XO

Chapter 46

AT NINE ON the dot Kathryn Dance met with Edwin Sharp in an apparently little-used office in the FMCSO, not an interrogation room. No intimidating decor, no mirrors.

The location was Dance’s idea; to put Edwin at ease, though it wasn’t exactly comfy. The room was windowless and featured a gray battered desk, propped up by books where a leg was missing, a trio of dusty dead plants and stacks of boxes containing files. On the walls were a half dozen bleached pictures of a family vacation at a lake, circa 1980.

The imposing man entered ahead of her and sat, slumping in the chair and regarding her with amused, curious eyes. She noted again his outsized arms, hands and eyebrows. He was wearing a plaid shirt, tight jeans and a thick belt with a large silver buckle, an accessory that somehow had come to be a stereotypical element of cowboyness, though she wondered if anyone had ever really worn one on the plains of Kansas or West Texas in the 1800s.

His boots, with pointed toes tipped in metal, were scuffed but looked expensive.

“You mind if I take notes?” she asked.

“Not at all. You can even record this.” He looked around the room as if he knew they were doing just that; Dance wasn’t obligated to tell him, since they’d gotten a magistrate’s okay, given that he was a suspect in the murders.

Dance remained placid but was troubled by his perception, or intuition. And his utterly calm demeanor. That false wisp of a smile added to the eeriness.

“Any time you want to take a break for some coffee or a smoke, you just let me know.”

“I stay away from coffee,” he said and gave no reaction to the other offer. Was he being coy? Dance had been fishing to find out about his current smoking habit. But whether he’d outmaneuvered her or just hadn’t thought to refer to the vice didn’t matter; she’d raised the issue once and couldn’t bring it up again without giving something away-as Madigan had done throughout the first interview.

He then surprised her further by asking casually, “How long’ve you been in law enforcement, Agent Dance?”

Just the sort of question she herself would ask early in an interview to establish a baseline for kinesic analysis.

“For some time now. But please call me Kathryn. Now, what can I do for you?”

He smiled knowingly as if he had expected such a deflecting answer. “‘Some time.’ Ah. You seem seasoned. That’s good. Oh, and you can call me Edwin.”

“All right, Edwin.”

“You enjoying Fresno?”

“I am.”

“Little different from Monterey, isn’t it?”

Dance wasn’t surprised that she herself had been the subject of Edwin’s own investigation. Though she wondered how far his knowledge of her life extended.

He continued, “It’s pretty there. I don’t like the fog much. Do you live near the water?”

“So, what can I do for you, Edwin?”

“You’re busy, I know. Let’s get to the nut of it. That was an expression of my mother’s. I thought it was about squirrels, hiding nuts. I never did find out what it meant. She had all sorts of great expressions. She was quite a woman.” His eyes scanned her face, dipped to her chest and belly, though not in a lascivious way, then back to her eyes. “I wanted to talk to you because you’re smart.”

“Smart?”

“I wanted to talk to somebody involved in this situation who’s smart.”

“There’re a lot of good people here, on the sheriff’s office staff.” She waved her arm, wondering if he’d follow the gesture. He didn’t. He continued to study her intently, soaking up images.

And that smile…

“Nobody as smart as you. That’s a fact and a half. And the other thing is you don’t have an agenda.” He grimaced and his brows furrowed even more. “Don’t you hate phrases like that? ‘Having an agenda.’ ‘Sending messages.’ ‘Drinking the Kool-Aid.’ Clichés. I regret saying that about the agenda. Sorry. Put it another way: You’ll stay focused on the truth. You won’t let your… let’s say ‘patriotism’ for Kayleigh mess up your judgment, like’s happened with the deputies here.”

She noted he was articulate, which she recalled was true of his emails as well. Most erotomanic or love-obsessional stalkers were above average in intelligence and education, though Edwin seemed smarter than most. Lord knew, if he was behind the killings, he was clever. This, of course, had nothing to do with a completely skewed sense of reality-like believing Kayleigh would actually be touched that he’d murdered her stepmother or a file sharer stealing her songs.

He continued, “Officers here, they won’t listen to me. End. Of. Story.”

“Well, I’ll be happy to hear what you have to say.”

“Thanks, Kathryn. Basically, it’s real simple. I didn’t kill Bobby Prescott. I don’t believe in file sharing but I wouldn’t kill anybody because they did it. And I didn’t attack Sheri Towne.”

He would have learned about the second and third attacks in the press. And she noted that he didn’t say, “or anyone with her.” The stories had not reported Dance’s own presence at the incident involving Sheri.

“You tell me that, Edwin. But everyone I interview denies the crime, even when we have them dead to rights-”

“Hey! Another expression of my mother’s.”

“I don’t really know you well enough to determine if you’re capable or inclined to hurt anybody or not. Tell me a little about yourself.”

Again, a knowing look, eerie. But he played along. And for five minutes or so he went through facts that she largely knew-his unfortunate, but not tortured, family history. His jobs in Seattle. His impatience with formal education. He said he often got bored in class; his teachers and professors were slower than he was-which might explain his checkered record at school.

He downplayed but didn’t deny his skill at computers.

He didn’t mention his romantic life, past or present.

“You have a girlfriend?”

That caught him a bit off guard as if he was thinking: Obviously, I do. Kayleigh Towne.

“Last year I dated somebody in Seattle. We lived together for a while. Sally was okay but she wasn’t into doing anything fun. I couldn’t get her to go to concerts or anything. I had to break up with her. Felt kind of bad about it. She really wanted to get married, but… it wouldn’t’ve worked out. I mean, is it too much to ask to have fun with somebody, to laugh, to be on the same, you know, wavelength?”

Not at all, Dance reflected but gave no response. She asked, “When did you break up?”

“Around Christmas.”

“I’m sorry about that. It must’ve been tough.”

“It was. I hate hurting people. And Sally was real nice. Just… you know, with some people things click, some not.”

She now had enough information and decided it was time to start her kinesic analysis. She asked him again what specifically she could do for him, noting his behavior closely.

“Okay, I’m not the brightest bulb on the tree. Another Mom expression, ha. And I’m not very ambitious. But I’m smart enough to figure out that I’m the victim here and I’m hoping you’re smart enough to take that seriously. Somebody’s setting me up-probably the same people who were spying on me last weekend. Behind the house, checking me out, my car, even my trash.”

“I see.”

“Look, I’m not the ogre everybody says I am. Deputy Madigan and Lopez? I’m sorry I had to have them arrested but I didn’t start it. They broke the Fourth and Fourteenth Amendments and some other state statutes by detaining me and searching my house. Those souvenirs were important to me. If you break the law there have to be consequences. That’s exactly what your job is all about. I read that article you wrote when you were a reporter a few years ago, about the justice system? In the paper in Sacramento. That was a good article. All about presumed innocence.”

Again, Dance struggled to keep the surprise off her face.

“Did you get a look at who was watching you?”

“No. They stayed in the shadows.”

Did his smile deepen at the word “shadows”? Just a faint reaction? She couldn’t tell.

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“Why do you assume I didn’t?”

She’d known that he had; he’d told Madigan about the incident when she’d been observing in the interrogation room when Edwin was detained. She’d wanted to see his consistency. “You did?”

His eyes narrowed. “Nine-one-one. And they asked me if the man was trespassing and I guess technically he wasn’t.”

“You’re sure it was a man?”

A hesitation. “Well, no. I just assumed.” His odd smile. “That’s good, Kathryn. See, that’s what I mean. You’re being smart.”

“Why would somebody make you a fall guy?”

“I don’t know. It’s not my job to prove my innocence. All I know is I haven’t hurt anybody but someone’s going to a lot of trouble to make it look like I have.” His eyes scanned her face closely. “Now, here’s where I need your help. I was by myself when Bobby was killed and the file sharer too. But when Sheri Towne was attacked, I have an alibi.”

“Did you tell the deputies?”

“No. Because I don’t trust them. That’s why I wanted to talk to you now. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea-because you’re a friend of Kayleigh’s-but after reading that article you wrote, after meeting you, I decided you wouldn’t let your friendship interfere with your judgment. Maybe that comes from you being a mother.” He dropped that sentence without adding anything further or even looking for a response. Dance wondered if her face ticked with the alarm she felt.

“Tell me about the alibi,” she calmly asked.

“I was going to go to the luncheon, for the fan? I didn’t think they’d let me in but I thought I could watch from a distance, I didn’t know. Maybe hear Kayleigh sing. Anyway, I got lost. Around Cal State I stopped and I asked directions. It was twelve-thirty.”

Yes, just around the time of the attack.

“Who’d you talk to?”

“I don’t know her name. It was a residential area near the sports stadium. This woman was working in a garden. She went inside to get a map and I stayed at the door. The noon news was just finishing.”

At the time I was dodging bullets and being hit by fire extinguisher shrapnel.

“The street name?”

“Don’t know. But I can describe her house. It had a lot of plants hanging from baskets. The bright red little flowers. What’re they called?”

“Geraniums?”

“I think so. Kayleigh likes to garden. Me, not so much.”

As if he were talking about his wife.

“My mother did too. She had-cliché alert!-a real green thumb.”

Dance smiled. “Anything more about the house?”

“Dark green. On the corner. Oh, and the house had a carport, not a garage. She was nice so I moved some bags of grass seed for her. She was in her seventies. White. That’s all I remember. Oh, she had cats.”

“All right, Edwin. We’ll look into that.” Dance jotted down the information. “Will you give us permission to search the yard where you saw that intruder?”

“Of course, sure.”

She didn’t look up but asked quickly, “And inside your house too?”

“Yes.” A microsecond of hesitation? She couldn’t tell. He added, “If Deputy Madigan had asked in the first place I would have let him.”

Dance had called his bluff, which may not have been a bluff at all, and said she’d schedule a time for deputies to come by.

And she asked herself the big question: What did the kinesics reveal? Was Edwin Sharp telling the truth?

She frankly couldn’t say. As she’d told Madigan and the others in the briefing on Monday, a stalker is usually psychotic, borderline or severely neurotic, with reality issues. That meant he might be reciting what he believed was the truth, even though it was completely false; therefore his kinesics when lying would be the same as his baseline.

Adding to the difficulty was Edwin’s diminished affect-his ability to feel and display emotion, such as stress. Kinesic analysis works only when the stress of lying alters the subject’s behavior.

Still, interviewing is a complex art and can reveal more than just deception. With most witnesses or suspects, the best information is gathered by observations of, first, body language, then, second, verbal quality-pitch of voice and how fast one talks, for instance.

The third way in which humans communicate can sometimes be helpful: verbal content-what we say, the words themselves. (Ironically, this is generally the least useful because it is the most easily manipulated and prone to misunderstanding.)

Yet with a troubled individual like Edwin, where kinesics weren’t readily available, looking at his verbal content might be the only tool Dance had.

But what had he offered that could be helpful?

He shook his head as if answering her silent question, and the smile deepened. It was unprofessional but she wished he’d lose the grin. The expression was more unnerving to her than the worst glare from a murderer.

“You think I’m smart, Edwin. But do you think I’m straightforward?”

He considered this. “As much as you can be.”

“You know, with everything that’s been happening, don’t you think it might make sense for you to get back to Seattle, forget about the concert. You could see Kayleigh some other time.”

She said this to prime the pump, see if he’d offer facts about his life and plans-facts that she might use for content-based analysis.

She certainly didn’t expect the laugh of disbelief and what he then said: “I can hardly do that, now, can I?”

“No?”

“You know that song of hers, ‘Your Shadow’?”

There wasn’t a single clue in his face that this song was a calling card for murder. She said casually, “Sure. Her big hit. You thought it was the best song she ever wrote.”

Edwin’s grin for once took on a patina of the genuine. “She told you that, did she?” He glowed; his lover had remembered something about him. “Well, it’s about her, you know.”

“About her, Kayleigh?”

“That’s right. The first verse is about how people take advantage of her as a musician. And then there’s a verse about that car crash-when her mother died. Kayleigh was fifteen. You know Bishop was driving, drunk.”

No, Dance had not been aware of that.

“He spent eight months in jail. Never drove a car after that. Then that other verse, about the riverside?” At last the smile faded. “I think, I don’t know, but I think something pretty bad happened to her when she was about sixteen. She disappeared for a while. I think she had a breakdown, tried to kill herself. Drowning, you know. That’s the lyrics in the song.”

Was that true? Dance had never heard of this either.

Now the uncomfortable smile faded. “How sad is that? Writing a song to comfort yourself, because nobody else is there for you? Awful…” Eyes focused intently on his interviewer. “Kayleigh sent me a dozen emails and a few real letters, and you know what I read between the lines in every single one? She needs me, Agent Dance. She needs me bad. If I left, who else would look out for her?”

Chapter 47

DEPUTY CRYSTAL STANNING, Michael O’Neil and Kathryn Dance were in the briefing room of the FMCSO. Acting Chief Detective Dennis Harutyun too.

Dance was reporting about the interview with Edwin. “I’ll have to be honest. He’s very hard to read kinesically. He’s coming off as completely nondeceptive, which either means he’s telling the whole truth or he’s completely delusional.”

“The son of a bitch did it,” Stanning grumbled.

It seemed the woman had grown more self-confident and edgier as the case had progressed. Or maybe it was just Madigan’s absence.

A call to the Joint County Emergency Communications headquarters revealed that Edwin had in fact called 911 to report a Peeping Tom. It was Saturday night, 7:00 P.M. He was complaining about somebody watching him from the backyard. No details. The dispatcher said to call back if the perp actually trespassed or threatened him.

Charlie Shean’s crime scene team had just gone out to the place and conducted a search for where the intruder might have been. He was due any moment with the results.

O’Neil asked, “Saturday-the night before Bobby was killed. Who could’ve been watching him, who knew he was in town?”

Harutyun said, “We got the notice about a week ago-from Kayleigh’s lawyers-that he might be in Fresno and could be a problem.”

But Dance pointed out, “Anybody could’ve found out where he was.”

“How’s that?” Harutyun asked.

The Monterey detective added that on the fan websites, Sharp had posted that he was going to Fresno “for a while.”

Harutyun took a call, spoke for a few minutes and then disconnected. “Patrol’s canvassing the area around Bulldog Stadium. Cal State. Lotta people. It’s slow going.”

This was to find the woman who’d given Edwin directions at the time of Sheri’s attack. Dance was calling her Alibi Woman.

A moment later Charlie Shean walked into the office. He greeted them all and briefed them about the scene.

In his thick Boston accent, rare in these parts, he said, “We went through his house and collected some trace but it was clean. I wonder if he scrubbed it down, after he gave you permission to search.” A glance toward Dance.

She recalled the faint hesitation before Edwin gave his okay.

“Cigarettes?” Dance had asked them to check.

“No. No lighters or matches or ashtrays. No odor of cigarettes either… Now, I know from before that the latex gloves in Edwin’s kitchen probably aren’t the same as at the Bobby Prescott homicide. The wrinkle patterns are different. Outside, where the alleged perp was spying on him? Well, we found some shoe prints in the dust, cowboy boots, it looks like, not the sort that garbage men or workers back there would wear. They were distorted because of the wind but at least it hadn’t rained and washed the damn prints away. Can’t tell size, male, female or age. And we collected about thirty samples of trace but the preliminaries are pretty useless. Sorry, Dennis-if there’s anything there, I don’t know how it can help.

“Now, we confirmed that the cigarette from last night at your motel is a Marlboro. We have ash from the site of the Sheri Towne attack-cigarette ash, I mean-but we don’t have the equipment to analyze it proper to tell what brand it is or how long ago it was left.”

It was then that Dennis Harutyun’s assistant came to the door and handed him a sheaf of papers. “These’re those emails you were waiting for, about Bobby Prescott. They finally came in.”

The deputy read them over, laughed. Subdued but for him a significant outpouring of emotion.

He said to the officers, “One of the things I was looking into was another motive for killing Bobby Prescott, by somebody other than Edwin?”

“Right,” Dance said.

“Well, I may’ve found one.”

“Go ahead.”

He said, “You ever hear about these guys, John, Paul, George and Ringo?”

Chapter 48

DANCE AND O’NEIL conducted the search themselves.

It felt good, being with him again, working with him. Some of this was simply the comfort of being with a person you were close to, whose subtle looks and smiles and gestures communicated perfectly, without the need for words.

But part of the pleasure was their combined skills as law enforcers. A Gestalt-the whole greater than the sum of the parts. Policing’s a tough business and can’t be done alone. The job can be a nightmare when you aren’t connected with your partner-and that not only makes for a tough working day but it also means the bad guys are less likely to get caught.

Police investigation can be an art form, like ballet, a choreography of technique, purpose, and she felt this in near perfection with Michael O’Neil.

The scene where they were practicing their harmonies was Bobby Prescott’s trailer and what had inspired the search here was the revelation by Harutyun about the Fab Four.

Dance believed she now knew what had been stolen the morning after the roadie had been murdered-by the person Tabatha Nysmith had seen in Bobby’s trailer. And the object of this theft wasn’t Kayleigh Towne memorabilia. Indeed, it had nothing to do with the singer at all or with the stalker-except to the extent that, yes, Edwin Sharp probably was a fall guy as he’d claimed all along.

“Well,” she said, somewhat breathlessly, examining a binder from the shelves where she’d noted something missing several days ago, when she was here with P. K. Madigan.

O’Neil stepped closer and together they looked over a spiral notebook in which Bobby Prescott’s father had jotted details about the recordings he’d helped engineer at Abbey Road Studios in London during the 1960s and ’70s.

Dance recalled that Tabatha had mentioned Bobby’s father’s illustrious career.

It was a breathtaking list of talent from the era: Cliff Richard, Connie Francis, the Scorpions, the Hollies, Pink Floyd and of course the Beatles, who recorded Yellow Submarine and Abbey Road there. Much of the man’s scribbling was cryptic-notes about synthesizers and amplifier dynamics and acoustic baffles and instruments.

But the most relevant was a carbon copy of a letter to Bobby’s father.

June 13, 1969

Bob Prescott:

Hey mate, thanks for the GREAT job, you’re the best engineer, we mean it. Loved working with you. So, in appreciation for all those sleepless nights the tapes to those songs we did playing around after ‘Abbey Road,’ are yours, all the rights, everything. The list’s below. Cheers!

“Wait,” O’Neil said. “Are those…?”

Dance said in a whisper, “I think they are. My God, I think they are.” At the bottom of the letter were the titles of four songs. None of them was a known Beatles song.

She explained that the composing and recording of the songs on the Abbey Road album began in the spring of 1969. It was the group’s last studio album. Let It Be was released a year later, though that song was finished by January of ’69.

Dennis Harutyun-the “librarian of the FMCSO,” as Madigan dubbed him-had indeed done some impressive research into the life of Bobby Prescott and his family to see if anyone other than Edwin might have a motive to kill him. The deputy had found some rumors, buried on the Internet, that his father might have had some outtakes of Beatles songs he’d helped engineer in London years ago.

But these weren’t outtakes; they were complete songs, original and unreleased, never heard in public.

“And the Beatles just gave them away?” O’Neil asked.

“The band was breaking up then. They were rich. Maybe they just didn’t care about them. Or maybe they just didn’t think they were any good.”

“The letter’s not signed by any of them.”

Dance shrugged. “A handwriting expert could verify which of the four wrote it. But they talk about ‘after “Abbey Road.”’ Who else could it be? They must’ve stayed around the studio afterward and just thrown a few songs together. Doesn’t matter; they’re still Beatles songs.”

“Bobby got the tapes from his father.”

“Right,” Dance said, gesturing at the shelves. “The perp found out and has been waiting for a chance to kill him and steal them.”

“Waiting for Edwin or somebody like him to show up as a fall guy.”

“Exactly.”

O’Neil said, “So it’s somebody who knew Bobby and his archives and would have heard the rumors about the Beatles songs.” He regarded the lyrics. “Could the perp sell them, though?”

“I’d think at the least he could work out a finder’s fee in the millions. Or maybe he could sell them to a reclusive collector-like that Japanese businessman who got busted for spending fifty million for a stolen Van Gogh. He was going to keep it in his basement, never let anybody see it.”

O’Neil pointed out, “Well, we know the motive. The second question is, who’s the perp? You have any ideas? I don’t know the cast of characters here.”

Dance thought for a moment, looking round the trailer.

A to B to Z…

“I need you to do something.”

“Sure,” the detective said. “Evidence, crime scene? You’re a better interrogator than I am but I’m game.”

“No,” she said. She took him by the shoulders and walked him backward five feet. She then stepped away and examined him closely. “Just stand right there and don’t move.”

As she walked out the door, O’Neil looked around and said, “I can do that.”

A HALF HOUR later, Dance and O’Neil, along with a contingent of FMCSO deputies, sped through the hazy late-summer afternoon toward a motel off Highway 41.

It was a Red Roof Inn. Decent, clean but surely far below what the guest they were about to arrest had been used to at certain points in his life.

The four cars approached silently.

There were jurisdictional considerations, of course, but Dance and O’Neil weren’t here to claim the trophy, merely to help out. They were happy to let the local constabulary handle the arrest. She had, after all, agreed to let Madigan take the collar and corner the publicity, though it would be FMCSO in general who’d get the credit, since he wasn’t on active duty.

The three police cars and Dance’s Nissan slipped silently up to the motel and parked. With a shared smile and tacit understanding, Dance and O’Neil glanced at each other and wandered to the back of the place, while Harutyun, Stanning and four other deputies sprinted through the halls to the room where surveillance had revealed the suspect was staying.

As they’d guessed, the nervous perp had been anticipating the visit; he’d seen the cars approach and he literally leapt out the window of his room onto an unpleasant patch of grass reserved for dogs doing their business. He righted himself fast, wrapped his computer bag strap around his chest and poised for a sprint, then wisely chose to stop as he glanced at the guns in the hands of Dance and O’Neil, both of the muzzles pointed steadily at his head.

Two other somber deputies, one Latino and one Anglo, joined them in the back. They were the ones who slapped the cuffs on Kayleigh’s producer, Barry Zeigler, and led him toward the parking lot around front. It was Kathryn Dance who took possession of the computer bag that would contain the priceless songs that he’d stolen from Bobby Prescott’s trailer, the morning after he’d killed the roadie.

Chapter 49

“YOUR HEIGHT,” DANCE explained to him.

Zeigler sat, miserable, in the backseat of a sheriff’s office cruiser. The door was open and he was facing outward, hands shackled behind him.

She continued to elaborate, answering his question about how she knew it was he. “The perp would know Bobby pretty well and had probably been in his trailer before. And he’d been somebody who was very familiar with everyone connected with the band.”

The deciding factor was what she told him next: “And he was tall.”

“Tall?”

She explained about her interview with Tabatha, across the street, several days ago. “She said she’d seen somebody inside that morning. Except, she couldn’t see the intruder’s head, only his chest.”

This was why she’d put O’Neil in front of the window of the trailer a half hour ago. Recalling that she’d been eye-to-eye with P. K. Madigan, outside, when she’d searched the trailer, she’d positioned the Monterey detective about where Tabatha had seen the intruder. She’d then stepped outside and walked across the street. Looking back, she’d clearly seen O’Neil’s face.

Which meant that the intruder Monday morning had been well over O’Neil’s height of six feet. The only person she’d met recently with an interest in Kayleigh Towne, who knew Bobby and who fit that stature was Barry Zeigler.

“Shit,” the man muttered, utterly defeated. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

Dance heard that often as an interrogator.

Sorry…

Of course what it meant, ten times out of ten, was: I’m sorry I got caught.

“When I met you at Kayleigh’s house you said you’d just driven there from Carmel. But we talked to the desk clerk here. You checked in the morning after Bobby was killed.”

“I know, I know. I lied. I’m sorry.”

That, again.

Dance said, “And then there was the recording of Kayleigh singing ‘Your Shadow.’ That you played to announce the attacks? It was done on a high-quality digital recorder. The sort that pros use-pros like you, producers and engineers.”

“Recording?” he asked, frowning.

She glanced at Dennis Harutyun, who ran through the Miranda warning. He added, “You’re under arrest for murder, for-”

“Murder? What do you mean?”

Dance and Harutyun exchanged glances.

“You’re being arrested for the murder of Bobby Prescott, sir,” the Fresno detective said. “And Frederick Blanton. And assault and battery on Sheri Towne and Agent Dance. Do you wish to-”

“No, no, I didn’t kill anyone! I didn’t attack anyone!” The producer’s face was shocked. Dance had seen a lot of performances from suspects; this was one of the best. “I’d never do that! Why would I do that?”

“Yessir. You’ll have your day in court. Do you understand your rights?”

“Bobby? You’re thinking I killed Bobby? No! And I’d never hurt Sheri. This is-”

“Do you understand-?”

“Yes, yes. But-”

“Do you wish to waive your right to remain silent?”

“Sure, yes. This is ridiculous. This is a huge misunderstanding.”

Harutyun asked, “Did you drive up here on Sunday and kill Bobby Prescott that night?”

“No, no. I drove in on Monday morning, about eleven. After I heard from Kayleigh that Bobby had died. Yes, I broke into Bobby’s trailer but it was just to get some personal things.”

“The songs,” Harutyun said. “We know all about them.”

“Songs?”

“The Beatles songs.”

“What are you talking about?”

The quality of his confusion seemed genuine so she decided to add, “Bobby’s father was a technician at Abbey Road in the sixties and seventies.”

“Right. A pretty famous one. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“The Beatles gave him four original songs they wrote after they finished Abbey Road.”

Barry Zeigler laughed. “No, no, no…”

O’Neil said, “You killed him and stole the songs. They’re worth millions.”

The producer continued, “It’s an urban legend. All those rumors about outtakes and secret recordings. All that nonsense about Paul is dead. No rumor spreads faster in the music world than ones about the Beatles. But there’s nothing to it. There are no undiscovered songs.”

Dance was sizing up behaviors. Zeigler seemed more or less credible. She said, “What about this?” She showed him the plastic envelope containing the letter to Bobby’s father.

Zeigler looked at it and shook his head. “Those aren’t Beatles songs. It was some local group from Camden Town in London, I don’t even remember the name. They were nothing. After the Beatles wrapped Abbey Road, this group booked studio time. They laid down fifteen or sixteen tracks and used twelve or so for their album. I guess they liked Bobby’s father so much they let him have the ones they didn’t use. Nothing ever came of the group. Fact is, they wrote pretty sucky songs.”

Dance looked at the language of the note again.

So, in appreciation for all those sleepless nights the tapes to those songs we did playing around after ‘Abbey Road,’ are yours, all the rights, everything. The list’s below. Cheers!

Yes, it could simply refer to studio time after the Beatles had finished recording their album.

“But you just admitted you stole something from Bobby’s trailer that morning.”

Zeigler was debating. He looked to O’Neil and the other deputies. “Leave us alone, Agent Dance and me. I want to talk to her alone.”

She considered this. “It’s all right.”

The others walked away from the squad car. Dance crossed her arms and said, “Okay, talk.”

“You can’t tell a soul.”

“You know I can’t agree to that.”

The man’s long face screwed into a disgusted knot. “All right. But take a look first and then decide. In the bag, there’s a zipper liner. Some papers. That’s what I took from Bobby’s.”

Dance opened the computer bag and found the compartment. She withdrew an envelope and opened it, reading through a four-page document.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“Happy now?” Zeigler muttered.

Chapter 50

WHAT HE’D STOLEN was a letter from Bobby Prescott about how he wanted his property distributed in the event of his death.

Most of it would go to one person: the child who was his and Kayleigh Towne’s, Mary-Gordon.

Apparently Kayleigh had had the child at sixteen and Suellyn and her husband, Roberto Sanchez, had adopted the little girl within weeks of her birth.

The envelope included a copy of the adoption papers and some personal messages to the girl, for her to read when she was older.

“He told me a few years ago that he’d written it,” Zeigler said. “I couldn’t let it become public.”

Dance recalled the close relationship she’d sensed between Bobby and Kayleigh at the restaurant. And the other things she’d noted: Mary-Gordon’s blond hair color, the girl’s forthright demeanor. Her eyes were Kayleigh’s bright blue, while Suellyn’s-and presumably her Latino husband’s-were brown.

She thought too about Edwin’s comment in the recent interview.

I think something pretty bad happened to her when she was about sixteen…

Dance asked, “But how come no one knew she was pregnant?”

“Oh, Kayleigh didn’t start performing professionally until she was seventeen. She wasn’t on the press radar before then but Bishop had big plans for her. He pulled her out of school when she was about two months pregnant, got a tutor for homeschooling. He kept it secret and spun the story pretty well to friends-Kayleigh was real upset her mother had died. She was depressed. Made sense for her to disappear for eight, nine months. He suggested to people she’d had a breakdown.”

Dance was appalled. “And he forced her to give the baby up?”

Zeigler’s long face moved up and down. “Bobby was twenty-two, she was six years younger. Okay, that’s bad, no question. On the other hand, he was a really nice guy and if anybody would fall for a father figure, it’d be Kayleigh. Her mother had just died, she was living in a house she hated, with her father on the road most of the time. She was vulnerable. And it wasn’t just a fling. They wanted to get married. They were in love. But when Bishop heard, he flew back to town right after a concert and said if they didn’t agree to the adoption he was going get Bobby arrested for statutory rape.”

“He did that?”

“Sure did. Kayleigh agreed to the adoption-but only to placing the girl with her sister so she could still see her. And she insisted that Bobby stay with the band. Bishop figured that was the best he was going to get and he agreed.”

Dance recalled her own observations about Bobby and what Kayleigh had told her. “That’s when Bobby started drinking and got into drugs, right?”

Zeigler lifted an eyebrow. “You caught that, hm? Yep, that was it. He was really upset it didn’t work out between them.”

“But why couldn’t she keep the baby?” Dance asked. “I know she wants children.”

“Oh, that wouldn’t work,” Zeigler said bitterly. “Bishop’s own career was dying at that point. All he had left was Kayleigh.”

“And he was convinced that she needed to build her career on a good-girl image to be successful.”

“Exactly. He was ahead of the curve there. Like he usually was. Look at those Twilight vampire books my daughter loves. They’re about kids being in love but not having sex. That’s Kayleigh Towne. And parents-the ones with the credit cards-love that image. If word had gotten out that she was pregnant at sixteen, that could have been the end of her career.”

Dance didn’t know if that was true or not. She had a lot of faith in the intelligence and discernment of audiences. She said coolly, “But it was about you too, right? You can’t afford to lose her. Not with the way record labels are headed nowadays.”

Zeigler’s shoulders, high above Dance, slumped. “Okay, okay. Kayleigh’s my only major act left. Everybody else is gone. If I lose her it’s all over with. I’m forty-five and all I’ve ever done is produce albums. I can’t afford to be a freelancer. Besides, Kayleigh’s an amazing talent. I love working with her. She’s a genius. One of a kind.”

Dance looked at the adoption paperwork, the letter.

“Mary-Gordon doesn’t know?”

“No. Bishop forced Suellyn and her husband to sign a nondisclosure agreement. If they said a word they might lose custody.”

Dance closed her eyes briefly and shook her head at this news about Bishop Towne, which disturbed but didn’t surprise her one bit.

Zeigler gave a bitter laugh. “I’m not the only desperate person in this business.”

She slipped the documents back into the envelope and put it into her purse. “I’ll think about it. For now, you were looking for some personal papers at Bobby’s. What you found and took had no value and had nothing to do with the case.” She looked him over coolly. “But you’re still a suspect in the murders.”

“I was in Carmel, at a hotel, when Bobby died.”

“Can anybody verify that?”

He thought for a moment. Then said, “I was by myself… I was really upset-I’d just been fired by my other major artist. The only contact I had with anybody was a message I left for my wife.” He glanced up at Dance with miserable eyes. “Is that any good-a voicemail where you’re sobbing like a ten-year-old that your career is probably over?”

“It could be,” Dance told him.

Chapter 51

“NO BEATLES?” DENNIS Harutyun asked, visibly disappointed the news wasn’t true. This was the most emotional she’d seen him.

“Doesn’t look that way.”

Dance had phoned Martine, her website partner and a true musical historian, who made some calls and reported back about what Zeigler had said. Yes, there’d been rumors for years of undiscovered Fab Four songs but the consensus was just as the producer explained.

Dance, Harutyun and Crystal Stanning stood in a cluster in the parking lot of the Red Roof Inn. The lights of the patrol cars were flashing urgently. Maybe this was procedure but Dance wished they’d shut them off.

O’Neil was on the phone. Finally he ended the call and looked up. “His alibi? It’s good.”

The cell phone data and the voiceprint of the “sobbing ten-year-old” confirmed that at the moment Bobby Prescott was being murdered in the Fresno convention center, Barry Zeigler was over two hours away.

“Why’d he break into Bobby’s trailer?” Harutyun asked. “What was he after?”

Dance shrugged. “Apparently it’s personal. Nothing to do with the case. I believe him.”

O’Neil’s eyes swung toward her, amused. Was her behavior deviating from her baseline? Which he, of all people, would know very well.

The Fresno deputy said, “Hardly seems worth the trouble, collaring him for that. But, I’ll tell you, bad judgment ought to be a misdemeanor.” He walked over to his car, got Zeigler out and uncuffed him. Dance didn’t know what transpired between the two but she assumed it involved a stern talking-to. With a glance toward Dance, the producer collected his computer bag and returned to his room, rubbing his wrists.

Dance decided to give the documents to Kayleigh and let her decide how to handle the matter.

“So,” Harutyun said, returning to them. “No leads. No suspect.”

“We have the evidence,” Crystal Stanning offered. “From the crime scenes and what we collected in Edwin’s backyard.”

“Evidence,” Harutyun muttered, a sour tone that Dance counted as yet another shred of emotion from the reserved detective. “Life’s not like CSI, I’m sorry. Charlie’s folks are good but you need more than finding. You need figuring out.”

Yet another dust devil whirled up nearby. Dance cocked her head as she stared at it.

“What?” O’Neil asked, perusing her face. He sensed something was up.

The miniature cyclone vanished.

Kathryn Dance pulled out her phone and made a call.

Chapter 52

TWO HOURS LATER this foursome reconvened in the sheriff’s office-in the digs of ousted P. K. Madigan, specifically. It was the largest in the Detective Division, the only one with room for more than two or three people at one time.

Dance noted, with some sad poignancy, that the chief detective had been clipping coupons from Safeway. Maybe he did the family shopping. Only one coupon was for ice cream. Buy one pint, get another free.

She received a text, read it and then asked the deputies, “Can you show me your service door?”

Harutyun and Stanning regarded each other and she said, “Sure, I guess. Follow me.”

Dance and others did and after a brief walk stopped at a wide doorway in a delivery area at the back of the main building, opening onto a ramp that led to the parking lot.

“Good. This’ll do.” She made a call and gave directions to this entrance. Dance disconnected and explained, “I’m having some houseguests this weekend. They’ve been in San Jose at a conference. I took the liberty of asking them here. I had our San Francisco office lend them a set of flashing lights. They made better time than I thought.”

Just then a white van pulled up and stopped. The side door opened and a disabled-passenger ramp extended to the ground. A moment later a handsome man with dark hair and a fleshy nose drove a red motorized wheelchair quickly down the ramp and through the doorway of the service area. Wearing tan slacks and a long-sleeved burgundy shirt, he was pale, as befits someone who does not get outside very much. Joining him was a tall, redheaded woman in jeans, black T-shirt and black jacket, and a slim, younger man with perfectly trimmed hair. He wore well-tailored slacks, a white shirt and a striped tie.

“Lincoln!” Dance bent down, pressing her cheek against that of the man in the wheelchair. “Amelia.” She embraced the redhead, Amelia Sachs, Lincoln Rhyme’s partner.

“Hello, Thom,” she said to Rhyme’s caregiver, who also hugged her warmly.

“Been way, way too long,” the aide said.

“Kathryn… and Michael O’Neil,” Rhyme said, casting his eyes quickly on the detective.

Surprised, O’Neil said, “That’s right.” He’d never met Rhyme. “How’d you know?”

“A few observations. You’re carrying a weapon so you’re public safety and those Fresno-Madera folks there”-a nod toward Harutyun and Stanning-“are in uniform but their name badges show they’re detectives. So, the policy here is that even detectives wear uniforms. You’re not, so you’re probably from another jurisdiction. There’s a car outside with a Monterey County wharf pass on it. You’re tanned and pretty fit-the way somebody who boats or fishes in the ocean would be. I know you and Kathryn work together frequently. Therefore… you were Michael O’Neil. Or, maybe I could tell that from the body language between the two of you.” This was delivered, like most of Lincoln Rhyme’s wry comments, without a smile.

Rhyme made a slight movement of his neck and his right arm extended smoothly. He shook O’Neil’s hand. Dance knew he’d recently had some surgery to improve his condition-he was quadriplegic, mostly paralyzed from the neck down; he’d been injured on the job as head of the NYPD Crime Scene Unit some years ago. The operation had been successful and he’d regained nearly all the use of his right arm and hand, which he controlled by subtle gestures of his neck, shoulder and head muscles.

He similarly greeted Harutyun and Stanning, and Sachs introduced Thom Reston, Rhyme’s caregiver.

Harutyun continued, “Kathryn said she’d called in an expert but I never thought it’d be someone like you. Well, thanks for coming. You’re based in New York, I heard. What brings you to California?”

“Came for a visit,” the man said shortly. And let it go at that. He was not a conversationalist-even less of one than Michael O’Neil.

Sachs filled in, “He’s been lecturing at a forensics conference in San Jose. Then we were going to spend a few days with Kathryn and her family in Pacific Grove.”

Dance had known and worked with Rhyme for several years. She’d been after him and Sachs to come for a visit. Rhyme was disinclined to travel-certainly there were logistical issues and he was naturally a bit of a recluse-but he was in demand as a consultant in forensics and crime scene work and he decided to accept a lecture assignment on that subject in San Jose.

The preparations for her house that her father was taking care of in anticipation of the visit involved building a ramp to let Rhyme motor up to the front door and some modifications to a bathroom. Rhyme had told them not to bother, they’d stay at a motel but retired Stuart Dance loved any excuse to use his many woodworking tools.

Harutyun said, “Well, it’s a true pleasure to meet you, Detective Rhyme.”

A fast: “‘Lincoln’ is fine. I’m decommissioned.” He revealed a hint of pleased irritation at the man’s comment.

“Amelia drove, I assume,” Dance said, with a wry glance at Thom. This was a reference to the timing. It was about 120 miles from San Jose to Fresno and they’d made the trip in an hour and a half-and in a disabled-accessible van, no less. Unlike Dance, the policewoman from New York was a car aficionado-she actually worked on them herself-and would take her muscle car out to the track to “relax” at 180 miles per hour.

Sachs smiled. “It was pretty much a straightaway. The flashing blue lights always help too.”

Rhyme looked around the storage facility with a grimace as if he expected this to be the crime lab. “Now. You have some things you’d like me to look over?” The criminalist was never one for socializing, Dance recalled.

“We have a pretty good lab,” Harutyun offered.

“Do you now?” There was cynicism in his voice. Dance had been to Rhyme’s town house on Central Park West in Manhattan; he’d turned the parlor into a well-equipped forensics lab, where he, as a consultant, Sachs and other officers would run the crime scene side of major cases in the metro area.

Not picking up on the sardonic tone, Stanning said proudly, “Yes, sir. Sheriff Madigan’s fought pretty hard to build up our CSU. Officers as far away as Bakersfield send samples here. And I don’t mean just rape kits. Pretty complicated things.”

“Bakersfield,” Rhyme said, even more ironically, drawing a sharp glance from Thom, a reminder that condescension was not necessary. Dance guessed his attitude had nothing to do with a prejudice against small towns, though. Rhyme was a nondenominational curmudgeon. He gave the NYPD, Scotland Yard and the FBI a lot of crap too. The New York governor’s and mayor’s offices had not escaped his wrath either.

“Well, we better get to it, you don’t mind.”

“Let’s go this way,” Harutyun said and led them inside, then out the front door.

As they walked and wheeled toward the crime lab, Dance briefed them on the case, explaining that their main suspect had proved to be very slippery. “His name’s Edwin Sharp. He could be the perp, he could be a fall guy, could be completely innocent.”

Harutyun said, “The UNSUB announces the attacks by playing a verse from one of Kayleigh’s songs.”

This clearly intrigued Rhyme. “Interesting, good,” he said, then decided he was exhibiting too much glee. “And he’s smart, right? He started with phones, then switched to other ways to play the song, like radio call-in requests?”

“Very good, sir,” Stanning said. “Not call-ins but most recent he played a song over a high-school-stadium PA system.”

Rhyme frowned. “Didn’t think of that one. Interesting, like I said.”

Dance added, “We’re tracking down a witness now, maybe an alibi. And he claims somebody’s been conducting surveillance on him, presumably to set him up for the crimes. That’s part of the evidence we need you to look at.”

Sachs asked, “You’ve interviewed him?”

“Yes. But the kinesics were inconclusive. I can say, though, that he’s got a stalker’s personality: reduced affect, attachment issues, reality problems.”

The woman from New York nodded. Kathryn Dance glanced down; she loved shoes and she couldn’t help but admire Amelia Sachs’s black, high-heeled boots, which sent the tall woman-a former fashion model-even further into the stratosphere.

Rhyme asked, “Samples from Edwin’s house or apartment?”

Dance said, “House. He gave us permission, though he might’ve scrubbed the place down before the team searched.”

Harutyun added that an earlier search, without a warrant, had resulted in getting the chief of detectives and another deputy suspended. The perp had also stolen the gun of another detective, temporarily removing him from the force.

“Crazy like a fox,” Rhyme commented and seemed oddly pleased at this news-maybe because he liked adversaries who were particularly smart and challenging. His number-one nemesis was boredom.

Then they were entering the lab and meeting Charlie Shean. If Harutyun was impressed that Rhyme was here, Shean was beside himself, having a crime scene legend in his “modest abode.”

Rhyme, though, was visibly impressed at the sophistication of the operation, despite his apparent misgiving earlier. Some people, Dance knew, are easier to read than others and although his body language was obviously severely limited, Rhyme was, to her, an open book.

Charlie Shean now briefed the criminalist on where they needed his expertise. “We’ve searched and we’ve done the analysis. But most of the results’re just raw data. We don’t know what to make of it. If you could offer some thoughts it’d be much appreciated.”

Rhyme was taking all this in as his eyes swept the ceiling. Then abruptly: “Sachs, let’s get a chart going.”

Rhyme used graphics in running his cases-having someone write down the evidence that had been gathered-in front of which he would then wheel back and forth, frowning and muttering to himself, as deductions and conclusions came or didn’t come. Shean explained what they’d found and she wrote.

• Sunday. Robert Prescott homicide, convention center stage/orchestra pit/scaffolding

– strip lamp

– no matching friction ridge prints

– no matching tool marks (unit removed by wing nuts)

– fifty-foot power cord

– no matching fingerprints

– smoke detectors in pit, disabled

– no matching fingerprints

– smudges determined to be produced by latex gloves, brand unknown, not associated with gloves in Edwin Sharp’s possession

– cardboard cartons moved from projected path of victim

– no matching fingerprints

– smudges determined to be produced by latex gloves, brand unknown, not associated with gloves in Edwin Sharp’s possession

– unique trace from stage/orchestra pit/scaffolding

– triglyceride fat (lard)

– 2700K color temperature (yellowish)

– melting point: 40-55 degrees F

– specific gravity: 0.91 at 40.0 C

– no footprints/vehicle tread marks

• Monday. Frederick Blanton homicide, gas station, near San Joaquin River

– two 9 mm shell casings

– weapon possibly Det. Gabriel Fuentes’s, no casings for comparison

– no friction ridge prints

– extractor marks match those found at Sheri Towne scene

– one 9 mm slug recovered

– lands and grooves match slugs from Sheri Towne scene

– accelerant

– Shell gasoline, 89 octane

– gasoline container destroyed

– no footprints/vehicle tread marks

• Monday. Frederick Blanton’s residence, Fresno

– no relevant friction ridge prints, footprints, vehicle tread marks

• Monday. Public phone in classroom building at Fresno College

– No relevant friction ridge prints

– unique trace collected

– calcium powder. Medical/dietary supplement?

– chemicals: limonite, goethite and calcite

– no footprints/vehicle tread marks

• Tuesday. Sheri Towne crime scene

– cigarette ash

– twenty-three 9 mm shell casings

– weapon possibly Det. Gabriel Fuentes’s, no casings for comparison

– no friction ridge prints

– extractor marks match those at gas station scene

– seven 9 mm slugs

– lands and grooves match those at Frederick Blanton scene

– no friction ridge prints

– no footprints/vehicle tread marks

• Tuesday. Emerson High School stadium, PA system facility

– no friction ridge prints

– no footprints/vehicle tread marks

– unique trace recovered

– calcium powder. Medical/dietary supplement?

• Tuesday. Park across from Mountain View Motel

– Marlboro cigarette. DNA analysis requested

– fishing line trip wire, generic brand

– no friction ridge prints

– no footprints/vehicle tread marks

• Wednesday. Edwin Sharp’s house

– outside:

– boot print, probably cowboy-style, unable to determine size, male or female

– no vehicle tread marks

– unique trace materials

– triglyceride fat (lard)

– 2700K color temperature (yellowish)

– melting point: 40-55 degrees F

– specific gravity: 0.91 at 40.0 C

– fungus

– chemicals: limonite, goethite and calcite

– mineral oil, with lime sulfur

– calcium powder. Medical/dietary supplement?

– ammonium oxalate

– inside:

– latex gloves, not associated with those at Prescott homicide

– household cleaning materials (to eliminate trace?)

– no cigarettes, matches or lighters, odor of cigarettes

Lincoln Rhyme regarded the chart closely. “Not good, not bad. Let’s get to work.”

Chapter 53

“ENTRANCE AND EXIT routes from the convention center?”

Shean explained, “There’re twenty-nine of them, including the windows and infrastructure access doorways and loading docks. There were thousands of prints and samples of trace.”

Lincoln Rhyme said, “Yes, yes, sometimes the problem is too much evidence, rather than not enough… I’m glad you know the number of exits, Charlie. Good searching.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Lincoln,” he corrected absently, absorbing the chart.

Rhyme and Shean got to work. Dance had wondered if being a guest would temper Rhyme’s edge but, clearly, no. When he learned that there were two different places behind Edwin’s house where an intruder might have stood to spy, he asked which trace came from which area. The tags on the half dozen collection bags reported only: Trace evidence from behind E. Sharp’s house, Woodward Circle West.

“Well, we didn’t really differentiate them.”

From Rhyme: “Oh.” It was the same as a loud dressing-down. “Might want to think about that in the future.”

Rhyme had once told Dance, “Where you find the clue is critical, vital. A crime scene is like real estate. It’s all about location, location, location.”

On the other hand, Shean had satisfied Rhyme’s number-one requirement when it came to trace: isolating “unique” material that might have been shed by the perp. This was done by taking many samples from spots nearby: samplars, they were called. If certain materials differed from these indigenous ones they might have come from the perp.

Shean’s officers had collected hundreds of samplars at all the scenes for comparison.

“That was competent,” Rhyme said. One of his more enthusiastic compliments. He then said, “And now, the cigarette ash.”

Stanning asked, “We’d like to know if the samples of ash match.”

“Yes, well, they wouldn’t match, of course.” He turned to the young woman. “Matching is when two or more items are identical,” Rhyme muttered. “Very few things actually match. Friction ridge-fingerprints and footprints, of course. DNA and-going out on a limb-the lands and grooves on slugs and extractor marks on the brass. Tool marks under rare circumstances. But as for trace? I could make the argument about some substances matching by analyzing half-life but that’s on a nuclear level.”

He turned his wheelchair and faced Stanning. “Let’s say you find cocaine that’s been cut with eighteen percent baking soda and two percent baby powder, and you have another sample that’s cut with exactly the same substances in those proportions. They don’t match but they’re associated, and a jury can infer they came from the same source. Of course, in our case, it’s possible that somebody could smoke the same cigarette at two different locations, miles apart on different days. But the odds of that are rather low. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I would. Definitely.” Stanning looked as if she’d decided not to make any more comments.

“You get a lot of convictions when you testify, I’d imagine,” Shean offered.

“Nearly one hundred percent,” Rhyme said, with only a veneer of modesty. “Of course, if the odds aren’t good up front I recommend not going to trial. Though I’m not above bluffing somebody into a confession. Now, I need to run an inductively coupled plasma test.”

Shean said, “Mass spectrometry. Well, we can do that.”

“I’m so pleased.”

“But-well, just curious-why that, if you’re analyzing ash?”

“For the metals, of course,” Amelia Sachs pointed out.

The CSU head tapped his forehead. “Trace metals in cigarette ash. Brilliant. I never thought of that.”

Rhyme said absently, “It’s the most definitive way to determine the brand and origin of cigarettes when all you have is ash. I vastly prefer a fleck of tobacco itself too, because then you can factor in desiccation and other absorbed trace substances. That can pinpoint location of storage and time.” He added a caveat, “Up to a point.”

Shean prepared the sample and ran the test and a short time later they had their answer.

Looking over the computer screen, Rhyme offered, “Zinc 351.18, iron 2785.74 and chromium 5.59. No arsenic. Yep, that’s Marlboro.”

“You know that?” Harutyun asked.

A shrug-one of the few gestures the criminalist was capable of-and one that he used with some frequency.

He announced, “I’ll say it’s likely that the same person was at both scenes. But remember, Person A could have been at the first site, smoking a Marlboro. Person B could have bummed one off him and set up the trap at the Mountain View Motel. Not likely but it could be. How long for the DNA?”

“Another few days.”

A grimace. “But it’s not any better in New York, of course. I don’t think you’ll find any, though. Your perp is smart. He probably lit it by blowing on the tip, not holding it in his lips. So, does this Edwin Sharp smoke?”

“He used to,” Dance said. “Still may sometimes but we don’t know.”

They couldn’t draw any conclusions from the boot print-really just the toe. Sachs studied the electrostatic print. “Agree that it’s probably a cowboy boot. Pretty common in New York a few years ago-line dancing was all the rage.” She added that Rhyme had compiled a footwear database but the electrostatic image was too fuzzy to give them a brand name.

“All right, the fishing line… nothing there, I’m afraid. ‘Generic’ is a word I dislike very much. Let’s look at the shell casings.”

Shean reiterated that he thought the gun at both the Blanton shooting and the Sheri Towne attack was probably the same.

“You can say ‘match,’” Rhyme said. “Won’t bite you, in this context. But where did the gun come from? Stolen from one of your officers, you were saying?”

“Possibly-Gabriel Fuentes. He’s been suspended.”

“I heard.”

“I wish we could tell. It might help incriminate Sharp. He was near Gabe’s car when the gun was stolen. But we don’t know for sure.”

“No? Let me have the close-ups of the extractor marks and scratches,” Rhyme said. “And the ones of the lands and grooves on the slugs.”

Shean placed them on a table for Rhyme to examine. “But we don’t have known samples from Gabe’s Glock. I asked him and-”

“I know you don’t.”

“Oh, right, otherwise we would have identified the gun.”

“Exactly.” Rhyme’s brow furrowed as he examined the pictures. “Sachs?”

Dance recalled that though they were both romantic and professional partners, they tended to refer to each other by their last names. Which she found rather charming.

Sachs studied the pictures too. Apparently she knew exactly what he was interested in. “I’d say four thousand.”

“Good,” Rhyme announced. Then: “I need the serial number of Fuentes’s gun.”

A fast computer search revealed it. Rhyme glanced at the number. “Okay, the gun was made four years ago by our talented friends in Austria. Call this Fuentes and ask him when he got it and how often he fired it.”

Harutyun made this call. He jotted notes and looked up. “You need anything else from Gabriel, Lincoln?”

“No. Not now. Maybe later. Don’t let him wander too far from his mobile.”

The answer was that he’d bought the weapon new-three years ago-and took it to the range twice a month or so. He would typically fire fifty rounds.

Rhyme gazed into the air over the local officers. “Fifty rounds, every two weeks, for three years means it’s been fired about thirty-nine hundred times. From the pictures of the shells and the slugs, Sachs estimated they came from a gun that had been fired about four thousand times. Good eye.” He glanced at her.

Sachs explained to the others, “The distension of the brass, cracks around the neck and the spread of the lands and grooves are typical of a gun fired with that frequency.”

Shean was nodding as if memorizing this. “So it is Gabe’s weapon.”

“Most likely,” Sachs said.

Rhyme called, “Microscope! Charlie, I need a ’scope.”

“Well, the scanning electron-”

“No, no, no. Obviously that’s not what I need. We’re not at the molecular level. Optics, optics!”

“Oh, sure.”

The man had a tech wheel over two heavy compound microscopes-one a biological, which illuminated translucent samples from beneath, and a metallurgic model, which shone light down on opaque samples. Shean was setting it up when Rhyme shooed him away. Using his right hand he prepared several slides from the trace and examined them one by one, using both of the scopes.

“And good job with the analysis of the trace, Charlie. Let me see the original printouts.”

Shean called them up and Rhyme studied the screen and then some of the samples visually. Peering through the eyepieces, he was muttering to himself. Dance couldn’t hear everything he said but caught an occasional, “Good, good… What the hell is that? Oh, bullshit… Hm, interesting… Good.”

Rhyme set slides out and pointed. “Fungi database on that one and I need a fast reagent test on those.”

A tech ran the reagent tests. But Charlie Shean said, “We don’t exactly have a fungus database.”

“Really?” Rhyme said. And gave the man a website, user name and pass code. In five minutes Shean was browsing through Rhyme’s own database on molds and fungi, jotting notes.

Eyes on the chart, Rhyme said, “‘Harutyun.’ Armenian.”

The detective nodded. “Big community here in Fresno.”

“I know.”

And how did Rhyme know that? Dance wondered. But speculating about the criminalist’s encyclopedic mind was useless. Some facts that even children knew he was completely ignorant of. Others, far more esoteric, were stored front and center. The key, she knew, was whether they had helped him analyze evidence or might help him do so in the future. She wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he didn’t know the earth revolved around the sun.

Finally the results from the new tests were compiled and Rhyme reviewed them, as well as the results from the earlier analysis that Shean’s techs had run. It was raw data only but no one was better at turning raw data into something useful than Lincoln Rhyme. “Now, outside Edwin’s house. The fungus is often used in place of traditional toxic chemical pesticides and the mineral oil is also found in alternative pesticides.

“Also, at his house and at the convention center, the triglycerides… With that color temperature and melting point, I’d say it’s neatsfoot oil. That’s used for treating baseball gloves and leather sports equipment, equestrian tack and gunslings. Snipers buy a lot of it. Used to be made from cattle bones-‘neat’ is an old word for oxen or cow-but now it’s made mostly from lard. Hence the triglycerides.” He consulted the chart, frowning. “I don’t know about the ammonium oxalate. That’s going to take more digging. But the limonite, goethite and calcite? It’s gangue.”

“What’s that, ‘gangue’?” O’Neil asked.

“It’s by-product-generally unused materials produced in industrial operations. Those particular substances are often found in ore collection and processing. I also found the same materials in the trace at the public phone at Fresno College, where he called Kayleigh to announce one of the attacks.

“And something else here,” Rhyme said with some excitement in his voice. He glanced at the evidence bags. “From the PA system control room, the phone and from behind Edwin’s house: calcium powder? But it’s not what you suggested, Charlie-medical or dietary supplement. It’s bone dust.”

“Well, couldn’t people still take it like a supplement?”

Rhyme frowned. “Don’t think they’d want to. I forgot to mention: it’s human.”

Chapter 54

THE BONE MATERIAL was quite minimal and to confirm the source would require a confocal laser scanning microscope, Rhyme explained, looking around the room as if one of these magical devices were nearby in the lab.

Charlie Shean said that while he was aware of the machine and had wanted to acquire one, the FMCSO could not, in fact, afford it.

“Well, I’m ninety-nine percent sure. The morphology of the particles and the geometry of the dust almost guarantee it’s human. I’d be very surprised if it wasn’t.”

What they could do with that information, though, Rhyme wasn’t positive. “Can’t quite see how it fits into the big picture,” he admitted. “Anybody among the cast of characters here have a job that might involve bone? Surgeon, dentist?”

“No.”

“Undertaker?” Harutyun suggested.

“They don’t do much bone work. I could see medical examiners, pathologists. Wait, Fresno College-where he made the call-does it have a medical school?”

“Yes,” Harutyun reported.

“Ah, that could be it. Human skeletons in the classrooms and then procedures too, involving bone saws. Until we get more information, I think we’ll go on the assumption that he picked up the bone dust at the school and then continued his surveillance at Edwin’s.”

O’Neil said, “At least we know that the person who was behind Edwin’s house was the perp.”

“So, that means it isn’t him,” Harutyun said.

“Unless,” Dance pointed out, “Edwin himself was the source of the bone dust and he left the trace when he walked back to see who’d been spying on him.”

“Exactly, Kathryn,” Rhyme said.

Harutyun muttered, “That’s the way this case’s been going all along-he’s guilty, he’s innocent, guilty, innocent.”

Rhyme wheeled back to the microscope. “Hm, still a few things I want to look at. Ammonium oxalate… Scotch?”

Crystal Stanning broke her vow of silence. “You… you found some traces of liquor?”

“No, no, I want some scotch.”

“Oh, well, we don’t actually have any in the sheriff’s office.”

“Really?” Rhyme sounded surprised.

“Lincoln,” Thom said.

“I was simply asking.” He returned to the microscope.

Dance and O’Neil looked over the chart, on which Sachs had highlighted Rhyme’s deductions.

• Sunday. Robert Prescott homicide, convention center stage/orchestra pit/scaffolding

– strip lamp

– no matching friction ridge prints

– no matching tool marks (unit removed by wing nuts)

– fifty-foot power cord

– no matching fingerprints

– smoke detectors in pit, disabled

– no matching fingerprints

– smudges determined to be produced by latex gloves, brand unknown, not associated with gloves in Edwin Sharp’s possession

– cardboard cartons moved from projected path of victim

– no matching fingerprints

– smudges determined to be produced by latex gloves, brand unknown, not associated with gloves in Edwin Sharp’s possession

– unique trace from stage/orchestra pit/scaffolding

– triglyceride fat (lard)

– 2700K color temperature (yellowish)

– melting point: 40-55 degrees F

– specific gravity: 0.91 at 40.0 C

– Determined likely to be neatsfoot oil, treatment for leather sports equipment, tack and gun slings

– no footprints/vehicle tread marks

• Monday. Frederick Blanton homicide, gas station, near San Joaquin River

– two 9 mm shell casings

– weapon possibly Det. Gabriel Fuentes’s, no casings for comparison

– Determined likely to be his weapon

– no friction ridge prints

– extractor marks match those found at Sheri Towne scene

– one 9 mm slug recovered

– lands and grooves match slugs from Sheri Towne scene

– accelerant

– Shell gasoline, 89 octane

– gasoline container destroyed

– no footprints/vehicle tread marks

• Monday. Frederick Blanton’s residence, Fresno

– no relevant friction ridge prints, footprints, vehicle tread marks

• Monday. Public phone in classroom building at Fresno College

– No relevant friction ridge prints

– unique trace collected

– calcium powder

– Determined likely to be human bone dust

– chemicals: limonite, goethite and calcite.

– Determined likely to be gangue, ore collection and processing byproduct

– no footprints/vehicle tread marks

• Tuesday. Sheri Towne crime scene

– cigarette ash

– Determined likely to be Marlboro

– twenty-three 9 mm shell casings

– weapon possibly Gabriel Fuentes’s, no casings for comparison

– Determined likely to be his weapon

– no friction ridge prints

– extractor marks match those at gas station scene

– seven 9 mm slugs recovered

– lands and grooves match those at Frederick Blanton scene

– no friction ridge prints

– no footprints/vehicle tread marks

• Tuesday. Emerson High School stadium, PA system facility

– no friction ridge prints

– no footprints/vehicle tread marks

– unique trace recovered

– calcium powder

– Determined likely to be human bone dust

• Tuesday. Park across from Mountain View Motel

– Marlboro cigarette. DNA analysis requested

– fishing line trip wire, generic brand

– no friction ridge prints

– no footprints/vehicle tread marks

• Wednesday. Edwin Sharp’s house

– outside:

– boot print probably cowboy-style, unable to determine size, male or female

– no vehicle tread marks

– unique trace materials

– triglyceride fat (lard)

– 2700K color temperature (yellowish)

– melting point: 40-55 degrees F

– specific gravity: 0.91 at 40.0 C

– Determined likely to be neatsfoot oil, treatment for leather sports equipment, tack and gun slings

– fungus

– Determined likely to be used in place of chemical-based fertilizers

– chemicals: limonite, goethite and calcite

– Determined likely to be gangue, ore collection and processing by-product

– mineral oil, with lime sulfur

– Determined likely to be organic pesticide

– calcium powder

– Determined likely to be human bone dust

– ammonium oxalate

– inside:

– latex gloves, not associated with those at Prescott homicide

– household cleaning materials (to eliminate trace?)

– no cigarettes, matches or lighters, odor of cigarettes

It was then that Dance’s mobile buzzed. She regarded the text with a frown. “I’ll be right back,” she told the others.

She walked outside and into the parking lot of the sheriff’s office. She nearly laughed to see P. K. Madigan undercover-he was now in khakis, a plaid shirt and tan vest, the fishing cap and mirrored aviator sunglasses.

Dance smiled. “Hi, I-”

But Madigan interrupted and said urgently, “We’ve got a situation. I mean, you’ve got a situation.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve spent the last sixteen or so hours online, looking up everything I could find about Edwin, Kayleigh, fans… everything.”

This was the assignment Dance had given P. K. Madigan, the job she’d described as “unpleasant,” since it involved sitting at a desk, not the greatest job in the world for an active law enforcer like the chief detective, who seemed to enjoy fieldwork, unlike a lot of his counterparts. But Dance believed it was important to continue to monitor Edwin’s online activity, and to find any new posts and sites he visited. With their limited manpower, she’d enlisted Madigan.

“Where’s Edwin now? He under surveillance?”

“He was. I’ll check,” Dance replied and placed a call. She posed the question to Dennis Harutyun, who was probably a bit mystified by Dance’s disappearance. But he didn’t query her; he just said, “Hold on.” A moment later he came back on the line. She heard frustration in his voice. “This is odd. Edwin went to the mall-Fashion Fair on Shaw. Parked in the lot near East Santa Ana. The deputy thought Edwin’d lose him in the stores so he stayed with the car. That was two hours ago. He hasn’t been back.”

“He knew he was being tailed and he jumped.”

“Probably.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

After she disconnected she told this information to Madigan, who grimaced hard. “Hell.” Then he asked, “You had any evidence suggesting he’d become violent?”

“No.” Dance explained that she’d interviewed him, then added, “But people like that keep a tight lid on their emotions. Something can push them over the edge real fast.”

“Well,” Madigan said urgently, “I’m pretty worried about something. A half hour ago there were some postings on some of Kayleigh’s fan sites. Anonymous, but they were sites where Edwin has posted in the past. The posts were the same, saying something to the effect of, ‘Watch the news, Kayleigh. Maybe you’ll finally understand how much I love you.’”

“John Hinckley.”

“Yep. I remember what you told us in the first briefing.”

That occasionally a stalker had a total break with reality and when he gave up hope that he’d be with his love, he’d kill someone to cement himself in her thoughts forever.

“Here’s the URLs of those sites.” Madigan handed her a sheet of yellow-lined paper. “Have Computer Crimes track ’em down and see where they were made from.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

“No,” he said, offering a wan smile, “thank you, Deputy.”

She returned to the office and handed Dennis Harutyun the sheet of paper. “What’s this?” he asked.

Dance explained, without mentioning Madigan’s name, about the threatening posts. “We need to trace them. Edwin’s name doesn’t appear but these’re blogs and sites he posts to regularly.”

“Where’d you get the sites?” Amelia Sachs asked.

“Just some outside research.”

But Harutyun looked at the handwriting and frowned, perhaps recognizing it and deducing the source was his ousted boss. Still, he said nothing and called the office’s computer crimes operation and ordered them to locate the posts and try to trace them.

Crystal Stanning went online and reviewed the posts. O’Neil said, “It may not be him. Kayleigh has to have other obsessive fans. We can’t forget that.”

But a moment later Harutyun’s phone hummed. He looked down. “It’s Computer Crimes.” He took the call and listened for a moment. “Okay. Thanks.” He disconnected and slipped the phone away. “The posting was from Java Hut.”

Harutyun said, “At Fashion Fair. That’s where Edwin is right now.”

“Maybe he’s still there,” Amelia Sachs said and Harutyun called Dispatch to order deputies to the shopping center to find Edwin. He reminded them that he could be armed.

Stanning asked, “He’s thinking of a mass shooting at the mall?”

Sachs said, “That could be it but the typical stalker killing profile is more one-on-one. An assassination.”

“True,” Dance said. “And it’s usually somebody famous. So that he’ll get the attention of his object.”

“But who’s the planned victim?” Harutyun wondered aloud.

O’Neil continued to read the posts. “They don’t mention anybody in particular.”

Dance joined him, arm against arm, and they stared at the posts.

“There, that one,” Dance muttered, pointing. She read it aloud. “‘I’ve seen all your postings, about Kayleigh. You claim you like her, you claim you love her music. But you use her like everybody does, you stole Leaving Home to keep the hispanics happy. Your a fucking hypocrit.’”

Lincoln Rhyme asked, “You have any idea who he’s talking about?”

“I know exactly who he means,” Dance replied.

Chapter 55

“IT’LL BE ALL right, Congressman,” Peter Simesky said.

Davis didn’t need reassurance. He needed his family taken care of. He called Suze again and left another message for her to stay in the house with the kids. There was possibly a little security problem. Stay put, lock the door. Call me. Love you.

“Please have Jessie find my wife, Peter.”

“I’ll do that, sir. But there’s no indication that this Sharp wants to hurt anybody but you. Besides, I don’t think there’s any way he could get to L.A. He was at a mall here in Fresno this morning, according to the police. And everybody’s looking for him.”

“He actually thinks I’m exploiting Kayleigh?”

“Using her-well, and that song, ‘Leaving Home’-just to increase your Latino voter base.”

“That’s bullshit! I’ve been a huge supporter of hers all along. I’ve been posting on her site and the blogs for a couple of years. Before she even wrote the song.”

Simesky reminded, “Oh, he’s a psycho, Bill. Agent Dance said he has no sense of reality.”

“She said he could be like Hinckley?”

“Could be.”

“Jesus. They’ve got to find him. If he can’t kill me maybe he’ll just go on a rampage.”

The men were in the Coronado, one of the nicer hotels in Fresno, and to Davis it seemed plenty secure, if you stayed away from the windows. But Davis’s aides, Simesky and Myra Babbage, and the police thought he should move to a more secure location.

If it wasn’t for his family’s safety Davis would have been amused. He was extremely unpopular in certain circles and had been threatened a number of times for his positions on various issues. Just mention relaxing immigration laws at a cocktail party and see what happens; imagine the consequences when it’s a campaign position of a potential presidential candidate. And yet here he was being threatened not by any rabid right-wingers but by a crazy guy who probably didn’t even know what the word “immigration” meant.

A knock on the door. Davis stepped forward but the aide waved him back and called, “Yes?”

“Kathryn Dance and Deputy Harutyun are here,” the campaign staff security man traveling with them, a massive fellow named Tim Raymond, called from outside.

Simesky opened the door and the two entered. The aide gave Dance a smile.

Davis had been amused at Simesky’s flirting earlier with Dance, at Kayleigh Towne’s house; there was no reason why a single man who was witty and charming shouldn’t turn his attentions toward an attractive single woman about his same age. But at this meeting, they were both pure business.

“Congressman, Peter,” Dance said.

Her green eyes quickly but calmly took in all the rooms, presumably for security threats, lingering briefly on the windows. Davis noted that she was now armed; she hadn’t been before. This made him a bit more uneasy.

Simesky asked, “Where are we with all this? What do we know?”

Dance said, “We’re still trying to find Edwin. Michael O’Neil-a deputy from Monterey-and the others are back at the sheriff’s office working on that. He’s vanished from the mall where he sent the website post. His car’s still there but he could have other wheels. Until we have a better idea where he is, we want to get you to that safe house as soon as possible. Are you ready to leave now?”

“Sure. Where is it?”

Harutyun said, “A place we use about a half hour north of here, in the woods.”

“Yes, all right.” He grimaced. “I just don’t want to be seen as running from this guy.”

Simesky said, “We go through this a lot, Bill. People aren’t going to care. They’d rather have a live candidate than a dead martyr.”

“I suppose.” Davis thought of something. Kathryn Dance was with a statewide agency so he said to her, “Could you get police to my house in L.A.? I’m worried about my family.”

“Of course. I’ll call our office and have a CBI team there, with tactical LAPD. We work with them a lot.”

“Thank you,” he said, feeling some relief, tepid though it was. He gave her the address and Susan’s phone number.

Dance made the call and then disconnected. Officers, she said, were en route. Davis was all the more impressed with her for her cool efficiency and decided that, as Peter had suggested, she’d be perfect in his administration.

Then, thank you, Lord, his wife called. “Honey?” the woman blurted. “Jess came to the school. What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes…” Davis explained the situation, adding that there would be some police or troopers at the house in just a minute or two. “There’s a little security thing. Probably nothing. Don’t open the door for anybody but the police. They’ll be from the LAPD and the California Bureau of Investigation.”

“What is it? Another threat from those isolationist idiots?”

“No, this is just a crazy guy, looks like. We’re ninety-nine percent sure he’s not down there but I just want to make sure you and the kids are all right.”

“You’re sounding too calm, Bill,” Susan said. “I hate it when you sound that way. It means you’re not calm at all.”

He laughed. But she was right. He was too calm.

Dance tapped her wristwatch.

“I’m fine. I’ve got police here too. I have to go. I’ll call you in a bit. Love you.”

“Oh, honey.”

He reluctantly disconnected.

Simesky called Davis’s other aide, Myra Babbage, who was at the local campaign headquarters, and told her to join them at the safe house.

Then, with Dance and Harutyun leading and Tim Raymond in the rear, Davis and Simesky moved quickly through the hotel corridor and down into the garage, where they climbed into a sheriff’s office Tahoe SUV.

Dance said to Harutyun, who was driving, “I’d say lights, no sirens for two or three miles. Bust it, really move… and use side streets and alleys. Then flashers off and normal stream of traffic to the safe house.”

“Sure thing.”

“You think he’s nearby?” Simesky asked, looking out the windows uneasily.

“He’s invisible,” Dance said cryptically. “We just don’t know.”

As the big vehicle accelerated fast, the CBI agent gripped the hand rest and looked queasy. Davis reflected that if she did join his administration she would not do well on one of his speedboat outings.

On the other hand, he sensed she and Susan could become good friends.

Ten minutes later, when it seemed clear that Edwin was not following, they slowed and entered a highway. After a half hour of driving, the deputy turned down a deserted road, drove for another mile or so and, passing no houses along the way, finally approached a fancy log cabin. The one-story rambling brown structure was in the middle of a large cleared area-good visibility of the grounds, should anyone try to assault the house.

And there were also, Davis could see, only a few windows and all of them shuttered or shaded. Although he was perhaps more of a target than some politicians anyone who’s run for office instinctively considers security, particularly lines of fire and sniper’s vantage points. Everywhere. All the time.

Thank you, Second Amendment.

Chapter 56

KATHRYN DANCE GRATEFULLY climbed out of the SUV and inhaled the pleasant, astringent smell of pine.

The nausea from the rocky drive persisted but was fading.

She watched Harutyun approach the house and punch keys on a number pad and a green light came on. He stepped inside and deactivated another security system. Then he turned some switches and lights clicked on, revealing a functional interior, with no personality whatsoever: brown shag carpet that smelled of old automobile interiors, stained photographs in cheap plastic frames, Mediterranean-style lamps and furniture with excessive scrolls. A ski resort rental. The ancient Dodge smell was supplemented by that of musty upholstery, mold and cooking fuel.

All that was needed to complete the kitsch was a mounted bear or elk head.

The place was big. It appeared to have four or five bedrooms and several offices behind the living room and kitchen.

Dance exchanged mobile numbers with Tim Raymond, the security man, who remained outside. Harutyun shut the door and locked it. Then the mustachioed detective walked through the house to make sure it was secure. Simesky accompanied him.

A few minutes later Raymond called Dance and told her that everything seemed fine along the perimeter.

Dance looked around the austere facility and then at Davis, who now that his wife was protected seemed simply irritated that a security issue was taking time from his campaign and his congressional duties. He confirmed this a moment later when he muttered that he was due to meet workers at another farm soon but that clearly wasn’t going to happen. He’d have Peter or Myra cancel for him. “Pisses me off, I have to say.” He sat and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, then scrolled through his iPhone.

Simesky and Harutyun returned. “All clear, windows and doors secure and armed,” the deputy told them and passed out bottled water.

“Thanks.” Davis drank one down.

Dance’s phone hummed with an incoming email. Rather than read it on the small screen, she opened her computer and went online. She smiled at the header: Bird Shit.

The message was from Lincoln Rhyme and had to do with some additional analysis of the trace outside Edwin’s house.

Finally managed to isolate the other trace in the ammonium oxalate. They were phosphates and residue of animal matter. It’s bird shit. Exactly what kind it is, I can’t say. I didn’t bring my bird shit recognition kit with me. Nor have I been able to gin up support for a bird shit genome project. But I can say the excreting birds were most likely resident in a coastal region. Fish had been the mainstay of their diet. For what it’s worth. Here’s the whole list. Don’t understand why nobody drinks in this department.

He included the entire evidence chart and Dance read through it again, amused to note that when someone-Amelia Sachs, presumably-had added the recent discovery, she’d been a bit more delicate in her description.

• Wednesday. Edwin Sharp’s house

– outside:

– boot print probably cowboy-style, unable to determine size, male or female

– no vehicle tread marks

– unique trace materials

– triglyceride fat (lard)

– 2700K color temperature (yellowish)

– melting point: 40-55 degrees F

– specific gravity: 0.91 at 40.0C

– Determined likely to be neatsfoot oil, treatment for leather sports equipment, tack and gunslings

– chemicals: limonite, goethite and calcite

– Determined likely to be gangue, ore collection and processing by-product

– fungus

– Determined likely to be used in place of chemical-based fertilizers

– mineral oil, with lime sulfur

– Determined likely to be organic pesticide

– calcium powder

– Determined likely to be human bone dust

– ammonium oxalate

– Determined likely to be bird excrement, probably from coastal area

She read through the list several times more.

And then:

A to B to Z…

Dance closed her eyes and let her mind wander where it would. Then she went to the website they’d looked at earlier, containing the threat to Davis. She scrolled through the posts.

Harutyun asked, “Anything helpful about where Edwin might be?”

“Maybe,” she answered absently, lost in thought.

Simesky sighed. “Doesn’t this guy know that if he killed the congressman, he’d get arrested and, in this state, probably end up on death row?”

Eyes still on her computer screen, Dance explained, “That doesn’t matter to him. Not at all.” A glance at Davis. “By killing you, he’s honoring her.”

The congressman laughed sourly. “So basically, I’m a sacrificial goat he’s offering up to his goddess.”

Which described the situation pretty well, Dance reflected and returned to the browser.

Chapter 57

PLAN YOUR ACTS and act your plan.

Peter Simesky’s analytical mind continued to measure the actual milestones of his plan against the projected ones, and he found it proceeding apace. In general, the events were in harmony with what he and Myra Babbage had been working on for the past ten months.

He now stood in a den behind the living room, reviewing text messages on one of his many anonymous and untraceable accounts. He peeked out into the living room where the irritatingly smart Kathryn Dance, Congressman Davis and Deputy Dennis Harutyun sat, looking at-though probably not really watching-an old TV. Some game was on. Davis wasn’t happy to be here but he didn’t look particularly scared.

Simesky turned and walked into the kitchen in the back of the safe house.

The plan…

Whose goal was quite simple: to eliminate the traitor to America, Congressman William Garrett Davis, the politician who would sell the country out to people who didn’t belong here, who used it for their own gain, who despised the red, white and blue but were happy to rob this glorious nation blind. How difficult it had been for Simesky to feign admiration and undying devotion to Davis and get a job on the staff, then work his way into the man’s inner circle. He had, however, done a damn good job of it, spending more hours than virtually anyone else on Davis’s team. He’d done whatever was necessary to ingratiate himself into the man’s inner circle and gather as much information as he needed so they could stop the traitor, who-if elected president, as might very well happen-would ruin our great nation.

A little over a year ago, when Davis’s popularity began to surge, Simesky was with a think tank based in Texas, with offices in Washington, New York, Chicago and L.A. It was part of an informal association of wealthy businessmen in the Midwest and South, who ran companies and nonprofits and even a few universities. This group of men-and yes, they were exclusively men and, by the way, white-had no official name but informally, and with some wry humor, they’d adopted one, which had been bestowed by some demonic liberal media blogger. The journalist had referred to the cabal contemptuously as the Keyholders, because, he reported, the senior leaders believed they held the key to curing all of the nation’s woes.

The group loved it.

The Keyholders funneled huge sums to candidates they thought would best uphold proper ideals to keep America strong: reduced federal government, limited taxation, minimal participation in world geopolitics and, most important, the elimination of virtually all immigration. Curiously, the Keyholders had little patience for what they considered, in their opinion, unfocused and often simpleminded movements like the Tea Party, the religious right and those railing against abortion and homosexuality.

No, the main issues that mattered to the Keyholders were the death of American self-reliance through socialism and the dilution of the purity of the nation through immigration. Leaders like Bill Davis would drive the country straight to bankruptcy and moral corruption.

Generally, the Keyholders’ efforts involved financial support for candidates, publicity, misinformation campaigns against traitorous politicos and reporters, personality smears and stings.

But sometimes more was needed.

And that’s when Peter Simesky’s obscure think tank would receive a call, asking him to handle a particularly critical matter.

However he thought best.

However extreme the solution.

The Keyholders knew that whatever the mission, Simesky would create an effective and careful plan, so it was obvious that the death of this muckraking liberal journalist had to be an accident, or of that environment activist was a suicide, or of that reformer congressman was an assassination spawned by a stalker’s love for a famous singer.

And those clever plans often involved a fall guy.

Hello, Edwin.

Using the stalker came to mind last winter after he and Myra Babbage-his business partner and occasional lover-had infiltrated Davis’s ranks. Doing his typically exhaustive research, Peter Simesky had learned that Davis was a huge fan of Kayleigh Towne. The congressman had used the bitch’s pro-immigration song “Leaving Home” at rallies and in campaign ads.

Simesky reviewed Kayleigh’s websites and learned of a fanatical fan named Edwin Sharp, who posted hundreds of comments about the singer and was described by other fans as a “weirdo.”

Perfect.

The Keyholders had quite some significant resources and it took only a day to get into the Internet service providers handling Kayleigh Towne’s and Edwin’s email accounts. Unfortunately there didn’t seem to be anything particularly threatening about Edwin’s letters and posts. But he was clearly unhinged and troublingly persistent and that would be enough for Simesky’s plan. He and Myra sent Edwin emails and letters posing as Kayleigh, reporting that she was flattered by his attention and even suggesting that she’d like to get together with him. But she had to be careful, put on a facade of indifference, or her father would cause terrible problems.

Delete all the emails, burn my letters. You have to, Edwin. I’m totally afraid of my father!

The notes suggested that, whatever she said in public, she’d enjoy seeing him at the concert on Friday. If possible she’d see him later too. In private.

Edwin, I was thinking about you last night. You know girls have those kinds of thoughts too…

Myra Babbage had come up with those lines.

And Edwin had done just what they’d wanted, descended on Fresno in all his psychotic glory, far more of a nut job than they’d hoped.

He and Myra Babbage had conducted surveillance at Edwin’s rental in Fresno to learn his routine and steal some evidence that could be planted at the site of Davis’s assassination to implicate the stalker. Then, today, it was time to act. Myra had called Edwin, pretending to work for Kayleigh. She explained the singer had decided she wanted to see him but they had to be very careful. He should go to the Fashion Fair shopping mall and lose the police, then wait at Macy’s loading dock.

Myra had cruised past and waved. The poor fool had jumped into the stolen SUV, grinning in anticipation. When he turned to put his seat belt on she’d hit him with the stun gun, injected a sedative and taped him up. She’d then gone into the mall and uploaded the announcement from Java Hut that someone was about to do something that would make Kayleigh remember him forever. The context made clear that Bill Davis was to be the victim.

And now, Myra and a barely conscious Edwin Sharp were en route to the safe house.

In a few minutes the plan would be completed: Myra would arrive, smile at the security man, Tim Raymond, and then blow him away with her pistol. At the same time Simesky would step into the living room and shoot the congressman and the others. Then he and Myra would drag Edwin into the room, shoot him in the head with Harutyun’s gun and dust the stalker’s hand with gunshot residue.

Simesky would make a panicked call begging for help and an ambulance, explaining that he’d gotten the gun away from the stalker and shot the psycho himself.

Plan your acts and act your plans…

But sometimes there were variations.

Kathryn Dance.

Her appearance could help smooth over one matter he’d been worried about-that there might be some suspicion if only he and Myra were left alive. If Dance survived too the scene would seem a bit more legitimate. Though he’d have to orchestrate it so that, of course, she couldn’t see him as the shooter.

Simesky would shoot Dance in the back, paralyzing but not killing her, then he’d murder Davis and Harutyun. After they were dead, Simesky would call out something like, “Edwin, no! What are you doing?”

Ideally Dance would be conscious and she’d hear his cry. She’d later report the story to the police, confirming that Edwin was the sole shooter. If not, and she died, well, no huge loss.

After all, Simesky thought angrily, you could’ve gone out to dinner with me, bitch. What would it’ve hurt?

Chapter 58

SIMESKY GLANCED AT his Rolex.

Three minutes to go.

Myra Babbage would be heading toward the safe house now, moving up the drive. Easing closer to the living room, Simesky couldn’t detect the sound of the tires because of the thick walls, but, over the noise of the game on TV, he could hear Dance saying, “What’s that? You hear something? A car?”

“I think so. Wait, no, I’m not sure.” The voice was Davis’s.

Two shots in Kathryn’s spine. Two in Harutyun’s head. Two in Davis’s.

What should Simesky shout? “My God, it’s him! That stalker!” Was that credible? Maybe: “Edwin, Jesus, no!”

In the living room Davis’s phone trilled. “Hello… Hi. Yeah, we’re inside.” Then, to the others: “It’s Myra. She just got here.”

Harutyun said, “You know, we didn’t tell her to make sure she wasn’t being followed.”

Simesky thought he heard Dance say something to the effect that Edwin did a lot of research but it would be pretty unlikely that he even knew who Myra was, let alone been able to find and follow her.

Ah, if you only knew…

One minute, according to the Rolex.

Dance was saying, “No, Congressman, please stay back from the window.”

“We know who it is.”

“Still, let’s just be on the safe side.”

Out of sight in the den Simesky pulled on latex gloves, opened his computer bag and removed the pistol, a cold one-stolen. That was one thing about this great country; if you wanted an untraceable gun you could get one, real easy. He knew it was loaded and he knew exactly how it worked. And he’d already fired it a dozen times to extract some GSR, gunshot residue, now in a Baggie, which he’d plant on Edwin’s hands. But he checked the weapon again.

Two shots, then two, then two.

“Peter?” the congressman called from the living room.

Simesky replied, “Be there in a sec. Anybody want coffee?”

“No thanks,” Davis said absently. “Myra’s here.”

“Good.”

“Kathryn, Dennis? Coffee?”

They both declined.

Simesky slipped closer to the doorway to the living room, pressing his back against the adjoining wall, staying well out of sight, waiting for Myra’s gunshots, killing Raymond.

Harutyun said, “We had a real president stay here once. He’d come for a conference with the governor. Had to sign something so I wouldn’t tell who it was.”

“Can we play Twenty Questions to find out?” Dance asked.

The detective laughed.

Davis said, “I was at Camp David last week. It’s not as fancy as you’d think.”

Would those be his last words?

And what was Edwin Sharp thinking as he was enduring, though probably not enjoying, his final moments on earth?

“Hey, look, the game,” Davis said. “Triple play!” The volume on the TV went up. Spectators roared.

A glance at the Rolex. Right about now Myra would shoot.

Simesky would step into the doorway and do the same.

Two.

Then two and two more.

Edwin, no! My God!…

He wiped his hand on his slacks and took the pistol again.

Now!

But no shots sounded.

Another minute passed, silence except for the televised crowd and baseball game announcer on the TV.

What was going on? Sweat on Simesky’s brow.

And then at last: gunfire from outside.

A half dozen shots. The snapping clatter of a firefight, small arms.

Shit, Simesky thought. What’s this about? He considered his plan and how the rattle of weapons might fit into it. Had there been another deputy on the scene who’d gotten here earlier? Or had a local cop happened by and noticed a woman with a weapon or a hog-tied Edwin Sharp?

Now, all was silent.

Act your plan…

Simesky, thinking: Sometimes you couldn’t, though. Sometimes you needed to improvise. But to do that, you needed facts.

Only there were no facts.

He decided to go ahead anyway. The three in the room would be focused on what was happening outside the windows, staying down, staying silent.

Two, two and two… Kill Raymond when he walked inside, if he was still alive. Then clean up as best he could. Too bad about Myra; he assumed she was gone.

But there were larger issues at stake.

Simesky gripped the gun firmly, slipped the safety lever forward and took a deep breath. He turned fast and stepped through the arched doorway into the living room, aiming at where Harutyun and Dance had been-the most immediate threats. He was adding poundage to the trigger, when he froze.

The room was empty.

The alarm pad was blinking green. Someone had disarmed the system so Davis, Dance and Harutyun could leave silently. What the hell was this? He walked further into the room. And then he saw the side window was up. That’s how they’d escaped.

Simesky noticed too in the middle of the floor a pad of yellow paper. On it was scrawled a message: Plot against your life Simesky involved Myra too Maybe others We leave NOW Side window NOW

Oh, no…

Who? he thought.

But then realized: Why even ask? Kathryn Dance, of course.

A fucking liberal soccer mom from a small town had outthought him and the Keyholders.

How she’d done this was beyond a mystery to him. But she had. She’d probably texted for backup and alerted Raymond, who’d fired on Myra when she got out of the car and presented a threat.

And could-

He heard a man’s voice from behind him, Dennis Harutyun’s. “Simesky, drop the weapon and raise your hands over your head.”

The deputy would have snuck through the back door. Dance probably was covering the front.

Simesky assessed the situation. He reflected that Harutyun was a true rube; he’d probably never fired his weapon in the line of duty. Simesky, on the other hand, had killed eight people in his life and gone to bed each night afterward with a clear conscience.

He glanced back. “What are you talking about? I’m just trying to protect the congressman from that killer. I heard gunshots. I haven’t done anything! Are you crazy?”

“I’m not going to tell you again. Drop the weapon.”

Simesky was thinking, I have my Cayman Islands account. I have any one of the Keyholders’ private jets at my disposal.

Just fight your way out. Turn and shoot. He’ll be totally freaked out, he’ll panic. Fucking small-town cop.

Simesky started to turn, keeping the gun low, unthreatening. “I just-”

He heard a stunning bang, felt a burn in his chest.

The sensations were repeated a moment later. But both the sound of the second explosion and the tap on his skin were much softer than the first.

Chapter 59

“BOTH DEAD?”

“That’s right,” Harutyun told Sheriff Anita Gonzalez.

Ten people were in her office at the FMCSO, which made it pretty cramped.

P. K. Madigan was back, though still unofficially, because it had, after all, been his information that had led to uncovering the plot.

Also present was a public affairs officer from the county. Dance noted that Harutyun seemed infinitely pleased at this-somebody else to handle the press conference. Which was going to be big. Very big.

Lincoln Rhyme, Thom Reston and Amelia Sachs were here too, along with Michael O’Neil and Tim Raymond, the congressman’s own security man. In the interest of safety Congressman Davis was onboard his private jet, heading back to Los Angeles.

Anita Gonzalez asked, “Any other perps working with Simesky and Babbage?”

Dance replied, “I’m sure there are. But they are-well, were-the only active participants on the scene so far. Our office and Amy Grabe, the FBI’s agent in charge in San Francisco, are tracing associates and connections.”

Michael O’Neil said, “There seems to be some affiliation with that outfit they call the Keyholders. Some political action group.”

“Political action? Hell, they’re assholes,” Madigan muttered, digging into his ice cream. “Wackos.”

Lincoln Rhyme said, “But rich and well-connected wackos.”

“Did either of them say anything before they died?” Gonzalez asked.

Tim Raymond said, “No. Myra was walking toward me when I got the text from Agent Dance to treat her like a hostile.” He shrugged matter-of-factly. “I lifted my weapon when she was about thirty feet away. She was hiding a forty-five under her coat and she engaged. Afraid I couldn’t take any chances.” He was shaken but not, Dance assessed, from the shootout; rather by the fact that he’d missed the threat posed by the assassins-who had also been masquerading as his friends and coworkers.

Harutyun said, “And Simesky didn’t seem to believe me when I said, ‘I’m not telling you again.’” He was as calm as ever, displaying no effects whatsoever from killing the congressman’s aide.

“And Edwin?” the sheriff asked.

“We found him in the back of the SUV Myra stole. The stun gun that she used was pretty powerful and he’s doped up. But the medics said he’s fine.”

“How’d you figure it out, Kathryn?” Madigan asked.

“It wasn’t just me.” She nodded toward Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs.

The criminalist said offhandedly, “Combination of things. Your man Charlie, by the way, is pretty good. Don’t let him come visit me in New York. I might steal him away.”

“He’s done that before,” Thom Reston said, earning a raised eyebrow from Rhyme, which told Dance that he was quite serious about offering Shean a job.

Since the criminalist wasn’t explaining his contribution further, Dance did. “There were some questions raised about what Charlie’s crime scene people found at the convention center and behind Edwin’s house, where he claimed somebody’d been spying on him.”

“Yeah, Edwin told me,” Madigan said with a grim visage. “And I didn’t believe him.”

Dance continued, “One was bird droppings from seagulls.”

Rhyme corrected, “The actual phrase was shit from, quote, ‘birds most likely resident in a coastal region.’ Not indigenous, mind you. I had no idea where they came from or where they were going. My only point was that the birds in question probably spent time recently on the coast dining on oceanic fish. And then we also identified some oil and fungus used in organic farming.” A nod toward Sachs. “She has a pretty decent garden, by the way. I don’t get the point of flowers myself but the tomatoes she grows are quite good.”

Dance elaborated, “I remembered that Congressman Davis, Simesky and Babbage had been in Monterey campaigning, which is on the coast, where they might’ve picked up the bird-do trace. And they’d been stumping in ecofriendly organic farms from Watsonville to the Valley here.”

“But why’d you get suspicious enough to consider that maybe Edwin wasn’t the killer in the first place?” Madigan asked.

Dance laughed. “Bird shit again, in a way. See, in the header, Lincoln wrote just that. ‘Bird shit.’ But in the evidence chart he sent me he used the word ‘excrement.’”

“That was Sachs,” Rhyme grumbled.

“Well, that made me think of the website post threatening the congressman. I realized it just didn’t sound like Edwin.”

“The kinesics of language,” O’Neil said.

“Exactly.”

She showed them the post that had raised some alarms.

I’ve seen all your postings, about Kayleigh. You claim you like her, you claim you love her music. But you use her like everybody does, you stole Leaving Home to keep the hispanics happy. Your a fucking hypocrit…

“That’s not Edwin’s tone. I’ve never heard him say or write an expletive. And there’re grammatical mistakes: commas that weren’t necessary and the misspelling of ‘hypocrite’ and ‘you’re,’ which he never did in his emails to Kayleigh. Oh, and in his emails when he referred to one of her songs, he put the title in quotation marks. In the post that threatened Congressman Davis, the title wasn’t set off at all. It struck me that it could have been written by somebody who thought that’s what a crazy stalker would post.

“Then there were some questions that came up during my interview with Edwin.” She explained about using content-based analysis in looking at what Edwin had said, rather than kinesics and body language. “Since I couldn’t use traditional kinesic analysis I looked at the facts he was telling me. And some of them were inconsistent. Like the number of letters and emails Edwin received from Kayleigh. She and her lawyers said Edwin was sent a half dozen replies-all form emails or snail-mail letters. But in the interview Edwin told me he’d received more than that… and he suggested to Pike that he’d found them very encouraging.

“I thought at first that was a product of his problems with reality awareness. But then I realized this was different. See, stalkers may misinterpret the implications of facts but they’ll know what those facts are. However Edwin misconstrued Kayleigh’s message in the letters, he’d know for certain exactly how many letters he received. Did that mean somebody else, posing as Kayleigh, had been sending him emails and letters?

“And then”-she delivered this with a wry smile at Michael O’Neil-“I wondered why was Peter Simesky so interested in me? He said the congressman wanted to bring me on board and maybe he did. But I think Simesky put that in Davis’s head. It gave Simesky a chance to see how we were coming with the investigation and what we knew. Myra also seemed very interested in who I worked for. And the two of them, and Davis, had flown into San Francisco the other day; they might’ve bought the prepaid mobiles in Burlingame then. It’s near the airport.”

Madigan muttered, “So they killed Bobby and the file sharer to establish the pattern of Edwin’s guilt.”

“As tough as it is to consider that,” Dance said, “yeah. I think that’s the only reason they died.” She glanced Rhyme’s way. “After I got your text in the safe house about the bird excrement, I got suspicious about people close to Davis. I emailed my associate, TJ Scanlon, to run deep background checks on everyone on Davis’s staff. Everybody was clean-but Simesky and Myra were too clean. They were perfect models of political aides, textbook. And they’d joined the campaign on the same day. And it was impossible to find out anything about them before they joined. TJ thought that was odd and kept digging and found some connection with the Keyholders group-who were on record as condemning many of Davis’s positions but were especially vehement about his stand on easier immigration.

“I decided to play it safe and we got out through the side window of the safe house just as Myra arrived and engaged Tim.” A nod toward Raymond. “We know what happened next.”

P. K. Madigan pointed his spoon at the man in the wheelchair. “You sure you don’t want any ice cream?”

“Not my vice of choice,” the criminalist said.

Crystal Stanning walked into the sheriff’s office. “We just found the good Samaritan.”

“Who?” Madigan asked in blunt impatience. Apparently forgetting he was a civilian.

“The woman who gave Edwin directions when he got lost.”

Ah, Alibi Woman.

“Edwin was right. It was at the same time Sheri Towne was attacked. And she positively identified him.”

Madigan sighed. “Well, we got this one wrong, boys and girls. Get Sharp in here. I for one am going to apologize.”

A moment later Edwin was escorted into the office and he looked around a little bewildered. His hair was askew. He seemed a bit dizzy, though he was fascinated with Rhyme and the wheelchair.

Gonzalez explained what had happened-which included the revelation that most of the emails he’d received from Kayleigh were fake, not from her at all.

Dance noted his face fall. “She didn’t send them?”

Thick silence for a moment and Dance said, “She sent a few but, I’m sorry, Edwin, the ones actually from her were just form letters. Like she sent to everybody.”

Edwin slipped his hands into his jeans pockets. “I never would’ve gotten so… you know, funny about her, if I knew. Think about it, somebody as pretty and talented and famous as her tells you she’s interested in you, that you mean a lot to her… what was I supposed to think?”

“I understand, Edwin,” Dance said kindly.

Madigan said, “I’m sorry too, son.”

Edwin said nothing for a moment, eyes again on the wheelchair. “So, I’m not a suspect or anything?”

“Nope,” Harutyun said.

He nodded and then focused on Madigan. “Well, then, I don’t have much interest in that complaint I made against you, Detective. And Deputy Lopez. I was just doing what I needed to. It was like self-defense, you understand.”

“I do, and that’s good of you, Edwin. Fact is, when it comes to Kayleigh, we all get a little overly enthusiastic.”

“I’d kind of like to leave now. Is that okay?”

“Sure is, son. We’ll get a statement from you later or tomorrow about what happened with Simesky and the woman-the kidnapping. I’ll have somebody get you home now. You’re in no shape to drive. You can pick up your car tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Detective.” Shoulders down, chest collapsed, he headed out the door. Despite the fact he was hard to read kinesically, Dance could see genuine sorrow in his posture.

Chapter 60

IN THE SERVICE area of the sheriff’s office Lincoln Rhyme aimed for the ramp leading outside. He was accompanied by his New York companions, as well as Kathryn Dance and Michael O’Neil. “Time for a drink, I’d say, then back to San Jose.”

“Time for coffee in the van,” Thom corrected, his boss.

“I’m not driving,” Rhyme replied acerbically. “I can drink.”

“But,” his aide countered fast, “I’m sure it’s illegal to have open containers of liquor in a moving vehicle, even if you’re not driving.”

“It’s not open,” Rhyme snapped. “My tumbler has a lid on it.”

The aide said thoughtfully, “We could of course stay here talking but that just means we’ll get to the bar in San Jose that much later.”

Rhyme scoffed but the expression vanished as he said good-bye to the law enforcers and, with a smooth gesture, lifted his working right arm to Dance and gripped her hand. She kissed his cheek, then embraced Sachs.

O’Neil added, “I’ll see you both Sunday. I’m bringing the kids over.” He glanced at Sachs. “You’re interested, we just got the new H &K MP7.”

“The little bullet.”

“Right. Smaller than a BB, seventeen-caliber. You want to come out to the range and put some holes in paper on Monday?”

“You bet I do,” Sachs said enthusiastically.

“Kathryn?” O’Neil asked.

“I’ll pass, I think. I’ll hang out with Lincoln and Thom.”

And with Jon Boling too? she wondered, then stepped on that thought.

The trio from New York headed out the door.

O’Neil too said good-bye to the locals, and Dance walked with him outside into the sultry air.

“You in a hurry to get back?” she found herself asking. Hadn’t planned it. She was thinking they might have dinner, just the two of them.

A pause. She could tell he too wanted to stay. But then he shook his head. “Thing is, Anne’s driving down from San Francisco, picking up some things. I ought to be there.” He looked away. “And the papers’ll be ready tomorrow, the settlement agreement.”

“So soon?”

“She didn’t want much.”

Also, a woman who cheats on her husband and abandons her children probably isn’t in much of a position to demand much, Dance reflected. “You doing okay?” One of those pointless questions that’s usually more about the asker than the askee.

“Relieved, sad, pissed off, worried about the kids.” As lengthy a discussion of his emotional health as she’d ever heard from Michael O’Neil.

Silence for a moment.

Then he gave a smile. “Okay, better go.”

But before he turned Dance found herself impulsively reaching up, one hand behind his neck, her arm around his back, and pulling him close. She kissed him hard on the mouth.

She thought, No, no, what the hell are you doing? Step back.

Yet by then his arms were enveloping her completely and he was kissing her back, just as firmly.

Then finally, he eased away. Came in for one more kiss and she gripped him even harder and then stood back.

She expected an oblique glance-his waiting state-but O’Neil stared easily into her eyes and she looked back just as comfortably. Their smiles matched.

Brother, what have I done now?

Kissed the man I truly love, she thought. And that unexpected thought was more stunning than the contact itself.

Then he was in the car. “I’ll call you when I get back. See you on Sunday.”

“Drive carefully,” she said. A phrase that had set her on edge when her parents would tell teenage Kathryn the same. As if, oh, right, I was going to drive off the road until you reminded me.

But as a woman who’d lost one husband to the highway, it was a sentence she could not stop herself from uttering occasionally. He closed the door, glanced at her again and lifted his left palm to the inside windshield and she pressed her right to the glass outside.

He put the car in gear and pulled out of the lot.

“IF THAT DON’T beat all,” Bishop Towne said, sipping his milk.

“Right,” Dance said to him and his daughter, on the front porch of his house. “Edwin was innocent. Didn’t kill a soul. Totally set up.”

“He’s still a shit.”

“Daddy.”

“He’s a little fucking shit and I wouldn’t mind if he went to jail for something. But it’s good to know he’s not going to be a problem anymore.” The grizzled musician squinted at Dance. “He’s not, is he?”

“I don’t think so. He’s mostly sad that Kayleigh didn’t send him those personal emails and letters, the ones Simesky made up.”

“We should sue those bastards,” Bishop said. “The Keyholders? The fuck are they about?”

“Daddy, really. Come on.” Kayleigh nodded toward the kitchen, where Suellyn and Mary-Gordon were helping Sheri bake something fragrant with vanilla. But the man’s raspy voice probably hadn’t carried inside.

Kayleigh said, “I’m not going to sue anybody, Daddy. We don’t need that kind of publicity.”

“Well, we’re going to get publicity whether we want it or not. I’ll talk to Sher about spinning it.” Then he patted his daughter on the shoulder. “Hey, lookit the good news, KT The bad guys’re dead and Edwin’s out of the picture. So, no more talk about canceling any concerts. Speaking of that, I’ve been working on the song order again and I think we’ve got to move ‘Leaving Home.’ Everybody wants it. Encore’d be best. And I’d get the kids’ choir to sing the last part in Spanish.”

Dance was aware that Kayleigh’s shoulders had risen in tension at these comments. Clearly she herself still wasn’t so sure about the concert. Just because the killers had been stopped and Edwin absolved didn’t mean she was in the mental state necessary to put on a show in the shadow of the recent crimes.

And then Dance noticed the young woman’s posture collapse subtly. Which meant surrender.

“Sure, Daddy. Sure.”

The tone of the evening had changed quickly but, oblivious to it, Bishop Towne rose like a buffalo climbing out of a stream he’d just forded and ambled inside. “Hey, M-G, whatcha baking?”

Kayleigh looked after him, grim-faced. Dance used the opportunity to fish into her purse and hand her the sealed envelope that contained Bobby’s in-the-event-of letter and a copy of the adoption papers. The singer weighed it in her hand. Dance said softly, “That turned up in the investigation. I’m the only one who knows. You handle it however you want.”

“What-?”

“You’ll see.”

The woman stared down at the slim envelope, clutching it as if it weighed ten pounds. Dance realized that she knew what it contained. “You have to understand. I just…”

Dance hugged her. “It’s not my business,” she whispered. “Now, I’m going to get back to the motel. I’ve got a report to dictate.”

Kayleigh slipped the envelope into her pocket, thanked Dance for all she’d done and went into the house.

Dance walked down to her SUV. She happened to glance back into the house and could see a bit of the kitchen, Suellyn and Sheri at the island, looking at a cookbook. Kayleigh scooted up onto a stool nearby, lifted Mary-Gordon to her lap. No kinesic analysis was necessary to tell from the girl’s amused squirming that the embrace was particularly strong.

Driving down the lengthy, dim driveway, Dance was thinking not of the Towne clan but of the potential train wreck her personal life might be headed for. She thought back to kissing O’Neil and felt a twisting in her belly-radiating a perfect balance of joy and alarm.

She scrolled through her iPod playlist on the SUV’s entertainment screen to find the song that had just come to mind, one of Kayleigh’s, not surprisingly. “Is It Love, Is It Less?” The lyrics rolled out through the Pathfinder’s resonant sound system.

Is it left, is it right? Is it east, is it west?

Is it day, is it night? Is it good or the best?

I’m looking for answers, I’m looking for clues.

There has to be something to tell me the truth.

I’m trying to know, but I can just guess,

Is it love between us?

Is it love, is it less?