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

“It could start at any minute.”

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

How they tested the limits.

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

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

Sadists, she thought.

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

The poor thing …

And the possibility that he’d been murdered?

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

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

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

And where was the luggage? She was impatient.

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

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

“Where’s Aunt Kayleigh?”

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

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

“Good. I like it when she sings.”

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

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

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

“They wouldn’t like that.”

“Who?”

Suellyn was not going to talk about TSA and terrorists.

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

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

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

“You’re in,” the man growled.

And hello and nice day to you too.

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

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

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

“I can take a cab.”

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

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

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

Is that passive-aggressive? A little.

“Me too.” And he disconnected.

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

“No.”

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

“No. Can I get some Jelly Bears?”

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

“Okay.”

“Excuse me, Suellyn?”

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

“Hello,” she said.

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

“He said my name right.” She beamed.

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

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

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

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

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

“That’ll be fun.”

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

Father knows best … Uh-huh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary-Gordon asked, “What does that mean?”

The young man looked at Suellyn and they both laughed. He said, “I don’t have any idea.”

They waited for traffic then crossed into the lot. He whispered, “It’s good you’re here. Kayleigh’s pretty upset about Bobby.”

“I can imagine. Do they know what happened?”

“Not yet. It’s been terrible for everybody.” He lifted his voice and said to Mary-Gordon, “Hey, before we go to your aunt’s, you want to see something fun?”

“Yeah!”

“It’s really neat and you’ll like it.” He glanced at Suellyn. “Little detour? There’s this park practically on the way.”

“Please, Mommy!”

“All right. But we don’t want to be too late, Ritchie.”

He blinked. “Oh, I’m not Ritchie. I came to fetch you instead.” They arrived at his car. He took the suitcases and her computer bag and stashed them in the trunk of the big old Buick. It was bright red—a color you didn’t see much nowadays.

AT KAYLEIGH’S HOUSE
Kathryn Dance was talking to Darthur Morgan, who was holding but, being on duty, not reading, one of his old books.

“You’ve got an unusual name,” she said.

“Means ‘morning’ in German. Spelled different.” The huge man’s still face didn’t break character.

“That’s funny,” Dance told him. She’d been referring to his given name.

“Used it before.”

They were sitting in the living room, all the shades drawn, while Kayleigh was upstairs, changing clothes, as if being in the place where Bobby Prescott had died had somehow tainted what she’d worn.

The security man continued, “You know people think, being black, I was named Darthur because my parents didn’t know how to spell Arthur, or got confused. You hear that sometimes.”

“You do, true.”

“Fact is, they were both teachers and they like the classics.” He lifted his leather-bound book. Dickens. He added, “Malory’s
Morte d’Arthur
was one of their favorites.”

“The King Arthur stories.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Not a lot of cops know that. But then, you’re not just a cop.”

“Not any more than you’re just a bodyguard.” She didn’t add that she was also a mother who helped her children with their homework. She eyed the book in his hand.

“Great Expectations.”

She asked, “Is Kayleigh handling this okay?”

“Borderline, I’d say. I don’t go way back with her. Her lawyers and her father hired me when that fellow started popping up. She’s the best of
the celebrities I’ve ever worked with. Nicest. Polite. I could tell you some stories about clients I’ve had.”

Though he wouldn’t. He was a pro through and through. When this assignment was over, Darthur Morgan would instantly forget everything he knew about Kayleigh Towne, even the fact that he’d worked for her.

“You’re armed?”

“Yes.”

Dance had been pretty sure but she was glad to hear the confirmation. And glad to hear too that Morgan didn’t continue to chat about his weapon or how proficient he was, much less whether he’d ever used it.

Professional …

“It could be that Edwin’s stolen a Glock.”

“I know. I talked to Chief Madigan.”

The big man retired to the front door, sat down in a chair challenged by his weight.

Dance sipped the iced tea that Kayleigh had brought her. She looked around the room at the many awards and gold and platinum records hanging on the walls. There was a framed picture from the cover of
Country Times
and Dance had to laugh. It was a picture of Kayleigh holding the Country Music Association’s Singer of the Year award. As she’d been accepting it, a young man, a country singer with a self-polished reputation for being a bad boy had leapt onto the stage and taken the microphone away, berating her for being too young to win and not true to traditional country roots. He railed that another singer should have won.

Kayleigh had let him finish and then pulled the microphone out of his hand and said if he was such a supporter of traditional country, then name the top-five lifetime hits of George Jones, Loretta Lynn and Patsy Cline. “Or name
any
five of them,” Kayleigh had challenged.

He did a deer in the headlights thing for a long ten seconds, in front of a live TV audience of millions, and then slunk off the stage, his arm raised, for some reason, like a heavy metal rocker’s. Kayleigh finished her acceptance speech and, to a standing ovation, concluded by naming all the hits she’d asked him to recite.

Kayleigh now joined them, wearing blue jeans and a thick dark gray blouse, untucked and concealing as if Edwin were observing her from the distance through high-powered binoculars.

And who’s to say he wasn’t?

The singer sighed and sat on a floral sofa in the middle of the spacious room.

Dance said, “I just talked to the deputy at the convention center. All of the crew are accounted for except Tye and Alicia.”

“Oh, she called ten minutes ago. I told her about the second verse and made sure she was looking out for herself.” Kayleigh smiled. “She almost sounded like she was hoping Edwin’d try something with her. She’s pretty tough. And’s got a temper.” She called Tye Slocum and left a message. “I don’t know why he left.”

And all the while Darthur Morgan said nothing and didn’t even seem to hear the conversation. He simply scanned the house, the windows. He took a phone call and put the mobile away. Then stiffened.

The big man was on his feet, looking out the front window. “Visitors.” He paused. “Hm. Whole entourage. And it looks official.”

“ENTOURAGE” DESCRIBED IT
pretty well, Kayleigh Towne decided.

Two SUVs—one dusty white Lexus, Bishop’s, and a big black Lincoln Navigator.