XO (24 page)

“And I’m a woman.”

“That doesn’t count the way it used to.”

“What does ‘aligned’ mean?”

“What he’d like, if you were interested, is to discuss a Justice Department
appointment. Something pretty senior. We’d just like to broach it at this point. No commitments on anybody’s side.”

Dance had to laugh. “Washington?”

“That’s right.”

Her initial reaction was to dismiss the idea as absurd, thinking that uprooting the children might be difficult. Also, she’d miss the fieldwork. But then she realized that she’d have the chance to spread word of her kinesic analysis techniques of investigation and interrogation around the country. She was adamantly opposed to extreme interrogation techniques as both immoral and ineffective, and she was intrigued by the idea that she might have influence in changing those practices at a very high level.

And, reconsidering, as for the kids, what was wrong with exposing them to a different city, especially the nation’s capital, for a few years? Maybe she could commute between the two coasts.

Peter Simesky had to laugh. “I don’t have your expertise but if I’m reading your face right, you’re considering it.”

And then she wondered: What would Michael O’Neil think of this?

Oh, and Jon Boling too? Though as a consultant, he could live anywhere. She wouldn’t do anything without talking to him first, though.

“This is completely out of left field. I never in a million years thought about anything like it.”

Simesky continued, “There’re too many career politicians messing up government. We need people who’ve lived in the trenches. They’ll work for a while and go home to the back forty, take up farmin’ again.” A smile. “Or being cops. Is it okay to say ‘cop’?”

“Not the least offensive.”

Simesky slid off the bar stool, paid the check. “I’ve given you a lot to think about and you don’t need to decide now, not with this investigation going on. Just let it sit.” He stood up and shook her hand. At the doorway he paused. “That guy you mentioned? Pretty serious, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Tell him he’s a lucky man and, by the way, I hate him.” A cherubic smile and then he was gone.

Dance finished her wine—this would be it for the evening, she decided—and returned to her room, laughing to herself. Deputy Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Kathryn Dance.

Maybe, just maybe she could get used to that.

It was now nine-thirty, hardly late, but she was exhausted. Time for yet another shower and sleep.

But that too was interrupted. Her phone rang once more and she didn’t recognize the caller ID number. Let it go?

But the investigator within her decided to answer.

Just as well. It turned out that the caller was Edwin Sharp’s former girlfriend.

SALLY DOCKING WAS
her name.

Deputy Miguel Lopez had tracked her down in Seattle and left a message to contact Dance, who now thanked her for calling.

A hesitant, melodious voice. “Like, sure.”

“I’d like to talk to you about Edwin Sharp.”

“Oh, Edwin? Is he okay?”

Odd question.

“Yes, he is. I wonder if you could answer a few questions for me.”

“I guess. But, like, what’s this about?”

“You were in a relationship with him, correct?”

“Yeah, for a while. We met in February a year ago. We worked in the same mall. We started going out and moved in for a few months. It didn’t work out. We broke up around Christmas. What’s … I mean, I’m kind of curious why you’re asking.”

Sometimes you can be too evasive and the subjects clam up. “He’s been showing some inappropriate interest in someone here in California.”

“He has? Really? What’s that mean?”

“We’re looking into whether or not he’s guilty of stalking.”

“Edwin?” She sounded genuinely surprised.

Dance jotted this impression in her notebook.

“Have you heard from him lately?”

“No. It’s been months and months.”

“Sally, tell me: Did he ever threaten you?”

“Threaten? No, never.”

“Did he ever threaten or show excessive interest in other women that you know about?”

“No. I can’t even picture it.”

“Did you ever see him engage in any obsessive behavior?”

“Well, like, I don’t know what you mean exactly. He got pretty intense, maybe you’d call it obsessive. He’d get into something, like totally get excited about a Wii game or some fantasy author and he’d buy all their books.”

“How about people, stars, musicians?”

“He liked movies. Yeah, he went a lot. In theaters, not on TV so much. But his big thing was music, yeah. He really liked Cassie McGuire and Kayleigh Towne and Charlie Holmes and Mike Norman—you know them?”

“Yes, I do.” The latter two, Dance noted, were men.

“And then this band from Seattle, the Pointless Bricks. I know it’s a stupid name but they’re really, really good. Edwin totally loved them. If he was going to see somebody in concert he’d get tickets way ahead of time and make sure that his schedule let him get away. He’d be at the concert hall like three hours early, even if he had reserved seats, and he’d stand in line afterwards, hoping to get an autograph. And he’d get their souvenirs on eBay. It was a waste of money. I mean, to me, that’s pretty obsessive.”

“After you left him, did you have a problem with him calling you, following you? Harassing you?”

“No. I mean he’d call sometimes about something he’d left at my apartment, and we’d taken out a loan together and we had to talk about that, sign some papers. But, stalking, no, nothing like that. Only one thing? You said when I left him. That’s not what happened. He left me.”

Dance could have kicked herself. And earlier she’d been mentally chastising P. K. Madigan for leading Edwin during the interview; here she was doing exactly the same.

“Tell me what happened.”

“He just said the relationship wasn’t working. I was pretty bummed. He wasn’t, you know, real ambitious. He never wanted to be more than a security guard or work retail. But he was romantic and he was dependable. He didn’t drink and he’d pretty much given up smoking when I was with him.”

“So he used to smoke,” Dance said, thinking of her own voyeur in the park near the motel.

“Yeah, but only when he was stressed. So, he left and I was pretty bummed out for a couple of months.”

“Did he go out with anybody else?”

“Not really. He dated a few girls. I don’t know who. We fell out of touch.”

“One last question. Did you ever see him get violent or lose control?”

A pause. “Yeah, I did.”

“Tell me.”

Sally explained, “Okay, once me and my girlfriend and Edwin were walking down the street and this drunk guy came up, I mean, way, way drunk. And he called us sluts. And Edwin goes up to him and shouts, ‘Apologize right now, you asshole.’ And the guy did.”

Dance waited. “That was it? He never hit this man?”

“Oh, no. Edwin’d never do that. I mean, he’s scary-
looking
, sure. Those eyebrows, you know. And he’s big. But he’d never hurt anybody. Look, there’s a lot Edwin doesn’t get, you know what I mean? He’s kind of like a kid. That’s part of what makes him so charming, though.”

Hardly a word Dance would use. But she’d given up trying to figure out what made couples click.

Dance thanked the young woman and disconnected. She jotted a summary of the conversation into her notebook. So, what do I make of this? A relatively normal relationship with one woman didn’t mean he couldn’t stalk another. But stalking was habitual. For Sally to be involved for a year and to live with him for part of that time yet not see any danger signs was significant.

On the other hand, he’d exhibited
some
obsessive interest in music and performers.

But then, Dance admitted, so did she. Hence, her trip to
casa de Villalobos
with her tape recorder here in beautiful downtown Fresno during the dog days of September.

After a furtive examination of the park revealed no cigarette-smoking surveillance, Dance took a shower. She dried off and slipped into the Mountain View bathrobe, which the sign announced ironically she was
free
to take with her for $89.95.

Dance curled up in the sumptuous bed. Who needed views of snowy peaks when the furniture was so opulent?

She now wished Jon Boling were here with her. She was thinking of the recent overnight trip they’d taken to Ventana, the beautiful, surreal resort in the cliffs near Big Sur, south of Carmel. The trip had been a
milestone—it was the first time she’d told the children that she and Boling were going away overnight.

She offered nothing more about the trip and the news was greeted with no interest whatsoever by either Wes or Maggie. At their ages, though, the broader implications had probably been lost on them. But their bored response was a huge victory for Dance, who’d stressed about their reaction to the fact Mom was traveling with another man. (Wes worried her most; Maggie wanted her mother to get married again so she could be “best woman.”)

The weekend away had been wonderful and Dance had been pleased that the last holdout of widowhood—the discomfort with intimacy—was finally vanishing.

She wanted Boling here now.

And was thinking it curious that they hadn’t spoken for two days. They’d traded messages but voicemail had reared its head at every instance. She was involved in a murder investigation so she had an excuse, she reflected. But Boling was a computer consultant. She wasn’t quite sure why he was so inaccessible.

Dance called her parents, chatted with her father for a few minutes then asked to speak to the children.

It was a pure comfort, pure joy, hearing their voices. Dance found she was smiling to herself as they rambled on enthusiastically about their days at camp. She laughed when they signed off with a “Loveyoumom” (Maggie) and “Gottagoseeya” (Wes), verbal signals perfectly defining the differing parent-child relationships at the moment.

Then her mother came on the phone. Edie reported that Dance’s father was finishing up some work at her house in Pacific Grove to get it ready for the party she was hosting this weekend; house guests would be staying for a few days, after driving down from San Jose on Saturday.

And then there was a pause.

Dance tried not to practice her profession in her personal life. Nothing ruins a date faster than a man saying he’s divorced as he leans forward and looks her in the eye—a complete deviation from his earlier baseline behavior. (One of her favorite Kayleigh Towne songs, “The Truth About Men,” was a hilarious look at how that gender tends to be, well, less than forthright.)

But now she noted that something was up.

“How’s it going there?” Edie Dance offered some clumsy verbal padding.

“Good. Fresno’s actually kind of interesting. Parts of it are. There’s a real-estate development built around a runway. You get a hangar for your plane, instead of a garage. Well, maybe you get a garage too. I didn’t look.”

Throughout Kathryn Dance’s life, her mother had been kind and fair but also resolute, opinionated, unyielding and at times exasperating. Get to the point, Dance thought.

“There’s something I found out. I wasn’t sure what to do. If it weren’t for the kids …”

Of course, those words are like gasoline on the candle of motherhood and Dance now said bluntly, “What? Tell me.” The tone was unmistakable: Don’t screw around. I’m your daughter but I’m an adult. I want to know and I want to know now.

“Jon brought some computer games over for the kids. And he got a phone call … Honey, he was talking to a broker about property. I heard him say he’d gotten a job and wanted to take a look at a house.”

This was interesting. But why the concern in her mother’s voice? “And?”

“It’s in San Diego. He’s moving in a couple of weeks.”

Oh.

Weeks?

Dance now understood what Edie meant about the children. They were still vulnerable from the death of their father. For them to lose the new man in their life would be very hurtful, if not devastating.

And then there’s me.

What the hell was he thinking of, not telling me anything? Here I was just offered a job in D.C. and the first thing I think of is talking to him about it.

Weeks?

So that’s why he hadn’t picked up the phone but used the coward’s hideout of voicemail.

But the first rule of law enforcement was not to make assumptions. “Are you sure? You couldn’t have misunderstood?”

“No, no. He was alone, in the back by the pool. He thought I couldn’t hear. And when Wes stepped out, he changed the subject completely. He basically hung up on the broker.”

Dance could say nothing for a moment.

“I’m sorry, honey.”