XO (23 page)

The scene was a broad dusty field, a cracked and crumbling parking lot, a long-closed gas station collapsed in on itself and the burned shed, of which there wasn’t much left. The smoke was still rising in furious plumes. The heat you could feel from the shoulder of the road. Not far away was the gray-brown strip of low river that had inspired this location for the killing.

The CSU team was still at work, though the firefighters outnumbered the police. Fire was a much greater risk to the population of Fresno than a single crazed stalker.

Harutyun, the senior detective on the scene, explained what they’d found, which wasn’t much. The shell casings, the CDs, the money—the altar to Kayleigh. But even the twenty-dollar bill seemed to have been washed—literally laundered. And the fire had been such a serious threat that the men and women had charged onto the grounds with hoses to contain the flames, surely contaminating the scene worse.

Besides, Dance guessed, if Edwin was behind the killing he wouldn’t have left much evidence. He was too clever for that.

Harutyun continued the explanation he’d begun over the phone.

The victim had indeed known Kayleigh—and about a thousand other performers.

His name was Frederick Blanton. “He’s a crook,” Harutyun summarized. “
Was
a crook.”

Dance thought of the CDs, the altar … and what she knew of the music business. “Into illegal file sharing?”

“That’s very good, Kathryn. Yes.”

“What’s the story?”

“There were close to ten thousand computers on the network. People would download songs, music videos too. Kayleigh’s were among the most popular.”

“How’d you ID him?” Dance glanced inside. “Obviously, no prints.”

“Weren’t hardly even any hands or feet. One hand must’ve burned down to ash, gone completely. We’ll have to confirm with DNA but we found his wallet in a part of the shed that didn’t burn so bad. We checked his address—he lived in the Tower District, about seven, eight miles from here. A team’s going through his house now. They found his door kicked and it was a mess—all his computers were wrecked. We figured the perp probably forced him to destroy the file-sharing servers then made him get into the trunk of his car. If it’s Edwin he’s got plenty of room in that Buick of his. Drove him here, shot him and set the fire.”

Dance mused, “How easy would it have been for Edwin to find him?”

“Google ‘torrent’ and ‘Kayleigh Towne’ and ‘download,’ and his site”—a nod toward the shed—“was in the top ten. Some basic research and he’d’ve come up with the address, I’d guess. Our boy seems good at that.”

“And he left the altar as a warning not to steal from Kayleigh.”

A stalker’s likely to target anybody who’s a threat to you, or even offended you. He’s taking real seriously his role as a protector….

“And the crime scene at his house? Evidence?”

“Nothing. No prints, foot or finger. Some trace but …” He shrugged, an indication of its marginal usefulness. “They
did
find he had a partner.”

“Who’s feeling a little uneasy at the moment,” Dance speculated.

“Well, he’s not in the area.”

“Guess you don’t need to be next-door neighbors with your co-conspirator if you’re doing computer crimes. You could be in South America or Serbia. Where’s he based?”

“Salinas.”

Hm. Monterey County.

“You have the guy’s name—and physical or computer address?”

“CSU’d have it.” The detective made a call and asked that the information be sent to her phone. She noted that he’d memorized her number.

The unit chimed a moment later with the incoming message.

“I’ll send it to some people I know there. They can follow up with him.” She composed an email and sent it off.

Harutyun then said, “I’m trying to keep an open mind. I know it seems to be Edwin but I’m still looking into motives anybody else would have had to kill Bobby. I’ve been getting a lot of information about him but so far nothing jumps out. And now I guess I better add this guy into the mix. But, well, there’ve gotta be a lot of people who’d like to murder a file sharer. Half the record companies and movie studios.”

Another squad car arrived, crunching over the gravel, dirt and bleached twigs that bordered the site of the blackened earth. It parked near a faded Conoco sign depicting a pale green dinosaur. Dance’s daughter, Maggie, was presently in a Jurassic phase. Her room was littered with plastic versions of the reptiles. Dance tamped down a pang, missing her children.

P. K. Madigan climbed out, surveyed the scene with hands on his slim hips overshadowed by his belly. Then he joined Dance and Harutyun. “So, he was stealing her songs?”

“That’s right.”

Madigan grumbled, “Never thought he’d switch to landlines. Should have.”

“We all should have.”

“And where the hell is he? He’s got a car as big as my boat and it’s bright red, to boot. I don’t see how he keeps losing my folks.” His phone rang and he regarded the screen. “’Lo? … You don’t say…. Naw, I’ll go myself.” He disconnected. “Well, all righty then. I can’t tell you where Edwin was when this fella died but I can tell you where he is now. He’s parked in front of Kayleigh’s house again. In the arboretum lot across the road.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Sitting on the hood of his car, happy as a clam, having himself a picnic. I want to have a talk with him. Well, actually, I’d like
you
to have a talk with him, Kathryn. You up for that?”

“You bet I am.”

THAT CONVERSATION DID
not, however, occur.

Driving in tandem, they were at Kayleigh’s house fast, in twenty-five minutes, but Edwin Sharp had left by then.

He has a sixth sense, Dance thought, though she did not believe in sixth senses.

Was it her imagination or did she see a cloud of dust hanging over the spot from which he might have just sped off? Hard to tell. There was a lot of dust in Fresno. The sky was clear but wind rose occasionally and a nearby vortex of beige powder swirled into a tiny funnel and then melted away.

Dance and Madigan both parked across the road from Kayleigh’s house and climbed out. This side of the road was lush, thanks to the park. Kayleigh’s yard too was thickly landscaped. In the distance, south and west, was a vista of low fields, now just dark dirt. Whatever was grown there had been harvested.

The detective gave a knowing glance toward her—acknowledging frustration at their missing quarry—and leaned against his car to make a call. From the brief conversation Dance deduced it was to the deputy at Kayleigh’s house—provided to supplement Darthur Morgan when the manpower allowed. He disconnected. “Was Jose, at the house.” A nod. “Edwin was here ten minutes ago. They didn’t see which way he went.”

Dance could understand why. From here you could see only the second story of the house, which was about three hundred feet away, down the gravel driveway. She wondered if the windows visible from here—the ones Edwin had just presumably been staring at while he had his meal—were Kayleigh’s bedroom.

Silence for a time. The sun was low and Dance could feel the day shedding heat in layers.

Madigan said, “Had a snake in my backyard a couple, three years ago. Big rattler. I mean, a big one. Saw him once and never again for the rest of that summer. Was he under the barbecue, the house, had he left altogether? Walked around with my sidearm all the time, which I never do.”

“Because of the kids,” Dance said.

“Because of the kids. We took to calling him the ‘invisible snake.’ But it wasn’t funny. Ruined the backyard for the whole season. And saw him one time only. All right.” He stood with hands on his hips again, looking over the park. “You’re in town all alone. You want to come over for dinner? My wife, she’s a pretty good cook.”

“I’ll probably just get something back at the motel. Get some sleep.”

“We got good desserts.”

“Ice cream?”

A laugh. “Naw. Judy bakes. Well, ice cream ends up being involved.”

“Think I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Good evening to you, Kathryn.”

“You too, Chief.”

Dance returned to the Mountain View. The locks on her suitcases were intact and nothing seemed to be disturbed. Dance glanced out the window at the park, saw no surveillance and closed the blinds.

As soon as she did, the hotel phone rang.

“Agent Dance?” A pleasant male voice.

“That’s right.”

“It’s Peter Simesky? Congressman Davis’s aide?” he asked as if she’d have no clue who he was.

“Yes, hi.”

“Hi. Actually I’m in the lobby … of your motel. The congressman was speaking at a farm nearby. Could I talk to you? Am I interrupting anything?”

She could find no credible excuse and said she’d be out in a minute.

In the lobby she found the man on his phone and he politely ended the call when he spotted her. They shook hands and he grinned, though the smile soon morphed into a frown.

“I heard they confirmed another attack.”

“That’s right. Homicide.”

“Anyone connected to Kayleigh?”

“Not directly.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“So far, no. But appreciate that.”

“It’s this stalker?”

“Pointing to him but we don’t know for sure.”

Simesky tilted his head in a certain way and Dance knew a related story would be forthcoming. “The congressman’s had a few problems himself. A couple of campaign workers and interns. Two women and a gay man too. They got infatuated, I guess you could say.”

Dance explained about erotomania. “Fits the classic profile. A powerful man and somebody in a lower professional position. Any physical threats?”

“No, no, just got awkward.”

Simesky had a large bottle of water and he drank it thirstily. She noticed his white shirt was sweat stained. He followed her glance and laughed. “The congressman’s been delivering his ecofriendly speech at farms from Watsonville to Fresno. The temperature was a lot more pleasant in your neighborhood.”

Watsonville, just north of where Dance lived, was near the coast. And, she agreed, a lot more pleasant, weather-wise, than the San Joaquin Valley.

“You got a good turnout, I’ll bet.”

“At the farms, because of his immigrant position, you mean? Oh, you bet. We considered it a success—and there were only forty protesters. Maybe fifty. And no one threw anything. We get tomatoes sometimes. Brussels sprouts too. Kind of ironic, a candidate in support of farmworkers getting pelted by vegetables from the anti-farmworker contingent.”

Dance smiled.

Simesky looked toward the motel’s bar. “How ’bout a glass of wine?”

She hesitated.

“This won’t take long. It’s important.”

Dance remembered his look her way at Kayleigh’s house and his slightly overlong handshake. Was she the object of a stalker herself? She said, “Just to set the record straight, I’m seeing somebody.”

He gave a wistful, embarrassed smile. “You caught that, hm?”

“I do this for a living.”

“I’ve heard about you.” A grin. “I better watch my body language…. Well, Agent Dance—”

“Kathryn.”

“Yeah, I was flirting a bit—then and just a few seconds ago. And I’m disappointed to hear about your friend. Never hurts to ask.”

“Never does.” Edwin Sharp should take some lessons from Peter Simesky.

“But there was another point to this too. Completely innocent.”

“Okay, let’s get that wine.”

In the dim, tacky bar she ordered a Merlot and Simesky a Chardonnay. “What a case you’ve got yourself, that stalker,” he said.

“He’s persistent and smart. And obsessed. The most dangerous kind of perp.”

“But you were saying you’re not sure it’s him.”

“We’re never sure until we get a confession or the evidence proves the case.”

“I guess not. I’m a lawyer but I never did criminal work. Well, now, my agenda.”

The wine arrived and they sipped without tapping glasses.

“About Kayleigh Towne?”

“No, it’s about you.”

“Me?”

“Bill Davis likes you. Oh, wait … not that way,” the aide added quickly. “The only person he’s ever flirted with since college is his wife. They’ve been together twenty-eight years. No, this is a professional interest. Do you follow politics much?”

“Some. I try to keep informed. Davis is somebody I’d vote for if I was in his district.”

Simesky seemed to take this as very good news. He continued, “He’s pretty liberal then, you know. And some people in the party are afraid that as a presidential candidate he’s going to be perceived as soft on law and order. It’d go a long way if—yes, you can see this coming—a long way if somebody like you were aligned with him. You’re smart, attractive—sorry, can’t help myself—and have a great record with the CBI.”