Jeffery Deaver - XO

“Of course it didn’t help that one guy I introduced them to turned out to be a killer.”

“No!”

“Oh, we weren’t in any danger. He was after the same perp I was. It’s just that I wanted to put him in jail. My friend wanted to kill him.”

“I don’t know,” Kayleigh said ominously. “There’s something to be said for that.”

Thinking again, probably, of Edwin Sharp.

“But the kids love Jon. It’s working out well.”

“And?” the singer asked.

“And what?”

“You going to tell me or not?”

And here, I’m the kinesics pro. Dance debated but in the end demurred. “Oh, nothing… just who knows what’s going to happen? I’ve only been a widow a few years. I’m in no hurry.”

“Sure,” Kayleigh said, not exactly believing the lame explanation.

And Dance reflected: Yes, she liked Jon Boling a lot. Hey, she probably loved him and on more than one occasion, lying in bed together during one of the few nights they’d spent out of town, she’d come close to saying so. And she’d sensed that he had too.

He was kind, easygoing, good-looking, with a great sense of humor.

But then there was Michael.

Michael O’Neil was a detective with the Monterey County Office of the Sheriff. He and Dance had worked together for years and, if she was instinctively on anyone’s wavelength, it was O’Neil’s. They worked in timepiece harmony, they laughed, they loved the same foods and wines, they argued like the dickens and never took a word of it personally. Dance believed that he was as perfect for her as anyone could be.

Aside from that little glitch: a wife.

Who had finally left him and their children-naturally, just after Dance started going out with Jon Boling. O’Neil and his wife, Anne, were still married, though she was living in San Francisco now. O’Neil had mentioned divorce papers being prepared but timetables and plans seemed vague.

This would be a topic for another evening with Kayleigh Towne, though.

In ten minutes they’d arrived at the Mountain View, and Darthur Morgan steered the Suburban to the front of the motel. Dance said good night to them both.

It was then that Kayleigh’s phone buzzed and she looked down at the screen, frowning. She hit ANSWER. “Hello?… Hello?” She listened for a moment and then said firmly, “Who is this?”

Hand on the door lever, Dance paused and looked back at the singer.

Kayleigh disconnected, regarding the screen once more. “Weird.”

“What?”

“Somebody just played a verse from ‘Your Shadow.’”

The title track of her latest album and already a huge hit.

“They didn’t say anything, whoever it was. They just played the first verse.”

Dance had downloaded the track and she recalled the words.

You walk out onstage and sing folks your songs.

You make them all smile. What could go wrong?

But soon you discover the job takes its toll,

And everyone’s wanting a piece of your soul.

“The thing is… it was a recording from a concert.”

“You don’t do live albums,” Dance said, recalling that Kayleigh preferred the control of the studio.

She was still staring at the screen. “Right. It’d be a bootleg. But it was really high quality-almost like a real voice, not a recording… But who was playing it, why?”

“You recognize the phone number?”

“No. Not a local area code. You think it was Edwin?” she asked, her voice going tense with stress, looking up at Darthur Morgan, whose dark, still eyes were visible in the rearview mirror. “But, wait, only my friends and family have this number. How could he get it?” She grimaced. “Maybe the same way he got my email.”

“Could it be somebody in the band?” Dance asked. “A practical joke?”

“I don’t know. Nobody’s done anything like that before.”

“Give me the number. I’ll make some calls. And I’ll check out Edwin too. What’s his last name?”

“Sharp. No e. Would you, Kathryn?”

“You bet.”

Dance wrote down the number of the call and climbed out of the Suburban.

They said good night.

“I guess we better get home now, Darthur.”

As the vehicle pulled away, Kayleigh was looking around the empty parking lot as if Edwin Sharp were lurking nearby.

Dance headed inside, aware that she was humming one line to “Your Shadow” as it looped through her thoughts, unstoppable.

What could go wrong… what could go wrong… what could go wrong?

DANCE STOPPED AT the Mountain View bar and got a glass of Pinot Noir then walked to her room and stepped inside. She’d hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the knob earlier and she left it there now, looking forward to that mother’s rarity-sleeping late.

She showered, pulled on a robe and, sipping the wine, plopped down on the bed. She hit speed dial button three.

“Hey, Boss,” TJ Scanlon said cheerfully, answering on a half ring. Odd noises emanated from the background. Ringing, shouts, calliope music, though Dance realized that she didn’t know exactly what a calliope was.

“Are you in an arcade or something?”

“Carnival. Date. We’re in line for the roller coaster but I’ll go around again for you.” His voice faded as he spoke away from the phone. “It’s my boss… Right. You better finish that Slurpee before we get on… No, I’m telling you. Really. Does the word ‘inverted’ mean anything?”

TJ was the most alternative of the agents in the Monterey office of the CBI, who were in general a conservative lot. He was the go-to man when it came to long, demanding assignments, undercover work and any trivia regarding the sixties, Bob Dylan, tie-dye and lava lamps.

Quirky, yes. But who was Dance to judge? Here she was taking a week off in Fresno and sitting in a stiflingly hot garage to record obscure songs by a group of cheerful and likely undocumented farmworkers.

“Need you to check out something, TJ.”

She gave him what she knew on Edwin Sharp. She then recited the number of the caller who’d played the song for Kayleigh not long ago.

TJ asked, “Anything in particular? On Sharp?”

“The usual. But civil too. Stalking, lawsuits, restraining orders. Here and Washington state. Throw in Oregon for good measure.”

“Will do. Pine trees, pinot noir, cheese. No, that’s Wisconsin.”

“Have fun.”

“We are. I won Sadie a panda… No, I’m serious. Lose the Slurpee. Centrifugal force will not do it… So long, Boss.”

Dance disconnected. She tried Jon Boling but his phone went to voicemail. Another sip of wine and then she decided it was time for bed. She rose and walked to the window, drawing the drapes shut. Then brushed her teeth, ditched the robe and pulled on boxers and a faded pink T-shirt, way too big; Kathryn Dance was a nightgown girl only on special occasions.

She rolled toward the light, groping for the switch.

And froze.

The window!

Before leaving for Villalobos’s Dance had closed the gauze curtain and the heavy drapes; the first-floor room overlooked the parking lot, a four-lane street and, across it, a small park.

The same drapes she’d just closed once again.

Only she’d never opened them earlier. Someone else had been inside her room and pulled them apart.

Who had breached the DO NOT DISTURB barrier?

It hadn’t been Housekeeping-the room wasn’t straightened up, the bed still mussed from where she’d plopped down to call the children that afternoon.

Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. Her dark green suitcases were where she’d left them. The clothes still in the closet as before, carelessly dangling on theft-proof hangers, and the five pairs of shoes were exactly where she’d set them in a row near the dresser. Her computer bag didn’t seem tampered with and the computer itself was password protected anyway, so no one could have read her files or emails.