ARKED ON A dusty street near the small town of Marina, five miles north of Monterey, Dance was alone in her Crown Vic, on the phone with TJ.

“Brubaker?” she asked.

“No criminal record,” he told her. And his work—and the alibi—with the FBI was confirmed.

He still might’ve hired somebody for the job, but this information did ease him out of the hot seat.

Attention was now on the man whose name Brubaker had given her. The name on the slip of paper was Clint Avery and she was presently gazing at him from about one hundred yards away, through a chain-link fence—topped with razor wire—that surrounded his massive construction company.

The name Avery had never come up as someone involved in the case. For very good reason: The builder had never posted on the blog and Chilton had never written about him in The Report.

Not by name, that is. The “Yellow Brick Road” thread didn’t mention Avery specifically. But questioned the government’s decision to build the highway and the bidding process, by implication also criticizing the contractor—which Dance should have known was Avery Construction, since she’d been flagged down by a company team at the site of the highway work when she’d been on her way to Caitlin Gardner’s summer school two days ago. She hadn’t put the two pieces together.

TJ Scanlon now told her, “Seems that Clint Avery was connected with a company investigated for using substandard materials about five years ago. Investigation got dropped real fast. Maybe Chilton’s reporting might get the case reopened.”

A good motive to kill the blogger, Dance agreed. “Thanks, TJ. That’s good…. And Chilton’s got you the list of other suspects?”

“Yep.”

“Any others stand out?”

“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 said to Greg Ashton, the man her husband called an Über 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.”

“I’ve been following the story. You must be pretty upset.”

She gave a stoic smile. “That’s putting it mildly. It’s been a nightmare.” She liked being able to admit to how she felt. She couldn’t always do that with Jim. She believed she had to be supportive. In fact, she was sometimes furious at his role as a relentless investigative journalist. It was important, she understood, but sometimes she just plain hated the blog.

And now…endangering the family and forcing them to move to a hotel? This morning she’d had to ask her brother, a big man who’d been a bouncer in college, to escort the boys to their day camp, stay there and bring them back.

She bolted the door behind them. “Can I get you anything?” Patrizia asked Ashton.

“No, no, I’m fine, thanks.”

Patrizia walked him to the door of her husband’s office, her eyes taking in the backyard through a large window in the hallway.

A tap of concern in her chest.

Had she seen something in the bushes behind the house? Was it a person?

She paused.

“Something wrong?” Ashton asked.

Her heart was pounding hard. “I…Nothing. Probably just a deer. I have to say this whole case has got my nerves shaken.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“It’s gone,” she said. But was it? She couldn’t tell. Yet she didn’t want to alarm their guest. Besides, all the windows and doors were locked.

They arrived at her husband’s office and stepped inside. “Honey,” she said. “It’s Greg.”

“Ah, right on time.”

The men shook hands.

Patrizia said, “Greg said he doesn’t care for anything. How ’bout you, honey?”

“No, I’m fine. Any more tea and I’ll be in the bathroom for the whole meeting.”

“Well, I’ll leave you two boys to do your work and get back to packing.” Her heart sank again at the thought of moving into a hotel. She hated being driven from her home. At least the boys would consider it an adventure.

“Actually,” Ashton said, “hold on a minute, Pat. I’m going to do a video of Jim’s operation to post on my site. I want to include you too.” He set his briefcase on the table and opened it up.

“Me?” Patrizia gasped. “Oh, no. I haven’t done my hair. And my makeup.”

Ashton said, “First of all, you look fantastic. But most important, blogging isn’t about hair and makeup. It’s about authenticity. I’ve shot dozens of these and I’ve never let anybody so much as put on lipstick.”

“Well, I guess.” Patrizia was distracted, thinking about the motion she’d seen behind the house. She should tell the deputy out front about it.

Ashton laughed. “It’s only a webcam anyway, medium resolution.” He held up the small video camera.

“You’re not going to ask me questions, are you?” She was growing panicky at the thought. Jim’s blog alone had hundreds of thousands of viewers. Greg Ashton’s probably had many more. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“It’ll be sound bites. Just talk about what it’s like to be married to a blogger.”

Her husband laughed. “I’ll bet she has plenty to say.”

“We can do as many takes as you want.” Ashton set a tripod up in the corner of the room and mounted the camera.

Jim straightened his desktop, organizing the dozens of stacks of journals and papers. Ashton laughed and shook a finger. “We want it authentic, Jim.”

Another laugh. “Okay. Fair enough.” Jim replaced the papers and magazines.

Patrizia looked at herself in a small decorative mirror up on the wall, and ran her fingers through her hair. No, she decided defiantly. She was going to get fixed up, no matter what he said. She turned to tell Ashton this.

She had only a moment to blink, and no time to protect herself, when Ashton’s fist swung directly into her cheek and collided hard with bone, breaking skin and knocking her to the floor.

Eyes wide in horror and bewilderment, Jim leapt toward him.

And froze as Ashton thrust a gun into his face.

“No!” Patrizia cried, scrabbling to her feet. “Don’t hurt him!”

Ashton tossed Patrizia a roll of duct tape and ordered her to bind her husband’s hands behind him.

She hesitated.

“Do it!”

Hands shaking, tears streaming, confused, she did as she’d been told.

“Honey,” she whispered as she wrapped his hand behind the chair. “I’m scared.”

“Do what he says,” her husband told her. Then he glared at Ashton. “What the hell is this?”

Ashton ignored him and dragged Patrizia by the hair to the corner. She squealed, tears falling. “No…no. It hurts. No!”

Ashton taped her hands as well.

“Who are you?” Jim whispered.

But Patrizia Chilton could answer that one herself. Greg Ashton was the Roadside Cross Killer.

Ashton noticed Jim looking outside. He muttered, “The deputy? He’s dead. There’s nobody to help you.”

Ashton pointed the video camera at Jim’s pale, horrified face, tears welling in his eyes. “You want more hits on your precious Report, Chilton? Well, you’re going to get ’em. I’ll bet it’ll be a record. I don’t think we’ve ever seen a blogger killed on webcam before.”