XO (36 page)

“Tall?”

She explained about her interview with Tabatha, across the street, several days ago. “She said she’d seen somebody inside that morning. Except, she couldn’t see the intruder’s head, only his chest.”

This was why she’d put O’Neil in front of the window of the trailer a half hour ago. Recalling that she’d been eye-to-eye with P. K. Madigan, outside, when she’d searched the trailer, she’d positioned the Monterey detective about where Tabatha had seen the intruder. She’d then stepped outside and walked across the street. Looking back, she’d clearly seen O’Neil’s face.

Which meant that the intruder Monday morning had been well over O’Neil’s height of six feet. The only person she’d met recently with an interest in Kayleigh Towne, who knew Bobby and who fit that stature was Barry Zeigler.

“Shit,” the man muttered, utterly defeated. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

Dance heard that often as an interrogator.

Sorry …

Of course what it meant, ten times out of ten, was: I’m sorry I got caught.

“When I met you at Kayleigh’s house you said you’d just driven there from Carmel. But we talked to the desk clerk here. You checked in the morning after Bobby was killed.”

“I know, I know. I lied. I’m sorry.”

That, again.

Dance said, “And then there was the recording of Kayleigh singing ‘Your Shadow.’ That you played to announce the attacks? It was done on a high-quality digital recorder. The sort that pros use—pros like you, producers and engineers.”

“Recording?” he asked, frowning.

She glanced at Dennis Harutyun, who ran through the Miranda warning. He added, “You’re under arrest for murder, for—”

“Murder? What do you mean?”

Dance and Harutyun exchanged glances.

“You’re being arrested for the murder of Bobby Prescott, sir,” the Fresno detective said. “And Frederick Blanton. And assault and battery on Sheri Towne and Agent Dance. Do you wish to—”

“No, no, I didn’t kill anyone! I didn’t attack anyone!” The producer’s face was shocked. Dance had seen a lot of performances from suspects; this was one of the best. “I’d never do that! Why would I do that?”

“Yessir. You’ll have your day in court. Do you understand your rights?”

“Bobby? You’re thinking I killed Bobby? No! And I’d never hurt Sheri. This is—”

“Do you understand—?”

“Yes, yes. But—”

“Do you wish to waive your right to remain silent?”

“Sure, yes. This is ridiculous. This is a huge misunderstanding.”

Harutyun asked, “Did you drive up here on Sunday and kill Bobby Prescott that night?”

“No, no. I drove in on Monday morning, about eleven. After I heard from Kayleigh that Bobby had died. Yes, I broke into Bobby’s trailer but it was just to get some personal things.”

“The songs,” Harutyun said. “We know all about them.”

“Songs?”

“The Beatles songs.”

“What are you talking about?”

The quality of his confusion seemed genuine so she decided to add,
“Bobby’s father was a technician at Abbey Road in the sixties and seventies.”

“Right. A pretty famous one. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“The Beatles gave him four original songs they wrote after they finished
Abbey Road.
”

Barry Zeigler laughed. “No, no, no …”

O’Neil said, “You killed him and stole the songs. They’re worth millions.”

The producer continued, “It’s an urban legend. All those rumors about outtakes and secret recordings. All that nonsense about Paul is dead. No rumor spreads faster in the music world than ones about the Beatles. But there’s nothing to it. There are no undiscovered songs.”

Dance was sizing up behaviors. Zeigler seemed more or less credible. She said, “What about this?” She showed him the plastic envelope containing the letter to Bobby’s father.

Zeigler looked at it and shook his head. “Those aren’t Beatles songs. It was some local group from Camden Town in London, I don’t even remember the name. They were nothing. After the Beatles wrapped
Abbey Road,
this group booked studio time. They laid down fifteen or sixteen tracks and used twelve or so for their album. I guess they liked Bobby’s father so much they let him have the ones they didn’t use. Nothing ever came of the group. Fact is, they wrote pretty sucky songs.”

Dance looked at the language of the note again.

So, in appreciation for all those sleepless nights the tapes to those songs we did playing around after ‘Abbey Road,’ are yours, all the rights, everything. The list’s below. Cheers!

Yes, it could simply refer to studio time after the Beatles had finished recording their album.

“But you just admitted you stole something from Bobby’s trailer that morning.”

Zeigler was debating. He looked to O’Neil and the other deputies. “Leave us alone, Agent Dance and me. I want to talk to her alone.”

She considered this. “It’s all right.”

The others walked away from the squad car. Dance crossed her arms and said, “Okay, talk.”

“You can’t tell a soul.”

“You know I can’t agree to that.”

The man’s long face screwed into a disgusted knot. “All right. But take a look first and then decide. In the bag, there’s a zipper liner. Some papers.
That
’s what I took from Bobby’s.”

Dance opened the computer bag and found the compartment. She withdrew an envelope and opened it, reading through a four-page document.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“Happy now?” Zeigler muttered.

WHAT HE’D STOLEN
was a letter from Bobby Prescott about how he wanted his property distributed in the event of his death.

Most of it would go to one person: the child who was his and Kayleigh Towne’s, Mary-Gordon.

Apparently Kayleigh had had the child at sixteen and Suellyn and her husband, Roberto Sanchez, had adopted the little girl within weeks of her birth.

The envelope included a copy of the adoption papers and some personal messages to the girl, for her to read when she was older.

“He told me a few years ago that he’d written it,” Zeigler said. “I couldn’t let it become public.”

Dance recalled the close relationship she’d sensed between Bobby and Kayleigh at the restaurant. And the other things she’d noted: Mary-Gordon’s blond hair color, the girl’s forthright demeanor. Her eyes were Kayleigh’s bright blue, while Suellyn’s—and presumably her Latino husband’s—were brown.

She thought too about Edwin’s comment in the recent interview.

I think something pretty bad happened to her when she was about sixteen….

Dance asked, “But how come no one knew she was pregnant?”

“Oh, Kayleigh didn’t start performing professionally until she was seventeen. She wasn’t on the press radar before then but Bishop had big plans for her. He pulled her out of school when she was about two months pregnant, got a tutor for homeschooling. He kept it secret and spun the story pretty well to friends—Kayleigh was real upset her mother had died. She was depressed. Made sense for her to disappear for eight, nine months. He suggested to people she’d had a breakdown.”

Dance was appalled. “And he forced her to give the baby up?”

Zeigler’s long face moved up and down. “Bobby was twenty-two, she was six years younger. Okay, that’s bad, no question. On the other hand, he was a really nice guy and if anybody would fall for a father figure, it’d be Kayleigh. Her mother had just died, she was living in a house she hated, with her father on the road most of the time. She was vulnerable. And it wasn’t just a fling. They wanted to get married. They were in love. But when Bishop heard, he flew back to town right after a concert and said if they didn’t agree to the adoption he was going get Bobby arrested for statutory rape.”

“He did
that
?”

“Sure did. Kayleigh agreed to the adoption—but only to placing the girl with her sister so she could still see her. And she insisted that Bobby stay with the band. Bishop figured that was the best he was going to get and he agreed.”

Dance recalled her own observations about Bobby and what Kayleigh had told her. “That’s when Bobby started drinking and got into drugs, right?”

Zeigler lifted an eyebrow. “You caught that, hm? Yep, that was it. He was really upset it didn’t work out between them.”

“But why couldn’t she keep the baby?” Dance asked. “I know she wants children.”

“Oh, that wouldn’t work,” Zeigler said bitterly. “Bishop’s own career was dying at that point. All he had left was Kayleigh.”

“And he was convinced that she needed to build her career on a good-girl image to be successful.”

“Exactly. He was ahead of the curve there. Like he usually was. Look at those
Twilight
vampire books my daughter loves. They’re about kids being in love but not having sex. That’s Kayleigh Towne. And parents—the ones with the credit cards—love that image. If word had gotten out that she was pregnant at sixteen, that could have been the end of her career.”

Dance didn’t know if that was true or not. She had a lot of faith in the intelligence and discernment of audiences. She said coolly, “But it was about you too, right? You can’t afford to lose her. Not with the way record labels are headed nowadays.”

Zeigler’s shoulders, high above Dance, slumped. “Okay, okay. Kayleigh’s my only major act left. Everybody else is gone. If I lose her it’s all over with. I’m forty-five and all I’ve ever done is produce albums. I can’t
afford to be a freelancer. Besides, Kayleigh’s an amazing talent. I love working with her. She’s a genius. One of a kind.”

Dance looked at the adoption paperwork, the letter.

“Mary-Gordon doesn’t know?”

“No. Bishop forced Suellyn and her husband to sign a nondisclosure agreement. If they said a word they might lose custody.”

Dance closed her eyes briefly and shook her head at this news about Bishop Towne, which disturbed but didn’t surprise her one bit.

Zeigler gave a bitter laugh. “I’m not the only desperate person in this business.”

She slipped the documents back into the envelope and put it into her purse. “I’ll think about it. For now, you were looking for some personal papers at Bobby’s. What you found and took had no value and had nothing to do with the case.” She looked him over coolly. “But you’re still a suspect in the murders.”

“I was in Carmel, at a hotel, when Bobby died.”

“Can anybody verify that?”

He thought for a moment. Then said, “I was by myself…. I was really upset—I’d just been fired by my other major artist. The only contact I had with anybody was a message I left for my wife.” He glanced up at Dance with miserable eyes. “Is that any good—a voicemail where you’re sobbing like a ten-year-old that your career is probably over?”

“It could be,” Dance told him.

“NO BEATLES?” DENNIS
Harutyun asked, visibly disappointed the news wasn’t true. This was the most emotional she’d seen him.

“Doesn’t look that way.”

Dance had phoned Martine, her website partner and a true musical historian, who made some calls and reported back about what Zeigler had said. Yes, there’d been rumors for years of undiscovered Fab Four songs but the consensus was just as the producer explained.

Dance, Harutyun and Crystal Stanning stood in a cluster in the parking lot of the Red Roof Inn. The lights of the patrol cars were flashing urgently. Maybe this was procedure but Dance wished they’d shut them off.

O’Neil was on the phone. Finally he ended the call and looked up. “His alibi? It’s good.”

The cell phone data and the voiceprint of the “sobbing ten-year-old” confirmed that at the moment Bobby Prescott was being murdered in the Fresno convention center, Barry Zeigler was over two hours away.

“Why’d he break into Bobby’s trailer?” Harutyun asked. “What was he after?”

Dance shrugged. “Apparently it’s personal. Nothing to do with the case. I believe him.”

O’Neil’s eyes swung toward her, amused. Was her behavior deviating from her baseline? Which he, of all people, would know very well.

The Fresno deputy said, “Hardly seems worth the trouble, collaring him for that. But, I’ll tell you, bad judgment ought to be a misdemeanor.” He walked over to his car, got Zeigler out and uncuffed him. Dance didn’t know what transpired between the two but she assumed it involved a stern talking-to. With a glance toward Dance, the producer collected his computer bag and returned to his room, rubbing his wrists.

Dance decided to give the documents to Kayleigh and let her decide how to handle the matter.

“So,” Harutyun said, returning to them. “No leads. No suspect.”

“We have the evidence,” Crystal Stanning offered. “From the crime scenes and what we collected in Edwin’s backyard.”