowly, "Still. You know, Mr. Chilton, sometimes life is about compromises."

She let this comment linger.

He cocked an eyebrow, waiting.

"If you gave us the addresses-just of the locals who wrote the most vicious posts about Travis-we'd really appreciate it. Maybe…well, maybe we could do something to help you, if you ever needed a hand."

"Like what?"

Thinking again about Boling's suggestions, she said, "We'd be happy to issue a statement about your cooperation. Good publicity."