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The Chiltons returned to the house to finish packing and arrange for a motel that night--Patrizia didn't want to stay in the house until the office had been scrubbed clean of every trace of Schaeffer's blood. Dance could hardly blame her.
The agent now joined the MCSO Crime Scene chief, an easygoing middle-aged officer she'd worked with for several years. She explained that there was a possibility that Travis might still be alive, stashed in a hideout somewhere. Which meant he'd have a dwindling supply of food and water. She had to locate him. And soon.
"You find a room key on the body?"
"Yep. Cyprus Grove Inn."
"I want the room, and Schaeffer's clothes and his car gone over with a microscope. Look for anything that might give us a clue where he might've put the boy."
"You bet, Kathryn."
She returned to her car, phoning TJ. "You got him, boss. I heard.
"
"Yep. But now I want to find the boy. If he's alive, we may only have a day or two until he starves to death or dies of thirst. All-out on this one. MCSO's running the scenes at Chilton's house and at the Cyprus Grove--where Schaeffer was staying. Call Peter Bennington and ride herd on the reports. Call Michael if you need to. Oh, and find me witnesses in nearby rooms at the Cyprus Grove."
"Sure, boss."
"And contact CHP, county and city police. I want to find the last roadside cross--the one Schaeffer left to announce Chilton's death. Peter should go over it with every bit of equipment they've got." Another thought occurred to her. "Did you ever hear back about that state vehicle?"
"Oh, that Pfister saw, right?"
"Yeah."
"Nobody's called. I don't think we're prioritized."
"Try again. And make it a priority."
"You coming in, boss? Overbearing wants to see you."
"TJ."
"Sorry."
"I'll be in later. I've got to follow up on one thing."
"You need help?"
She said she didn't, though the truth was she sure as hell didn't want to do this one solo.
Chapter 37
SITTING IN HER car, parked in the driveway, Dance gazed at the Brighams' small house: the sad lean of the gutters and curl of the shingles, the dismembered toys and tools in the front and side yards. The garage so filled with discards that you couldn't get more than half a car hood under its roof.
Dance was sitting in the driver's seat of her Crown Vic, the door shut. Listening to a CD she and Martine had been sent from a group in Los Angeles. The musicians were Costa Rican. She found the music both cheerful and mysterious, and wanted to know more about them. She'd hoped that when she and Michael were in L.A. on the J. Doe murder case she'd have a chance to meet with them and do some more recordings.
But she couldn't think about that now.
She heard the rumble of rubber on gravel and looked into the rearview mirror to see Sonia Brigham's car pause as it turned past the hedge of boxwood.
The woman was alone in the front seat. Sammy sat in the back.
The car didn't move for a long moment and Dance could see the woman staring desperately at the police cruiser. Finally Sonia teased her battered car forward again and drove past Dance to the front of the house, braked and shut the engine off.
With a fast look Dance's way, the woman climbed out and strode to the back of the car and lifted out the laundry baskets, and a large bottle of Tide.
His families so poor that they can't even afford a washer and drier. . . . Who goes to laundromats? Lusers that's who. . . .
