Jeffery Deaver - XO

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.”

“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.