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.” Which is calm and frames a beautiful blue sky, Royce corrected silently. The CBI chief offered, “Well, Kathryn did get Chilton to post a plea for the boy to come in. And he gave us some details about the server—a proxy in Scandinavia.” “I understand. It’s just…as long as that blog’s up, it’s a reminder that the job isn’t getting done.” Meaning: By you. “I keep coming back to that question about something helpful to us, something about Chilton.” “Kathryn said she’d keep an eye peeled.” “She’s busy. I wonder if there’s something in what she’s already found. I don’t really want to deflect Agent Dance from the case. I wonder if I should take a gander.” “You?” “You wouldn’t mind, would you, Charles? If I just took a peek at the files. I could bring perspective. My impression, actually, is that Kathryn’s maybe too kind.” “Too kind?” “You were sharp, Charles, to hire her.” The agent in charge accepted this compliment, though, Royce knew, Kathryn Dance had predated Overby’s presence in the CBI here by four years. He continued, “Clever. You saw she was an antidote to the cynicism of old roosters like you and me. But the price of that is a certain…naivete.” “You think she’s got something on Chilton and doesn’t know it?” “Could be.” Overby was looking tense. “Well, I’ll apologize for her. Put it down to distraction, why don’t we? Her mother’s case. Not focusing up to par. She’s doing the best she can.” Hamilton Royce was known for his ruthlessness. But he would never have sold out a loyal member of his team with a comment like that. He reflected that it was almost impressive to see the top three darker qualities of human nature displayed so boldly: cowardice, pettiness and betrayal. “Is she in?” “Let me find out.” Overby made a call and spoke to someone who Royce deduced was Dance’s assistant. He hung up. “She’s still at the crime scene at the Hawken house.” “So, then, I’ll just have a look-see.” But then Royce seemed to have a thought. “Of course, probably better if I weren’t disturbed.” “Here’s an idea. I’ll call her assistant back, ask her to do something. Run an errand. There are always reports needing to get copied. Or, I know: get her input about workload and hours. It would make sense for me to take her pulse. I’m that kind of boss. She’d never suspect anything’s out of the ordinary.” Royce left Overby’s office, walked down corridors whose routes he’d memorized, and paused near Dance’s. He waited in the hallway until he saw that the assistant—an efficient-looking woman named Maryellen—took a call. Then, with a perplexed frown, she stood and headed up the corridor, leaving Hamilton Royce free to plunder. WHEN HE GOT to the end of the alley, Jon Boling paused and looked to the right, down a side street, in the direction that Travis had disappeared. From here the ground descended toward Monterey Bay and was filled with small single-family bungalows, beige and tan apartment buildings and abundant groundcover. Though Lighthouse Avenue, behind him, was ripe with traffic the side road was empty. Thick fog had come up and the scenery was gray. Well, now that the kid had gotten away, he thought, Kathryn Dance wasn’t likely to be very impressed with his detection work. He called 911 and reported that he’d seen Travis Brigham and gave his location. The dispatcher reported that a police car would be at the arcade in five minutes. Okay, that was enough of the adolescent behavior, he told himself. His skill was academia, teaching, intellectual analysis. The world of ideas, not action. He turned around to head back to the arcade to meet the police car. But then a thought occurred to him: that this quest of his maybe wasn’t so out of character, after all. Maybe it was less a case of silly masculine preening than an acknowledgment of a legitimate aspect of his nature: answering questions, unraveling mysteries, solving puzzles. Exactly what Jonathan Boling had always done: understanding society, the human heart and mind. One more block. What could it hurt? The police were on their way. Maybe he’d find somebody on the street who’d noticed the boy get into a car or climb through a window of a nearby house. The professor turned back and started down the gray, gritty alley toward the water. He wondered when he’d see Kathryn again. Soon, he hoped. It was in fact the image of her green eyes that was prominently in his mind when the boy leapt out from behind the Dumpster three feet away and got Boling in a neck lock. Smelling unwashed clothing and adolescent sweat, he choked as the silver blade of the knife began its leisurely transit to his throat.