XO (32 page)

BUT THE VEHICLE
turned out to be a very unthreatening—and slow moving—powder blue Ford Taurus.

And one did not need to be a kinesics expert to note the sea change in Kayleigh’s body language when she saw the driver.

“Oh, it’s Barry!” she cried, offering a smile.

A very tall man, lanky and long-faced handsome, was climbing out. He had a shock of black curly hair and round glasses. Kayleigh ran down the stairs and embraced him hard.

She said, “I didn’t expect you for a couple of days.”

Glancing once toward Dance, Zeigler said, “Really? I called Bishop earlier and told him I was driving in tonight.”

“Oh, that man,” Kayleigh muttered. “Never said a word.”

“I was in Carmel seeing Neil. I got your message about Bobby. Terrible. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s the worst, Barry.” Kayleigh turned to Dance and introduced them. Zeigler, Kayleigh’s producer at her record label, was based in Los Angeles. Dance realized he looked familiar and recalled, at Kayleigh’s house, seeing him in a half dozen framed pictures with the singer going back years. In one they both held a Recording Industry Association of America platinum record award, signifying that she’d sold more than a million of one of her songs or albums.

In jeans, a white T-shirt and dark jacket, Zeigler seemed a bit nineties to Dance but it was a reasonable look for a record producer from any decade. Except for a touch of gray and only at the temples, he didn’t look any different from the man in those photographs.

“And Sheri was attacked too?”

“She was hurt but she’ll be all right.”

“Do you have any leads?” he asked Dance. “Is it that guy Sharp?”

Kayleigh nodded and explained, “Barry knows all about our friend. Edwin’s sent plenty of letters to the label, complaining about production standards, orchestration, technical quality.”

“Pain in the ass,” Zeigler grumbled.

The law enforcement disclaimer: “We’re just gathering information at this point. But tell me, did he ever threaten you or anyone?”

“Like physically?”

“Yes,” Dance replied.

Zeigler shook his head. “He’s been more insulting. I mean, BHRC’s the third oldest record company in L.A. We’ve been producing Kayleigh for six years. She’s had eight gold and four platinums. We must be doing something right. But not according to Sharp. Just last week he sent us a two-page email about the acoustic dynamics on the download of ‘Your Shadow.’ He said it was off in the high ranges. Why was Delmore playing Dobro and not pedal steel? … He said, ‘Kayleigh deserves better than this.’ And then he said we should issue her on vinyl. He’s an analog hound.”

But Dance didn’t think comments about acoustic tonal quality, however harsh, rose to the level of threat under California Penal Code section 646.9.

Zeigler said to Kayleigh, “Bobby was the greatest guy in the world. I can’t believe somebody’d hurt him on purpose. And to die that way. You must be …” Then he grew silent, apparently deciding he shouldn’t be further revisiting the horror.

“Aaron and Steve said if there’s anything anybody at the label can do, you let us know. You’ve got the whole company behind you.”

“Barry, I think he’s going to keep doing this. He picks verses of my songs and plays them and then kills somebody or tries to.”

“That’s what Bishop was telling me.” The producer turned to Dance. “Can’t you arrest him?”

She demurred but Kayleigh said, “He’s too smart. They haven’t been able to find anything he’s done that quite breaks the law. Oh, this is just terrible.” The anger was gone and her eyes welled with tears. Then she tamed the emotion and the same stillness came over her as it did onstage.

Control …

Zeigler’s voice dimmed as he said to Kayleigh, “I want to say hi to Bishop and Sheri. But could I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”

“Sure.” To Dance she said, “Be right back.”

The two rose and walked into the living room, the producer ducking automatically as they approached the doorway arch. He had to be six feet, seven inches tall, Dance estimated.

She gave it a minute, then rose quietly and moved to the swing Kayleigh had just occupied, which was next to a half-opened window. From there she could hear their conversation. Whatever Zeigler was going to tell Kayleigh might have something to do with the case, even if neither of them realized it, provided she could make out the conversation.

As it turned out, their words were plenty loud enough to hear. Dance remembered that her children, when younger, believed that if they couldn’t see their parents, they were invisible and produced no sound whatsoever.

“Look, this is a terrible time to bring this up. But I … I’m sorry, I have to ask.”

“What, Barry? Tell me. Come on. I’ll worm it out of you. You know I can.”

“Are you talking to JBT Global?”

“What?”

“JBT Global Entertainment. The three-sixty outfit.”

“I know who they are. And no, I’m not talking to them. Why are you asking?”

Zeigler was explaining how a friend of a friend of a friend in the complicated world that’s entertainment had told him that Global really wanted to sign her.

“You were in discussions, I’d heard.”

“Barry, we get calls all the time. Live Nation, Global … I don’t pay attention to them. You know I’d never leave you guys. You’re the ones who made me. Hey, what’s this all about?”

It was odd to hear someone half the age of the producer talking to him as if he were a child with troubles at school.

“I told you I was in Carmel?”

“Seeing Neil, you said.”

Neil Watson, one of the superstars of the pop music world of the past twenty years.

“Yeah, to get fired.”

“No!”

“He’s going with … get this, SAV-More. Yep, the big box store, like Target and Wal-Mart. They’re producing him and backing his road shows.”

“I’m sorry about that, Barry. But I’m
not
talking to Global. Really.”

Dance’s website flew below the radar of the big business of music but she was aware of what Barry Zeigler was talking about: a complete shift in how people got that most addictive of drugs, music.

Before the nineteenth century, music was something that one generally experienced live—at concerts, opera, dance halls, bars. In the 1800s, the powerhouses of the Industry became the publishers of sheet music, which people would buy and bring home to play themselves, on the piano mostly. Then, thank you, Mr. Edison, wax cylinders came about, played on phonographs. A needle in an etched groove of the cylinder vibrated and reproduced sound through a flower-petal-like speaker. You could actually listen to music in your home, anytime you wanted!

The cylinders became disks, to be played on various wind-up machines—phonographs, gramophones (originally an Edison phonograph competitor), Victor Talking Machines, Victrolas and others. Soon the devices were powered by electricity, and in the late 1930s the miracle substance of vinyl became the standard for the records, which were differentiated by the speed at which the turntable revolved: originally 78 rpms, then 45 for singles and 33
¹
/
₃
for long-playing, or LPs.

Later in the twentieth century, tape became popular—sound-faithful but inconvenient reel-to-reel models, followed by cassettes, perpetually looping eight-tracks, and then CDs, optical compact discs.

And though the media changed over the years, people could be counted on to spend millions and millions of dollars to bring music into their homes and cars. Artists often performed, of course, but concerts were mostly a form of promotion to sell the albums. Some artists never set foot on a stage and still grew rich from their music.

But then something happened.

Computers.

On which you could download and listen to any song or piece of music ever recorded.

In the new world order, disks and tapes weren’t needed and the record labels, which made fortunes—for themselves and artists—by producing, pressing and distributing albums weren’t as important either.

No longer did you have to buy a whole album; if you liked only two or three songs on it (and wasn’t that always the case?), you could pick what you wanted. It’s a mixed-tape universe nowadays, thanks to dirt-cheap download and streaming companies like Napster, Amazon, iTunes and Rhapsody and other services—and satellite radio—that let you listen to millions of tunes for a few dollars a month.

And you could even have most of your heart’s desires for free: with music, as with so many other creative arts in recent years, a sense of entitlement has grown pervasive. The little inconvenience of the copyright law shouldn’t stop you from getting what you want. YouTube, the Pirate Bay, BitTorrent, LimeWire and dozens of illegal file-sharing arrangements make virtually any song available free as air.

Record companies used to sue file shares—winning judgments of hundreds of thousands of dollars against broke college kids and housewives, and earning a public relations black eye in the process. Now, they’ve largely given up their police work.

And presently many artists were giving up too—or, more cleverly, were recognizing the value of offering some content at no charge to the public under the open source model. The theory is that free music downloads can generate new fans who will buy future albums and attend concerts, where all the money is being made.

All of which renders the traditional record stores and labels relics of the past.

People like Barry Zeigler are still needed as producers but as for-fee technicians only. With revenues from downloads tumbling, it’s hard for some of them even to make a living at their craft.

Dance had heard of JBT Global Entertainment—it was a competitor of Live Nation, which owned entertainment arenas and concert halls and Ticketmaster and had contracts with many rock, pop, rap and country superstars. These companies were typical of the 360 model, as in degrees. Global covered all aspects of a musician’s professional life—producing the albums, pressing the few CDs that were still sold, cutting deals with download services and big corporations for exclusive promotions and—most important—booking musicians into live performances and arranging lucrative deals for movie sound tracks and advertising, known as synchronization.

Ironically, the music world has come full circle in a mere two hundred
years: from live performances prior to the nineteenth century to live performances in the twenty-first.

Barry Zeigler’s world was vanishing fast and Dance understood his desperate concern that Kayleigh might leave him.

The drama of the music Industry was, of course, important to Zeigler and the singer. But the subject had virtually vanished from Dance’s mind now that she knew the private conversation had nothing to do with the Edwin Sharp case. Dance gave up her eavesdropping and collected her purse from inside, deciding she wanted to get back to the motel. As she waited on the porch for Kayleigh to return, she looked out over the darkening pine grove surrounding Bishop’s house.

She was concentrating once more on how best to find a killer as invisible as a snake, who could be stalking them anywhere—even from the thousands of shadows surrounding the house at that very moment.

AN HOUR LATER
Kathryn Dance was doing some stalking herself.

She’d returned to the Mountain View, where she’d called her mother—the kids had gone to bed. Dance had dialed the number with some uneasiness, afraid she’d learn something more about Jon Boling’s impending departure. But Edie Dance said nothing further on the subject, explaining that the children were doing well and Stuart, Dance’s father, had her house ready for the guests and the party planned for this weekend.

After disconnecting, she debated calling Boling. Then decided not to.

Partly because she was a coward, she chided herself. But she also had work to do.

Stalking …

She turned on the TV, a commercial network with a lot of commercials, so the many random flickers from the screen on the window shade would suggest someone was inside. She pulled on the only night-op camouflage she had: a navy sport coat, black jeans and a burgundy T-shirt. The outfit would have to do. For shoes, Aldo pumps; she had no tactical boots.

Finally ready, Dance slipped outside and stepped into the parking lot.

Her mission was to find out who might be the person with the bad habits of nicotine and, possibly, espionage. She’d just seen the glow of the cigarette again, in nearly the same place that she’d seen it earlier, in the park across the road. The smoker was still there.

She glanced out from behind a Caravan filled with dog show paraphernalia and a bumper sticker bragging that the driver was the proud owner of a German shepherd smarter than your honor student.

Dance focused again on the tiny orange glow in a recess between two thick stands of pine.

Was the cigarette just a coincidence? Dance might have thought so except for the fact that Sheri Towne’s attacker had possibly been smoking. And that Edwin might still have the habit.