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"I'm ninety percent sure. I made copies of everything." Ramirez handed Dance sheets of paper.
"Oh, Connie, this is brilliant."
"Good luck. If you need anything else, just ask."
Dance sat alone in her office, considering this new information. Could Julio actually have killed his brother?
At first, it seemed impossible, given the loyalty and love that Julio displayed for his young sibling. Yet there was no doubt that the killing had been an act of mercy, and Dance could imagine a conversation between the two brothers--Julio leaning forward as Juan whispered a plea to put him out of his misery.
Kill me. . . .
Besides, why else would Julio have faked a name on the sign-in sheet?
Why had Harper and the state investigators missed this connection? She was furious, and had a suspicion that they knew about it, but were downplaying the possibility because it would be better publicity against the death-with-dignity act for Robert Harper to go after the mother of a state law enforcement agent. Thoughts of prosecutorial malfeasance buzzed around her head.
Dance called George Sheedy and left a message about what Connie Ramirez had found. She then called her mother to tell her directly about it. There was no answer.
Damnit. Was she screening calls?
She disconnected then sat back, thinking about Travis. If he was alive, how much longer would he have? A few days, without water. And what a terrible death it would be.
Another shadow in her doorway. TJ Scanlon appeared, "Hey, boss."
She sensed something was urgent.
"Crime scene results?"
"Not yet, but I'm riding 'em hard. Rawhide, remember? This's something else. Heard from MCSO. They got a call--anonymous--about the Crosses Case."
Dance sat up slightly. "What was it?"
"The caller said he'd spotted, quote, 'something near Harrison Road and Pine Grove Way.' Just south of Carmel."
"Nothing more than that?"
"Nope. Just 'something.' I checked the intersection. It's near that abandoned construction site. And the call was from a pay phone."
Dance debated for a moment. Her eyes dipped to a sheet of paper, a copy of the postings on The Chilton Report. She rose and pulled on her jacket.
"You going to go over there to check it out?" TJ asked uncertainly.
"Yep. Really want to find him, if there's any way."
"Kind of a weird area, boss. Want backup?"
She smiled. "I don't think I'm going to be in much danger."
Not with the perp presently residing in the Monterey County morgue.
THE CEILING OF the basement was painted black. It contained eighteen rafters, also black. The walls were a dingy white, cheap paint, and were made up of 892 cinder blocks. Against the wall were two cabinets, one gray metal, one uneven white wood. Inside were large stocks of canned goods, boxes of pasta, soda and wine, tools, nails, personal items like toothpaste and deodorant.
Four metal poles rose to the dim ceiling, supporting the first floor. Three were close to each other, one farther away. They were painted dark brown but they were also rusty and it was hard to tell where the paint ended and the oxidation began.
The floor was concrete and the cracks made shapes that became familiar if you stared at them long enough: a sitting panda, the state of Texas, a truck.
An old furnace, dusty and battered, sat in the corner. It ran on natural gas and switched on only
rarely. Even then, though, it didn't heat this area much at all.
