XO (6 page)

“I really …” Kayleigh was a deer in the middle of the road.

Bobby put his hand on Edwin’s shoulder. Not quite hostile, not quite friendly. Dance wondered if this would be the start of a fight and she reached for the only weapon she had—her mobile—to dial 911 if need be. But Edwin simply stepped back a few inches, ignoring Bobby. “Come on, let’s get that iced tea. I know you think theirs here is the best in town. I’ll treat. Mr. Today, remember? Hey, your hair’s really beautiful. Ten years, four months.”

Dance had no idea what that meant but the comment clearly upset Kayleigh even more. Her jaw trembled.

“Kayleigh’d like to be left alone,” Alicia said firmly. The woman seemed to be just as strong as Bobby Prescott and her glare was more fierce.

“You enjoying working for the band, Alicia?” he asked her as if making conversation at a cocktail party. “You’ve been with ’em about, what? Five, six months, right? You’re talented too. I’ve seen you on YouTube. You surely can sing. Wow.”

Alicia leaned forward ominously. “What the hell is this? How do you know me?”

“Listen, friend,” Bobby said. “Time for you to leave.”

Then Tye Slocum slowly pushed back in his chair and strode to the door. Edwin’s eyes followed and on his face was welded the same smile that had been there from the moment he’d stepped to the table. But something had changed; it was as if he actually expected Kayleigh to join him for tea and was perplexed she wasn’t. Tye’s mission to summon the security guard seemed to irritate him. “Kayleigh. Please. I didn’t want to bother you here but you never got back to me on email. I just want to visit for a bit. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“I really can’t.”

Bobby took Edwin’s arm once more before Dance could intervene. But again the man simply stood back. He didn’t seem to have any interest in a confrontation, much less a physical fight.

There was a blinding flash and the table was immersed in light as the door opened, then the illumination was blocked. Removing his aviator shades, Darthur Morgan moved in fast. He looked at Edwin’s face and Dance could see the muscles around his mouth tighten, a sign of displeasure at himself for missing the slimmed-down stalker.

“You’re Edwin Sharp?”

“That’s right, Mr. Morgan.”

It wasn’t hard to get information about people nowadays, especially those connected with a very public person like Kayleigh Towne. But learning the name of her security guard?

“I’m going to ask you to leave Ms. Towne alone now. She wants you to leave. You’re becoming a security threat.”

“Well, under
Giles versus Lohan,
I’m really not, Mr. Morgan. There’s
not even an implied threat. Anyway, the last thing that I want is to hurt or threaten anybody. I’m just here offering my friend some sympathy over something that happened to her, something traumatic. And seeing if she’d like some tea. Happy to buy you some too.”

“I think that’s about it now,” Morgan said in a low, insistent baritone.

Edwin continued calmly, “You’re private, of course. You can make a citizen’s arrest but only if you see me committing a crime. And I haven’t done that. You were a police officer, that’d be different, but you’re—”

Well, it’s come to that, Dance thought. Guess I knew it would. And she rose, displaying her CBI identification card.

“Ah.” Edwin stared for what seemed to be an inordinately long time as if memorizing it. “Had a feeling you were law.”

“Could I see some ID?”

“You bet.” He handed over his driver’s license, issued by Washington state. Edwin Stanton Sharp. Address in Seattle. The picture was of somebody who was indeed much heavier and with long, stringy hair.

“Where are you staying in Fresno?” Dance asked.

“A house by Woodward Park. One of those new developments. It’s not bad.” A smile. “Sure gets hot in Fresno.”

“You moved here?” Alicia asked in a surprised whisper.

Kayleigh’s eyes widened at this and her shoulders rose.

“Nope, just renting. For the time being. I’m in town for the concert. It’s going to be the best of the year. I can’t wait.”

Why would he rent a house to attend a single concert?

“No, you wanted to stalk Kayleigh,” Bobby blurted. “The lawyers warned you about that.”

Lawyers? Dance wondered.

Edwin looked around the table. The smile dimmed. “I think all of you … how you’re acting is upsetting Kayleigh.” He said to her, “I’m sorry about that. I know what you’re up against. But don’t worry, it’ll all work out.” He walked to the door, paused and turned back. “And goodbye to you too, Agent Dance. God bless you for the sacrifices you make for the people of this state.”

WHEN DANCE SAID,
“Tell me,” they did. All of them.

At once.

And only after she reined in the intersecting narratives did she begin to grasp the whole picture. Last winter a fan had become convinced that Kayleigh’s automated form letters and emails, signed “XO, Kayleigh,” hugs and kisses, were to be taken personally. Because the songs had meant so much to him, perfectly expressing how he felt about life, he’d told himself that they were soul mates. He began a barrage of correspondence—email, Facebook and Twitter posts, handwritten letters—and he’d sent her presents.

Advised to ignore him, Kayleigh and her assistants stopped responding, except to send back any gifts, unopened, but Edwin Sharp nonetheless persisted, apparently believing that her father and handlers felt threatened by the connection between him and Kayleigh and wanted to keep them apart.

He was told to stop, dozens of times. The law firm representing Kayleigh and her father threatened him with civil action and referral to the police if he didn’t cease and desist.

But he hadn’t.

“It’s been so creepy,” Kayleigh now said, her voice breaking. She took a sip of tea from a new glass the bartender had brought her when he’d come to mop up the spill. “He’d want a strand of hair, a fingernail clipping, a piece of paper I’d kissed, with my lipstick on it. He’d take pictures of me in places where I’d never seen him. Backstage or in parking lots.”

Dance said, “That’s the thing about a crime like this. You never quite know where the stalker is. Maybe miles away. Maybe outside your window.”

Kayleigh continued, “And the mail! Hundreds of letters and email messages. I’d change my email address and a few hours later he’d have the new one.”

“Do you think he had anything to do with the light that fell?” Dance asked.

Kayleigh said she thought she’d seen some “weird” things that morning at the convention center, maybe shadows moving, maybe not. She hadn’t seen an actual person.

Alicia Sessions was more certain. “I saw something too, I’m sure.” She shrugged her broad shoulders, offering hints of tattoos largely hidden under the cloth. “Nothing specific, though. No face or body.”

The band wasn’t in town yet and the rest of the crew had been outside when they thought they’d seen the shadowy figure. Bobby hadn’t seen anything other than the strip light starting to fall.

Dance asked, “Do the local deputies know about him?”

The singer answered, “Oh, yeah, they do. They knew he was planning to come to the concert on Friday—even though the lawyers threatened to get a restraining order. They didn’t really think he’d done anything bad enough for us to get one, though. But the sheriff was going to keep an eye on him if he showed up. Make sure he knew they were watching him.”

“I’ll call the sheriff’s office,” Alicia said, “and tell them he’s here. And where he’s staying.” She gave a surprised laugh. “He sure didn’t hide it.”

Kayleigh looked around, troubled. “This used to be my favorite restaurant in town. Now, it’s all spoiled…. I’m not hungry anymore. I’d like to leave. I’m sorry.”

She waved for and settled up the check.

“Hold on a second.” Bobby walked to the front door and opened it a crack. He spoke to Darthur Morgan. The roadie returned to the table. “He’s gone. Darthur saw him get in his car and drive off.”

“Let’s go out the back, just the same,” Alicia suggested. Tye asked Morgan to drive around to that lot and Dance accompanied the small entourage through a beer-pungent storeroom, past a grim toilet. They stepped into a parking lot of bleached weeds and dusty cars and crumbling asphalt.

Dance noticed Kayleigh glance to her right and gasp. She followed the singer’s gaze.

Twenty feet away a car was parked in the lot behind the restaurant. It was a huge old model, dull red. Sitting in the driver’s seat was Edwin Sharp. Through the open window, he called, “Hey, Kayleigh! Check out my wheels! It’s not a Cadillac, just a Buick. Like it?” He didn’t seem to expect an answer. He added, “Don’t worry, I’ll never put my car ahead of you!”

“My Red Cadillac” was one of Kayleigh’s smash hits. It was about a girl who loves her old car … and dumps any man who doesn’t care for the big, battered vehicle.

Bobby Prescott stormed forward and raged, “Get the fuck out of here, you son of a bitch! And don’t even think about following us to find out where Kayleigh lives. You try that and I’m calling the cops.”

Edwin nodded, smiling, and drove off.

With the sun’s glare and the unsure kinesics of someone she’d just met, Dance couldn’t be certain but her impression was that the stalker’s face had registered a hint of confusion when Bobby spoke—as if of
course
he knew where Kayleigh lived. Why wouldn’t he?

NO SURPRISE, CALIFORNIA
has always been home to Latino music, some Salvadoran, Honduran and Nicaraguan, but the bulk of the sounds are
mexicana:
traditional mariachi,
banda,
ranchera,
norteño
and
sones.
Plenty of pop and rock too and even South of the Border’s own brand of ska and hip-hop.

These sounds flowed from the many Spanish-language stations up and down the Central Valley into the homes, businesses and fields here, taking up half the airwaves—the rest of the bandwidth split between Anglo music and check-seeking religious stations spouting incoherent theology.

It was close to 9:00
P.M.
and Dance was now getting a firsthand taste of this musical sound in the sweltering garage of Jose Villalobos, on the outskirts of Fresno. The family’s two Toyotas had been banished from the small, detached structure, which was usually a rehearsal hall. Tonight, though, it was a recording studio. The six musicians of Los Trabajadores were just finishing up the last number for Dance’s digital recorder. The men, ranging in age from twenty-five to sixty, had been playing together for some years, both traditional Mexican folk music and their own material.

The recording had gone well, though the men hadn’t been too focused at first—largely because of whom Dance had brought with her: Kayleigh Towne, hair looped in an elaborately braided bun atop her head, in faded jeans, T-shirt and denim vest.

The musicians had been awed and two had scurried into the house to return with wives and children for autographs. One of the women had tearfully said, “You know, your song ‘Leaving Home’—we all love it. God bless you for writing it.”

This was a ballad about an older woman who’s packing up her belongings and leaving the house where she and her husband raised their children.
The listener wonders if she’s just become a widow or if the house has been foreclosed on by the bank.

Now I’m starting over, starting over once again,

To try to make a new life, without family or friends.

In all my years on earth, there’s one thing that I know:

Nothing can be harder than to leave behind your home.

Only at the end is it revealed that she’s undocumented and is being deported, though she’s spent her whole life in the United States. Just after the woman is dropped off alone at a bus station in Mexico, she sings the coda: “America The Beautiful” in Spanish. It was Kayleigh’s most controversial song, earning her the anger of those taking a hard line on immigration reform. But it was also hugely popular and had become an anthem among Latino workers and those preaching a more open border policy.

As they were packing up, Dance explained how the songs would be uploaded onto her and Martine’s website. She couldn’t guarantee what might happen but given that the band was so good they’d probably sell a fair number of downloads. And it was possible, with the growth of Latino radio throughout the United States and independent record labels specializing in that sound, that they might draw some producers’ or ad agencies’ attention.

Curiously, becoming successful didn’t interest them in the least. Oh, they wouldn’t mind making some money with their music but with the downloads only. Villalobos said, “Yeah, we don’t want that kind of life—on the road. We won’t travel. We have jobs, families,
bebés.
Jesus has twins—he got to go change diapers now.” A glance toward the grinning, handsome young man who was packing away his old battered Gibson Hummingbird guitar.