XO (21 page)

Bishop and Sheri climbed out and turned to the other vehicle.

Four passengers. First was security, it was easy to tell. A solid, sunglassed man, well over six feet, a pale complexion. He looked around and then leaned into the SUV and whispered something. The next to climb out was a slim, thoughtful-looking man with thinning hair. The third, also in a dark suit, white shirt and tie, was much taller and had a politician’s head of hair.

Which made sense, because, Kayleigh realized, that’s exactly who he was: one of California’s star congressmen, William Davis, a two-term Democrat.

Kayleigh glanced at Dance, who observed this all with a careful gaze.

A woman was the last to climb out of the Navigator, dressed also in a conservative matching navy jacket and skirt, flesh-colored stockings.

The guard stayed with the SUV and the others followed Bishop and his wife into the house.

Inside, Bishop hugged his daughter and as if in an afterthought asked how she was holding up. Kayleigh thought it was the way he’d ask a gaffer whose name he didn’t know how he was weathering the loss of an elderly parent. He also didn’t seem to remember that he’d been here just a few hours ago.

What on earth were they doing here, anyway?

Bishop examined Dance as if he’d never met her and he ignored Darthur Morgan completely.

He said to his daughter, “This here’s Congressman Davis. And his aides, Peter Simesky. And …”

“Myra Babbage.” The slim, unsmiling woman, with square-cut, brunette hair, nodded formally. She seemed a bit star-struck to be in Kayleigh’s presence.

“Ms. Towne, it’s an honor,” the congressman said.

“Hey, call me Kayleigh. You’re making me older than I want to be.”

Davis laughed. “And I’m Bill. It’s easy to remember. I’ve sponsored a few of them in congress.”

Kayleigh gave a brief smile. And she introduced Dance and Morgan.

“We just flew into San Francisco a few days ago and have been making our way south. I was in touch with your father, asking about getting to your concert. Oh, I’m paying for tickets, don’t you worry. I’m afraid we just need a little extra security.”

Bishop said, “We’ve got it all taken care of.”

“I was hoping for a chance to meet you and to say hi in person. Your father suggested bringing me along today, before the concert.”

So, that was it. Kayleigh understood. Dammit. Her father had said they’d think about canceling the show and yet he was going to do whatever he needed to make sure it went forward. Anything to edge her career in the right direction. He’d be thinking that her knowing that the congressman—and accordingly more reporters—would be in the audience would pressure her not to cancel.

Kayleigh fumed but smiled pleasantly, or tried to, as Davis rambled like a schoolboy, talking about songs of hers he particularly loved. He really was quite a fan. He knew every word of every tune, it seemed.

Myra Babbage said, “I can’t thank you enough for letting us use ‘Leaving Home’ on the website. It’s really become an anthem for Bill’s campaign.”

Kathryn Dance said, “I heard you on the radio, Congressman. On the drive over here—that debate on immigration issues. That was some heated discussion.”

“Oh, it sure was.”

“I think you won, by the way. You drove ’em into the ground.”

“Thanks. It was a lot of fun,” Davis said with a gleam in his eye. “I love debates. That was my, quote, ‘sport’ at school. Less painful to talk than getting run into on the football field. Not necessarily safer, though.”

Kayleigh didn’t follow politics much. Some of her fellow performers were active in campaigns and causes but she’d known them before they’d hit it big and they hadn’t seemed particularly interested in animal
rights or hunger before they started drawing the public limelight. She suspected that a number had been tapped by their public relations firms or their record company publicity departments to take up a cause because it would look good in the press.

She knew, though, about U.S. Congressman Bill Davis. He was a politico with an electric mix of positions, liberal and conservative, the most controversial of which was relaxing border controls to let in more foreigners, subject to requirements like an absence of criminal conviction, an English-language test and guarantees of employment prospects. He was one of the front-runners for the next presidential campaign and had already started stumping.

Peter Simesky, the aide, said, “I’ll confirm he’s a fan. On the campaign buses, you’re right up there with Taylor Swift, Randy Travis, James Taylor and the Stones for our listening pleasure. Hope you’re okay with that company.”

“I’ll take it, you bet.”

Then the congressman grew serious. “Your father said there’s a bit of a problem at the moment, somebody who might be stalking you?” This was half directed to Dance, as well. Kayleigh’s father must have mentioned that she was an agent.

“Afraid that’s true,” Dance said.

“You’re … with Fresno?” Myra Babbage asked. “We’ve been working with a few people there on security.”

“No, CBI.” That she was here would normally mean the case was a major one. But she added, “I’m based in Monterey. Happened to be here unofficially and heard about the incident. I volunteered to help.”

“We were just in Monterey too,” Davis said. “Campaigning at Cannery Row.”

“That’s why the traffic was so bad back at home before I left,” Dance joked.

“I wish it had been worse. It was good turnout, not a great turnout.”

Kayleigh supposed Monterey and particularly Carmel were bastions of conservative voters, who would not be particularly happy about a pro-immigration candidate.

The congressman nodded toward the agent. “I’m sure the CBI and the local authorities are doing everything they can but if you need any help from me, just let me know. Stalking can be a federal crime too.”

Kayleigh thanked him, Dance did too and Simesky gave the agent his card. “You need any help, seriously,” the slim young man said earnestly, “give me a call. Any time.”

“I’ll do that,” Dance replied and glanced down to her hip as her phone buzzed. “It’s a text from Detective Harutyun.” She looked up. She sighed. “They’ve found the next crime scene. It’s another killing, another fire. But it was worse than at the concert hall. He says there might be more than one victim. They just can’t tell.”

“THE FIRE’S STILL
going,” Harutyun told her over the phone. “He must’ve used five gallons of accelerant. It’s in a shed beside the San Joaquin River.”

You sit by the river, wondering what you got wrong,

How many chances you’d missed all along.

Like your troubles had somehow turned you to stone

and the water was whispering, why don’t you come home?

Everyone in the room was staring at Dance. She ignored them and concentrated on her conversation with Harutyun. “Any witnesses?”

“No.”

“How do you know it’s related to the stalking?”

“Well, I don’t know how to put it but out front we found a little shrine to Kayleigh.”

“What?”

“Yes’m. Pretty sick. A mound of rocks and a couple of her CDs next to them in front of the shed. And, you know what was weird?”

More than that? Dance couldn’t begin to guess.

“A twenty-dollar bill under a rock. Like an offering.”

“And no idea of the victim?”

“Or victims,” he reminded. “The team got a look inside and saw a couple of legs. That’s about all that was left. Then the roof came down. It was part of an old gas station so they’re being careful, thinking there could be a buried tank nearby. Charlie Shean has his CS people running the scene outside, as close as they can. It’s hot as Hades out there. One of the techs fainted from the heat, the jumpsuit. No tire treads or footprints. We’ve found two shell casings. Nine-millimeter.” A click of the
detective’s tongue. “Same as Fuentes’s gun, got stolen. But that could be a coincidence. At least—I pray this happened—he shot ’em before he set ’em on fire.”

“We can hope.”

“No bloodstains but looks like he swept over the dirt with a branch or something. They’re taking samples. DNA could be the only way to find out who he killed.”

An altar to Kayleigh. Well, it was in keeping with stalker behavior.

“Charlie’s folks also ran the scene of the phone booth where he called Kayleigh. They got some trace but the fingerprints—close to forty—don’t match anything else and they’re not in AIFIS.”

“Any spotting of Edwin?”

“Nope. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when I know more, Kathryn.”

“Thanks.”

She disconnected, turned to Kayleigh, her father and the others and gave them a report.

Bishop closed his eyes and muttered what might’ve been a prayer. Dance recalled he’d gone through a phase where he released a Christian album—after rehab. It hadn’t sold well.

“Who’s the victim?” Kayleigh asked breathlessly.

“We don’t know. It could be more than one. But because of the fire they couldn’t get a good look inside.”

“But where’s Alicia? And Tye?” Kayleigh called and got through to both of them. All the rest of the crew were accounted for too, Kayleigh reported after speaking to Tye Slocum. “Jesus. Alicia was out riding her horse. And Tye? He was picking up extra guitar strings. We’ve got a thousand in the truck. Why did he need to do that? Drives me crazy.”

The congressman and his entourage looked uneasy and Davis seemed to be thinking that a visit at this moment had not been a good idea. He said, “We’ve got some campaigning to do. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Not at all.” It was Bishop, not Kayleigh, who made this comment.

Davis reiterated that he’d help out however he could. He’d see her at the concert.

“I’m not—” She fell silent, looking at her father, who gave no reaction. “Hey, thanks for your support.”

“Hope I can say the same to you on Election Day.”

Peter Simesky, the aide, stepped up to Dance once more. He shook
her hand. “You have my card. If there’s anything else you need, please, just let me know.”

Kinesics is a skill that doesn’t shut off when you leave the office. The instant he’d made eye contact with her earlier, she knew that Simesky wanted to get to know her better, if circumstances allowed. She gave him credit: He wore no wedding ring and his first glance had been at her left hand; he might very well be one of those men who was not interested in an extramarital affair.

He also exuded a comfortable but not blunt self-confidence. He wasn’t put off by the two inches of height she had on him or abashed about his small frame and thinning hair (ironically her present romantic partner, Jon Boling, shared those attributes). But with Kathryn Dance’s complicated personal life, there was no room or inclination for expansion.

She nodded politely to Simesky and made sure the handshake was brief and professional. She couldn’t tell if he got the message.

Then Davis, followed by Simesky and Myra Babbage, left the house and made their way to the SUV. The security man opened the doors for them. In a minute they were speeding down the dirt and gravel driveway.

Then Kayleigh’s eyes flashed in shock and she began to cry. “Wait, he burned them?” she whispered.

“That’s right.”

“No, no!
This
’s my fault too!” Her shoulders rose, jaw tight. She angrily wiped away tears. “My song! He’s using another one of my songs.”

Dance pointed out, “The crime scene’s by the river, just like the second verse.”

“No, the fire! First Bobby and now these other people. Edwin sent me an email, well, a bunch of them, saying how much he liked my song ‘Fire and Flame.’”

She picked up the CD of
Your Shadow
and showed Dance the liner notes.

Love is fire, love is flame

It warms your heart, it lights the way.

It burns forever just like the sun.

It welds two souls and makes them one.

Love is fire, love is flame.

Bishop said to his daughter, “Hey, KT, don’t go blaming yourself. You can’t take into account all the damn crazies out there. That boy’s a sicko and nothing but. If it wasn’t you it’d be somebody else.” The sentences were wooden. He wasn’t adept at offering solace.

“He
burned
those people to death, Daddy!”

Bishop didn’t know what to say and he walked to the kitchen and got himself a glass of milk. Sheri stood uneasily beside one of the guitars. Dance called Harutyun again but there’d been no new developments.