Jeffery Deaver - XO

“Bobby?”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“They told me… but I was praying it was a mistake.”

Then Sheriff Gonzalez joined them on the main floor and put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. Dance wondered if all friends and next of kin got this treatment, or only celebrities, and then decided the cynical thought was unkind. Kayleigh Towne was the city’s star, yes, but she was at the moment a woman in terrible distress.

“I’m sorry, Kayleigh,” Gonzalez said. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was him! Edwin. I know it! Go arrest him. He’s parked in front of my house. Right now!”

“He’s what ?” Madigan asked.

“He’s parked in the lot of the nature preserve across the street. He’s just sitting there in that goddamn red car of his.”

Frowning, Madigan made a call and told a deputy to check it out.

“Arrest him!”

“We’ll have to see, Kayleigh. May not be as easy as that.”

Dance noticed Darthur Morgan standing, arms crossed, in the back of the theater, looking around carefully.

“The hell’s that?” Madigan grumbled, catching sight of the man.

“My bodyguard,” Kayleigh said, gasping from the crying.

“Oh.”

Dance returned to the edge of the stage and looked down. The nausea rose again from the smell, here concentrated, but she ignored it and studied the scene carefully: the strip light, six feet long or so, lay atop the scorched remains of Bobby Prescott. Dance knew the messages the body gave off-in life and in death. She now assessed the broken bones, the claw shape of the hands, partly due to the typical fire victim’s contractions, the pugilistic attitude, but also because he’d been trying to drag his broken body out from underneath the edge of the stage. He was headed away from the stairs-not the logical direction one would crawl if he was just seeking help.

“He fell first,” Dance said to the deputy standing next to her, softly, so Kayleigh would not hear. “A few minutes before the lamp hit him.”

“What’s that, ma’am?” The man, in his midthirties, of rectangular build, with a luxurious black mustache, stepped closer. He too was tanned, like Madigan, though perhaps he also had a naturally dark complexion. His tag said DET. D. HARUTYUN.

She nodded down into the hole as the crime scene men, or women, in jumpsuits, moved the light away and began processing the body. She said, “His legs, the way they’re angled, his hands. He fell first. He tried to get out of the way. Then the light fell.”

The deputy examined the scene silently. Then: “The light teetered and fell. He knew it was coming ’cause he tugged on the cord.”

But the wire was plugged into an outlet on the stage, not in the pit. Both she and the detective noticed this simultaneously. Bobby couldn’t have pulled it down on himself. She asked, “And why’s it plugged into the wall there? A light like that’s mounted on the rigging above the stage. That’s where the power is… And why’s it plugged in at all? That’d be worth mentioning too.”

“I’ll do that.”

Which he now did, walking down the stairs, offering some words to Kayleigh and then pulling Madigan aside, whispering to him. The detective nodded. His face folded into a frown. “Okay,” he called, “we’re treating the stage as a crime scene. And the scaffolding where the light fell from yesterday. Clear everybody off. And get Charlie’s folks searching there. Hell, we’ve already contaminated the damn place bad enough.”

Dance wondered if Harutyun had taken credit for the observations. Probably had. But that didn’t matter to her. As long as they got all the helpful evidence they could, that’s what was important.

Gonzalez was fielding calls on her iPhone, concentrating. Dance now joined Kayleigh, standing alone, in a frantic state. Looking in many different directions, she began talking rapidly, gesturing. Dance was reminded of her own unhinged behavior in the few hours after she learned of the death of her husband, an FBI agent-not a victim of criminal activity but of a careless driver on Highway 1.

Dance hugged her hard and asked how she could help, phone calls to be made, rides to be arranged. Kayleigh thanked her and said no, she’d make the calls herself. “Oh, Kathryn, can you believe it? I… I can’t believe it. Bobby.” Her eyes strayed to the orchestra pit and Dance prepared to stop her physically from looking at the body if she needed to. But the singer turned instead to Madigan and Gonzalez and said that she thought somebody had been watching her yesterday here. No, been sure of it.

“Where?”

Pointing. “In those corridors there. Alicia-my assistant-saw something too. But we didn’t see anyone clearly.”

Dance said, “Tell them about the phone call last night.”

This contribution from the interloper, at least, got Madigan’s attention.

In a trembling voice, Kayleigh said to Dance, “God, you think that has something to do with this?”

“What?” Gonzalez asked.

Kayleigh explained about the call she’d received in the car, someone playing part of the title song from the band’s most recent album, Your Shadow. Kayleigh added, “For what it’s worth, the recording was very high quality-true fidelity. With your eyes closed, you couldn’t tell the difference between someone really singing or the digital replay. Only a pro would have a recorder like that.”

“Or a fanatical fan,” Dance suggested. She then mentioned what she’d learned from TJ about the mobile phone. Madigan didn’t seem pleased that a law enforcer from another jurisdiction had already started to investigate his case, though he wrote down the details.

At that moment another person joined them, Deputy C. Stanning, from out front.

“First names… Crystal,” Madigan said coolly.

She said, “Reporters’re starting to show up, Chief. They’ll want a press-”

“You keeping people out of the crime scene, Deputy?”

He didn’t look toward Dance but he didn’t need to. Stanning did the job for him.

Her oblique apology: “Big area to keep track of. Lot of onlookers, you know, curious folks. I’m keeping them back, best I can.”

“I’m hopin’ you do. Let the reporters cool their heels.” This time the glance was at the large bodyguard in the back of the hall.

The sheriff asked, “Kayleigh tell me again-what exactly did you hear on the phone?”

“Just a verse from my song.”

“He didn’t say anything, the caller? Or she?”

“No. Just the song.”

Sheriff Gonzalez took another call herself, had a brief conversation then disconnected. “Congressman Davis’s here. I’ve got to meet him and his security detail… I’m sorry for your loss, Kayleigh.” This was offered sincerely and accompanied by two firm hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Anything I can do, let me know.”

A look passed from the older woman to her chief of detectives, meaning: Do what you need to on this case. This is big news here and Kayleigh’s our own. Nothing is going to happen to her. Nothing.

The sheriff scanned Dance and said good-bye. She left, along with two of the other deputies.

Dance said to Madigan, “My specialty’s interrogation and interviewing, Detective. If you have a suspect or witness you’d like me to talk to, just give me a call.” She handed him her card.

“I do a bit of that myself,” Madigan offered. “Well, all righty then, Kathryn.” He pocketed the card like a used tissue.

“Oh, wait, that seminar,” Harutyun said, frowning. “In Salinas. Body language, right? Kinetics. That was you.”

“Kinesics, yes.”

He turned to Madigan. “Alberto and I went last year. It was helpful. You were funny too.”