THE CALIFORNIA BUREAU of Investigation’s west-central regional headquarters is in a nondescript modern building identical to those of the adjacent insurance companies and software consulting firms, all tucked neatly away behind hills and decorated with the elaborate vegetation of Central Coast California. The facility was near the Peninsula Garden, and Dance and O’Neil arrived from the hotel in less than ten minutes, minding traffic but not red lights or stop signs. Climbing out of his car, Dance slung her purse over her shoulder, and hefted her bulging computer bag—which her daughter had dubbed “Mom’s purse annex,” after the girl had learned what annex meant—and she and O’Neil walked into the building. Inside they headed immediately to where she knew her team would be assembled: her office, in the portion of the CBI known as the Gals’ Wing, or “GW”—owing to the fact that it was populated exclusively by Dance, fellow agent Connie Ramirez, as well as their assistant, Maryellen Kresbach, and Grace Yuan, the CBI administrator, who kept the entire building humming like a timepiece. The name of the wing derived from an unfortunate comment by an equally unfortunate, and now former, CBI agent, who coined the designation while trying to press his cleverness on a date he was touring around the headquarters. Everyone on the GW still debated if he—or one of his dates—had ever found all the feminine hygiene products Dance and Ramirez had seeded into his office, briefcase and car. Dance and O’Neil now greeted Maryellen. The cheerful and indispensable woman could easily run both a family and the professional lives of her charges without a bat of one of her darkly mascaraed eyelashes. She also was the best baker Dance had ever met. “Morning, Maryellen. Where are we?” “Hi, Kathryn. Help yourself.” Dance eyed, but didn’t give in to, the chocolate chip cookies in the jar on the woman’s desk. They had to be a biblical sin. O’Neil, on the other hand, didn’t resist. “Best breakfast I’ve had in weeks.” Eggs Benedict… Maryellen gave a pleased laugh. “Okay, I called Charles again and left another message. Honestly.” She sighed. “He wasn’t picking up. TJ and Rey are inside. Oh, Deputy O’Neil, one of your people is here from MCSO.” “Thanks. You’re a dear.” In Dance’s office wiry young TJ Scanlon was perched in her chair. The redheaded agent leapt up. “Hi, boss. How’d the audition go?” He meant the deposition. “I was a star.” Then she delivered the bad news about the immunity hearing. The agent scowled. He too had known the perp and was nearly as adamant as Dance about winning a conviction. TJ was good at his job, though he was the most unconventional agent in a law enforcement organization noted for its conventional approach and demeanor. Today he was wearing jeans, a polo shirt and plaid sports coat—madras, a pattern on some faded shirts in her father’s storage closet. TJ owned one tie, as far as Dance had been able to tell, and it was an outlandish Jerry Garcia model. TJ suffered from acute nostalgia for the 1960s. In his office two lava lamps bubbled merrily away. Dance and he were only a few years apart, but there was a generational gap between them. Still, they clicked professionally, with a bit of mentor-mentee thrown in. Though TJ tended to run solo, which was against the grain in the CBI, he’d been filling in for Dance’s regular partner—still down in Mexico on a complicated extradition case. Quiet Rey Carraneo, a newcomer to the CBI, was about as opposite to TJ Scanlon as one could be. In his late twenties, with dark, thought ful features, he today wore a gray suit and white shirt on his lean frame. He was older in heart than in years, since he’d been a beat cop in the cowboy town of Reno, Nevada, before moving here with his wife for the sake of his ill mother. Carraneo held a coffee cup in a hand that bore a tiny scar in the Y between thumb and forefinger; it was where a gang tat had resided not too many years ago. Dance considered him to be the calmest and most focused of all the younger agents in the office and she sometimes wondered, to herself only, if his days in the gang contributed to that. The deputy from the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office—typically crew cut and with a military bearing—introduced himself and explained what had happened. A local teenager had been kidnapped from a parking lot in downtown Monterey, off Alvarado, early that morning. Tammy Foster had been bound and tossed into her own car trunk. The attacker drove her to a beach outside of town and left her to drown in high tide. Dance shivered at the thought of what it must’ve been like to lie cramped and cold as the water rose in the confined space. “It was her car?” O’Neil asked, sitting in one of Dance’s chairs and rocking on the back legs—doing exactly what Dance told her son not to do (she suspected Wes had learned the practice from O’Neil). The legs creaked under his weight. “That’s right, sir.” “What beach?” “Down the coast, south of the Highlands.” “Deserted?” “Yeah, nobody around. No wits.” “Witnesses at the club where she got snatched?” Dance asked. “Negative. And no security cameras in the parking lot.” Dance and O’Neil took this in. She said, “So he needed other wheels near where he left her. Or had an accomplice.” “Crime scene found some footprints in the sand, headed for the highway. Above the tide level. But the sand was loose. No idea of tread or size. But definitely only one person.” O’Neil asked, “And no signs of a car pulling off the road to pick him up? Or one hidden in the bushes nearby?” “No, sir. Our people did find some bicycle tread marks but they were on the shoulder. Could’ve been made that night, could’ve been a week old. No tread match. We don’t have a bicycle database,” he added to Dance. Hundreds of people biked along the beach in that area daily. “Motive?” “No robbery, no sexual assault. Looks like he just wanted to kill her. Slowly.” Dance exhaled a puffy breath. “Any suspects?” “Nope.” Dance then looked at TJ. “And what you told me earlier, when I called? The weird part. Anything more on that?” “Oh,” the fidgety young agent said, “you mean the roadside cross.” THE CALIFORNIA BUREAU of Investigation has broad jurisdiction but usually is involved only in major crimes, like gang activity, terrorism threats and significant corruption or economic offenses. A single murder in an area where gangland killings occur at least once a week wouldn’t attract any special attention. But the attack on Tammy Foster was different. The day before the girl had been kidnapped, a Highway Patrol trooper had found a cross, like a roadside memorial, with the next day’s date written on it, stuck in the sand along Highway 1. When the trooper heard of the attack on the girl, not far off the same highway, he wondered if the cross was an announcement of the perp’s intentions. He’d returned and collected it. The Monterey County Sheriff’s Office’s Crime Scene Unit found a tiny bit of rose petal in the trunk where Tammy had been left to die—a fleck that matched the roses from the bouquet left with the cross. Since on the surface the attack seemed random and there was no obvious motive, Dance had to consider the possibility that the perp had more victims in mind. O’Neil now asked, “Evidence from the cross?” His junior officer grimaced. “Truth be told, Deputy O’Neil, the Highway Patrol trooper just tossed it and the flowers in his trunk.” “Contaminated?” “Afraid so. Deputy Bennington said he did the best he could to process it.” Peter Bennington—the skilled, diligent head of the Monterey County Crime Scene Lab. “But didn’t find anything. Not according to the preliminary. No prints, except the trooper’s. No trace other than sand and dirt. The cross was made out of tree branches and florist wire. The disk with the date on it was cut out of cardboard, looked like. The pen, he said, was generic. And the writing was block printing. Only helpful if we get a sample from a suspect. Now, here’s a picture of the cross. It’s pretty creepy. Kind of like Blair Witch Project, you know.” “Good movie,” TJ said, and Dance didn’t know if he was being facetious or not. They looked at the photo. It was creepy, the branches like twisted, black bones. Forensics couldn’t tell them anything? Dance had a friend she’d worked with not long ago, Lincoln Rhyme, a private forensic consultant in New York City. Despite the fact he was a quadriplegic, he was one of the best crime scene specialists in the country. She wondered, if he’d been running the scene, would he have found something helpful? She suspected he would have. But perhaps the most universal rule in police work was this: You go with what you’ve got. She noticed something in the picture. “The roses.” O’Neil got her meaning. “The stems are cut the same length.” “Right. So they probably came from a store, not clipped from somebody’s yard.” TJ said, “But, boss, you can buy roses about a thousand places on the Peninsula.” “I’m not saying it’s leading us to his doorstep,” Dance said. “I’m saying it’s a fact we might be able to use. And don’t jump to conclusions. They might’ve been stolen.” She felt grumpy, hoped it didn’t come off that way. “Gotcha, boss.” “Where exactly was the cross?” “Highway One. Just south of Marina.” He touched a location on Dance’s wall map. “Any witnesses to leaving the cross?” Dance now asked the deputy. “No, ma’am, not according to the CHP. And there are no cameras along that stretch of highway. We’re still looking.” “Any stores?” O’Neil asked, just as Dance took a breath to ask the identical question. “Stores?” O’Neil was looking at the map. “On the east side of the highway. In those strip malls. Some of them have to have security cameras. Maybe one was pointed toward the spot. At least we could get a make and model of the car—if he was in one.” “TJ,” Dance said, “check that out.” “You got it, boss. There’s a good Java House there. One of my favorites.” “I’m so pleased.” A shadow appeared in her doorway. “Ah. Didn’t know we were convening here.” Charles Overby, the recently appointed agent in charge of this CBI branch, walked into her office. In his midfifties, tanned; the pear-shaped man was athletic enough to get out on the golf or tennis courts several times a week but not so spry to keep up a long volley without losing his breath. “I’ve been in my office for…well, quite some time.” Dance ignored TJ’s subtle glance at his wristwatch. She suspected that Overby had rolled in a few minutes ago. “Charles,” she said. “Morning. Maybe I forgot to mention where we’d be meeting. Sorry.” “Hello, Michael.” A nod toward TJ too, whom Overby sometimes gazed at curiously as if he’d never met the junior agent—though that might have just been disapproval of TJ’s fashion choices. Dance had in fact informed Overby of the meeting. On the drive here from the Peninsula Garden Hotel, she’d left a message on his voice mail, giving him the troubling news of the immunity hearing in L.A. and telling him of the plan to get together here, in her office. Maryellen had told him about the meeting too. But the CBI chief hadn’t responded. Dance hadn’t bothered to call back, since Overby usually didn’t care much for the tactical side of running cases. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d declined attending this meeting altogether. He wanted the “big picture,” a recent favorite phrase. (TJ had once referred to him as Charles Overview; Dance had hurt her belly laughing.) “Well. This girl-in-the-trunk thing…the reporters are calling already. I’ve been stalling. They hate that. Brief me.” Ah, reporters. That explained the man’s interest. Dance told him what they knew at this point, and what their plans were. “Think he’s going to try it again? That’s what the anchors are saying.” “That’s what they’re speculating,” Dance corrected delicately. “Since we don’t know why he attacked her in the first place, Tammy Foster, we can’t say,” O’Neil said. “And the cross is connected? It was left as a message?” “The flowers match forensically, yes.” “Ouch. I just hope it doesn’t turn into a Summer of Sam thing.” “A…what’s that, Charles?” Dance asked. “That guy in New York. Leaving notes, shooting people.” “Oh, that was a movie.” TJ was their reference librarian of popular culture. “Spike Lee. The killer was Son of Sam.” “I know,” Overby said quickly. “Just making a pun. Son and Summer.” “We don’t have any evidence one way or the other. We don’t know anything yet, really.” Overby was nodding. He never liked not having answers. For the press, for his bosses in Sacramento. That made him edgy, which in turn made everybody else edgy too. When his predecessor, Stan Fishburne, had had to retire unexpectedly on a medical and Overby had assumed the job, dismay was the general mood. Fishburne was the agents’ advocate; he’d take on anybody he needed to in supporting them. Overby had a different style. Very different. “I got a call from the AG already.” Their ultimate boss. “Made the news in Sacramento. CNN too. I’ll have to call him back. I wish we had something specific.” “We should know more soon.” “What’re the odds that it was just a prank gone bad? Like hazing the pledges. Fraternity or sorority thing. We all did that in college, didn’t we?” Dance and O’Neil hadn’t been Greek. She doubted TJ had been, and Rey Carraneo had gotten his bachelor’s in criminal justice at night while working two jobs. “Pretty grim for a practical joke,” O’Neil said. “Well, let’s keep it as an option. I just want to make sure that we stay away from panic. That won’t help anything. Downplay any serial-actor angle. And don’t mention the cross. We’re still reeling from that case earlier in the month, the Pell thing.” He blinked. “How did the deposition go, by the way?” “A delay.” Had he not listened to her message at all? “That’s good.” “Good?” Dance was still furious about the motion to dismiss. Overby blinked. “I mean it frees you up to run this Roadside Cross Case.” Thinking about her old boss. Nostalgia can be such sweet pain. “What are the next steps?” Overby asked. “TJ’s checking out the security cameras at the stores and car dealerships near where the cross was left.” She turned to Carraneo. “And, Rey, could you canvass around the parking lot where Tammy was abducted?” “Yes, ma’am.” “What’re you working on now, Michael, at MCSO?” Overby asked. “Running a gang killing, then the Container Case.” “Oh, that.” The Peninsula had been largely immune to terrorist threats. There were no major seaports here, only fishing docks, and the airport was small and had good security. But a month or so ago a shipping container had been smuggled off a cargo ship from Indonesia docked in Oakland and loaded on a truck headed south toward L.A. A report suggested that it had gotten as far as Salinas, where, possibly, the contents had been removed, hidden and then transferred to other trucks for forward routing. Those contents might’ve been contraband—drugs, weapons…or, as another credible intelligence report went, human beings sneaking into the country. Indonesia had the largest Islamic population in the world and a number of dangerous extremist cells. Homeland Security was understandably concerned. “But,” O’Neil added, “I can put that on hold for a day or two.” “Good,” Overby said, relieved that the Roadside Cross Case would be task-forced. He was forever looking for ways to spread the risk if an investigation went bad, even if it meant sharing the glory. Dance was simply pleased she and O’Neil would be working together. O’Neil said, “I’ll get the final crime scene report from Peter Bennington.” O’Neil’s background wasn’t specific to forensic science, but the solid, dogged cop relied on traditional techniques for solving crimes: research, canvassing and crime scene analysis. Occasionally head-butting. Whatever his concoction of techniques, though, the senior detective was good at his job. He had one of the highest arrest—and more important—conviction records in the history of the office. Dance glanced at her watch. “And I’ll go interview the witness.” Overby was silent for a moment. “Witness? I didn’t know there was one.” Dance didn’t tell him that that very information too was in the mes sage she’d left her boss. “Yep, there is,” she said, and slung her purse over her shoulder, heading out of the door.