face folded into a frown. “Okay,” he called, “we’re treatingthe 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 pleasedthat 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
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 pleasedthat 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
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