XO (10 page)

“Where?”

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

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

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

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

“What?” Gonzalez asked.

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

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

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

“First names … Crystal,” Madigan said coolly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just a verse from my song.”

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

“No. Just the song.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kinesics, yes.”

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

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

“Just a shadow,” the girl said.

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

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

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

Seminar skills …

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

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

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

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

Jesus.

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

“The first verse. And the chorus.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think it’s important.”

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

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

“They don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

“Made some sense. Call me Dennis.”

“Kathryn.”

“I heard.” Deadpan delivery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me?”

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

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

Dance said slowly, “You
could,
sure.”

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

“I can tell he’s good,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mustachioed detective nodded noncommittally.

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

No such luck.

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

“Her security guard.”

“That … the big guy was there earlier?”

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

“You got all that in three hours?”

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

And finally discovering where he lived.

Hence, her presence here.

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

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