XO

Chapter 8

AT THE BRAYING of the phone Kathryn Dance awoke, her first thought: the children.

Then her parents.

Then Michael O’Neil, maybe on assignment, one of the gang- or terrorist-related cases he’d been working on lately.

As she fumbled for her mobile, dropped it, then fumbled some more, she ran through a number of scenarios as to why anyone would call at the crack of dawn when she was on vacation.

And Jon Boling… was he all right?

She righted the phone but without her glasses she couldn’t see the number. She hit the green button. “Yes?”

“Woke you up, Boss.”

“What?”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry what do you mean sorry is everyone all right there?” One sentence made of many. Dance was remembering, as she did all too often, the call from the state trooper about Bill-a brief, sympathetic but emotionless call explaining to her that the life she’d planned on with her husband, the life she’d believed would forever be her rock, would not happen.

“Not here, there.”

Was it just that she was exhausted? She blinked. What time was it? Five A.M.? Four?

TJ Scanlon said, “I didn’t know if you needed me.”

Struggling upright, tugging down the T-shirt that had become a noose during an apparently restless night. “Start at the beginning.”

“Oh, you didn’t hear?”

“No, I didn’t hear.”

Sorry what do you mean…

“Okay. Got a notice on the wire about a homicide in Fresno. Happened late last night, early this morning.”

More awake now. Or less unawake.

“Tell me.”

“Somebody connected with Kayleigh Towne’s band.”

Lord… “Who?” Brushing her dark blond hair from her face. The worse the news, the calmer Kathryn Dance became. Partly training, partly nature, partly mother. Though as a kinesics expert she was quite aware of her own bobbing foot. She stalled it.

“Somebody named Robert Prescott.”

She wondered: Bobby? Yes, that was his last name, Prescott. This was bad. She’d noted from their interaction yesterday that he and Kayleigh were close friends, in addition to being work associates.

“Details?”

“Nothing yet.”

Dance also thought back to Edwin’s unnatural smile, his leering eyes, his icily calm demeanor, which she believed might conceal bundled rage.

TJ said, “It was just a one-paragraph notice on the wire. Information only, not a request for assistance.”

The CBI was available to help out local California public safety offices with major crime investigations, but with a few exceptions the Bureau agents waited until they were contacted. The CBI had a limited number of bodies to go around. California was a big state and a lot of bad things happened there.

The younger agent continued, “The vic died at the convention center.”

Where the concert was going to be held on Friday.

“Go on.”

“It’s being handled by the Fresno-Madera Consolidated Sheriff’s Office. The sheriff is Anita Gonzalez. The head detective is P. K. Madigan. Been on the force a long time, forever. Don’t know anything else about him.”

“I’ll get over there now. You have anything on Sharp yet? The stalker?”

“No warrants or court orders came up here. Nothing in California at all. Still waiting for the locals from Washington and Oregon. The phone number you gave me? That somebody called Kayleigh on? It was a prepaid, bought with cash, from a drugstore in Burlingame.”

South of San Francisco, where the airport was located.

“No video and no other record of the transaction. The clerks have no idea who it was. It was three days ago. No other details yet.”

“Keep on it. Email Sharp’s full bio. Anything you can get.”

“Your command is what I wish for, Boss.”

They disconnected.

What time was it? The room was still dark but light showed behind the drapes.

Glasses on. Oh, eight-thirty. The crack of midmorning.

She walked into the bathroom for a brief, hot shower. In twenty minutes she was dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt and a silk business jacket, navy blue, conservative, matter-of-fact. The heat would be challenging with these clothes but the possibility of duty loomed. She’d learned long ago that a woman officer had to be a length ahead of men when it came to appearing professional. Sad but the way of the world.

She took her laptop with her, just in case the intruder returned, if in fact she had been intruded upon yesterday.

Then she was out the door, slipping the DO NOT DISTURB sign onto the L-shaped knob of the hotel room.

Wondering briefly if the prohibition would have any effect.

Outside, under an uncompromising sun, her temples, face and armpits bristled as sweat flowed. Dance fished for the Pathfinder key in her Coach purse and absently slapped her hip, where her Glock normally resided.

A weapon that was, today, conspicuously absent.

Chapter 9

HAD THERE REALLY been just one victim?

Pulling into the convention center lot, aiming for the stage door, Dance noted more emergency and public safety personnel than seemed necessary. Two dozen, easily, walking slowly, speaking on phones or radios, carrying battered equipment, green and red and yellow-the colors of stoplights, colors of children’s toys.

Four fire trucks, two ambulances, eight police cruisers and several unmarked.

She wondered again if TJ’s information was flawed. Had others died?

She drove forward to a Dodge, unmarked but obvious, parked and climbed out. A woman in a deputy’s uniform glanced Dance’s way, C. STANNING stamped on a plate above her taut breast. Her hair was equally tight and it ended in pert, incongruous pigtails, tipped in blue rubber bands.

“Help you?”

Dance displayed her CBI card and the woman didn’t seem to know what to make of it. “You… is Sacramento involved?”

Dance nearly said she was just here on vacation and believed she knew the victim. But law enforcement is a world in which instinct counts-when dealing both with suspects and with allies. She said, “Not yet. I happened to be nearby.”

Stanning juggled these words, perhaps factoring in her own instructions from on high, and said, “Okay.”

Dance continued on toward the bland concrete convention center. A slash of glaring light hit her in the face brutally as she approached. She slipped into the shade but this route was just as unpleasant; the air between two tall walls leading to the front doors was dead and stifling.

She stepped inside and in a half second the relief of the air-conditioning was utterly negated by the stench.

Kathryn Dance had been a law enforcer for some years and had attended hundreds of crime scenes. Being an investigator with CBI, she was rarely a first responder and didn’t do forensics; much of the horror had been tamed by the time she arrived. Blood staunched, bodies covered with washable tarps, body parts recovered and cataloged.

So the scent of burned flesh and hair was unexpected; it hit like a fist in her belly.

She didn’t hesitate but she did steel herself and pushed past the assault, somehow keeping the nausea under control. She walked into the massive arena, which would hold thirty thousand, she guessed. All the overheads were on, revealing the tired and shabby décor. It was as if a play or concert had ended and the promoters were eager to prod the audience into the lobby to buy CDs and souvenirs.

On the stage and main floor were a dozen people in the varied uniforms of law enforcement, fire and EMS.

Climbing to the stage, she joined a cluster at the edge, looking down into the orchestra pit. It was from there that a faint trail of fetid smoke rose. Slowing, she struggled not to gag, then continued on.

What had happened? she wondered. She recalled the falling light from yesterday.

Dance noted immediately, from their posture and the sweep of their eyes, that two of the law officers, who all wore tan uniforms, were senior to the others. One was a woman hovering in her fifties with long hair and a pocked face. With Latina features, she was stocky and stood in a pose that suggested she disliked the uniform-the tight slacks and the close-fitting blouse, which blossomed outward at the waist, painted on rolls of fat.

The man she was speaking to was Caucasian, though sporting a dark tan. He also was stocky but his was targeted weight, situated in his gut, which rode above thin hips and legs. A large, round face crisscrossed with sun wrinkles. His posture-leaning forward, shoulders up-and still, squinting gray eyes suggested an arrogant and difficult man. His head hair was black and thick. He wore a revolver, a long-barreled Colt, while on the hips of everyone else here were the semi-auto Glocks that were de rigueur among law enforcers in California.

Ah, yes, she was right in her guess; he was P. K. Madigan, the head of detectives.

Conversation slowed as they turned to see the slim woman in jeans and sport coat stride toward them.

Madigan asked brusquely, “And you are…?” in a way that didn’t mean what the words said at all. He looked over her shoulder darkly toward who might have let her breach his outer perimeter.

Dance noted the woman was named Gonzalez, the sheriff, and so she addressed her and displayed her ID, which both of the in-charge duo examined carefully.

“I’m Sheriff Gonzalez. This is Chief Detective Madigan.” The decision not to offer first names in an introduction is often an attempt to assert power. Dance merely noted the choice now. She wasn’t here to flex muscles.

“My office called me about a homicide. I happened to be in the area on another matter.”

Could be official, might not be. Let the sheriff and chief detective guess.

Dance added, “I’m also a friend of Kayleigh Towne’s. When I heard the vic was in her crew I came right over here.”

“Well, thanks, Kathryn,” Madigan said.

And the use of first names is an attempt to disempower.

The flicker in Gonzalez’s eyes at this faint affront-but absence of any look Madigan’s way-told Dance reams about the chief detective. He’d carved out a major fiefdom at the FMCSO.

The detective continued, “But we don’t need any CBI involvement at this point. Wouldn’t you say, Sheriff?”

“I’d think not,” Gonzalez said, staring Dance in the eyes. It was a magnetic look and based not-as in the case of Madigan-on gender or jurisdictional power but on the woman’s determination not to glance at a figure perhaps four sizes smaller than hers. Whatever our rank or profession, we’re frail human beings first.

Madigan continued, “You said you were here on another matter? I look over the interagencies pretty good every morning. Didn’t see any Bureau activity here. They-you-don’t always tell us, of course.”

He’d called her bluff. “A personal matter.” Dance steamed ahead. “The victim was Bobby Prescott, the head of the road crew?”

“That’s right.”

“Anyone else hurt?”

Madigan wasn’t inclined to answer and used a nearby deputy as an excuse to turn away and have a very quiet conversation with him, leaving his boss to respond to the interloper as she liked.

Sheriff Gonzalez offered, “Only Bobby.”

“And what happened?”

Madigan rejoined the conversation. “We’re in the preliminary stage. Not sure at this point.” He definitely didn’t want her here but since she was with a senior agency he had at least to act deferential. Dance was a large dog wandering into a picnic-unwanted but possibly too dangerous to shoo away.

“COD?”

A pause then Gonzalez said, “He was doing some work on the stage last night. It seems he slipped and fell, a spotlight landed on him. It was on. He caught fire. Cause was blood loss and the burns.”

Lord, what a terrible way to die.

“Must’ve burned for a while. The alarms didn’t go off?”

“The smoke detectors down there, in the pit, weren’t working. We don’t know why.”

The first thing in her mind was the image of Edwin Sharp, glancing toward Bobby Prescott, with that fake smile and with eyes that could easily reflect a desire to turn the roadie into a bag of dust.

“You ought to be aware-”

“’Bout Mr. Sharp, our stalker?” Madigan asked.

“Well, yes.”

“One of the boys with the crew, Tye Slocum, told me that there was an incident yesterday at the Cowboy Saloon.”

Dance described what she had seen and heard. “Bobby confronted him a couple of times. And Edwin probably overheard Bobby say he was going to come back here later last night and check out some equipment malfunction. It would be late because he had to go to Bakersfield to pick something up.”

Madigan added absently, “Edwin’s on our radar. We know he’s renting a house near Woodward Park, north part of town. For a month.”

Dance recalled that Edwin had been quite forthcoming about his residence. She was still curious why he’d rented for that time length.

Dance noted too that both Madigan and she herself tended to refer to the stalker by his first name; this often happened when dealing with suspects who were potentially ED, emotionally disturbed. Dance reminded herself that whatever name they used, not to sell the young man short.

The chief detective took a phone call. Then he was back with Dance, though only for the briefest of times. And with the briefest of smiles-just as phony as Edwin’s, she reflected. “Appreciate you stopping by. We’ll give CBI a call if there’s anything we need.”

Dance looked over the stage, the misty air above the pit.

Gonzalez offered, “So long now.”

Despite the double-barreled good-bye, Dance didn’t feel like leaving just yet. “How did the light fall on him?”

The sheriff said, “Maybe tugged it after him when he fell. The cord, you know.”

“Was it a strip light?” Dance asked.

Madigan muttered, “Dunno what that is. Take a look.” The last sentence was delivered with a bit of challenge.

Dance did. It was indeed a hard thing to see: the scorched body. And, yes, the unit was a four-lamp strip.

“That might’ve been the one that fell yesterday.”

“Tye mentioned that,” Madigan said. “We’re looking into it.” He was clearly growing weary of her. “Well, all righty then.” He began to turn away.

“How did it come undone?”

“Wing nuts worked loose?” He nodded up to the scaffolding.

Dance said, “And I wonder why Bobby fell. Not like it isn’t marked.” Yellow warning tape clearly indicated the edge of the stage.

Over his shoulder Madigan offered a dismissive, “Lot of questions, you betcha.”

Then a woman’s loud, haunting voice from the back of the hall: “No… no, no!” The last time that word was repeated it became a scream. Despite the hot, dank atmosphere of the hall Dance felt a stinging chill slither down her back.

Kayleigh Towne sprinted down the aisle to the stage where her friend had so horribly died.

Chapter 10

DANCE HAD SEEN the young singer a half dozen times and she’d always been carefully, if not perfectly, assembled.

But today she was the most disheveled Dance had ever seen. No makeup, long hair askew, eyes puffy from crying, not lack of sleep (there’s a difference, Dance knew). Instead of her ubiquitous contact lenses, she wore thin black-framed glasses. She was breathless.

Detective P. K. Madigan instantly became a different person. His fake smile of irritation at Dance became a frown of genuine sympathy for Kayleigh. He stepped down the stairs and intercepted the young woman on the floor before she could get to the stage. “Kayleigh, dear. No, no, you shouldn’t be here. There’s no reason for you to be.”

“Bobby?”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“They told me… but I was praying it was a mistake.”

Then Sheriff Gonzalez joined them on the main floor and put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. Dance wondered if all friends and next of kin got this treatment, or only celebrities, and then decided the cynical thought was unkind. Kayleigh Towne was the city’s star, yes, but she was at the moment a woman in terrible distress.

“I’m sorry, Kayleigh,” Gonzalez said. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was him! Edwin. I know it! Go arrest him. He’s parked in front of my house. Right now!”

“He’s what?” Madigan asked.

“He’s parked in the lot of the nature preserve across the street. He’s just sitting there in that goddamn red car of his.”

Frowning, Madigan made a call and told a deputy to check it out.

“Arrest him!”

“We’ll have to see, Kayleigh. May not be as easy as that.”

Dance noticed Darthur Morgan standing, arms crossed, in the back of the theater, looking around carefully.

“The hell’s that?” Madigan grumbled, catching sight of the man.

“My bodyguard,” Kayleigh said, gasping from the crying.

“Oh.”

Dance returned to the edge of the stage and looked down. The nausea rose again from the smell, here concentrated, but she ignored it and studied the scene carefully: the strip light, six feet long or so, lay atop the scorched remains of Bobby Prescott. Dance knew the messages the body gave off-in life and in death. She now assessed the broken bones, the claw shape of the hands, partly due to the typical fire victim’s contractions, the pugilistic attitude, but also because he’d been trying to drag his broken body out from underneath the edge of the stage. He was headed away from the stairs-not the logical direction one would crawl if he was just seeking help.

“He fell first,” Dance said to the deputy standing next to her, softly, so Kayleigh would not hear. “A few minutes before the lamp hit him.”

“What’s that, ma’am?” The man, in his midthirties, of rectangular build, with a luxurious black mustache, stepped closer. He too was tanned, like Madigan, though perhaps he also had a naturally dark complexion. His tag said DET. D. HARUTYUN.

She nodded down into the hole as the crime scene men, or women, in jumpsuits, moved the light away and began processing the body. She said, “His legs, the way they’re angled, his hands. He fell first. He tried to get out of the way. Then the light fell.”

The deputy examined the scene silently. Then: “The light teetered and fell. He knew it was coming ’cause he tugged on the cord.”

But the wire was plugged into an outlet on the stage, not in the pit. Both she and the detective noticed this simultaneously. Bobby couldn’t have pulled it down on himself. She asked, “And why’s it plugged into the wall there? A light like that’s mounted on the rigging above the stage. That’s where the power is… And why’s it plugged in at all? That’d be worth mentioning too.”

“I’ll do that.”

Which he now did, walking down the stairs, offering some words to Kayleigh and then pulling Madigan aside, whispering to him. The detective nodded. His face folded into a frown. “Okay,” he called, “we’re treating the stage as a crime scene. And the scaffolding where the light fell from yesterday. Clear everybody off. And get Charlie’s folks searching there. Hell, we’ve already contaminated the damn place bad enough.”

Dance wondered if Harutyun had taken credit for the observations. Probably had. But that didn’t matter to her. As long as they got all the helpful evidence they could, that’s what was important.

Gonzalez was fielding calls on her iPhone, concentrating. Dance now joined Kayleigh, standing alone, in a frantic state. Looking in many different directions, she began talking rapidly, gesturing. Dance was reminded of her own unhinged behavior in the few hours after she learned of the death of her husband, an FBI agent-not a victim of criminal activity but of a careless driver on Highway 1.

Dance hugged her hard and asked how she could help, phone calls to be made, rides to be arranged. Kayleigh thanked her and said no, she’d make the calls herself. “Oh, Kathryn, can you believe it? I… I can’t believe it. Bobby.” Her eyes strayed to the orchestra pit and Dance prepared to stop her physically from looking at the body if she needed to. But the singer turned instead to Madigan and Gonzalez and said that she thought somebody had been watching her yesterday here. No, been sure of it.

“Where?”

Pointing. “In those corridors there. Alicia-my assistant-saw something too. But we didn’t see anyone clearly.”

Dance said, “Tell them about the phone call last night.”

This contribution from the interloper, at least, got Madigan’s attention.

In a trembling voice, Kayleigh said to Dance, “God, you think that has something to do with this?”

“What?” Gonzalez asked.

Kayleigh explained about the call she’d received in the car, someone playing part of the title song from the band’s most recent album, Your Shadow. Kayleigh added, “For what it’s worth, the recording was very high quality-true fidelity. With your eyes closed, you couldn’t tell the difference between someone really singing or the digital replay. Only a pro would have a recorder like that.”

“Or a fanatical fan,” Dance suggested. She then mentioned what she’d learned from TJ about the mobile phone. Madigan didn’t seem pleased that a law enforcer from another jurisdiction had already started to investigate his case, though he wrote down the details.

At that moment another person joined them, Deputy C. Stanning, from out front.

“First names… Crystal,” Madigan said coolly.

She said, “Reporters’re starting to show up, Chief. They’ll want a press-”

“You keeping people out of the crime scene, Deputy?”

He didn’t look toward Dance but he didn’t need to. Stanning did the job for him.

Her oblique apology: “Big area to keep track of. Lot of onlookers, you know, curious folks. I’m keeping them back, best I can.”

“I’m hopin’ you do. Let the reporters cool their heels.” This time the glance was at the large bodyguard in the back of the hall.

The sheriff asked, “Kayleigh tell me again-what exactly did you hear on the phone?”

“Just a verse from my song.”

“He didn’t say anything, the caller? Or she?”

“No. Just the song.”

Sheriff Gonzalez took another call herself, had a brief conversation then disconnected. “Congressman Davis’s here. I’ve got to meet him and his security detail… I’m sorry for your loss, Kayleigh.” This was offered sincerely and accompanied by two firm hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Anything I can do, let me know.”

A look passed from the older woman to her chief of detectives, meaning: Do what you need to on this case. This is big news here and Kayleigh’s our own. Nothing is going to happen to her. Nothing.

The sheriff scanned Dance and said good-bye. She left, along with two of the other deputies.

Dance said to Madigan, “My specialty’s interrogation and interviewing, Detective. If you have a suspect or witness you’d like me to talk to, just give me a call.” She handed him her card.

“I do a bit of that myself,” Madigan offered. “Well, all righty then, Kathryn.” He pocketed the card like a used tissue.

“Oh, wait, that seminar,” Harutyun said, frowning. “In Salinas. Body language, right? Kinetics. That was you.”

“Kinesics, yes.”

He turned to Madigan. “Alberto and I went last year. It was helpful. You were funny too.”

“Seminar,” Madigan repeated. “Funny. Well, that’s good to know. Here’s a thought… Kayleigh, you saw somebody here yesterday?”

“Just a shadow,” the girl said.

He smiled. “Shadows’re left by somethin’. Or someone. Why don’t you talk to people in the crew who were here, Kathryn. Any convention center workers too. See what they have to say.”

“I could do that, Detective. But that’s more along the lines of canvassing. I’m sure the people with the crew and anybody else here would cooperate. I’m usually involved if there’s reason for a witness or suspect to be deceptive or if they can’t remember important facts.”

“And I sure hope we get somebody you can use those seminar skills of yours on, Kathryn. But until then, it’d be a big help if you’d see what the others have to say. Of course, don’t feel you have to.”

Seminar skills…

She’d been outmaneuvered. Given a necessary, but minor task to keep her out of their hair. The dog had been sniffing around for juicy scraps at the picnic and got tossed a dry bone instead.

“Be glad to,” Dance said. She pulled out her iPhone and got from Kayleigh the names of the people with the crew and convention center employees who were here yesterday, inputting them one by one.

The medical examiner arrived and approached the senior detective. They had a quiet conversation.

Dance called to Kayleigh, “I’ll see you later.” The young woman’s eyes looked so mournful it was hard to keep contact. Dance started up the aisle when the thought slammed her.

Jesus.

She turned back. “Kayleigh, last night? The caller only played one verse, right?”

“The first verse. And the chorus.”

“And it’s about a concert hall,” Dance said.

“Well, yeah, sort of. It’s kind of about being a public person. But it mentions a venue.”

“I don’t know who’s behind this,” Dance said, “but if it’s a stalker, like Edwin, I think he’s going to keep killing.”

“Oh, Kathryn,” Kayleigh whispered. “Again? He might hurt somebody else?”

Committing murder was rare among stalkers but in her years as a reporter, a jury consultant and a cop, Dance had learned that when it came to violent crime, an outlier could kill you just as dead as a perp who fell smack in the middle of the bell curve. “The basis for stalking is repetitive, obsessive behavior. I think we should assume he’s going to make more calls and more people will be at risk. I’d get a wire on Kayleigh’s phone. And let’s look at the other verses of that song and find out who or where he might attack again.”

Madigan asked, “But why would the perp do that? What’s in it for him?”

Dance replied, “I don’t know. Some stalkers are simply psychotic.”

“Sounds kinda far-fetched,” Madigan said. Mostly he seemed irritated that Dance had upset Kayleigh.

“I think it’s important.”

“Seems you do.” The chief detective took a call, listened and said to Kayleigh, “That was one of the patrols. They cruised past your house and didn’t see him or his car.”

“Where is he, where did he go?” Kayleigh sounded panicked.

“They don’t know.”

Madigan looked at his watch. He told Harutyun to go outside and make a statement to the reporters. “Don’t give ’em anything specific, only Bobby’s name. Being investigated. Apparent accident. You know the drill. And keep people outa here.” Madigan apparently didn’t think Deputy Stanning was up to the task.

He dismissed Dance too, in a stony voice, impatient: “And now, if you could get to that interviewing, I’d sure appreciate it, Kathryn.”

Dance hugged Kayleigh once more. She then accompanied Harutyun toward the exit.

“Thanks for talking to him about the light, Detective Harutyun.”

“Made some sense. Call me Dennis.”

“Kathryn.”

“I heard.” Deadpan delivery.

They both nodded at a somber Darthur Morgan as they passed. His eyes left Kayleigh for a mere portion of a second.

In a few minutes the two were pushing out the front door of the facility. Dance was grateful to be in scorch-free air again, even if it was searing hot. Harutyun’s square face, though, registered distress. The line of his shoulders had changed too. He was looking at the clutch of reporters and TV vans. Dance understood he’d rather be chasing down a perp in a dark alley than handling this duty. Public speaking, perhaps. A major and universal fear.

Dance slowed, typing an email into her phone. She sent it on its way. “Detective?”

The columnar man stopped, wary but seemingly grateful for any delay in confronting the media.

She continued, “I just downloaded a set of the lyrics-Kayleigh’s song, the one she heard on her phone last night.”

He seemed unsure of where this was going. “And I’ve forwarded a copy to the Detective Division. To your attention.”

“Me?”

“I’d really appreciate it if you’d look over the second verse-well, all of them, but the second verse right away-and let me know if you can think of any places it could mean, where a perp might decide to kill somebody else, based on the words. Like the concert hall in the first verse. It might be impossible to guess the scene in particular but if we can just narrow it down a little we’d have a head start if he calls again.”

A hesitation. “I could check with Chief Madigan about that.”

Dance said slowly, “You could, sure.”

Harutyun, not looking her way, surveying the reporters: “The Chief’s got the best forensic outfit in the Valley, better than Bakersfield’s. And his arrest and conviction rate’s in the top ten percent in the state.”

“I can tell he’s good,” she said.

Eyes still on the voracious journalists. “I know he’d appreciate you getting him statements from those witnesses.”

Dance said firmly, “Look over the lyrics. Please.”

Swallowing, the big detective didn’t respond but stepped forward reluctantly to meet the pack of hungry wolves.

Chapter 11

BOBBY PRESCOTT’S TRAILER was an impressive double-wide. A Buccaneer company Cole model, about fifty feet by twenty-five or so, Kathryn Dance guessed. Tan exterior, white trim.

It was, yes, a mobile home but a crumbling cinder-block foundation certified that it wasn’t very. The dry ground around it was cracked and beige, the grass losing the battle but some hydrangeas and boxwood putting up a good fight.

The scene wasn’t crowded. Only law enforcers, some curious children with bicycles or skateboards and a few older spectators were present. Most adults were either not interested or didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. It was that sort of neighborhood. There were no other residents in the trailer; TJ had reported that Bobby Prescott was unmarried and had lived here alone.

It was 1:00 P.M., the sun at a September angle, but the air was still hot as July.

Two FMCSO cruisers were parked in the front and Dance nosed past them to the carport and climbed out of the Pathfinder. Chief Detective Madigan and Dennis Harutyun were standing together, talking to the kids. Well, they had been doing so. Now they were focused on her.

The mustachioed detective nodded noncommittally.

His boss said, “Ah, Kathryn.” Not even a faux smile from Madigan. Beneath the leaf-thin veneer was anger-at her and probably at himself for having to play the politics game and not being able to simply kick the CBI agent out altogether. Her impression was that he was surprised she hadn’t done as he’d hoped-got bored playing small-town cop and just gone away.

No such luck.

Dennis Harutyun regarded her solemnly and she wondered if he’d bothered to download and review the lyrics to “Your Shadow.” Probably not. He brushed his mustache with the back of a finger and returned to interviewing locals. He moved with the same calm demeanor she recalled from earlier. His personal baseline. But he was also cautious, looking around frequently as if Edwin lurked nearby, armed with a handgun.

Which she couldn’t be sure wasn’t the case. Voyeuristic perps, like stalkers, always set you on edge, while the spying gives them comfort.

P. K. Madigan continued, “So. You didn’t have a chance to talk to those witnesses.”

“I did, yes. But I’m afraid it wasn’t very productive. I talked to Alicia, Kayleigh’s PA, and Tye Slocum and the rest of the crew. Darthur Morgan-”

“Who?”

“Her security guard.”

“That… the big guy was there earlier?”

“That’s right. The facility had a security guard and two other people, one was a gaffer-an electrician-and a carpenter to help out the band. They had to be present because of the union rules. I interviewed them too. Their security man said three of the doors were unlocked. But that wasn’t unusual. During the day, if there’s no show, it’s a pain to keep finding him and unlocking the doors in front, the side and back, so they usually just leave them open. Nobody spotted anyone inside they didn’t recognize, on the scaffolding or anywhere else.”

“You got all that in three hours?”

Eighty minutes, actually. The rest had been devoted to learning where Bobby spent time-hiking in a state park nearby (no leads there), hanging out in a guitar store and a radio station with friends (nothing helpful) and sitting in a particular diner in the Tower District, where he drank copious amounts of coffee and nothing stronger, suggesting he was in recovery (ditto, the lack of leads).

And finally discovering where he lived.

Hence, her presence here.

She chose not to mention this, though. “How’d your crime scene team do at the convention center?”

A pause. “Collected a lot of stuff. Don’t know the results yet.”

Another Fresno-Madera Consolidated cruiser arrived-Crystal Stanning was at the wheel. She parked behind Dance’s Nissan, climbed out and joined the others. She too looked around uneasily.

That’s the thing about a crime like this. You never quite know where the stalker is. Maybe miles away. Maybe outside your window.

Stanning, it seemed, wanted to report to her boss about whatever her mission had been but would say nothing until Dance was elsewhere or she had the okay. The sweating Madigan was impatient. He snapped, “The phone?”

“Service Plus Drugs in Burlingame. Cash. They don’t have any videos. Maybe that’s why he went there.”

Dance had told them all of this information.

But then Stanning continued, “And you were right, Chief, he bought three other phones at the same time.”

A question Dance had not thought to have TJ Scanlon ask.

Madigan sighed. “So this boy may have more on his plate.”

Which was, she guessed, a backhanded acknowledgment of her “farfetched” concern.

Four verses in “Your Shadow,” Dance reflected. Four victims? And that song might not be the only template for murder; Kayleigh had written lots of tunes.

“I got the numbers and the ESNs.”

You needed both the phone number and the electronic serial number of a mobile in order to trace it.

“We should get ’em shut off,” Madigan said. “So Edwin’ll have to buy one here. Easier to trace.”

We don’t know it’s Edwin, Dance observed, but said nothing.

“Sure.” Detective Stanning had three studs in one ear and a single silver dangling spiral in the other lobe. A dot in her nose too, marking where a ball might perch on off hours.

But Dance said, “I’d keep them active, like we haven’t figured out what he’s up to. And then put a locator notice on them. If the perp calls again we can triangulate.”

Madigan paused, then glanced at Crystal Stanning. “Do that.”

“Who should I-?”

“Call Redman in Communications. He can do it.”

Motion from across the street, where a more modest trailer squatted in sad grass. A round woman stood on the concrete stoop, smoking a cigarette. Sunburned shoulders, freckles. She wore a tight white strapless sundress with purple and red stains at toddler level. She eyed everyone cautiously.

Madigan told Stanning to help Harutyun canvass. He walked to the shoulder and after two pickups had passed he crossed the road, making for the heavyset woman, Dance following.

The detective glanced back at her but she didn’t slow down.

The neighbor walked forward uncertainly to greet them. They met halfway from her mailbox. In a rasping voice she said, “I heard the news. I mean, about Bobby. I couldn’t believe it.” She repeated fast, “It was on the news. That’s how I heard.” She took a drag.

The innocent usually act as guilty as the guilty.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Deputy Madigan, this is Officer Dancer.”

She didn’t correct him.

“Your name?”

“Tabby Nysmith. Tabatha. Bobby never caused any trouble. No drugs or drinking. He was just into music. Only complaint was a party one time. Kinda loud. Can’t believe he’s dead. What happened? The news didn’t say.”

“We aren’t sure what happened, ma’am. Not yet.”

“Was it gangs?”

“Like I say, we aren’t sure.”

“The nicest guy, really. He’d show Tony, he’s my oldest, these fancy guitars he had. He had one that Mick Jagger played years ago, he said. Bobby’s daddy worked with them and the Beatles too. Or that’s what he said. We didn’t know, how would you know? But Tony was in heaven.”

“Did you see anybody here recent you never saw before?”

“No, sir.”

“Anybody he had a fight with, loud voices, drug activity?”

“Nope. Didn’t see anybody here last night or this morning. Didn’t see anything.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yessir.” She pressed out her cigarette and lit another one. Dance noted from the butts by the door that she at least had the decency to step outside to smoke, to keep from infecting the children. She continued, “It’s hard for me to see his place.” She gestured at the windows in the front of her trailer, obscured by bushes. “I’m after Tony Senior to trim the bushes but he never gets around to it.”

A look toward Dance, a smile.

Men…

“Would your husband have seen anything?”

“He’s on the road. Truck driver. Been away for three days. No, four.”

“All right then, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”

“Sure, Officer. Will there be a funeral or anything?”

“Couldn’t say. Good day to you.” Madigan was loping back toward the trailer but Dance turned the other way, followed the woman back to her trailer and her brood.

“Excuse me.”

“Uh-huh?”

“If I could ask a few more things?”

“I’m sorry. I really have to get back to the kids.”

“How many?”

“What?”

“Children?”

“Oh. Four.”

“I have two.”

Tabatha smiled. “I heard this, like, expression. Diminishing returns. I don’t exactly know what it means but I think of it having two kids sets the stage, you know? You can have ten more and it’s not a whole lot worser.”

“Diminishing returns” probably wasn’t what the woman meant but Dance grinned understandingly. “Two is fine for me.”

“But you work.”

The tiny sentence carried a lot. Then Tabatha said, “I really don’t know much else than what I told that man.” She looked at Dance’s trim figure, pressed jeans and her sunglasses, whose frames were the color of canned cranberry sauce.

A whole different world.

And I work.

“I left Sheryl and Annette watching the little one.”

The woman kept walking, fast for her bulky frame. She drew hard on the cigarette, then paused to crush it out carefully. Smokers did that in California, the land of brushfires.

“Just one or two questions.”

“If the baby starts crying-”

“I’ll help you change him.”

“Her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Caitlyn.”

“Pretty. Mine’s Maggie.”

Then they were at the screen door of her trailer. Tabatha peered through the dusty, rusted mesh. Dance couldn’t see much other than toys: plastic tricycles, castles, doll houses, pirate chests. The house was dim inside but exuded still heat. The TV was on. One of the last remaining soap operas.

Tabatha lifted an eyebrow.

“Just a few more details about Bobby.”

Dance was continuing the discussion with Tabatha because of an important rule in kinesic analysis: the volunteering principle. When someone answers a question, then immediately offers what he or she anticipates will be the next question, that person is often trying to deflect or diffuse a line of inquiry.

Dance had noted that Tabatha said she hadn’t seen anybody here last night-or this morning.

Why had she felt it important to mention that? It made no sense unless she was covering up something.

Dance removed her sunglasses.

“I really need to get in to the children.”

“Tabatha, what did you see this morning at Bobby’s trailer?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly.

Effective kinesic analysis of witnesses and suspects involves conversing with the individual for a long period of time-days or, ideally, weeks. Initially nothing is said about the crime at all; the interviewer asks questions and makes comments that relate to the subject’s life, all topics about which the truth is known. This establishes the suspect’s baseline behavior-how he or she speaks and acts when responding honestly. It’s then that the interviewer segues into inquiries about the crime and compares the subject’s behavior when answering those questions to the baseline. Any variation suggests stress and therefore possible deception.

However, even without establishing a baseline, there are a few mannerisms that suggest lying, at least to an experienced investigator like Kathryn Dance. Tabatha’s voice was now slightly higher in pitch than earlier-a sign of stress.

A glance toward Bobby’s trailer, in front of which Madigan and his deputies were staring back at Dance. She ignored them and said calmly, “It would be good for everybody if you could give us a little more information.”

Everybody…

You too.

At least she wasn’t a crier. Often at this stage, when Dance tipped witnesses or suspects into admitting they’d been lying, many women, and a surprising number of men, began to cry. It could take upward of an hour to convince them that they were not subhuman for being deceptive; they were simply scared or concerned about their families or had other reasons. Tabatha gave no reaction, other than a thoughtful furrowing of her thick eyebrows as she probably considered the risk to her children if she was honest.

Dance assessed she was on the borderline.

“We’ll make sure you’re looked out for. But this is pretty serious.”

A low voice, woman to woman, adult to adult. “You can say that. It’s easy to say that.”

“I give you my word.”

One mother to another.

A very long ten seconds passed. “There was somebody in the trailer this morning.”

“Could you describe them?”

“I couldn’t see the face. ’Causa the angle, you know. Just the body, chest and shoulders, through the window. Like a, you know, silhouette. Not even clothes. That’s all I could see. I swear.”

Often a deceptive flag, that last sentence can also mean exactly what it says, as Dance now believed. “Which window?”

“That one there, in the front?” She pointed. It was horizontal, two feet high, three wide.

“You came out for a smoke and saw this person?”

“I’m aiming to quit. I will. Worried about the weight, you know. That always happens when you quit smoking. I try. Don’t really want to gain any more pounds. Tony Senior’s commented on it. And he should talk. Mr. Budweiser.”

“What time?”

“Eleven, eleven-thirty.”

“Did you see a car? Or when the person left?”

“No.”

Then she noticed to her alarm that Madigan had given up shooting hate rays at her, had turned and was nearly to the front door of Bobby’s trailer.

“Thank you, Tabatha. Go be with your children.”

“Will I have to testify?”

As Dance sprinted toward the trailer she called over her shoulder, “We’ll look after you, promise!” Then shouting: “Detective! Stop!”

Chapter 12

P. K. MADIGAN’S hand was nearly to the doorknob.

His eyes slid Dance’s way and she saw his face cloud with the irritation he mustered so well.

But he also seemed to understand instantly that she had a point about not wanting him to go inside.

Or, she deduced from his hand dipping toward his pistol, maybe some risk awaited.

He stepped back. So did Dennis Harutyun.

Dance hurried across the street and joined them.

“Anybody inside?” the chief detective asked sharply.

Dance steadied her breathing. “Don’t think so. But I don’t know. The thing is the perp-or somebody-was here this morning. Eleven, eleven-thirty. You don’t want to contaminate anything.”

“In here?”

“I think we should assume it was the killer.”

“She know that for sure? The time?” A glance toward Tabatha’s trailer.

“Probably. The TV was on and it would’ve been all morning. Her husband’s away a lot and she’d keep it on for comfort. She’d know the time according to the show she was watching.”

“Who’d she see? Can she ID ’em?”

“No. And I believe her. She didn’t see a face or vehicle.”

A deep sigh. He muttered to Harutyun, “Get CSU over here. And tape off the property. As much as you can. All of the trailer.”

The careful deputy made a call.

Madigan and Dance both stepped away from the trailer and stood on the crumbling walk.

“What’d Edwin, or whoever, be doing here? Afterward?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could’ve been a friend, one of the crew.”

“A friend maybe. I talked to the crew. They would’ve said something about being here or acted deceptive. And none of them did.”

Silence for a moment as he stared at the door, wanting to go in. He rocked on his feet. He asked her suddenly, “You like to fish?”

“No.”

“Hm.” He studied the crisp, jaundiced grass. “You don’t fish? Or you don’t like to?”

“Neither. But I’ve got a friend who’d live on his boat in Monterey Bay if he could.”

Michael O’Neil was always out in the choppy water. Often with Dance’s son, Wes, and his own children. Sometimes Dance’s father, a retired marine biologist, went along.

“Monterey Bay. Hm. Salmon.” Madigan looked around. “I like to fish.”

“You catch and release?”

“No. Seems crueler to me. I catch and eat.”

“Michael does that too.”

“Michael?”

“My friend.”

More silence, dense as the growing heat, as they watched Harutyun and Stanning string the yellow tape.

“I told her, Tabatha, that we’d have somebody keep an eye on her.”

“We can do that.”

“It’s important.”

“We can do that,” he repeated, with a bit of edge. To Harutyun: “Get a car over here. Some rookie. Keep an eye on the place. That trailer across the street too.”

“Thanks,” Dance said.

He didn’t respond.

She sensed Old Spice or something clove-oriented rising from his large body. He actually wore a gun belt with single spare cartridges stuck into loops, pointing downward, like a cowboy’s. No speed loaders, those accessories that contained a disk of six or eight rounds to be dropped quickly into an open cylinder of a revolver. Detectives in Fresno probably didn’t have much cause to shoot people, much less reload quickly.

Madigan stepped closer to the door, examined the lock. “Could’ve been jimmied.”

They waited in more silence for the Crime Scene Unit to arrive and when they did, Dance was again impressed at the efficiency of the operation. The team dressed fast, in full jumpsuits, masks and booties, and-she was surprised-two of them with weapons drawn cleared the interior of the trailer, making sure there were no threats. Most police outfits have SWAT or regular officers-unswathed in evidence-protective clothing-handle this job, resulting in contamination of the scene.

CSU proceeded to process the trailer, dusting and using alternative light source wands for prints, taking trace evidence samples, electrostatic footprints on the front stoop and inside, looking for tire treads and anything else the perp might have discarded or shed.

Dance’s friend, Lincoln Rhyme, was perhaps the country’s leading expert in forensic evidence and crime scene work. She herself was a bit skeptical of the extreme reliance on the art; one case she knew of had nearly resulted in the execution of an innocent man because certain clues had been planted by the real perp. On the other hand, Rhyme and his partner, Amelia Sachs, had worked miracles in identifying and convicting suspects on the basis of nearly nonexistent evidence.

She noted that Madigan’s eyes grew animated for the first time since she’d arrived as he watched the team scour the grounds and move in and out of the trailer. He likes his forensics, she thought; he’s a thing cop, not a people cop.

An hour later they’d finished and carted out some boxes and bags, both paper and plastic, and announced that they were releasing the scene.

Dance had a feeling she wasn’t going to be welcome much longer, despite the angling conversation she and Madigan had had. She made quickly for the trailer. Stepping inside the place, which smelled of hot, plastic furnishings, she froze. It was a museum. She’d never seen anything like this, not in a residence. Posters, record jackets, guitars, statuettes of musicians, a Hammond B-3 organ, parts of wind and string instruments, ancient amplifiers and hundreds of vinyl records-33¹/₃ LPs, 45 singles and ancient 78s, reels of tape. She found a collection of turntables and an old Nagra reel-to-reel, made by the Kudelski Group, the best portable tape recorder ever manufactured. Looking at all of these items, it was like seeing beautiful but antiquated cars. These analog devices had long ago lost the battle to digital.

Still, they were to Dance, as apparently they had been to Bobby, works of art.

She found hundreds of concert souvenirs, mostly from the sixties through the eighties. Mugs, T-shirts, caps, even pens-an item, not surprisingly, commemorating that most intellectual of singer-songwriters, Paul Simon, whose “American Tune” had inspired the name of her music website.

The majority of these artifacts, though, involved the country world. Photos covering nearly every square foot of wall space revealed the history of the genre, which, Dance believed, had reimagined itself more than any other musical form in America over the years. She spotted photos of musicians from the traditional era-the Grand Ole Opry and rockabilly styles-in the 1950s. And from the era of country rock a decade later, followed by outlaw with the likes of Waylon Jennings, Hank Williams, Jr., and Willie Nelson. Here were photos and autographs of Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers and Eddie Rabbit, who were part of the country pop trend in the late seventies and eighties. The neotraditionalist movement in the eighties was a move back to the early era and brought superstar status to Randy Travis, George Strait, the Judds, Travis Tritt and dozens of others-all of whom were represented here.

In the nineties country became international, with artists like Clint Black, Vince Gill, Garth Brooks, Shania Twain, Mindy McCready and Faith Hill, on the one hand, and a strong alternative movement that rejected slick Nashville production values on the other. Pictures of Lyle Lovett and Steve Earl, who were part of the latter, stared down from one wall.

The present day was on display too. Here was a picture of Carrie Underwood (yes, of American Idol fame) and an autographed copy of the sheet music for Taylor Swift’s “Fifteen,” which spoke not about truck driving or God or patriotism or other traditional country themes but about high school angst.

Kayleigh Towne’s career was, of course, well documented.

Dance knew there were many historians of the music scene in the past fifty years but she doubted they had as many artifacts as Bobby did. No death is worse than any other but Dance felt a deep pang that Bobby Prescott’s devotion to archiving all aspects of country music in the twentieth century had died with him. It was the entire world’s loss.

Dance pulled herself away from the archives and walked carefully through the place. What she was looking for, she didn’t know.

Then she noted something out of the ordinary.

She stepped to a bookshelf, containing a number of binders and manila folders of legal and other official documents like tax bills and boxes of cassettes and reel-to-reel tapes, including some labeled “Master Tapes.”

Dance was studying this portion of the trailer carefully when she happened to pass the window where Tabatha had said she’d seen the intruder that morning. Dance blinked in surprise as she found herself staring eye-to-eye at a very unhappy P. K. Madigan, a foot away on the other side of the glass.

His expression was: Come on out here to the woodshed.

But she summoned him first, calling loudly, “I’ve found something.”

He grimaced and hesitated, then reluctantly joined her.

“Actually I’ve found something missing.”

He looked around. “Body language of the trailer tell you that?”

Madigan was being snide. But Dance said, “You could put it that way. People have patterns in their gestures and speech and expressions. They also have patterns in their living spaces. Bobby’s a highly organized person. People who are organized don’t happen to be that way accidentally. It’s a psychological drive. Look at those shelves.” She pointed.

“They’re messy but so? I got a teenage boy.”

“None of the others are. And your Crime Scene Unit marked where they’d taken things. Somebody else went through those boxes. Probably the intruder. It’s near the window where Tabatha saw somebody.”

“Why do you say something’s missing?”

“I’m not sure it’s missing. I’m making the deduction that if only those shelves were disturbed, the intruder was looking for something and he found it so he stopped.”

Madigan reluctantly walked over to the shelves and, pulling on latex gloves, poked through the tapes, the papers, the pictures, the tchotchkes. He said, “Some of these snaps of Kayleigh, they’re not souvenirs. They’re personal.”

That was one thing Dance hadn’t noticed.

Madigan continued, “The sort of thing a son-of-a-bitch stalker’d want for a souvenir.”

“That could be it, yes.”

Madigan ran a finger over the shelf and examined it. The coat of dust was thick. Bobby was organized but not particularly concerned about cleaning. “Cement plant right up the road here. Looks like dust from there. I know it. We got a conviction in this trailer park ’cause of it, placing the perp here. That could be helpful.” A cool glance her way. “You find anything else?”

“No.”

Without a word he left the trailer, Dance after him. He called to Harutyun, “You guys find anything? Witnesses?”

“Nothing.”

Stanning shook her head too.

“Where’s Lopez?”

“Just finishing up at the convention center.”

Madigan pulled a phone off his thick shiny belt and placed a call. He stepped away from the others and had a brief conversation. Dance couldn’t hear what was said. His eyes swiveled around the yard as he spoke, absently examining the deceased’s residence. Dance was included in his gaze.

As he disconnected, Madigan said to Harutyun, “I want you to find Edwin. Bring him in. I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing. I need to talk to him. Now.”

“Arrest him?”

“No. Make it seem like it’d be good for him to come in. In his interest, you know.”

Dance heard a harsh exhalation as Madigan regarded her expression. “What? You don’t think that’s a good idea?”

She said, “No, I don’t. I’d vote for surveillance.”

Madigan squinted toward Harutyun. “Do it.”

“Sure, Chief.” Harutyun climbed into his cruiser and left, without a word to Dance.

No, she decided; the deputy hadn’t looked at the verses to Kayleigh’s song.

Madigan strode back to his car, his round belly swaying, as he looked over the scene. He grunted, “Crystal. Listen, I need you to come with me. Have a talk about something in my cruiser. We’ll pick yours up later.”

The woman dutifully climbed into the passenger seat of Madigan’s cruiser. A moment later they were headed out onto the highway, without a word of farewell to Dance.

No matter.

She fished for her keys and turned toward her SUV. She stopped, closed her eyes briefly in frustration and gave a sharp, bitter laugh. Crystal Stanning’s squad car was tight on the rear bumper of Dance’s Pathfinder. In front was a carport full of junk. A V-8 engine block, weighing in at half a ton, she guessed, sat six inches in front of her SUV.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter 13

AT THE FRESNO-MADERA Consolidated Sheriff’s Office complex, P. K. Madigan stopped by the Crime Scene Unit, a block away, after returning from Bobby Prescott’s trailer.

He wanted to urge the unit to make this case a priority, which of course they’d do. Anything for Kayleigh Towne, the girl who’d helped put Fresno on the map.

And anything for Chief Madigan too.

But he was only half thinking about pep rallies. He also pictured Kathryn Dance.

Thinking about her beached car. Some people you needed to hit over the head to deliver a message. He’d send Crystal back in an hour or two, spring the gal from her automotive jail. Oh, sorry Kathryn; I didn’t know you’d be stuck between a rock and hard place-ha!

But he’d simply had it with people using Kayleigh like Dance was.

If Kayleigh hadn’t been involved, the likes of Kathryn Dance would never have come to Fresno, never have taken the time to even say howdy-do to a soul here. Where was Ms. Agent Dance and the CBI when some MS-13 wannabes took an Uzi and sprayed it into the pizza place on Herndon, killing two children and missing the rival drug dealer altogether?

Sorry, they weren’t celebrities.

He expected better from the CBI, thought they’d be above that publicity-grabbing shit. But Madigan had done his homework. He’d checked out Dance’s boss, Charlie Overby, on YouTube and the archives. Man was faster with a press conference than Wild Bill Hickok with a six-gun.

Dance worked for him, which meant she’d surely be just the same.

Just happened to be in the area and a friend of Kayleigh’s? My ass.

You don’t mind if I take over your investigation, do you, P.K.?

Yeah, she’d come up with a few helpful things. But she was in the case for the wrong reasons and that just wasn’t acceptable to P. K. Madigan. Besides, he didn’t believe much in that fishy mumbo jumbo of hers. Kinesics? Crap. That’d be like learning about a trout from books and the Discovery Channel-as opposed to catching, cleaning and cooking one up in Crisco.

No, his approach was different. Cases were made nowadays on forensics, not voodoo. They’d have evidence from the convention center, they’d have forensics from Bobby’s trailer-that cement dust, about as unique as trace could be-was a godsend.

Armed with that, Madigan would wear down the son of a bitch and get a confession in an hour or two.

He and Crystal walked into the CSU lab. He enjoyed the smell of the chemicals and the after-effects of the gas chromatograph, which reminded him of the Bunsen burner smell from high school, a good time in his life-football, his brother healthy, a girlfriend who ran the yearbook.

“Charlie,” he called.

The pudgy, rosy-cheeked director of the CSU, Charlie Shean, looked up from a computer in his office-the only four-walled space in the large room. The rest of the place had cubicles and workstations and the up-to-date forensic stuff that Madigan had fought hard to get for his people.

“Hey, Chief.” Shean’s accent grounded him somewhere along the Massachusetts coast, just north or south of Bean Town.

Madigan thought Shean was the best forensic tech his budget could afford and he was one of the few employees on the force the detective was deferential to, though, of course, he’d get in a few good ones about the CSU man’s name from time to time despite the different spelling.

“Need you to push everything through on this Towne case.”

The round man shook his head. “Poor thing. She’s got to be shook up. And that big concert this weekend. I got tickets, the wife and me. You going?”

“I am,” Stanning said.

Madigan wasn’t. He liked music but he liked music you could shut off with a switch when you wanted to. “What’ve we got?”

Shean nodded toward several techs in goggles, gloves and white jackets, working with quiet intensity at several stations not far away.

“Nothing yet. Three scenes. Convention center, Bobby’s trailer and Sharp’s rental. We’re processing about two hundred unknown prints. We have what we think are Sharp’s from his rental but he’s not in AIFIS.”

The FBI’s Automated Integrated Fingerprint Identification System was, in Madigan’s opinion, one of the few things the federal government was good for.

“But we aren’t sure they’re his.”

“I’m going to talk to Sharp. I’ll get ’em with the water bottle trick.”

“Who’s Agent Dance, CBI?”

Madigan snapped, “Why you asking?”

“She called-”

“Called you? Here? Direct?”

“Yeah. She talked to Kayleigh’s assistant, Alicia Sessions, and found out where she thought somebody was spying on Kayleigh yesterday at the convention center. We dusted the area. Didn’t find anything. CBI’s involved?”

“No. CBI is not involved.”

“Oh.” When Madigan explained no further Shean continued, “You were right, that’s the cement dust at Bobby’s trailer, same stuff with the Baniero convictions. It’s unique to that area.”

“Have you got a match from Edwin’s place? Lopez said there was plenty of dust on the Kayleigh pictures and memorabilia in his house.”

“Lots of trace, yeah, but no results yet. Should know soon. And one more thing? The team found something in the orchestra pit. Some boxes had been moved-the manager said they usually kept stacks of them there to break somebody’s fall in an accident, you know? They’re special cartons. Stunt men use them. Whoever moved them, looked like he was wearing latex gloves. And similar marks on the smoke detectors; they had the batteries taken out.”

Bingo!

Miguel Lopez, who’d searched Edwin’s rental, had found a box of the gloves.

“The same as we got from Edwin’s place?”

“We don’t know that yet either. Wrinkle marks and manufacturer’s trace’ll tell us.”

“Good, Charlie. Interrupt me, there’re any breakthroughs.”

Madigan and Stanning left and walked to the sheriff’s office proper, then inside and down a long corridor. Passersby going in the opposite direction nodded to him, a bit cautious, some downright intimidated.

He thought again about Kathryn Dance. She hadn’t been the least intimidated by him. Thinking of her baking in the heat, he felt just a moment’s bad. She could always put the AC on in that fancy Pathfinder of hers. Besides, soccer moms like her always toted round tons of bottled water. Tap wasn’t good enough for them.

Madigan pushed through a swinging door on which was painted a fading sign: DETECTIVE DIVISION.

Detective Gabriel Fuentes, a bulldog of a man who sweated furiously, even in the winter, stood near the reception desk. Unlike deputies in the department who were former military, which was a lot of them, Fuentes had cast aside all trappings of the army and wore his black, shiny hair as long as he could get away with.

Edwin Sharp was here too. Madigan recognized the gangling man from the photos Kayleigh’s lawyers had sent them, though he’d lost a lot of weight. He was standing over Fuentes, who, at five-eight or so, was six inches shorter than Edwin. The stalker also had long arms and massive hands. His eyes were sunken below thick brows, which gave him an ominous look though he was pretty normal otherwise. Those eyes were curious, Madigan thought. They weren’t the least troubled. Hell, children on class field trips to the department looked guiltier than this boy.

His smile was the oddest Madigan had ever seen, a faint upward curving of the thin lips but mostly at the very ends.

Those underpass eyes now turned to him. “Detective Madigan, hi. How you doing? I’m Edwin Sharp.”

I’ve got a name badge but this fellow hasn’t once looked at it. What’s this about?

“I’ll just be a second, son. Thanks for coming in.”

“Just for the record, I’m not under arrest. You’ve asked me here and I’ve come voluntarily. I can leave at any time. Is that correct?”

“That’s right. You want some ice cream?”

“I… what?”

“Ice cream?”

“No, thanks. I’ll pass. What’s this all about?”

“You go by Ed, Eddie?”

The smile. It was damn eerie. “No. I like Edwin, Pike.”

Madigan paused. The fuck is he using my first name for? And how the hell did he know it? A lot of deputies here don’t know what it is.

“Well, then, Edwin it is. Be back in a second.” He nodded for Fuentes to join him up the hall.

“Any problem?” Madigan whispered.

“No. Just asked him to come in and he didn’t hesitate.” Fuentes continued, “And I heard Miguel and a crime scene team found some good evidence at his place, after he left.”

“Looks that way.”

“Good,” Fuentes said. “How’s Kayleigh holding up?”

“Doing the best she can, I’d say. Not great.”

“Son of a bitch,” Fuentes muttered. And they looked back to see Edwin watching the men. He couldn’t hear what they said; they were too far away. But it gave Madigan a chill to see those eyes crinkle with amusement as if he could sense every word.

He sent Fuentes back to the division and stepped into the lunchroom, opened the fridge and scooped himself some ice cream, dropped it into a paper cup. He loved ice cream. No taste for liquor other than a beer at a barbecue, no chew or smokes but he loved ice cream. Not yogurt or sherbet or low-fat. Real, honest-to-God ice cream. He carried an extra ten pounds due exclusively to the stuff but that was ten pounds he was willing to sacrifice for the cause.

People thought he ate ice cream to intimidate suspects, or to win them over if he offered a scoop or two. But fact was he just liked ice cream.

Today he was having mint chocolate chip.

He returned to the Detective Division. “Okay, Edwin. Just like to have a conversation with you, you’d be so kind.”

A couple of big bites from the cup with a metal spoon. He always used metal. Hated plastic. Paper and foam cups were okay but you needed to eat your ice cream with a real spoon.

They’d just started toward the interview room when the door to the division swung open once again and someone else entered the lobby.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

It was Kathryn Dance.

Chapter 14

SHE’D TAKEN A cab.

Did they think she wouldn’t?

The chief detective and Crystal Stanning had been gone from Bobby’s trailer for ten minutes when she gave up her futile back-and-forth attempt to free the wide-wheel-base Nissan.

She’d pulled out her mobile, found a business search app and got a cab to pick her up and take her straight to the sheriff’s office.

The stalker seemed the more amused of the two men she now walked up to. “Agent Dance, hope you’re well,” Edwin said, getting her title right-name too-and offering a modicum of respect.

Madigan’s expression said: So much for the improvised detention center at Bobby’s trailer.

She said firmly, “I’d like to talk to you, Deputy,” now using the less impressive of his job titles, because she was really pissed off.

Madigan replied, “I’m pretty busy now, Kathryn. Come on, Edwin. That way. Say, you want a bottle of nice cold water?” He said to the assistant, “We’ll be in number three.”

And they vanished down the hall.

After a frustrating five minutes, Dance noticed Detective Dennis Harutyun, of the solid shoulders, rich complexion and supple mustache, walking up the corridor toward her. He’d left before Madigan’s little game with the cars and might not know she was persona non grata. She made a decision, taking her ID card from her purse, wedging the holder into her belt, shield on display, something she never did, even on duty.

She approached Harutyun.

He didn’t seem to smile any more than his Boss but nothing suspicious glimmered in his eyes. If he seemed awkward it was probably because he hadn’t bothered to drop everything and analyze Kayleigh’s song “Your Shadow” for potential crime scenes.

“Dennis.”

“Hello, Kathryn.”

She remembered how Madigan was referred to by intimates. “The Chief’s interviewing Edwin now. Where’s observation for Interview Room Three? I got lost.”

The bluff worked. Without any reaction, assuming that she was sanctioned to be here, Harutyun guided her up the corridor and even held the door open politely. He flicked the light on in the small, close chamber. There was no worry that Edwin or Madigan might see a flash; observation rooms were invariably light- and sound-proof, even if everyone who owned a TV knew the mirror was fake and there were cameras, cops and witnesses on the other side.

She felt a little bad, using Harutyun like this. But Dance was determined to keep Kayleigh Towne safe, and while she didn’t doubt Madigan’s devotion to that same goal, she wasn’t at all sure of his competence when it came to a perp like Edwin.

And, oh, yeah, she was still pissed off.

She examined the interrogation room. It was austere. In the center were a large fiberboard table, a half dozen chairs and a smaller utility table on which sat bottles of water and pads of paper. No decorations on the walls.

No pencils or pens.

Madigan, she observed, took a professional approach. He sat forward, in a focused but unthreatening manner. He was confident but dropped the authoritarian, imperious attitude she’d seen earlier (apparently reserved for interloping law enforcers). He didn’t engage in overt hand gestures, which can distract the suspect. He was respectful of Edwin, asking if he was comfortable, was the temperature too hot, too cold.

Dance supposed the ice cream had to be prop of some sort. Every single word or gesture by an interrogator tells the subject something more about the questioner. You should never say or do anything that doesn’t further the session. Sipping coffee, scratching your head, frowning… But apparently the confection wasn’t part of the detective’s plan. He finished it with relish and tossed the cup away. Edwin’s eyes followed every motion.

Madigan made a few mistakes, though. One was that he directed Edwin to sit across from him at the table. Better would have been to sit facing each other without any furniture between them. Tables, other chairs, any prop gives the suspect a sense of security.

He made a clumsy show of offering the suspect water. Dance noted that Madigan pointed at the Clear Spring, rather than simply picking up a bottle and handing it to Edwin. It was probably an attempt to lift Edwin’s friction ridge prints-fingerprints-from the bottle and it seemed that Edwin deduced this; he didn’t touch it. The problem was that Madigan’s offer gave away something of the interviewer’s strategy and intelligence.

But the big mistake, in Dance’s opinion, came next:

“Can I ask what this is all about, Pike?”

“Robert Prescott.”

Wouldn’t’ve done that, she thought.

“Oh, Kayleigh’s road manager,” Edwin said, nodding and rubbing his prominent eyebrow.

“Where were you last night at the time he died.”

Oh, no.

Dance realized she must have said this aloud because Harutyun tilted his head her way.

“What? No, he’s dead?” Edwin looked alarmed.

“And you didn’t know that?”

“No, no. That’s terrible. He and Kayleigh were real close. What happened?”

“Got himself burned up. So, you’re telling me you weren’t at the convention center last night?” He now leaned toward Edwin ominously.

Dance understood Madigan’s approach. It was referred to as a blunt-force attack-a term borrowed from hackers who used massive supercomputers to run through all possible passwords to break encrypted messages. With blunt force, officers would inundate suspects with information about them and about the case, suggesting knowledge they didn’t actually possess and connections that were tenuous at best. When delivered with confidence, as Madigan clearly had, the details sometimes got suspects to confess quickly.

Yes, blunt force could be effective. But if it didn’t work right away, you ended up with a subject who stonewalled; any chance of getting helpful information would be ruined. Accordingly, Dance herself never used this technique. Her belief was that information was the most valuable thing an interrogator has. It could be a steel trap, it could be a weapon but to be effective it had to be fed out slowly to lure the suspect into revealing details that could later be used to trip him up. Madigan had just given away the most important key facts-that Bobby was dead, where the crime occurred and how it happened. Had she been conducting the interview, she would have kept those details secret for the time being.

Edwin looked over the deputy somberly. “Well, I’m very sorry to hear that about Bobby. That’s sad for Kayleigh.”

Madigan didn’t respond. He said quickly, “Could you tell me where you were when Prescott died? Midnight last night?”

“Well, I’m sure you know I don’t have to tell you anything but I’m a little surprised at this. Really, Detective. You clearly think I hurt Bobby. Why on earth would I do that? I’d never hurt anybody close to Kayleigh. But the answer to your question is, I was home in my rental.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Maybe somebody driving by saw me, I don’t know. I was in the living room, listening to music most of the night. I don’t have curtains up yet.”

“I see. Okay.” Then he sprung the trap. Madigan leaned closer and said firmly, “But what do you say to the fact that we’ve got two witnesses that place you at the convention center around the time he died and then at Bobby’s house this morning?”

Chapter 15

WHAT EDWIN SHARP said in reply was probably not what Madigan expected.

With a frown, further blending his dense eyebrows, he asked simply, “Did they have clear views?”

Don’t answer, Dance thought to Madigan.

“They sure did. The house right across the road from the convention center stage door. And directly across from Bobby’s house.”

Hell, Dance thought. Edwin could now figure out exactly who the witnesses were.

He said, shrugging, “Well, they’re mistaken. I was home.”

Dance said to Harutyun, “Tabatha didn’t ID anybody. She couldn’t. Was there somebody else there?”

A pause. “Not that I know of.”

“And is there really a witness by the convention center?”

“Apparently,” Harutyun explained. Then decided to tell her. “Some woman lived nearby saw somebody around midnight.”

“She positively ID’d Edwin?”

“I don’t… I don’t think so.”

The hesitation meant she hadn’t, Dance decided. She recalled the layout. The house would have been across the parking lot, two hundred yards from the stage door. At night, she wouldn’t have been able to make out more than a vague silhouette.

“Well, Madigan just told a possible homicide suspect about two witnesses and it wouldn’t be that hard to find out their identities. They need looking after. He said he’d get some protection for Tabatha. Do you know if he did?”

“Tabatha, yes. The other one, I don’t know.”

“We need to.”

“Okay.”

And in the interrogation room, the one-on-one continued. Madigan was probably brilliant at getting confessions from the typical perp you saw in the Central Valley. But Edwin Sharp was not a typical perp.

Well, under Giles versus Lohan…

The stalker listened patiently, analytically as Madigan said, “And we’ve just been through your house, Edwin. We found a lot of interesting things, including latex gloves, the same sort that were used in the murder. And trace evidence.”

Edwin said calmly, “I see. My house, hm? Did you get a warrant?”

“We didn’t need one. My deputy noticed some things in plain sight.”

“Even from the sidewalk?” the stalker asked. “Tough to see anything inside unless you entered on the property. Well, I don’t really think you had the right to take anything. I want it returned.”

Dance turned to Harutyun. “Did he get a warrant?”

“No, after we saw things were missing from Bobby’s, the Chief sent a deputy over there-Miguel Lopez-and he saw things from the trailer through Edwin’s window, in plain sight… What’s the matter?”

Dance didn’t reply.

Inside the interrogation room Edwin was saying, “Well, I haven’t been in Bobby’s trailer, so…”

“Oh, how did you know it was a trailer?” Madigan demanded triumphantly.

“That’s right, you called it a ‘house’ earlier. I thought that was odd. I know where he lived because of Kayleigh’s song two years ago. ‘Bobby’s Double-Wide.’ All about the history of country music. Sort of like Don McLean’s ‘American Pie.’ Surprised you don’t know it. Being all gung-ho for Kayleigh, I mean.”

Madigan’s smile deflated and he seemed to be wrestling down his anger. “Just confess, Edwin. You want to, I know you do.”

A textbook line from blunt-force interrogation. This is the moment when the perp might start to cry and, indeed, confess.

But Edwin said, “Can I collect my things now? Where are they? In the Crime Scene Unit? That’s in the building south of here, right?”

The detective blinked. Then he said, “Look, let’s be realistic here. Work with me. I’ll talk to the prosecutor. I’m sure he’ll cut a deal. Maybe you were arguing with Bobby. You know, that chest bumping that started at the Cowboy Saloon that afternoon? It escalated. These things happen. We could be talking reduced counts. And maybe he’ll cut out the stalking charge altogether.”

“Stalking?” Edwin seemed perplexed. “I’m not a stalker. Kayleigh’s a friend. I know it and she knows it.”

“Friend? That’s not the story according to her lawyers.”

“Oh, she’s afraid of them. They’re controlled by her father. They’ve all been telling her lies about me.”

“That’s not the way it is,” Madigan said. “You’re in town to stalk her. And you killed her friend because he threw you out of the Cowboy Saloon yesterday.”

Edwin remained completely placid. “No, Detective. I came to Fresno to get out of the Seattle rain for a time, to come to a public concert… and to pay respect to a performer I like, a woman who’s been nice and frankly shown some interest in me. One of the best musicians of our era, by the way. You accuse me of stalking but I’m sorry, I’m the victim here. You never did anything about my call.”

Madigan’s face revealed confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I thought that was why your deputy Fuentes asked me here. My complaint.”

“Complaint?”

“You don’t know? I have to say that doesn’t surprise me. Saturday night, I called nine-one-one and reported a Peeping Tom, a trespasser, behind my house. But nobody did anything about it. You’ve got, what? Twelve hundred deputies? I just needed one to come out and see where this guy was standing, talk to the neighbors. But did they? No. Not for an out-of-towner.”

With a grim laugh, Madigan responded, “We have four hundred deputies in Fresno and sixty in Madera. They cover over six thousand square miles of territory from the Valley all the way up to the mountains. I’m afraid a Peeping Tom, if there really was one, isn’t going to be all-hands-on-deck.”

Dance noted that if the stalker was on a fishing expedition to get information about the limitations of the sheriff’s office, he’d certainly succeeded.

Edwin kept up the offensive, easy as a June day. “Your hometown girl is, quote, ‘stalked’ and you think it’s the end of the world. I’m a newcomer and nobody cares that somebody’s casing out my house. If Bobby Prescott was murdered and witnesses place me at his house, or trailer, then I’m being set up. Somebody had another reason to kill him and they’re using me as a fall guy. You really have to understand, Detective, I love her. I’d never hurt anybody close to her.”

“You don’t love her, Edwin. You’re obsessed with a celebrity who doesn’t know you from Adam.”

“I think love has to have some obsession to it, don’t you, Pike? Aren’t you obsessed with your wife some? Or weren’t you, at one point?” Edwin had spotted the wedding ring.

“You will not talk about my family!” Madigan sputtered.

“I’m sorry,” Edwin said, frowning. His eyes were enigmatic but belied contrition.

Madigan said, “Kayleigh doesn’t love you at all. You’re way off base.”

Efforts to get suspects to admit they were wrong, or that their beliefs were based on errors, were usually useless, especially in the case of fanatic- or obsession-based crimes like stalking.

Edwin shrugged. “You say that but you know she sent me emails and letters. She practically said she loved me.”

With some difficulty Madigan controlled his anger. He said, “Son, you have to get real here. She sent you the same emails she sent to ten thousand fans. A hundred thousand. We’ve been briefed by her lawyers. You got a half dozen form emails and a couple of form letters.”

“That’s what they’re telling you. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“Edwin, a lot of fans feel that way about performers. I sent a fan letter to a star once. He sent me back an autographed picture and-”

“He?” Edwin asked quickly.

Madigan hesitated a moment. “We got you dead to rights, son. Tell me the truth. Tell me you killed Robert Prescott and we’ll work something out. Tell me and you’ll feel better. Believe me.”

Edwin said, “You know, Pike, I think I don’t want to say anything more. I’d like to leave. And I’d like to pick up my things now. People versus Williams. You have to arrest me or let me go.”

Dance asked Harutyun, “The evidence? It places Edwin at the scene?”

She didn’t even bother to wait for a reply. Harutyun’s shift of eye away from her was all she needed. “He doesn’t have any forensics, does he?”

“We think it’ll probably match… But no, he doesn’t have any yet.”

“Dennis, ask the Chief to come in here.”

“What?”

“I need to talk to him. It’s very important.”

Harutyun examined her, glancing down at the ID on her belt. His mouth tightened beneath the mustache. He realized that she had deceived her way inside.

“I’m sorry,” Dance said. “I had to do it.”

He grimaced and sighed. Then snatched up a phone and dialed a number. They could hear it buzz inside. Madigan looked at it with surprise and irritation. Edwin didn’t pay attention but instead turned and looked into the reflective glass. Since he couldn’t see the occupants of the room he wasn’t focused on either Dance or Harutyun but the mere transit of his eyes in their direction was unsettling.

And his smile was wax. That damn smile.

“Yes?” Madigan said casually into the phone, though Dance noted a white thumb where he gripped the handset.

“Detective?”

“What?”

“I’m here with Agent Dance. She’d… like to have a word with you? If possible.”

His incredulous eyes started to swivel toward the mirrored window too, then he restrained himself.

“At this moment?”

“That’s correct. It seems important.”

“Wonder how she ended up in there.”

Did the stalker know what was going on? Dance couldn’t tell but he continued to look at the mirror.

“I’m busy.”

Dance grabbed the phone. “Detective, let him go. Don’t arrest him.”

After a moment, Madigan dropped the phone into the cradle. “Edwin, have some water.”

“I want to leave,” he repeated, the essence of calm.

Madigan ignored him and stepped outside. It seemed like a matter of seconds before the door flew open in the observation room and he was storming up to Dance.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You’ve got to let him go. If you don’t have probable cause-”

“This’s my case, not yours.”

She knew she’d embarrassed him in front of his people. But she couldn’t help herself. “You have to let him go.”

“Just ’cause you figured out somebody dropped that light on Bobby Prescott doesn’t mean I want or need any more of your opinions.”

So, she reflected. Dennis Harutyun had given her credit for that deduction, back at the convention center.

“He has to be released.”

A jagged edge in his voice, Madigan said, “So you’re on his side now?”

Dance found she was quite angry. “It’s not a question of sides. It’s a question of proving a case. Edwin may very well’ve killed Bobby. But if he goes to trial and gets off, that’s double jeopardy. He’s gotten away with murder.”

“I answer to Sheriff Gonzalez, not you.”

“Let him go and monitor him. It’s the only way to make a case.”

“And what if he gives the deputy the slip and decides it’s time to kill Kayleigh. Like Rebecca Schaeffer.”

The actress who was murdered in Los Angeles some years ago. Her tragic death at the hands of a stalker had led to California’s enacting the first anti-stalking law in the nation.

“Well, you saw his-what do you call it, kinesics? That’s your expertise, you were pretty quick to tell me. Was he lying when he said he was being set up? You’d trespassed into the observation room by then, hadn’tcha?”

“I couldn’t tell under those circumstances. I didn’t have time.”

“Ah.”

“He’s asked to leave and you haven’t let him. That’s a problem.”

Madigan looked at Edwin in the room. The young man had pulled out a pen and pad of paper and was jotting notes. A lot of them.

Madigan called to Harutyun, “Book him. Cuff him and get him to detention. Breaking and entering at Bobby’s only at this point. I know there’s evidence for that.” He turned to Dance. “Crystal’ll take you to your car and you better go now. You being in here’s trespass and, as you can probably tell, I’m in an arresting mood at the moment.”

Chapter 16

AFTER FIFTEEN MINUTES of silent driving, Crystal Stanning said to Kathryn Dance, “I didn’t block you in on purpose. I just parked there.”

“I know that.”

In Stanning’s personal car, a sun-faded Toyota, they were just pulling into the drive of Bobby’s trailer. The young detective stopped, brakes squealing. A belt needed replacing pretty soon too. The grass here, pale and thin, looked dustier and more spiky than before. Heat ripples undulated like sheets of flowing water above the Pathfinder.

Stanning fished another set of keys from her purse and said, “Yours’ll be hot. You’ll be wanting to mind the wheel. People’ve gotten burns.” They climbed out.

“I’ll take care.”

“And here it is September. I don’t know ’bout glaciers melting but I’ll tell you it’s hotter now than when I was a girl.”

“I hear you.”

“You can buy those windshield shades at Rite Aid. They work pretty good. Though I imagine you won’t be staying around.”

Dance wondered if Madigan had asked his deputy to drop that into the conversation to see where it went.

She said only, “Thanks.”

“Just ’tween us?”

“Sure.”

“Kayleigh Towne’s a big deal here. Fresno’s not the glitziest place on earth. We come in real low on nice-places-to-live surveys and Kayleigh’s made us famous. I don’t know, maybe the Chief thinks you’re here to boost yourself up, you and the CBI, I mean. Take her away from us, you might say, with this investigation. And if that happens, the sheriff’s office’ll lose out on the money. Maybe a lot of it.”

“Money?”

“Yeah, if we can’t handle the case, he’s thinking that’ll go into the hopper when it’s budget time. See, he fights hard for us in the department, the Chief. One time, he was convinced we couldn’t find this girl got herself kidnapped and killed because CSU couldn’t analyze some dirt trace at the scene. He still feels bad about that. So he’s always fighting for more pennies.”

“I see.”

“He got his dirt machine, whatever it is. Don’t know that it gets used much but that’s the way he is.”

Without another word, the deputy drove off.

Dance walked to her vehicle.

So what do I do? Even if she wanted to take on the case, which would mean working with a wholly uncooperative local team, she didn’t think her boss or Sacramento would go for it. Whatever Madigan felt, the CBI was the least political law enforcement organization she’d ever had contact with. Even if the suspect had been after a much more famous star, a stalking case wasn’t the sort the bureau would take on. Yet, Kayleigh was a good friend, other people were in danger, she was convinced, and Madigan was outgunned by Edwin Sharp.

That odd smile, the calculation, the calm demeanor, the research. They were armor and they were weapons.

And what was beneath that smile? What was in his heart and mind? To a degree unlike any other suspect she’d known, Edwin Sharp was a mystery. She simply couldn’t read him.

She got into the Pathfinder.

Got out again immediately. It had to be 130 degrees inside. She leaned in, started the engine and rolled down the windows. Then turned the AC on full blast.

As she waited for the interior to moderate, she walked closer to Bobby Prescott’s trailer, now marked with crime scene tape. She thought again about the astonishing collection of music history inside.

Brush and grass waved in the breeze and dust ghosts rose and vanished. She realized it was completely deserted here now, aside from the squad car in which a young Asian-American deputy sat in front on the shoulder, with a view of both Bobby’s and Tabatha’s trailers.

Despite the absorbing heat, Dance felt another chill of unease. She’d thought of another implication of Madigan’s arresting Edwin Sharp. If someone else was the killer, and he was using “Your Shadow” as a template, then he’d have free rein to carry out the next murder without fear the police were searching for him.

Finally the Pathfinder was cool enough to drive. She put the vehicle in gear and drove away from the scene, the yellow police tape fluttering cheerfully in the breeze behind her.

Debating.

I don’t want to do this. It’ll be a nightmare.

But ten seconds later she made the decision and was on her phone to the CBI office in Monterey, on her boss’s voicemail.

“Charles. It’s Kathryn. I need to take over an investigation in Fresno. Call me for the details.” She debated about explaining what kind of nuclear detonation this would provoke and the political nightmare that would ensue.

But she decided that was a conversation best had in real time.

Chapter 17

KAYLEIGH TOWNE’S TWO-STORY Victorian squatted on a twenty-acre plot north of Fresno.

The house wasn’t large-twenty-five hundred square feet or so-but had been constructed by artisan builders, with one instruction: make it comfortable and comforting. She was a nester-tough for a performer who traveled seven months out of the year-and she wanted a home that cried cozy, cried family.

When she was twelve, Bishop Towne had sold the house she and her sister had grown up in, a ramshackle place north of Fresno, in the mountains. He said it was hard to get to in the winter, though the real reasons were that, one, his father had built it and Bishop would do anything he could to separate himself from his old man. And two, the rustic family manse hadn’t fit the image of the lifestyle he’d wanted to lead: that of the high-powered country superstar. He’d built a ten-million-dollar working ranch on fifty acres in the Valley and populated it with cattle and sheep he had no interest in or knowledge about raising.

The move had been horrifying enough to Kayleigh but worse was that he’d sold the beloved family house and land to a mining company that owned the adjacent property and they’d bulldozed the structure, planning to expand, though the company’d gone bankrupt; the unnecessary destruction was all the more traumatic to the girl.

She’d written a song about the place, which became a huge hit.

I’ve lived in LA, I’ve lived in Maine,

New York City and the Midwest Plains,

But there’s only one place I consider home.

When I was a kid-the house we owned.

Life was perfect and all was fine,

In that big old house… near the silver mine.

The silver mine… the silver mine.

I can’t remember a happier time,

In that big old house… near the silver mine.

Now, the man responsible for this displacement walked inside Kayleigh’s spacious living room and bent down and hugged her.

Bishop’s fourth wife, Sheri, accompanied him. She too embraced Kayleigh, then sat, after an awkward moment of debate about which piece of furniture to choose. Ash blond hair sprayed persuasively in place, the petite yet busty woman was a dozen years older than Kayleigh, unlike Wife Number Three, who could have attended the same high school as Bishop’s daughter-in the class behind her, no less.

Kayleigh, like Bishop, couldn’t remember much about Number Two.

Hulking Bishop Towne then maneuvered his massive frame onto a couch, moving slow-slower than a lot of people even older than he was. “The joints’re catching up,” he’d complained recently and at first Kayleigh thought he meant the dives he’d played in his early, drinking, fighting years, but then she realized he meant hips, knees, shoulders.

He was in cheap jeans and his ubiquitous black shirt, the belly rolling over his impressive belt, leaving the more impressive silver buckle only partly visible.

“Was he still there, across the road?” Kayleigh asked, looking out, noting Darthur Morgan, vigilant as ever, in the front seat of the SUV, pointed outward.

“Who?” Bishop growled.

“Edwin.” Who did he think?

“Didn’t see anybody,” he said. Sheri shook her head.

Edwin-the first damn thing she saw this morning, looking out the window of her second-story bedroom. Well, his car, the big red car. That’s what she saw. Which didn’t make the sense of violation any less.

Kayleigh lived on the way to Yosemite and Sierra National Park, just where the area started to get interesting geographically. Across the two-lane road in front of her property was a public recreation area and arboretum, filled with rolling hills, jogging paths, groves of trees and gardens. The lot allowed twenty-four-hour parking, just the place for a sick stalker to perch.

She said, “He was there a while ago. Just sitting, staring at the house.” She closed her eyes briefly, shivering.

“Oh, my,” Sheri said.

“Well, nobody’s there now,” Bishop repeated distractedly, noticing a wad of tissues on the coffee table where Kayleigh’d been sitting with her iced tea and mobile, on which she’d called friends and family about Bobby’s death.

“Hey, sorry about Bobby, KT. I know you… I mean, I’m sorry.”

Sheri offered, “It’s terrible, honey. I feel so bad for you. For everyone.”

Kayleigh stepped into the kitchen, got a milk for her father and an iced tea for Sheri, another for herself too. She returned to the living room.

“Thank you, honey,” the woman offered tentatively.

Her father lifted the milk as if toasting.

“Daddy.” Her eyes avoiding his, Kayleigh said quickly, “I’m thinking of canceling.” It was easier to stare toward where a murderous stalker had been spying on her than to make eye contact with Bishop Towne.

“The concert?” The big man grunted. His ragged vocal style was not a function of any emotion, of course, but was simply because that’s the way he talked. No lilting tones, never a whisper, just a guttural rasp. It hadn’t always been that way; his voice-like his joints and liver-had been a victim of his lifestyle.

“I’m thinking of it.”

“Sure. Course. I see.”

Sheri tried to deflect what might be an uncomfortable moment. “If there’s anything I can do?… I’ll bring some dinners by. Tell me what you’d like. I’ll make you something special.”

Food and death had always been linked, Kayleigh now thought.

“I’ll think on it. Thanks, Sheri.”

The word “Mom,” had, of course, never been on the table. Kayleigh didn’t hate her stepmother. Either you were a woman of steel, like Margaret, her mother, and you fought with and-at times-corralled a man like Bishop Towne, or you took the residual prestige and the undeniable charisma and you surrendered. That was Sheri.

Though Kayleigh couldn’t blame her. Nor could she her father either. Margaret had been his first choice and, despite the others along the way, they’d still be together if not for fate. There was no one who could take his first wife’s place so why even try? Yet it was impossible to imagine Bishop Towne surviving without a woman in his life.

He grumbled, “You tell Barry?”

She nodded toward her mobile. “He was the first one I called. He’s in Carmel with Neil.”

Tall, fidgeting Barry Zeigler, her producer, was full of nervous energy. He was a genius in the studio. He’d produced some of the biggest hits of the nineties, when country got itself branded with the adjective “crossover” and began to transcend its Nashville and Dallas and Bakersfield roots to spread to mainstream TV and overseas.

If anybody had created a Kayleigh Towne sound it was Barry Zeigler. And that sound had made her a huge success.

Zeigler and the label hadn’t escaped the shadow of Edwin Sharp either, though. The stalker had inundated the company with emails criticizing instrumentation choices and pacing and production techniques. He never dissed Kayleigh’s voice or the songs themselves but argued that Zeigler, the recording techs and backup musicians weren’t “doing her justice.” That was a favorite phrase of his.

Kayleigh’d seen several of the emails and, though she never told anyone, she thought Edwin had a point on a few of the issues.

Finally Sheri said, “Just one thing. I mean-” A glance toward Bishop, sipping the milk he drank as religiously as he had once drunk bourbon. When he didn’t object to her getting this far, she continued, “That luncheon tomorrow-for the fan of the month. You think we can still do that?”

It was a promotion Alicia Sessions had put together on Facebook and on Kayleigh’s website. Bishop had more or less shoehorned Sheri into working on various marketing projects for the Kayleigh Towne operation. The woman had been in retail all her life and had made some valuable contributions.

“It’s all scheduled, right?” Bishop asked.

“We’ve rented the room at the country club. It’d mean a lot to him. He’s a big fan.”

Not as big as someone I know, Kayleigh thought.

“And there’ll be some publicity too.”

“No reporters,” Kayleigh said. “I don’t want to talk about Bobby. That’s what they’ll want to ask me.” Alicia had been deflecting the press-and there’d been plenty of them. But when the steely-eyed personal assistant said no, there wasn’t room for debate.

Bishop said, “We’ll control it. Set the ground rules. Make sure they don’t ask questions about what happened at the convention center.”

“I can do that,” Sheri said, with an uncertain glance toward Bishop. “I’ll coordinate with Alicia.”

Kayleigh finally said, “Sure, I guess.” She pictured the last time she had lunch alone with Bobby, a week ago. She wanted to cry again.

“Good,” Bishop said. “But we’ll keep it short. Tell that fan it’ll have to be short.”

Having conceded one issue, Kayleigh said, “But I really want to think about the concert, Daddy.”

“Hey, baby doll, whatever you’re happiest doing.”

Bishop leaned forward and snagged one of the guitars his daughter kept in her living room, an old Guild, with a thin neck and golden spruce top, producing a ringing tenor. He played Elizabeth Cotten’s version of “Freight Train.”

He was a talented, syncopated fingerpicker, in the style of Arty and Happy Traum and Leo Kottke (and damn if he couldn’t also flat-pick as well as Doc Watson, a skill Kayleigh could never master). His massive hands totally controlled the fret board. In pop music, guitar was originally for rhythm accompaniment-like a drum or maracas-and only in the past eighty years or so had it taken on the job of melody. Kayleigh used her Martin for its original purpose, strumming, to accompany her main instrument-a four-octave voice.

Kayleigh remembered Bishop’s rich baritone of her youth and she cringed to hear what he’d become. Bob Dylan never had a smooth voice but it was filled with expression and passion and he could hit the notes. When, at a party or occasionally at concerts, Kayleigh and Bishop sang a duet together, she modulated to a key he could pull off and covered the notes that would give him trouble.

“We’ll make sure it’s short,” he announced again.

What? Kayleigh wondered. The concert? Then recalled: the luncheon with the fan. Was it tomorrow, or the next day?

Oh, Bobby…

“And we’ll talk about it, the concert. See how you feel in a day or so. Want you to be in good form. Happy too. That’s what matters,” he repeated.

She was looking out the window again into the grove of trees separating the house from the road, a hundred yards away. She’d done the plantings for seclusion and quiet but now all she thought was it would provide great cover so that Edwin could get close to the house.

More arpeggios-chords broken into individual notes-rang out. Kayleigh thought automatically: diminished, minor sixth, major. The guitar did everything Bishop wanted it to do. He could get music out of a tree branch.

She reflected: Bishop Towne had missed concerts because he was unconscious or in jail. But he’d never chosen to cancel one.

He racked the guitar and said to Sheri, “Got that meeting.”

The woman, who seemed to have a different perfume for every day of the week, rose instantly and started to reach for Bishop’s arm, then thought better; she tried to be discreet in his daughter’s presence. She did work at it, Kayleigh reflected.

I don’t hate you.

I just don’t like you.

Kayleigh wafted a smile her way.

“You still got that present I got you a coupla years ago?” Bishop asked his daughter.

“I have all your presents, Daddy.”

She saw them to the door, amused that Darthur Morgan seemed to regard them with some suspicion. The couple piled into a dusty SUV and left, petite Sheri behind the wheel of the massive vehicle. Bishop gave up driving eight years ago.

She thought about making more calls about Bobby but couldn’t bring herself to. She strode to the kitchen, pulling on work gloves, and stepped outside into her garden. She loved it here, growing flowers and herbs and vegetables too-what else, in this part of California? She lived in the most productive agricultural county in America.

The appeal of gardening had nothing to do with the miracle of life, the environment, being one with the earth. Kayleigh Towne just liked to get her hands dirty and concentrate on something other than the Industry.

And here she could dream about her life in the future, puttering around in gardens like this with her children. Making sauces and baked goods and casseroles from things she herself had grown.

I remember autumn, pies in the oven,

Sitting on the porch, a little teenage lovin’,

Riding the pony and walking the dogs,

Helping daddy outside, splitting logs.

Life was simple and life was fine,

In that big old house, near the silver mine.

I’m canceling the fucking concert, she thought.

She stuffed her hair up under a silly canvas sun hat and examined her crops. The air was hot but comforting; insects buzzed around her face and even their persistent presence was reassuring, as if reminding that there was more to life than musical performances.

More than the Industry.

But suddenly she froze: a flash of light.

No, not Edwin. There was no brilliant red color from his car.

What was it? The light was coming from the south, to the left as you faced the garden, about one hundred yards away. Not from Edwin’s hunter’s blind at the arboretum or main road in front. It was from a small access road, running perpendicular to the highway. A developer had bought the adjacent land a year ago but gone bankrupt before the residential construction had started. Was this a survey team? Last year, she’d been glad the deal fell through; she’d wanted her privacy. Now, perversely, she was happy there might be crews around-and eventually neighbors-to discourage Edwin and others like him.

But what exactly was the light?

On off, on off. Flashing.

She decided to find out.

Kayleigh made her way through the brush toward the stuttering illumination.

Bright, dark.

Light, shadow.

Chapter 18

KATHRYN DANCE WAS in south Fresno, trying to find a restaurant that Crystal Stanning had recommended.

Her thoughts, though, were on how to handle the explosion when Charles Overby or, more likely, the CBI director in Sacramento told Sheriff Anita Gonzalez that Dance was going to be running the Bobby Prescott homicide.

She actually jumped when her phone buzzed.

Ah, Charles, hope I didn’t disrupt one of your leisurely lunches…

But the number on caller ID was a local one.

“Hello?”

“Kathryn?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Pike Madigan.”

She said nothing.

“Talk for a minute?”

She thought she heard scraping of a spoon. A smack of lips. Was he eating lunch, the phone tucked between shoulder and ear? More ice cream? “Go ahead.”

“What’re you up to?”

She said, “Going for chicken mole at Julio’s.”

“Good choice. Only don’t do the tamales. Lard city.”

A pause on his part now. “I got a call from the head of our Crime Scene Unit, Charlie Shean. Spelled S-H-E-A-N. Not like the actor. Takes some grief for that. Good man.”

She recalled the efficient team at the convention center and at the trailer, on a par with a big-city CSU.

“All the forensics were negative. None of the dust or other trace on the pictures and memorabilia in Edwin’s rental matched what was in Bobby’s trailer. And one of our people ran Edwin’s credit card data? He bought everything we found in his house on eBay. And we got his prints when we booked him. None of the ones at Bobby’s or the convention center match. No footprints, no nothin’. Tire treads for his car, zip. Was a washout.”

“You let him go.”

“Yeah, an hour ago. And released everything we took.”

This was, Dance supposed, the best someone like Madigan could do for a contrition.

But she was wrong.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

And the apology wasn’t over yet.

“You were right, I was wrong. I got outgunned by that fellow. It was like the only reason he came in was to find out information about the investigation.”

“If he’s the perp, then, yes, I think that’s a possibility.”

“This guy’s pretty different from what I’ve been used to. You have a handle on him better than me. If you’re still game would you be willing to help us out? We sure could use you.”

Without hesitation: “I am, yes.”

She’d be sure to call Overby and withdraw her prior request.

“That’s much appreciated.”

Dance thought back to what Stanning had said about Madigan’s concerns. “One thing I wanted to say, Detective. This is your case. I’m a consultant only.”

In other words, the glory and the press conferences are all yours. By the way, I hate them as much as your associate Dennis Harutyun does.

“Well, thank you for that. Now get yourself back here, if you would. Oh, and welcome to the FMCSO, Deputy Dance. Hey, that’s got a nice ring to it, don’tcha think?”

BUT IT WAS him, after all.

The reason she hadn’t seen any red was that the light was glare off the windshield, which shot her way like a theater spot. The crimson of the Buick was below eye level from the house.

Edwin Sharp was fifty feet from her. He’d found a new vantage point. His car was parked on the shoulder and he sat on the hood, legs dangling, as he stared directly toward her house, that sick smile curving his mouth. His rocking, back and forth, had created the intermittent flashing.

She dropped to her knees. He gave no reaction, though, and she knew he hadn’t seen her.

Moving a few dozen feet to the side, Kayleigh looked out again, through the brush. He was wearing earbuds and tapped his hand on his thigh in time to the music. It would be one of her songs. Which one?

Occasionally his head would swivel, scanning the property as if he were admiring a work of art.

Or… wait. There was something about his face. What was that expression?

And then she sensed it was pleasure. Almost ecstasy. And not in a religious sense. His eyelids would droop from time to time and his smile would deepen. He seemed to be breathing hard too, his chest rising.

It was like he was making love.

Was he tapping his thigh to keep time to the music? Or, my God, was he doing something else with his hand? She couldn’t see clearly.

No, he couldn’t be doing that!

But the look on his face.

Oh, disgusting!

His half-open mouth, the lowered lids beneath the outcropping of eyebrows… it was too much for her.

She stepped back fast and stumbled. But the tree she’d grabbed to keep from falling was a small pine sapling and bent sideways under her weight.

And caught Edwin’s eye.

The motion stopped and he gazed toward where a horrified Kayleigh now crouched on the ground.

Did he see her? Was he coming toward her now, his pants unzipped?

Panicked, Kayleigh turned and fled, sprinting all out.

Dodging trees, brush, not daring to look behind her… Then the fence surrounding her precious garden loomed. She slowed but didn’t bother with the gate. She stretched her hands out and vaulted the fence like she used to do the horse in gymnastics class-always game to take on the challenge but often, like now, landing in a sprawl on the other side.

Heart drumming, she was on her feet and scrabbling into the house, slamming the door shut and wheeling about.

She looked over her garden. It was ruined! Ruined forever. She could never step into it again without thinking of him and what he had been doing.

She pressed her face against the window.

The flashing continued for a moment.

Then it began to move toward the main road. She caught a glimpse of red as the car proceeded slowly to the intersection, turned right and vanished.

Kayleigh jumped as her phone rang, a steel guitar ring tone and a hum of vibration. She approached slowly. Was it Edwin, or someone else, calling with the second verse to “Your Shadow”? Announcing another killing?

She picked up the mobile. Looked down at the screen. After a moment’s hesitation, she hit ANSWER.

Chapter 19

LAW ENFORCEMENT BRIEFING rooms are the same the world over: scraped, scuffed, dented, repaired with tape, filled with mismatched furniture and cryptic signage, grimy windows.

The Fresno-Madera Consolidated Sheriff’s Office was about average, though the smell of sour garlic was a unique addition, maybe from a late-shift Chinese dinner. Dance stood in front of the green-lit room with P. K. Madigan and Dennis Harutyun, whose taciturn face had offered a faint quasi-smile beneath his opulent mustache at the announcement that Dance was joining the team.

Her ruse at using him to slip into the observation room earlier was apparently forgiven.

Detectives Crystal Stanning and Miguel Lopez were here too. They, along with Detective Gabriel Fuentes, presently in the field, would be the Prescott homicide/Kayleigh Towne stalker task force, backed up by TJ Scanlon in Monterey (“You have a very bizarre idea of taking a vacation, Boss”).

Two civilians were in the room, as well. Dance had called Kayleigh Towne thirty minutes ago and asked her to join them. The woman had reluctantly agreed and Alicia Sessions had come along for moral support. Kayleigh was bleary-eyed and sallow, her impressive honey hair tied back in a taut ponytail and protruding from a burgundy sports cap without a logo as if she were trying to disguise herself.

She also, Dance noted, wore baggy jeans, not the usual closer-fitting numbers from her album covers and concerts, and a thick, long-sleeved knit shirt, which would be merciless in the heat.

The concealment would be futile, though, if that was the purpose, Dance could have told her. To Edwin Sharp she was the sexiest, most beautiful woman in the world, whatever clothes she wore and however makeup-free her face.

Kayleigh reported that Edwin had been spying on her again, forty minutes ago, parked at a new vantage point; apparently he’d gotten tired of the police driving past and staring at him in the parking lot of the nature preserve across the road from her house. So, right after he’d been released from the lockup, he’d headed to this new observation post for his high like an addict looking for meth.

The singer’s voice wavered as she told the story, suggesting to Dance that there was more to it than her just spotting him. She wondered if there’d been an actual confrontation between the two. But whatever might have happened, it was clear Kayleigh didn’t want to talk about it.

Alicia Sessions was dressed the opposite of her boss, almost pick-a-fight defiant: tight jeans, light blue cowboy boots, a green tank top with bright orange bra straps showing. Significant muscles too. Dance wondered what the rest of the tattoo, disappearing down her back, might be. Her face was grim and angry, some of that directed, it seemed, toward the deputies themselves as if they weren’t doing enough to protect her boss.

Dance said, “Chief Madigan’s been kind enough to invite the CBI to assist in the Prescott murder case and we’re going to be focusing on the possibility that it’s linked to the stalker who’s been troubling Kayleigh. I’m not here to step on toes and if you think there’s a conflict between your department and mine, you can come to me or Chief Madigan at any time. I’m helping because I’ve got some experience with stalkers.”

“Personally?” Lopez said.

Everyone laughed.

“They’re discouraged when they see a Glock Twenty-three on your hip.”

Kayleigh was among those laughing but it was too loud. Poor thing’s terrified, Dance assessed. Alicia watched warily.

“First of all, my associate in Monterey’s found out that there are no warrants or court orders on Edwin-nothing federal or in California, Washington or Oregon. A few traffic violations, that’s it. Which is a little unusual for a stalker; normally there’s a history of complaints. But, on the other hand, he could simply be very careful. And we know he’s smart.

“Now, I’m going to tell you a little about stalking and where I think Edwin fits into the diagnosis. There are several types of stalkers. The first type is known as simple obsessional. These are usually domestic situations. The stalker and his object have had some prior contact, usually romantic or sexual. Relationships, marriages or even one-night stands that go bad. Think of Fatal Attraction.”

“Now that was a movie to keep husbands on the straight and narrow,” Lopez said, engendering uneasy laughter.

Dance continued, “Then there are erotomanic stalkers.”

“Like sex perverts?” Madigan wondered aloud.

“No, it’s more about love than sex. Traditionally erotomanic stalkers were women who fell in love with powerful men in higher economic or social classes. Like secretaries or shop clerks fawning over their bosses. But now, as many men fall into the category as women. The profile is that there’s been some minor, completely innocuous contact that the stalker misreads. They become convinced the subject of their obsession is in love with them but is too shy or reluctant to reciprocate.

“The third type is called love obsessional. These are the ones who go after celebrities, people they’ve worshiped from afar and come to believe they’re soul mates with. I think Edwin is a mix of erotomania and love obsessional. He honestly believes that you’re the woman for him. He wants a relationship with you and he believes that you feel the same about him.”

“That damn ‘XO,’” Kayleigh muttered. “It was just a form letter.”

Alicia said, “We send out thousands of them a week. It didn’t have anything personal about him except a name-and we’ve got an automail program that inserts that.”

“Well, you have to understand: all stalkers are more or less delusional. They range from serious neurosis to borderline personalities to truly psychotic: schizophrenic or severely bipolar. We have to assume that Edwin has a reality problem. And he doesn’t want to fix that because he gets a high out of contact with you-it’s as powerful as a drug to him.”

Crystal Stanning asked, “But what’s his motive for killing Bobby Prescott-if he’s the one who did?”

Dance said, “That’s a good question, Detective. It’s the one thing that doesn’t quite fit. Erotomanic and love obsessional stalkers are the least dangerous, statistically much less so than domestic stalkers. But they can certainly kill.”

Madigan added, “I think we should remember too that Bobby could just have been at the wrong place at the wrong time. If that song was an announcement it was just about the concert hall. Maybe had nothing to do with Bobby. The perp might just’ve been waiting for anybody to show up.”

“Good point, yes,” Dance said. “But what we should do is look into Bobby’s life a little more, see what he was up to, anything illegal, for instance.”

“He wasn’t,” Kayleigh said firmly. “He had a problem a few years ago, drugs and drinking, but he was clean recently.”

Skepticism is part of being an officer but Dance wasn’t going to contest the girl. It was important to her to preserve the memory of her friend and they could learn independently if Bobby had been engaged in any risky activity. From the comments by his neighbor, Tabatha, it seemed that he wasn’t.

“But that doesn’t mean somebody still wouldn’t want him dead,” Dance said. “And we have to remember some intruder-likely the killer-took some things from his trailer the morning after he was killed.”

“I could look into his personal life, his background,” Harutyun offered in his low, easy voice, silken mustache bobbing.

Dance glanced at Madigan, who nodded his agreement. “Dennis’s our librarian. Mean that in a good way. He does his homework. He knew what Google was when I thought it was a character on the Cartoon Network.”

“Good.”

“Can’t you interrogate him?” Alicia asked Dance, who didn’t offer that the first interview had not been particularly successful.

“Possibly. But I’m not sure how helpful it would be.”

In her lectures, Dance talked about the difficulty of kinesically analyzing suspects like Edwin: People on the borderline of psychosis, like stalkers, might tell you facts that can be helpful in running a case and can lead to your uncovering their deception. But such people are often impossible to analyze kinesically. They don’t feel any stress when lying-because their goal of getting close to the object of their obsession trumps everything.

She explained this now and added that they also had no leverage to bring him in.

Alicia grimaced in frustration, then asked, “Isn’t there a stalking law here?”

“That’s right-California’s was first in the country,” Madigan said.

Dance paraphrased the statute: “You’re guilty of stalking if you willfully, maliciously and repeatedly follow or harass the victim and make a credible threat with the intent to place that person in reasonable fear for his or her safety, or the safety of the immediate family.” She added, “It doesn’t have a lot of teeth, though. Some jail time and a fine.”

“Well, it’s something; arrest him anyway,” Kayleigh said.

“It may not be that easy. Tell me about his stalking.”

“I mean, my lawyers’d know more, I left it pretty much up to them. But I know he sent me about a hundred and fifty emails and thirty or so regular letters. He’d ask me out, hint about a life together, write about what he’d done that day.”

Not nearly as bad as some, Dance noted.

“And he sent me some presents. Pictures he’d drawn, miniature instruments, old LPs. We sent everything back.”

“You said he showed up at concerts but you never saw him.”

“Right.”

Lopez asked, “Disguises, maybe?”

“Could be,” Dance said. “Stalkers have a whole arsenal they use to get close to their objects and keep them under control. They steal mail to find out who the victims know and where they might be. They threaten witnesses into lying that they’ve never been around the victims’ houses. They get to be good at hacking phones and computers and some even go to locksmith school to learn how to break and enter. These’re really desperate people. Their whole worth is tied up in their love for their object; they’re nothing without that person in their life.”

Alicia said, “We threatened him with restraining orders and everything but… he just ignored the letters and the lawyers said he was never quite across the line of legality.”

“They talked to the FBI about hacking into our computers,” Kayleigh said, “and hired a private computer security firm. But there was never any proof he did it.”

Madigan then asked the key question, “In all those letters was there any threat at all? Under the statute there has to be a credible threat.”

“Isn’t Bobby’s death enough of a threat?” Alicia asked harshly.

“We don’t have proof he did it,” Harutyun said.

“Please. Of course he did.”

Dance continued, “When we’re talking about an arrest for stalking under the statute, Detective Madigan is right; you need a threat against you or a family member. It can be implied, but if that’s the case there has to be a reasonable belief that you’re actually in danger of harm.”

“Not, you know, mental or psychic harm?” Crystal Stanning asked.

“No. Physical.”

Kayleigh was staring at a poster, a cartoon of a police officer and a contrite teenage boy.

SCHOOL PATROL DETAIL: IF IT’S ONLY POT, TALK TO THEM… A LOT.

She turned back and reluctantly said, “No, no threats. It’s just the opposite, really. He was always telling me how he wanted to protect me. How he’d be there for me-just like in that song, ‘Your Shadow.’”

It was then that Dance’s phone sang out with an incoming message. It was from TJ Scanlon. She read quickly then looked up.

“You want to hear a bio of our stalker?”

But the question, of course, needed no answer.

Chapter 20

DENNIS HARUTYUN HELPED Dance log on to her email from a terminal in the corner of the room and she printed out TJ’s document.

Scanning, disappointed.

“There isn’t much, I’m afraid.” Edwin Stanton Sharp had been born in Yakima, a town in eastern Washington state. His father was a traveling salesman, his mother worked in retail. “To judge from her income, she must have had several jobs. This could mean that the boy spent a lot of time alone. Psychologists think stalking begins from attachment issues. He was desperate to spend time with his parents, mother particularly, but she wasn’t available.”

“Now, his grades were very good. But he was held back a year in the seventh grade, which is pretty old for that, and his marks weren’t too bad so that suggests emotional problems in school. But there’s no record of disciplinary action, other than for a few fights on the school yard. No weapons were involved. He also had no extracurricular activities, no sports, no clubs.

“When he was sixteen his parents split up and he went to live with his mother outside of Seattle. He went to the University of Washington for two years. Again, he did fairly well. But for some reason he dropped out just after the start of his third year. No record of why. Again, no interest in other activities. That too is typical-stalking takes a lot of time. He started working at jobs stalkers sometimes gravitate toward: security guard, landscaping, part-time retail sales, offering samples of food at grocery stores, door-to-door selling. They’re good professions for those with voyeuristic or stalking tendencies because you get to see a lot of people and are largely unsupervised. And invisible.”

“Good ponds for fishin’,” Madigan said.

Well put, Dance reflected.

“His mother died in July of last year, cancer. His father’s off the grid. Hasn’t filed a tax return in six years and the IRS can’t find him. Edwin does no international travel, according to the State Department. TJ, my associate in Monterey, has checked out his online activity. His Facebook page is filled with pictures and information about Kayleigh. He doesn’t have many friends-at least not under his own username. He might have a page under another one.”

“I sure didn’t friend him,” Kayleigh muttered.

“TJ’s found four different screen names he uses-‘nics,’ they’re called, like nickname. Edwin’s pretty active online but no more so than millions of other young men. He posts to a lot of music blogs and is in a few chat rooms. Some sexual but they’re pretty tame. And special interests-music mostly but movies and books too.” Dance shook her head. “Typically a stalker is more engaged in online activities than Edwin is-and a lot darker ones too.”

She continued to read. “Ah, may have something here. Looks like he went through a breakup last year. TJ found a reference to someone named Sally in one of the blogs. He was talking about your song, ‘You and Me.’”

“That’s right,” Kayleigh said. “It’s about a breakup.”

“The posting was in December.” Dance asked Kayleigh, “Not long before the stalking started, right?”

“Yes. January.”

“Trauma often precipitates stalking. Getting fired, a physical injury, death in the family. Or the end of a romantic relationship.” Dance nodded toward TJ’s email. “He said the song really meant a lot to him. It was a hard time in his life and he talked about the trouble he was having with Sally. He said it’s like you knew exactly what he was going through. Then a few days later he posted about a single you’d just released, ‘Near the Silver Mine.’ He said he’d been feeling bad because he’d lost his house when he was about that age too but his girlfriend told him to get over it.”

Kayleigh’s lips tightened. “He knew about my house?” She explained about how she’d loved the old house she’d grown up in, north of Fresno, but her father had sold it to a mining company when she was young. “I probably mentioned in an interview that I wished he hadn’t.”

She’d be thinking: Isn’t there anything private about my life anymore?

Dance flipped through TJ’s homework. “Again, though, nothing threatening or troubling in any way.” She read some more. “One thing to keep in mind. He’s smart. For instance, he wrote, ‘Happy or sad, you speak the truth.’ The sentence is a bit of a dangler but look at how he set off the modifier ‘Happy or sad’ with a comma, which is correct, but a lot of people wouldn’t do that. His spelling and grammar are very good. Which tells me he’s in control. Very in control.”

“Is that bad?” Crystal Stanning asked.

“It means that if he’s the one who killed Bobby, he’s going to be covering up his tracks and planning out the stalking very carefully. He’s not likely to slip up.”

Madigan finished his ice cream and surveyed the paper cup to see if he should scrape the sides, Dance supposed. He pitched it away. “What’re you thinking about where we go from here?”

“First, we’ve got to keep him under surveillance.”

“Deputy Fuentes is doing that.”

“Where is Edwin now?”

“Seeing a movie. In the Rialto.”

Harutyun explained that this was an old movie theater in Fresno’s Tower District, an eclectic area of galleries, restaurants, tattoo parlors and shops.

His being at a movie didn’t surprise her. “Stalkers spend a lot of time in theaters and watching movies at home-the link between voyeurism and stalking is strong.”

“What about those prepaid mobiles from the drugstore in Burlingame?”

Madigan said, “Not traceable. They might’ve been destroyed or the perp’s taken the batteries out. Or who knows, maybe he just bought a bunch to keep us busy and he’s got another one here to make more calls.”

Dance then turned to Kayleigh. “Now, some basic stalker rules. You probably know them from Darthur Morgan and your lawyers but remember you have to have no contact with him at all. Nothing. Even threatening him or telling him to leave you alone gives him a high-any contact at all is positive to him. If he approaches don’t say anything, just walk away.”

“Okay. Fine with me.”

“And I want to know more about him. We need to find this former girlfriend. Sally.”

“Lopez, you handle that. Have her call Agent Dance.”

“Sure, Chief.”

The head detective then added, “We should identify other possible victims, don’t you think? Keep an eye on them. Who’d be at particular risk?”

Dance said, “Probably first is anybody he sees as a romantic rival.” To Kayleigh: “You and Bobby dated?”

Apparently this wasn’t public knowledge. Kayleigh blushed and Alicia turned to her with a hint of frown. Dance wasn’t much interested in the delicacies of disclosure. She lifted an eyebrow, tacitly repeating the question.

“Well, yes, a while ago. Just casually. It wasn’t a big deal. How’d you know? I wasn’t even performing then. It didn’t make the press.”

Because, Dance thought, when I saw you with Bobby yesterday I noticed a decrease in the angle of your shoulders when you were speaking, signifying relaxation and comfort. Bobby’s leaning forward slightly when he spoke to you, indicating that what he was saying was meant for you and you alone. A faint smile at the reference to the word “amplifier,” which had become a code word for some private joke between the two of you. The way his eyes dwelt on your face, the message abundantly clear that whatever had gone on between you two was not, to him, completely over.

Kinesics, in other words.

But what she said to Kayleigh was, “A hunch.”

Crystal Stanning said, “So anyone that Kayleigh ever dated or men she was real friendly with are at risk?”

“Yes, possibly, though women too. Stalkers are extremely jealous. Remember, they have a very skewed sense of reality-even casual friends could be perceived as threats.” Then she eyed the young singer again. “But you’re not seeing anyone now?”

“No.”

“Also, a stalker’s likely to target anybody who’s a threat to you, or even offended you. He’s taking real seriously his role as a protector; I could see that yesterday. Can you think of any enemies you might have that he’d know about?”

Kayleigh looked around. “Not really.”

Alicia said, “She’s a good girl. She doesn’t get into cat fights with other artists.”

Dance continued, “Well, keep in mind, he could also consider going after critics who’d dissed you. Or fans who were critical of your work. Then, next, he could target anyone he saw as keeping you two apart.”

“Like Darthur?”

“Yes, him. But it could also be your lawyers.” She glanced at Alicia. “Or you. You seem very protective of her.”

The broad-shouldered woman shrugged. “Somebody’s got to be.”

A sentence with many possible implications.

“And it could also be us. The police. Truly obsessive stalkers have a different sense of right and wrong. In extreme obsession cases, the stalker’s murdering a policeman is no worse than killing a fly.”

“My family? The crew?”

“Generally, family and nonromantic friends are only at risk if they try to protect the object from the stalker, though we’re not dealing with hard-and-fast rules. Stalkers’re unpredictable. I talked to some of the crew about what they’d seen yesterday but I think I should interview all of them. Assess if they’re at risk.”

Or potential perps, Dance thought, but didn’t say aloud.

“The crew’s at the convention center now,” Kayleigh said, then added, “The band’s in Nashville still, finishing up some studio work for our new album. They won’t be here till Thursday or Friday.”

That was good news. Fewer potential victims to worry about. Fewer suspects too.

Dance added, “Finally, there’s the Hinckley scenario. Killing someone of some notoriety to impress Kayleigh.”

She reminded them that John Hinckley, Jr., was obsessed with Jodie Foster. “He figured that by assassinating Ronald Reagan he’d be linked forever to the actress.”

“And they are,” Harutyun observed. “In a sick way, he accomplished his goal.”

Madigan said, “I’ve talked to Edwin. You have too. He doesn’t seem like a psycho. How could he possibly think killing people is going to get him closer to Kayleigh?”

“Oh, he doesn’t think about it. Not on a conscious level. Even if Edwin seems functional on the surface, there’s more at work. Remember, it’s his reality, not ours.”

Madigan: “I’ve ordered a box on Kayleigh’s phone and the service provider’s security unit is on standby. And we’re still on those numbers of the other mobiles he bought in Burlingame. So if he calls again from any of those phones or even powers ’em up we can get a car there fast.”

“Good.”

Harutyun said to Kayleigh, “Kathryn asked me to look into the verses of the song, the one that was played to you the other night.” He passed out copies to everyone in the room. “I’ve been trying to think of where he might be planning an attack but can’t come up with much.”

So he had taken her request seriously. She nodded her thanks.

Your Shadow

“I don’t know if he’s going to keep going with that song or find a different one. Or give up on the idea altogether.”

Kayleigh took her glasses off and cleaned them on her sweatshirt. “I’ll bet he’d use ‘Your Shadow.’ He thought it was the best song ever written.”

Miguel Lopez looked over the lyrics. “You read it one way, it’s a love song, looking out for somebody. Could be a lover or even a parent or friend. But from a stalker’s point of view, it’s pretty creepy.”

Dance focused on the second verse. “A river.”

Madigan gave a brief laugh. “We got plenty of those around here.”

Harutyun pointed out, “Some dry beds, some with water. Could be anywhere.”

Dance summarized, “I’ll be talking to the crew at the hall. Detective Harutyun is getting information about Bobby’s past and Detective Lopez is tracking down Edwin’s former girlfriend, Sally.”

Madigan regarded the song lyrics. “And I’ll tell patrol officers to pay special attention to riversides, the public areas primarily, and ones out of view of any roads.”

“Good.”

Alicia gave the first smile Dance could recall seeing on the tough woman’s face. “But I guess the good news is that Kayleigh’s not at risk, if he’s that much in love with her.”

“That’s true. But only for a time. Remember his separation from reality? He’s been in the courting stage for a while.” She turned to Kayleigh. “Probably since he heard the first song that drew him to you, or saw you in concert or on TV. To him that was your first date and you’ve been going out ever since.”

“Date?” Crystal Stanning asked.

“At the moment he’s still under the illusion that you care for him. You’ve been brainwashed, he thinks. At some point, though, he’ll see your behavior as if you’re breaking up with him.

“And when that happens, he’ll become simple obsessional. Like spurned husbands or lovers. They’re the dangerous stalkers. It could happen in an instant. He’ll snap. He’ll want revenge.” Dance debated but decided there was no point in sugarcoating her assessment. “Or he’ll just want to kill you so nobody else can have you.”

Chapter 21

THE CONVENTION CENTER had been sanitized.

Kathryn Dance wasn’t cynical about the world of business-she’d been a consultant and journalist. And music at Kayleigh Towne’s level was a very serious business indeed, so she wasn’t surprised that the crime scene had been cleaned as quickly as possible, all traces of the death removed, to make sure the concert could proceed as planned.

Dance had prepared herself for the smell; nothing lingers like the odor of burned hair and flesh, but whatever commercial forensic cleaning operation Madigan or Charlie Shean used had done a bang-up job. The perfume was of Lysol and, of all things, cinnamon.

Kayleigh was blocking out stage directions for the show-what she’d been doing when the light fell. Tye Slocum, the guitar technician, was temporarily chief roadie, until Alicia could fill the job with a pro; they needed someone who not only knew equipment but could mix sound at the console, as complicated as an airplane’s cockpit. The quiet, heavyset young man was distracted and not particularly confident but trying to rise to the occasion. There were, of course, hundreds of decisions to be made. Sweating, he kept glancing at Kayleigh for direction, which she provided, along with smiles and nods of encouragement, though she was clearly distracted to be near the place where her friend had died.

With Kayleigh’s okay, Dance called Tye over and explained what she needed-to speak to all of the crew. He rounded them up-ranging from their early twenties to forties and physically fit, thanks probably to the demanding nature of their jobs. Dance spoke to them in the scuffed, black-painted wings of the hall.

She noted great camaraderie among them and Kayleigh-the whole operation was like a big family-but no one stood out as approaching Bobby’s level of closeness to Kayleigh, and therefore an obvious threat to Edwin. Of any of them, Tye was the one who seemed to know Kayleigh best but she felt merely a brotherly kind of affection, she’d deduced from the singer’s body language when speaking to him.

Nor did Dance sense that any of them might have a motive to kill Bobby Prescott-another reason for her mission here, though she hadn’t stressed that to Kayleigh.

The only one Dance didn’t interview was Alicia. She’d been here at the convention center earlier when Dance arrived, standing outside beside a Ford F150 pickup with a trailer hitch on the back and a bumper sticker that announced: I ♥ MY QUARTER HORSE

A cigarette had dangled from her lips and she’d looked more like a local Teamster than a personal assistant-considering her muscular arms, inkings and attitudinal visage. Of anyone on the staff, Alicia was probably the most at risk; she’d defied Edwin the most at the Cowboy Saloon on Sunday and would present an obstacle to the stalker’s getting close to Kayleigh.

Dance, however, couldn’t impart this warning in person, only via a phone message. The assistant had left the convention center by the time Dance went to find her.

As she looked over her notes, movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention. Dance’s gaze swept to the confusion of shadows throughout the concert hall. She’d counted two dozen doors and emergency exits. Recalled too the casual attitude of locking doors when there was no event in progress.

Was he here now, observing from the shadows? Was there a faint movement from that window? That doorway?

Her eyes were tricking her.

Had to be.

A moment later Dance noticed Kayleigh freeze and pull her mobile from her pocket. The look on the young woman’s face left little doubt. It would be a call she didn’t recognize.

She stared for a moment and then lifted the unit to her ear.

The woman gasped, a wrenching sound clearly audible, thanks to the acoustics of the center.

Her head swiveled toward Dance and she said, “It’s another call, Kathryn. It’s the second verse!”

Chapter 22

IN A QUARTER hour, Dance was at the sheriff’s office, hurrying inside. Harutyun met her at the door.

She asked, “Could the mobile providers triangulate on his phone?”

Harutyun said evenly, “It wasn’t one of Edwin’s prepaids. Or any mobile at all. The call was from a pay phone, on the Fresno College campus. School’s not in session yet. It’s pretty deserted there. Nobody saw the caller.”

“Well, where’s Edwin?”

“That’s the curious thing. Still in the Rialto-the theater. It must be somebody else.”

They stepped into Madigan’s office, where both the chief detective and Stanning, next to her boss, were on their phones.

Madigan looked up. He disconnected his mobile and ignored his desk phone when it rang, after a glance at caller ID. He looked too at a half-empty ice cream cup and pitched it. Rocky Road.

“Where’s Kayleigh?” Harutyun asked.

Dance said, “She and the crew are at the convention center. Darthur Morgan’s with her, and the deputy you sent is outside. Alicia’s the only one not accounted for. I called her on the way here and left a message. I haven’t heard back.”

The detective glanced toward his phone. “That was Fuentes. Edwin’s still watching his movie.”

Harutyun asked, “Any way he could’ve called from the theater, either the landline or another mobile, and routed the call through the phone at the college?”

Good question. But Madigan had a good answer: “No, we checked with the Bell folks, or whoever the hell they are nowadays. The call was made from the phone at the school, direct to Kayleigh’s.”

Dance had to ask, “And there’s no way he could’ve gotten out of the theater?”

“No. Fuentes is in a restaurant on Olive. He’s watching the front entrance. The back doors’re alarmed. He checked.”

Dance supposed that Edwin was just what he seemed to be: a sad lump of a young man without a life, drawn to a woman who existed in an entirely different universe from his.

A common and boring story, once you took the violence out of the equation.

And yet she couldn’t help but recall his icy demeanor, his calm attitude, his laser-like focus on Kayleigh, that phony smile.

And his intelligence.

Which prompted her to ask, “Basements?”

“What?” Madigan asked.

“In that block are there connecting basements?”

“I don’t know.” Madigan said this slowly and hit a button on the landline. A tone filled the room, then the rapid eleven digits of a phone number being dialed.

“Fuentes.”

Without identifying himself, Madigan barked, “We’re thinking he might’ve snuck out through the basement. The hardware store next door? They share a basement?”

A pause. “Let me check. I’ll get right back.”

Three minutes later they got the news that Dance suspected they would. “Yep, Chief. I went down there. There’s a door. It’s unlocked.”

“Evacuate the theater,” Dance said. “We need to be sure.”

“Evacuate?” Fuentes asked.

Madigan was staring at her. Then he said firmly, “You heard Agent Dance, Gabe. Get the lights on and evacuate.”

“The theater isn’t really going to want to…” His voice faded and he realized this wasn’t the time to be worried about business relations in economically challenged Fresno. “I’ll get on it.”

Ten minutes later, Fuentes came back on the line. Dance knew from the first word, “Chief,” what the story was going to be.

Madigan sighed. “You’re sure he’s gone?”

“There weren’t that many people inside, it being early. Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Damn,” Stanning muttered.

But the limp in Fuentes’s voice came from another source as well. “And I have to tell you… While I was keeping an eye on the theater? I was in the restaurant?”

“I know, you told me. What?” Madigan growled.

“Somebody broke into my cruiser.”

“Go on.”

“I wasn’t thinking, I had a Glock in the backseat. It was in a box and under my jacket. I don’t know how anybody could’ve seen it or thought it was there.”

Dance knew from the way he volunteered the information that the gun hadn’t been hidden at all.

“Goddamn it!” Madigan shouted.

“I’m sorry. It should’ve been in the trunk. But it was completely hid.”

“It shoulda been home. That’s your personal weapon. It shoulda been at home.”

“I was going to the range tonight,” the deputy said miserably.

“You know what I gotta do, Gabe. Don’t have any options.”

“I know. You want my service piece and shield?”

“Need ’em. Yeah. I’ll get the paperwork done today. We’ll have the inquiry as fast as we can but it’ll be three or four days. You’re out of commission till then.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Bring your stuff in.” He stabbed the speakerphone button.

Harutyun said in his low, stress-free voice, “It could be one of the gangs.”

“It’s not one of the gangs,” Madigan snapped. “It’s our fucking stalker. At least if we find it on him, he’ll go to jail for a long, long time. Hell, this’s one clever son of a bitch. He got Fuentes suspended and a nice big gun, to boot.”

Dance looked at the lyric sheet they had pinned up on a badly mounted corkboard.

“Where’s he going to strike? A river… a river.”

“And,” Crystal Stanning added, “who’s he got in mind for the next victim?”

Chapter 23

“MARY-GORDON, STAY OFF that. See the sign?”

“It’s not moving, Mommy,” the six-year-old pointed out. Suellyn Sanchez reflected what perfect logic that was. The warning sign on the baggage carousel: STAY OFF THE MOVING BELT.

“It could start at any minute.”

“But when the light comes on I can get off.”

How they tested the limits.

The mother and daughter were at the arrivals area in Fresno-Yosemite airport, their flight from Portland having arrived twenty minutes early. Suellyn looked around for their ride. Saw no one yet and turned back to the girl. “And it’s filthy. You’ll get your dress stained.”

That risk apparently didn’t carry much weight either. But all it took was one “Mary-Gordon,” uttered in a certain tone, that very special tone, and the cute blonde stepped back immediately. Funny, Suellyn thought, she and her husband never laid a hand on the girl, never even threatened spanking, and their daughter was far better behaved than the children of neighbors who did wallop their kids-all in the name of raising them right.

Sadists, she thought.

And then reminded herself to chill. Bobby Prescott’s death had cast a pall over everything. And how was Kayleigh holding up? She and Bobby had quite a history, of course, and Suellyn knew that her kid sister would be reeling from the loss.

The poor thing…

And the possibility that he’d been murdered?

Maybe by that gross stalker who’d been bothering Kayleigh for the past few months. Terrible.

She remembered Bishop’s call that morning, after she’d learned the sad news from Kayleigh. The conversation with her father had been conducted in the clumsy way he bobbled nearly everything personal. Suellyn was thinking it was odd that he’d called in the first place, much less to ask if she’d come to Fresno to support her sister during this tough time… until Suellyn realized: Bishop would want to share the bereavement duty with someone else. Anyone else. Well, no, he’d want to hand off the job completely if he could.

But who knew his real motive? Their father was both transparent and unreadable.

And where was the luggage? She was impatient.

Suellyn resembled her younger sister in a vague way. She had a wholly unsupported theory that the greater the distance in age, the less siblings looked like each other. Eight years separated the two, and Suellyn was taller, of broader build and fuller face, which couldn’t be traced to the fifteen pounds she had on her sister. Her nose was longer and her chin stronger, she felt, though her light brown hair was of the same fine, flowing texture, light as air. Today she was prepared for the assault of a late Fresno summer, in a burgundy sundress, cut low in front and back, and Brighton sandals, whose silver hearts covering the first two toes fascinated Mary-Gordon.

Even in this outfit, though, she was uncomfortably hot. Portland had clocked in at 62 degrees that morning.

“Where’s Aunt Kayleigh?”

“She’s getting ready to sing a show. The one we’re going to on Friday.”

Maybe. Her sister hadn’t actually invited her to the concert.

“Good. I like it when she sings.”

With a blare of a horn and a flashing orange light, the baggage belt started to move.

“See, you wouldn’t have had time to get off.”

“Yes, I could. And then I could ride around and see what’s behind that curtain.”

“They wouldn’t like that.”

“Who?”

Suellyn was not going to talk about TSA and terrorists.

“They,” she repeated firmly and Mary-Gordon forgot about the question as she spotted the first suitcase and gleefully charged toward it, her white Keds squeaking on the linoleum, her pink dress, accented with a red bow, fluttering around her.

The luggage was retrieved and they both walked away from the belt and the crowds and paused in front of one of the doors.

Her mobile rang. She glanced down. “Hey, Daddy.”

“You’re in,” the man growled.

And hello and nice day to you too.

“Ritchie’s on his way to pick you up.”

Or you could’ve come to collect your daughter and granddaughter in person. Bishop Towne didn’t drive but he had plenty in his crew to play chauffeur-if he’d wanted to come.

Suellyn found a bogus smile on her face as often happened when she was talking to her father, even though he was miles away. Bishop Towne intimidated Suellyn less than he did his younger daughter but it was still plenty.

“I can take a cab.”

“No, you won’t. You got in early. Ritchie’ll be there.”

Then as if he remembered he should be saying something-or possibly had been prodded by Wife Number Four Sheri-he asked, “How’s Mary-Gordon?”

“She can’t wait to see you,” Suellyn told him.

Is that passive-aggressive? A little.

“Me too.” And he disconnected.

I’m taking a damn cab, she thought. I’m not hanging around. “Do you need to use the girls’ room?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? It’ll be a while before we get to Aunt Kayleigh’s house.”

“No. Can I get some Jelly Bears?”

“There’ll be treats at your aunt’s house.”

“Okay.”

“Excuse me, Suellyn?”

She turned to see Bishop’s minion, Ritchie, a young man looking every inch the member of a country musician’s entourage. “I’m your chauffeur. Nice to meet you.” He shook her hand and smiled toward Mary-Gordon. “Hello.”

“Hello,” she said.

“Welcome to Fresno. You’re Mary-Gordon, I’ll bet.”

“He said my name right.” She beamed.

Hers wasn’t Mary with Gordon as a middle name. It was a good, double-barreled Southern name and the girl wasn’t shy about correcting anyone who got it wrong.

“Let me get those for you,” he said and took both suitcases.

Mary-Gordon yielded up the bag without protest to the Man Who Knew Her Name.

“Get ready for the heat, a lot different from Oregon. You going to your father’s or Kayleigh’s?”

“Kayleigh’s. We’re going to surprise her.”

“That’ll be fun.”

Suellyn hoped so. Bishop had been adamant that Suellyn not call Kayleigh and tell her of the visit-because the younger of the sisters would probably have told her not to come. She wouldn’t want any sympathy because of Bobby’s death, Bishop said. But family had to stick together.

Father knows best… Uh-huh.

“Kayleigh’s got a great swimming pool,” Ritchie said to Mary-Gordon. “You going to go swimming?”

“I have two suits so one can dry and I can still swim in the other.”

“Isn’t that smart?” Bishop’s associate said. “What kind of suits are they? Hello Kitty?”

Mary-Gordon wrinkled her nose. “I’m too old for Hello Kitty and SpongeBob. One has flowers on it and the other is plain blue. I can swim without floaties.”

They stepped outside and the heat was as fierce as promised.

He turned around and glanced down at the girl with a smile. “You know, you’re cute as a button.”

Mary-Gordon asked, “What does that mean?”

The young man looked at Suellyn and they both laughed. He said, “I don’t have any idea.”

They waited for traffic then crossed into the lot. He whispered, “It’s good you’re here. Kayleigh’s pretty upset about Bobby.”

“I can imagine. Do they know what happened?”

“Not yet. It’s been terrible for everybody.” He lifted his voice and said to Mary-Gordon, “Hey, before we go to your aunt’s, you want to see something fun?”

“Yeah!”

“It’s really neat and you’ll like it.” He glanced at Suellyn. “Little detour? There’s this park practically on the way.”

“Please, Mommy!”

“All right. But we don’t want to be too late, Ritchie.”

He blinked. “Oh, I’m not Ritchie. I came to fetch you instead.” They arrived at his car. He took the suitcases and her computer bag and stashed them in the trunk of the big old Buick. It was bright red-a color you didn’t see much nowadays.

Chapter 24

AT KAYLEIGH’S HOUSE Kathryn Dance was talking to Darthur Morgan, who was holding but, being on duty, not reading, one of his old books.

“You’ve got an unusual name,” she said.

“Means ‘morning’ in German. Spelled different.” The huge man’s still face didn’t break character.

“That’s funny,” Dance told him. She’d been referring to his given name.

“Used it before.”

They were sitting in the living room, all the shades drawn, while Kayleigh was upstairs, changing clothes, as if being in the place where Bobby Prescott had died had somehow tainted what she’d worn.

The security man continued, “You know people think, being black, I was named Darthur because my parents didn’t know how to spell Arthur, or got confused. You hear that sometimes.”

“You do, true.”

“Fact is, they were both teachers and they like the classics.” He lifted his leather-bound book. Dickens. He added, “Malory’s Morte d’Arthur was one of their favorites.”

“The King Arthur stories.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Not a lot of cops know that. But then, you’re not just a cop.”

“Not any more than you’re just a bodyguard.” She didn’t add that she was also a mother who helped her children with their homework. She eyed the book in his hand.

“Great Expectations.”

She asked, “Is Kayleigh handling this okay?”

“Borderline, I’d say. I don’t go way back with her. Her lawyers and her father hired me when that fellow started popping up. She’s the best of the celebrities I’ve ever worked with. Nicest. Polite. I could tell you some stories about clients I’ve had.”

Though he wouldn’t. He was a pro through and through. When this assignment was over, Darthur Morgan would instantly forget everything he knew about Kayleigh Towne, even the fact that he’d worked for her.

“You’re armed?”

“Yes.”

Dance had been pretty sure but she was glad to hear the confirmation. And glad to hear too that Morgan didn’t continue to chat about his weapon or how proficient he was, much less whether he’d ever used it.

Professional…

“It could be that Edwin’s stolen a Glock.”

“I know. I talked to Chief Madigan.”

The big man retired to the front door, sat down in a chair challenged by his weight.

Dance sipped the iced tea that Kayleigh had brought her. She looked around the room at the many awards and gold and platinum records hanging on the walls. There was a framed picture from the cover of Country Times and Dance had to laugh. It was a picture of Kayleigh holding the Country Music Association’s Singer of the Year award. As she’d been accepting it, a young man, a country singer with a self-polished reputation for being a bad boy had leapt onto the stage and taken the microphone away, berating her for being too young to win and not true to traditional country roots. He railed that another singer should have won.

Kayleigh had let him finish and then pulled the microphone out of his hand and said if he was such a supporter of traditional country, then name the top-five lifetime hits of George Jones, Loretta Lynn and Patsy Cline. “Or name any five of them,” Kayleigh had challenged.

He did a deer in the headlights thing for a long ten seconds, in front of a live TV audience of millions, and then slunk off the stage, his arm raised, for some reason, like a heavy metal rocker’s. Kayleigh finished her acceptance speech and, to a standing ovation, concluded by naming all the hits she’d asked him to recite.

Kayleigh now joined them, wearing blue jeans and a thick dark gray blouse, untucked and concealing as if Edwin were observing her from the distance through high-powered binoculars.

And who’s to say he wasn’t?

The singer sighed and sat on a floral sofa in the middle of the spacious room.

Dance said, “I just talked to the deputy at the convention center. All of the crew are accounted for except Tye and Alicia.”

“Oh, she called ten minutes ago. I told her about the second verse and made sure she was looking out for herself.” Kayleigh smiled. “She almost sounded like she was hoping Edwin’d try something with her. She’s pretty tough. And’s got a temper.” She called Tye Slocum and left a message. “I don’t know why he left.”

And all the while Darthur Morgan said nothing and didn’t even seem to hear the conversation. He simply scanned the house, the windows. He took a phone call and put the mobile away. Then stiffened.

The big man was on his feet, looking out the front window. “Visitors.” He paused. “Hm. Whole entourage. And it looks official.”

Chapter 25

“ENTOURAGE” DESCRIBED IT pretty well, Kayleigh Towne decided.

Two SUVs-one dusty white Lexus, Bishop’s, and a big black Lincoln Navigator.

Bishop and Sheri climbed out and turned to the other vehicle.

Four passengers. First was security, it was easy to tell. A solid, sunglassed man, well over six feet, a pale complexion. He looked around and then leaned into the SUV and whispered something. The next to climb out was a slim, thoughtful-looking man with thinning hair. The third, also in a dark suit, white shirt and tie, was much taller and had a politician’s head of hair.

Which made sense, because, Kayleigh realized, that’s exactly who he was: one of California’s star congressmen, William Davis, a two-term Democrat.

Kayleigh glanced at Dance, who observed this all with a careful gaze.

A woman was the last to climb out of the Navigator, dressed also in a conservative matching navy jacket and skirt, flesh-colored stockings.

The guard stayed with the SUV and the others followed Bishop and his wife into the house.

Inside, Bishop hugged his daughter and as if in an afterthought asked how she was holding up. Kayleigh thought it was the way he’d ask a gaffer whose name he didn’t know how he was weathering the loss of an elderly parent. He also didn’t seem to remember that he’d been here just a few hours ago.

What on earth were they doing here, anyway?

Bishop examined Dance as if he’d never met her and he ignored Darthur Morgan completely.

He said to his daughter, “This here’s Congressman Davis. And his aides, Peter Simesky. And…”

“Myra Babbage.” The slim, unsmiling woman, with square-cut, brunette hair, nodded formally. She seemed a bit star-struck to be in Kayleigh’s presence.

“Ms. Towne, it’s an honor,” the congressman said.

“Hey, call me Kayleigh. You’re making me older than I want to be.”

Davis laughed. “And I’m Bill. It’s easy to remember. I’ve sponsored a few of them in congress.”

Kayleigh gave a brief smile. And she introduced Dance and Morgan.

“We just flew into San Francisco a few days ago and have been making our way south. I was in touch with your father, asking about getting to your concert. Oh, I’m paying for tickets, don’t you worry. I’m afraid we just need a little extra security.”

Bishop said, “We’ve got it all taken care of.”

“I was hoping for a chance to meet you and to say hi in person. Your father suggested bringing me along today, before the concert.”

So, that was it. Kayleigh understood. Dammit. Her father had said they’d think about canceling the show and yet he was going to do whatever he needed to make sure it went forward. Anything to edge her career in the right direction. He’d be thinking that her knowing that the congressman-and accordingly more reporters-would be in the audience would pressure her not to cancel.

Kayleigh fumed but smiled pleasantly, or tried to, as Davis rambled like a schoolboy, talking about songs of hers he particularly loved. He really was quite a fan. He knew every word of every tune, it seemed.

Myra Babbage said, “I can’t thank you enough for letting us use ‘Leaving Home’ on the website. It’s really become an anthem for Bill’s campaign.”

Kathryn Dance said, “I heard you on the radio, Congressman. On the drive over here-that debate on immigration issues. That was some heated discussion.”

“Oh, it sure was.”

“I think you won, by the way. You drove ’em into the ground.”

“Thanks. It was a lot of fun,” Davis said with a gleam in his eye. “I love debates. That was my, quote, ‘sport’ at school. Less painful to talk than getting run into on the football field. Not necessarily safer, though.”

Kayleigh didn’t follow politics much. Some of her fellow performers were active in campaigns and causes but she’d known them before they’d hit it big and they hadn’t seemed particularly interested in animal rights or hunger before they started drawing the public limelight. She suspected that a number had been tapped by their public relations firms or their record company publicity departments to take up a cause because it would look good in the press.

She knew, though, about U.S. Congressman Bill Davis. He was a politico with an electric mix of positions, liberal and conservative, the most controversial of which was relaxing border controls to let in more foreigners, subject to requirements like an absence of criminal conviction, an English-language test and guarantees of employment prospects. He was one of the front-runners for the next presidential campaign and had already started stumping.

Peter Simesky, the aide, said, “I’ll confirm he’s a fan. On the campaign buses, you’re right up there with Taylor Swift, Randy Travis, James Taylor and the Stones for our listening pleasure. Hope you’re okay with that company.”

“I’ll take it, you bet.”

Then the congressman grew serious. “Your father said there’s a bit of a problem at the moment, somebody who might be stalking you?” This was half directed to Dance, as well. Kayleigh’s father must have mentioned that she was an agent.

“Afraid that’s true,” Dance said.

“You’re… with Fresno?” Myra Babbage asked. “We’ve been working with a few people there on security.”

“No, CBI.” That she was here would normally mean the case was a major one. But she added, “I’m based in Monterey. Happened to be here unofficially and heard about the incident. I volunteered to help.”

“We were just in Monterey too,” Davis said. “Campaigning at Cannery Row.”

“That’s why the traffic was so bad back at home before I left,” Dance joked.

“I wish it had been worse. It was good turnout, not a great turnout.”

Kayleigh supposed Monterey and particularly Carmel were bastions of conservative voters, who would not be particularly happy about a pro-immigration candidate.

The congressman nodded toward the agent. “I’m sure the CBI and the local authorities are doing everything they can but if you need any help from me, just let me know. Stalking can be a federal crime too.”

Kayleigh thanked him, Dance did too and Simesky gave the agent his card. “You need any help, seriously,” the slim young man said earnestly, “give me a call. Any time.”

“I’ll do that,” Dance replied and glanced down to her hip as her phone buzzed. “It’s a text from Detective Harutyun.” She looked up. She sighed. “They’ve found the next crime scene. It’s another killing, another fire. But it was worse than at the concert hall. He says there might be more than one victim. They just can’t tell.”

Chapter 26

“THE FIRE’S STILL going,” Harutyun told her over the phone. “He must’ve used five gallons of accelerant. It’s in a shed beside the San Joaquin River.”

Everyone in the room was staring at Dance. She ignored them and concentrated on her conversation with Harutyun. “Any witnesses?”

“No.”

“How do you know it’s related to the stalking?”

“Well, I don’t know how to put it but out front we found a little shrine to Kayleigh.”

“What?”

“Yes’m. Pretty sick. A mound of rocks and a couple of her CDs next to them in front of the shed. And, you know what was weird?”

More than that? Dance couldn’t begin to guess.

“A twenty-dollar bill under a rock. Like an offering.”

“And no idea of the victim?”

“Or victims,” he reminded. “The team got a look inside and saw a couple of legs. That’s about all that was left. Then the roof came down. It was part of an old gas station so they’re being careful, thinking there could be a buried tank nearby. Charlie Shean has his CS people running the scene outside, as close as they can. It’s hot as Hades out there. One of the techs fainted from the heat, the jumpsuit. No tire treads or footprints. We’ve found two shell casings. Nine-millimeter.” A click of the detective’s tongue. “Same as Fuentes’s gun, got stolen. But that could be a coincidence. At least-I pray this happened-he shot ’em before he set ’em on fire.”

“We can hope.”

“No bloodstains but looks like he swept over the dirt with a branch or something. They’re taking samples. DNA could be the only way to find out who he killed.”

An altar to Kayleigh. Well, it was in keeping with stalker behavior.

“Charlie’s folks also ran the scene of the phone booth where he called Kayleigh. They got some trace but the fingerprints-close to forty-don’t match anything else and they’re not in AIFIS.”

“Any spotting of Edwin?”

“Nope. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when I know more, Kathryn.”

“Thanks.”

She disconnected, turned to Kayleigh, her father and the others and gave them a report.

Bishop closed his eyes and muttered what might’ve been a prayer. Dance recalled he’d gone through a phase where he released a Christian album-after rehab. It hadn’t sold well.

“Who’s the victim?” Kayleigh asked breathlessly.

“We don’t know. It could be more than one. But because of the fire they couldn’t get a good look inside.”

“But where’s Alicia? And Tye?” Kayleigh called and got through to both of them. All the rest of the crew were accounted for too, Kayleigh reported after speaking to Tye Slocum. “Jesus. Alicia was out riding her horse. And Tye? He was picking up extra guitar strings. We’ve got a thousand in the truck. Why did he need to do that? Drives me crazy.”

The congressman and his entourage looked uneasy and Davis seemed to be thinking that a visit at this moment had not been a good idea. He said, “We’ve got some campaigning to do. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Not at all.” It was Bishop, not Kayleigh, who made this comment.

Davis reiterated that he’d help out however he could. He’d see her at the concert.

“I’m not-” She fell silent, looking at her father, who gave no reaction. “Hey, thanks for your support.”

“Hope I can say the same to you on Election Day.”

Peter Simesky, the aide, stepped up to Dance once more. He shook her hand. “You have my card. If there’s anything else you need, please, just let me know.”

Kinesics is a skill that doesn’t shut off when you leave the office. The instant he’d made eye contact with her earlier, she knew that Simesky wanted to get to know her better, if circumstances allowed. She gave him credit: He wore no wedding ring and his first glance had been at her left hand; he might very well be one of those men who was not interested in an extramarital affair.

He also exuded a comfortable but not blunt self-confidence. He wasn’t put off by the two inches of height she had on him or abashed about his small frame and thinning hair (ironically her present romantic partner, Jon Boling, shared those attributes). But with Kathryn Dance’s complicated personal life, there was no room or inclination for expansion.

She nodded politely to Simesky and made sure the handshake was brief and professional. She couldn’t tell if he got the message.

Then Davis, followed by Simesky and Myra Babbage, left the house and made their way to the SUV. The security man opened the doors for them. In a minute they were speeding down the dirt and gravel driveway.

Then Kayleigh’s eyes flashed in shock and she began to cry. “Wait, he burned them?” she whispered.

“That’s right.”

“No, no! This’s my fault too!” Her shoulders rose, jaw tight. She angrily wiped away tears. “My song! He’s using another one of my songs.”

Dance pointed out, “The crime scene’s by the river, just like the second verse.”

“No, the fire! First Bobby and now these other people. Edwin sent me an email, well, a bunch of them, saying how much he liked my song ‘Fire and Flame.’”

She picked up the CD of Your Shadow and showed Dance the liner notes.

Love is fire, love is flame

It warms your heart, it lights the way.

It burns forever just like the sun.

It welds two souls and makes them one.

Love is fire, love is flame.

Bishop said to his daughter, “Hey, KT, don’t go blaming yourself. You can’t take into account all the damn crazies out there. That boy’s a sicko and nothing but. If it wasn’t you it’d be somebody else.” The sentences were wooden. He wasn’t adept at offering solace.

“He burned those people to death, Daddy!”

Bishop didn’t know what to say and he walked to the kitchen and got himself a glass of milk. Sheri stood uneasily beside one of the guitars. Dance called Harutyun again but there’d been no new developments.

When Bishop returned he looked at the watch on his big, ruddy wrist. “Hey, you heard from your sister?”

“Well, I talked to her this morning. I called her about Bobby. Why?”

“They shoulda been here by now. Or maybe-”

Kayleigh’s mouth actually dropped. “What do you mean, Daddy?”

“Maybe she’s headed to our place.”

“No, what are you talking about? ‘Been here’? Why would she be here?”

Bishop looked down. “I thought it’d be good for her to come. Moral support, with Bobby. Called her this morning. They flew up, landed an hour ago.”

This would be how he delivered important news. Tossed out casually like a softball.

“Oh, Christ. Why didn’t you tell me? She has no business… Wait, you said ‘them.’ Is the whole family coming?”

“Uh-uhn. Roberto’s working. It’s just Suellyn and Mary-Gordon.”

Kayleigh raged, “Why on earth would you do that? With this madman around. A little girl?”

“Moral support,” he growled back, flustered. “Like I said.”

“Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus.” Kayleigh sat down. “That’s not why you asked them…” But then her voice rose to a high pitch. “The fire… the attack. Oh, you don’t think… it’s not them?”

“Settle there, KT. How would this Sharp fella even know they were at the airport?” Bishop asked. “And what flight they were coming in on?”

Kayleigh grabbed her phone and dialed. She slammed the disconnect button. “Voicemail. Who was going to pick them up? Why didn’t you tell me, why didn’t you go?”

“Had that meeting with the congressman. I sent Ritchie. All right, I’ll give him a call.” Bishop found his mobile and placed a call. “Hey. Me. What’s the story? Where are they?… Who? Who d’you think I mean? Suellyn and her kid, that’s who… What?”

Every eye in the room was locked on him.

“When?… Oh, fuck.” He disconnected. “Okay, well, what happened was he got a call from a friend of yours.” A glance at his daughter. “He was going to give them a ride here.”

“Who?” Kayleigh cried. “Who the hell was it?”

“Ritchie doesn’t remember the name. But whoever it was knew the flight number, knew their names. Said you’d rather he picked them up.”

Sheri said, “But if it was him, Edwin, how’d he know Ritchie was going to pick them up?”

Bishop’s eyes bored into the carpet at his feet. “Well… shit.”

“What, Daddy? What!”

“This morning, we had breakfast at the Herndon Café, Sheri and me. We were pretty much alone in the place, pretty much had it to ourselves. Except there was somebody else, sitting nearby, his back to us. Tall fellow, black hair. Couldn’t see him. He coulda overheard me talking to Suellyn and calling Ritchie, giving him the information. I doubt it but coulda happened.”

“What time?” Dance asked.

“I don’t know. Nine-thirty, ten.”

Dance reflected: Edwin was at the movie theater about eleven. The timing could work.

Sheri Towne stepped up to Kayleigh and touched her shoulder tentatively. Dance noticed the singer’s lips tighten. Sheri stepped back.

“But how would he know Ritchie?” Kayleigh asked. “To get his number and call him?”

“Could he be connected to you on your site or in the press?” Dance asked.

“Maybe. He’s listed on the last albums, he was one of my assistants and drivers. In the acknowledgments.”

Dance said, “With all the research Edwin does, sure, he could’ve found out.”

Kayleigh began to cry. “What’re we going to do?”

Dance called Harutyun and told him their concern. He said he was going to check something.

As she waited her eyes were on Bishop. He was fuming; Sheri kept a bit of distance. Dance wondered who the anger was directed at. She guessed it would be Ritchie. Bishop seemed the sort to blame everyone but himself for the problems in life.

Harutyun came back on after an interminable five minutes. “Video at the airport. A woman in her thirties and little girl got into Edwin’s Buick. About thirty minutes after the flight from Portland landed.”

Dance looked at the expectant faces. She told them what the deputy had said.

“No!” Kayleigh screamed. “No!”

“And. Agent Dance… Kathryn,” Harutyun was saying on the line. “Just heard from the fire team. There’s only one body inside.” He hesitated. “Not too big. Could be a teenager-boy or girl-or a woman. Can’t tell; body’s burned down to the bone. At least, if it is the sister, the little girl’s still alive. But that also means he’s got her. And that, I don’t even want to think about.”

Chapter 27

KAYLEIGH PLACED YET another frantic call.

“Answer, answer, answer,” she whispered. She grimaced. “Suellyn, it’s me. Call me right away. I mean immediately. There’s a problem.” She looked at the screen. “How do I mark it urgent?” Her voice broke. “I don’t know how! How do I mark it urgent?”

Dance took her phone, examined the screen and hit a button.

And Dance had given her opinion that stalkers tended not to target family members.

What was going on in Edwin’s mind, if he had in fact kidnapped the two? Had he been so incensed about the arrest that he’d snapped? Had he started stalking Bishop that morning to learn what he could and found out about the arrival of Kayleigh’s sister and niece? In the car maybe he’d confessed his love for Kayleigh and enlisted Suellyn’s aid to win her over. When the woman refused, he’d killed her and taken the girl. Maybe he intended to raise her, treating her like a young Kayleigh of his own. Dance was a tough policewoman, yes, but she was a mother too and she simply didn’t want to face that scenario.

“Please,” Kayleigh begged once more. “Isn’t there anything you can do? Track her phone or something?”

“That can be done. It takes time. But sure. I’ll order it.”

Not sharing with anyone, least of all Kayleigh, that if the body in the shed was Suellyn there would be no phone left to track.

Dance was speaking to TJ Scanlon about contacting the woman’s provider, when Darthur Morgan called from the entryway, “Another car coming. Well, what on earth’s this?”

Dance wondered what that cryptic comment might mean.

A moment later there was the clunk of car doors closing and the sound of a vehicle accelerating away on the gravel drive.

Then the front door opened and in walked a woman in her thirties and an adorable little golden-haired girl of about six, in a pink dress. She held a stuffed plush toy. She ignored everyone in the room except the singer, whom she ran to and hugged. “Aunt Kayleigh, look! We went to this neat museum and we brought you a stuffed redwood tree!”

Chapter 28

KATHRYN DANCE SMILED a greeting to the woman she’d been introduced to-Suellyn Sanchez, Kayleigh’s sister-and walked to the door. She noted the big red Buick speeding away.

“It was him,” Kayleigh whispered, also looking out the window and struggling to put on a calm facade so as not to worry the little girl.

Suellyn embraced her father-a seemingly pro forma gesture. She greeted Sheri too, more affectionately than Kayleigh had. “What’s with the police? Is this about Bobby?”

Kayleigh, however, glanced icily toward her father and turned her attention to Mary-Gordon. “Honey, let me show you some new games I got for the next time you visited. Just for you.”

“Yay!… Where’s Freddie?”

“He’s in the stable at Grandpa’s house. You and your mommy are going to be staying there.”

“I like Freddie but I want to stay with you,” the girl announced.

“Oh, I’m not going to be here much. I’ll come see you at Grandpa’s.”

“Okay.”

“Come on.”

Her arm around the girl, Kayleigh steered the girl to the bodyguard. “And this is Mr. Morgan. He’s a friend of mine. He hangs out with us.”

He delicately shook the girl’s hand. “My name’s Darthur. You can call me that.”

The girl looked at the security man with curiosity. “That’s a funny name.”

“You bet it is,” the man said, looking uncertainly at Kayleigh, but following gamely.

“My name’s Mary-Gordon but it’s not two names, it’s one. Mary and Gordon, with a line in between. They call the line a hyphen.”

“It’s a very pretty name.”

“Thank you. I like you.”

Dance called Harutyun and told him that the sister and niece were safe. He reported they still had no ID on the victim but the fire was out and the CSU and medical examiners were about to go inside, process the body and run the scene.

Kaleigh and the girl vanished into the den and Kayleigh returned a moment later, steamed up to her sister and said, “What were you thinking?”

“What?”

“Do you know who gave you that ride?”

“That friend of yours. Said his name was Stan.”

Dance pointed out, “Stanton. Middle name.”

“Jesus Christ.” Kayleigh’s voice dropped. “It’s my goddamn stalker. Did you think to call? He’s the one who murdered Bobby.”

“What? Oh, my God. But you said he was fat, disgusting…”

“Well, he made himself unfat,” Kayleigh snapped, looking angrily into her sister’s brown eyes. She shook her head and relented. “Sorry. It’s not your fault. You just… you shouldn’t be here.” A cold glance toward Bishop.

Dance said, “We aren’t sure who’s behind it. Edwin Sharp is a possible suspect. But you should avoid any more contact with him.”

“Where did you go?” Kayleigh asked.

“He asked if we wanted to see something Mary-Gordon might like. He said it was on the way. We went to the tree museum near Forty-One and the Bluffs. He said he knew you liked to spend time hiking in the forest.”

Kayleigh closed her eyes. “He knew that too?” Her hands were shaking. “I was so scared! Why didn’t you pick up when I called?”

“The phone was in my computer bag. He put that in the trunk. I was going to keep it with me but he took it. I mean, I’m sorry, K, but he knew everything about you. He said you’d written a song about trees but it got co-opted by Greenpeace or some eco movement and you stopped performing it. I didn’t even know that. He knew about everybody in the band, he knew about Sheri. I thought he was a good friend.”

Morgan said, “So the other killing, just now? By the river? That couldn’t have been him?”

Dance considered the timing again. She decided that Edwin could have abducted and shot the victim, set fire to the body and made it to the airport in time to pick up Suellyn and her daughter.

“Oh, Jesus. We were in the car with somebody who’d just killed a man?” Suellyn whispered.

Bishop said, “Well, you’re safe now. That’s all that matters. But that fucker. He’s going down.”

Kayleigh wiped more tears.

Suellyn said, “This is just so strange. I almost got the idea he was your boyfriend. He said he was worried about you; you looked so tired. There was a lot of pressure on you. He wasn’t even sure it was a good idea to give the concert. He thought you should reschedule.”

Kayleigh’s eyes swiveled to her father once more but that topic remained buried.

“He said…” Suellyn struggled to get it just right. “He said sometimes Kayleigh needed to think more about what’s good for her. Too many people wanted a piece of her soul.”

Your shadow…

Bishop turned to his older daughter, asking casually, “How was the flight?”

“Jesus, Dad. Really.” Suellyn looked exasperated.

Kayleigh said she didn’t want Mary-Gordon here any longer. She was afraid Edwin would come back again to spy and might try to approach the girl. They should go with Bishop and Sheri to their house, outside town. And they should leave now.

Kayleigh blinked and then looked down, realizing she was still holding the goofy stuffed redwood tree. She started to throw it out angrily but changed her mind and set it aside, on a shelf.

Suellyn went into the den to get her daughter and the toys Kayleigh had bought her.

At that moment Dance’s phone rang; Dennis Harutyun was calling. She asked, “So you’ve identified the vic?”

“That’s right.”

“Is there any connection with Kayleigh?” she asked.

“Yes and no. You better come see.”

Chapter 29

THE STENCH WAS bad, but so much rubber and plastic and oil had burned that at least the smell of human flesh and hair was largely obscured. The wind helped too.

Not that Dance didn’t need all her willpower to keep from gagging, if not worse.

Love is fire, Love is flame…

The scene was a broad dusty field, a cracked and crumbling parking lot, a long-closed gas station collapsed in on itself and the burned shed, of which there wasn’t much left. The smoke was still rising in furious plumes. The heat you could feel from the shoulder of the road. Not far away was the gray-brown strip of low river that had inspired this location for the killing.

The CSU team was still at work, though the firefighters outnumbered the police. Fire was a much greater risk to the population of Fresno than a single crazed stalker.

Harutyun, the senior detective on the scene, explained what they’d found, which wasn’t much. The shell casings, the CDs, the money-the altar to Kayleigh. But even the twenty-dollar bill seemed to have been washed-literally laundered. And the fire had been such a serious threat that the men and women had charged onto the grounds with hoses to contain the flames, surely contaminating the scene worse.

Besides, Dance guessed, if Edwin was behind the killing he wouldn’t have left much evidence. He was too clever for that.

Harutyun continued the explanation he’d begun over the phone.

The victim had indeed known Kayleigh-and about a thousand other performers.

His name was Frederick Blanton. “He’s a crook,” Harutyun summarized. “Was a crook.”

Dance thought of the CDs, the altar… and what she knew of the music business. “Into illegal file sharing?”

“That’s very good, Kathryn. Yes.”

“What’s the story?”

“There were close to ten thousand computers on the network. People would download songs, music videos too. Kayleigh’s were among the most popular.”

“How’d you ID him?” Dance glanced inside. “Obviously, no prints.”

“Weren’t hardly even any hands or feet. One hand must’ve burned down to ash, gone completely. We’ll have to confirm with DNA but we found his wallet in a part of the shed that didn’t burn so bad. We checked his address-he lived in the Tower District, about seven, eight miles from here. A team’s going through his house now. They found his door kicked and it was a mess-all his computers were wrecked. We figured the perp probably forced him to destroy the file-sharing servers then made him get into the trunk of his car. If it’s Edwin he’s got plenty of room in that Buick of his. Drove him here, shot him and set the fire.”

Dance mused, “How easy would it have been for Edwin to find him?”

“Google ‘torrent’ and ‘Kayleigh Towne’ and ‘download,’ and his site”-a nod toward the shed-“was in the top ten. Some basic research and he’d’ve come up with the address, I’d guess. Our boy seems good at that.”

“And he left the altar as a warning not to steal from Kayleigh.”

A stalker’s likely to target anybody who’s a threat to you, or even offended you. He’s taking real seriously his role as a protector…

“And the crime scene at his house? Evidence?”

“Nothing. No prints, foot or finger. Some trace but…” He shrugged, an indication of its marginal usefulness. “They did find he had a partner.”

“Who’s feeling a little uneasy at the moment,” Dance speculated.

“Well, he’s not in the area.”

“Guess you don’t need to be next-door neighbors with your co-conspirator if you’re doing computer crimes. You could be in South America or Serbia. Where’s he based?”

“Salinas.”

Hm. Monterey County.

“You have the guy’s name-and physical or computer address?”

“CSU’d have it.” The detective made a call and asked that the information be sent to her phone. She noted that he’d memorized her number.

The unit chimed a moment later with the incoming message.

“I’ll send it to some people I know there. They can follow up with him.” She composed an email and sent it off.

Harutyun then said, “I’m trying to keep an open mind. I know it seems to be Edwin but I’m still looking into motives anybody else would have had to kill Bobby. I’ve been getting a lot of information about him but so far nothing jumps out. And now I guess I better add this guy into the mix. But, well, there’ve gotta be a lot of people who’d like to murder a file sharer. Half the record companies and movie studios.”

Another squad car arrived, crunching over the gravel, dirt and bleached twigs that bordered the site of the blackened earth. It parked near a faded Conoco sign depicting a pale green dinosaur. Dance’s daughter, Maggie, was presently in a Jurassic phase. Her room was littered with plastic versions of the reptiles. Dance tamped down a pang, missing her children.

P. K. Madigan climbed out, surveyed the scene with hands on his slim hips overshadowed by his belly. Then he joined Dance and Harutyun. “So, he was stealing her songs?”

“That’s right.”

Madigan grumbled, “Never thought he’d switch to landlines. Should have.”

“We all should have.”

“And where the hell is he? He’s got a car as big as my boat and it’s bright red, to boot. I don’t see how he keeps losing my folks.” His phone rang and he regarded the screen. “’Lo?… You don’t say… Naw, I’ll go myself.” He disconnected. “Well, all righty then. I can’t tell you where Edwin was when this fella died but I can tell you where he is now. He’s parked in front of Kayleigh’s house again. In the arboretum lot across the road.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Sitting on the hood of his car, happy as a clam, having himself a picnic. I want to have a talk with him. Well, actually, I’d like you to have a talk with him, Kathryn. You up for that?”

“You bet I am.”

Chapter 30

THAT CONVERSATION DID not, however, occur.

Driving in tandem, they were at Kayleigh’s house fast, in twenty-five minutes, but Edwin Sharp had left by then.

He has a sixth sense, Dance thought, though she did not believe in sixth senses.

Was it her imagination or did she see a cloud of dust hanging over the spot from which he might have just sped off? Hard to tell. There was a lot of dust in Fresno. The sky was clear but wind rose occasionally and a nearby vortex of beige powder swirled into a tiny funnel and then melted away.

Dance and Madigan both parked across the road from Kayleigh’s house and climbed out. This side of the road was lush, thanks to the park. Kayleigh’s yard too was thickly landscaped. In the distance, south and west, was a vista of low fields, now just dark dirt. Whatever was grown there had been harvested.

The detective gave a knowing glance toward her-acknowledging frustration at their missing quarry-and leaned against his car to make a call. From the brief conversation Dance deduced it was to the deputy at Kayleigh’s house-provided to supplement Darthur Morgan when the manpower allowed. He disconnected. “Was Jose, at the house.” A nod. “Edwin was here ten minutes ago. They didn’t see which way he went.”

Dance could understand why. From here you could see only the second story of the house, which was about three hundred feet away, down the gravel driveway. She wondered if the windows visible from here-the ones Edwin had just presumably been staring at while he had his meal-were Kayleigh’s bedroom.

Silence for a time. The sun was low and Dance could feel the day shedding heat in layers.

Madigan said, “Had a snake in my backyard a couple, three years ago. Big rattler. I mean, a big one. Saw him once and never again for the rest of that summer. Was he under the barbecue, the house, had he left altogether? Walked around with my sidearm all the time, which I never do.”

“Because of the kids,” Dance said.

“Because of the kids. We took to calling him the ‘invisible snake.’ But it wasn’t funny. Ruined the backyard for the whole season. And saw him one time only. All right.” He stood with hands on his hips again, looking over the park. “You’re in town all alone. You want to come over for dinner? My wife, she’s a pretty good cook.”

“I’ll probably just get something back at the motel. Get some sleep.”

“We got good desserts.”

“Ice cream?”

A laugh. “Naw. Judy bakes. Well, ice cream ends up being involved.”

“Think I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Good evening to you, Kathryn.”

“You too, Chief.”

Dance returned to the Mountain View. The locks on her suitcases were intact and nothing seemed to be disturbed. Dance glanced out the window at the park, saw no surveillance and closed the blinds.

As soon as she did, the hotel phone rang.

“Agent Dance?” A pleasant male voice.

“That’s right.”

“It’s Peter Simesky? Congressman Davis’s aide?” he asked as if she’d have no clue who he was.

“Yes, hi.”

“Hi. Actually I’m in the lobby… of your motel. The congressman was speaking at a farm nearby. Could I talk to you? Am I interrupting anything?”

She could find no credible excuse and said she’d be out in a minute.

In the lobby she found the man on his phone and he politely ended the call when he spotted her. They shook hands and he grinned, though the smile soon morphed into a frown.

“I heard they confirmed another attack.”

“That’s right. Homicide.”

“Anyone connected to Kayleigh?”

“Not directly.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“So far, no. But appreciate that.”

“It’s this stalker?”

“Pointing to him but we don’t know for sure.”

Simesky tilted his head in a certain way and Dance knew a related story would be forthcoming. “The congressman’s had a few problems himself. A couple of campaign workers and interns. Two women and a gay man too. They got infatuated, I guess you could say.”

Dance explained about erotomania. “Fits the classic profile. A powerful man and somebody in a lower professional position. Any physical threats?”

“No, no, just got awkward.”

Simesky had a large bottle of water and he drank it thirstily. She noticed his white shirt was sweat stained. He followed her glance and laughed. “The congressman’s been delivering his ecofriendly speech at farms from Watsonville to Fresno. The temperature was a lot more pleasant in your neighborhood.”

Watsonville, just north of where Dance lived, was near the coast. And, she agreed, a lot more pleasant, weather-wise, than the San Joaquin Valley.

“You got a good turnout, I’ll bet.”

“At the farms, because of his immigrant position, you mean? Oh, you bet. We considered it a success-and there were only forty protesters. Maybe fifty. And no one threw anything. We get tomatoes sometimes. Brussels sprouts too. Kind of ironic, a candidate in support of farmworkers getting pelted by vegetables from the anti-farmworker contingent.”

Dance smiled.

Simesky looked toward the motel’s bar. “How ’bout a glass of wine?”

She hesitated.

“This won’t take long. It’s important.”

Dance remembered his look her way at Kayleigh’s house and his slightly overlong handshake. Was she the object of a stalker herself? She said, “Just to set the record straight, I’m seeing somebody.”

He gave a wistful, embarrassed smile. “You caught that, hm?”

“I do this for a living.”

“I’ve heard about you.” A grin. “I better watch my body language… Well, Agent Dance-”

“Kathryn.”

“Yeah, I was flirting a bit-then and just a few seconds ago. And I’m disappointed to hear about your friend. Never hurts to ask.”

“Never does.” Edwin Sharp should take some lessons from Peter Simesky.

“But there was another point to this too. Completely innocent.”

“Okay, let’s get that wine.”

In the dim, tacky bar she ordered a Merlot and Simesky a Chardonnay. “What a case you’ve got yourself, that stalker,” he said.

“He’s persistent and smart. And obsessed. The most dangerous kind of perp.”

“But you were saying you’re not sure it’s him.”

“We’re never sure until we get a confession or the evidence proves the case.”

“I guess not. I’m a lawyer but I never did criminal work. Well, now, my agenda.”

The wine arrived and they sipped without tapping glasses.

“About Kayleigh Towne?”

“No, it’s about you.”

“Me?”

“Bill Davis likes you. Oh, wait… not that way,” the aide added quickly. “The only person he’s ever flirted with since college is his wife. They’ve been together twenty-eight years. No, this is a professional interest. Do you follow politics much?”

“Some. I try to keep informed. Davis is somebody I’d vote for if I was in his district.”

Simesky seemed to take this as very good news. He continued, “He’s pretty liberal then, you know. And some people in the party are afraid that as a presidential candidate he’s going to be perceived as soft on law and order. It’d go a long way if-yes, you can see this coming-a long way if somebody like you were aligned with him. You’re smart, attractive-sorry, can’t help myself-and have a great record with the CBI.”

“And I’m a woman.”

“That doesn’t count the way it used to.”

“What does ‘aligned’ mean?”

“What he’d like, if you were interested, is to discuss a Justice Department appointment. Something pretty senior. We’d just like to broach it at this point. No commitments on anybody’s side.”

Dance had to laugh. “Washington?”

“That’s right.”

Her initial reaction was to dismiss the idea as absurd, thinking that uprooting the children might be difficult. Also, she’d miss the fieldwork. But then she realized that she’d have the chance to spread word of her kinesic analysis techniques of investigation and interrogation around the country. She was adamantly opposed to extreme interrogation techniques as both immoral and ineffective, and she was intrigued by the idea that she might have influence in changing those practices at a very high level.

And, reconsidering, as for the kids, what was wrong with exposing them to a different city, especially the nation’s capital, for a few years? Maybe she could commute between the two coasts.

Peter Simesky had to laugh. “I don’t have your expertise but if I’m reading your face right, you’re considering it.”

And then she wondered: What would Michael O’Neil think of this?

Oh, and Jon Boling too? Though as a consultant, he could live anywhere. She wouldn’t do anything without talking to him first, though.

“This is completely out of left field. I never in a million years thought about anything like it.”

Simesky continued, “There’re too many career politicians messing up government. We need people who’ve lived in the trenches. They’ll work for a while and go home to the back forty, take up farmin’ again.” A smile. “Or being cops. Is it okay to say ‘cop’?”

“Not the least offensive.”

Simesky slid off the bar stool, paid the check. “I’ve given you a lot to think about and you don’t need to decide now, not with this investigation going on. Just let it sit.” He stood up and shook her hand. At the doorway he paused. “That guy you mentioned? Pretty serious, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Tell him he’s a lucky man and, by the way, I hate him.” A cherubic smile and then he was gone.

Dance finished her wine-this would be it for the evening, she decided-and returned to her room, laughing to herself. Deputy Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Kathryn Dance.

Maybe, just maybe she could get used to that.

It was now nine-thirty, hardly late, but she was exhausted. Time for yet another shower and sleep.

But that too was interrupted. Her phone rang once more and she didn’t recognize the caller ID number. Let it go?

But the investigator within her decided to answer.

Just as well. It turned out that the caller was Edwin Sharp’s former girlfriend.

Chapter 31

SALLY DOCKING WAS her name.

Deputy Miguel Lopez had tracked her down in Seattle and left a message to contact Dance, who now thanked her for calling.

A hesitant, melodious voice. “Like, sure.”

“I’d like to talk to you about Edwin Sharp.”

“Oh, Edwin? Is he okay?”

Odd question.

“Yes, he is. I wonder if you could answer a few questions for me.”

“I guess. But, like, what’s this about?”

“You were in a relationship with him, correct?”

“Yeah, for a while. We met in February a year ago. We worked in the same mall. We started going out and moved in for a few months. It didn’t work out. We broke up around Christmas. What’s… I mean, I’m kind of curious why you’re asking.”

Sometimes you can be too evasive and the subjects clam up. “He’s been showing some inappropriate interest in someone here in California.”

“He has? Really? What’s that mean?”

“We’re looking into whether or not he’s guilty of stalking.”

“Edwin?” She sounded genuinely surprised.

Dance jotted this impression in her notebook.

“Have you heard from him lately?”

“No. It’s been months and months.”

“Sally, tell me: Did he ever threaten you?”

“Threaten? No, never.”

“Did he ever threaten or show excessive interest in other women that you know about?”

“No. I can’t even picture it.”

“Did you ever see him engage in any obsessive behavior?”

“Well, like, I don’t know what you mean exactly. He got pretty intense, maybe you’d call it obsessive. He’d get into something, like totally get excited about a Wii game or some fantasy author and he’d buy all their books.”

“How about people, stars, musicians?”

“He liked movies. Yeah, he went a lot. In theaters, not on TV so much. But his big thing was music, yeah. He really liked Cassie McGuire and Kayleigh Towne and Charlie Holmes and Mike Norman-you know them?”

“Yes, I do.” The latter two, Dance noted, were men.

“And then this band from Seattle, the Pointless Bricks. I know it’s a stupid name but they’re really, really good. Edwin totally loved them. If he was going to see somebody in concert he’d get tickets way ahead of time and make sure that his schedule let him get away. He’d be at the concert hall like three hours early, even if he had reserved seats, and he’d stand in line afterwards, hoping to get an autograph. And he’d get their souvenirs on eBay. It was a waste of money. I mean, to me, that’s pretty obsessive.”

“After you left him, did you have a problem with him calling you, following you? Harassing you?”

“No. I mean he’d call sometimes about something he’d left at my apartment, and we’d taken out a loan together and we had to talk about that, sign some papers. But, stalking, no, nothing like that. Only one thing? You said when I left him. That’s not what happened. He left me.”

Dance could have kicked herself. And earlier she’d been mentally chastising P. K. Madigan for leading Edwin during the interview; here she was doing exactly the same.

“Tell me what happened.”

“He just said the relationship wasn’t working. I was pretty bummed. He wasn’t, you know, real ambitious. He never wanted to be more than a security guard or work retail. But he was romantic and he was dependable. He didn’t drink and he’d pretty much given up smoking when I was with him.”

“So he used to smoke,” Dance said, thinking of her own voyeur in the park near the motel.

“Yeah, but only when he was stressed. So, he left and I was pretty bummed out for a couple of months.”

“Did he go out with anybody else?”

“Not really. He dated a few girls. I don’t know who. We fell out of touch.”

“One last question. Did you ever see him get violent or lose control?”

A pause. “Yeah, I did.”

“Tell me.”

Sally explained, “Okay, once me and my girlfriend and Edwin were walking down the street and this drunk guy came up, I mean, way, way drunk. And he called us sluts. And Edwin goes up to him and shouts, ‘Apologize right now, you asshole.’ And the guy did.”

Dance waited. “That was it? He never hit this man?”

“Oh, no. Edwin’d never do that. I mean, he’s scary-looking, sure. Those eyebrows, you know. And he’s big. But he’d never hurt anybody. Look, there’s a lot Edwin doesn’t get, you know what I mean? He’s kind of like a kid. That’s part of what makes him so charming, though.”

Hardly a word Dance would use. But she’d given up trying to figure out what made couples click.

Dance thanked the young woman and disconnected. She jotted a summary of the conversation into her notebook. So, what do I make of this? A relatively normal relationship with one woman didn’t mean he couldn’t stalk another. But stalking was habitual. For Sally to be involved for a year and to live with him for part of that time yet not see any danger signs was significant.

On the other hand, he’d exhibited some obsessive interest in music and performers.

But then, Dance admitted, so did she. Hence, her trip to casa de Villalobos with her tape recorder here in beautiful downtown Fresno during the dog days of September.

After a furtive examination of the park revealed no cigarette-smoking surveillance, Dance took a shower. She dried off and slipped into the Mountain View bathrobe, which the sign announced ironically she was free to take with her for $89.95.

Dance curled up in the sumptuous bed. Who needed views of snowy peaks when the furniture was so opulent?

She now wished Jon Boling were here with her. She was thinking of the recent overnight trip they’d taken to Ventana, the beautiful, surreal resort in the cliffs near Big Sur, south of Carmel. The trip had been a milestone-it was the first time she’d told the children that she and Boling were going away overnight.

She offered nothing more about the trip and the news was greeted with no interest whatsoever by either Wes or Maggie. At their ages, though, the broader implications had probably been lost on them. But their bored response was a huge victory for Dance, who’d stressed about their reaction to the fact Mom was traveling with another man. (Wes worried her most; Maggie wanted her mother to get married again so she could be “best woman.”)

The weekend away had been wonderful and Dance had been pleased that the last holdout of widowhood-the discomfort with intimacy-was finally vanishing.

She wanted Boling here now.

And was thinking it curious that they hadn’t spoken for two days. They’d traded messages but voicemail had reared its head at every instance. She was involved in a murder investigation so she had an excuse, she reflected. But Boling was a computer consultant. She wasn’t quite sure why he was so inaccessible.

Dance called her parents, chatted with her father for a few minutes then asked to speak to the children.

It was a pure comfort, pure joy, hearing their voices. Dance found she was smiling to herself as they rambled on enthusiastically about their days at camp. She laughed when they signed off with a “Loveyoumom” (Maggie) and “Gottagoseeya” (Wes), verbal signals perfectly defining the differing parent-child relationships at the moment.

Then her mother came on the phone. Edie reported that Dance’s father was finishing up some work at her house in Pacific Grove to get it ready for the party she was hosting this weekend; house guests would be staying for a few days, after driving down from San Jose on Saturday.

And then there was a pause.

Dance tried not to practice her profession in her personal life. Nothing ruins a date faster than a man saying he’s divorced as he leans forward and looks her in the eye-a complete deviation from his earlier baseline behavior. (One of her favorite Kayleigh Towne songs, “The Truth About Men,” was a hilarious look at how that gender tends to be, well, less than forthright.)

But now she noted that something was up.

“How’s it going there?” Edie Dance offered some clumsy verbal padding.

“Good. Fresno’s actually kind of interesting. Parts of it are. There’s a real-estate development built around a runway. You get a hangar for your plane, instead of a garage. Well, maybe you get a garage too. I didn’t look.”

Throughout Kathryn Dance’s life, her mother had been kind and fair but also resolute, opinionated, unyielding and at times exasperating. Get to the point, Dance thought.

“There’s something I found out. I wasn’t sure what to do. If it weren’t for the kids…”

Of course, those words are like gasoline on the candle of motherhood and Dance now said bluntly, “What? Tell me.” The tone was unmistakable: Don’t screw around. I’m your daughter but I’m an adult. I want to know and I want to know now.

“Jon brought some computer games over for the kids. And he got a phone call… Honey, he was talking to a broker about property. I heard him say he’d gotten a job and wanted to take a look at a house.”

This was interesting. But why the concern in her mother’s voice? “And?”

“It’s in San Diego. He’s moving in a couple of weeks.”

Oh.

Weeks?

Dance now understood what Edie meant about the children. They were still vulnerable from the death of their father. For them to lose the new man in their life would be very hurtful, if not devastating.

And then there’s me.

What the hell was he thinking of, not telling me anything? Here I was just offered a job in D.C. and the first thing I think of is talking to him about it.

Weeks?

So that’s why he hadn’t picked up the phone but used the coward’s hideout of voicemail.

But the first rule of law enforcement was not to make assumptions. “Are you sure? You couldn’t have misunderstood?”

“No, no. He was alone, in the back by the pool. He thought I couldn’t hear. And when Wes stepped out, he changed the subject completely. He basically hung up on the broker.”

Dance could say nothing for a moment.

“I’m sorry, honey.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Mom. Just need to think about this a little.”

“You get some sleep now. The kids are happy. We had a fun dinner. They love camp.” She tried to be light. “And more important, can you believe it? They’re looking forward to school. We’re going book bag shopping tomorrow.”

“Thanks. ’Night.”

“I’m sorry, Katie. ’Night.”

A moment later Dance found she was still holding her phone, disconnected, in front of her face. She lowered it.

The loss of her husband was like a digital event to Kathryn Dance, as Jon Boling the computer genius would describe it. On or off. Yes or no. Alive or dead.

But Jon Boling’s leaving? It was analog. It was maybe. It was partly. Was he now in her life or not?

The big problem, though, was that he’d made this decision without her. It didn’t matter that the job had probably happened quickly and he’d had to move fast.

Dammit, she was a part of his life. He should have said something.

She recalled that Edwin Sharp had referred to a song of Kayleigh’s at the restaurant yesterday. “Mr. Tomorrow.” It was about an abusive, straying man who swears he’ll get his act together and mend his ways. He promises he’ll change. Of course, the listener knows he never will.

As Dance lay in bed now, the lights out, she stared at the ceiling and that song looped through her mind until she fell asleep.

You know me by now, you’ve got to believe

You’re the number-one girl in the world for me.

I’ve sent her the papers and she’s promised to sign

It’ll just be a while, these things take some time…

And his words are so smooth and his eyes look so sad.

Can’t she be patient, it won’t be so bad?

But sometimes she thinks, falling under his sway,

She got Mr. Tomorrow; she wants Mr. Today.