an Edison phonograph competitor), Victor Talking Machines, Victrolas and others. Soon the devices were powered by electricity, and in the late 1930s the miracle substance of vinyl became the standard for the records, which were differentiated by the speed at which the turntable revolved: originally 78 rpms, then 45 for singles and 331/3 for long-playing, or LPs.
Later in the twentieth century, tape became popular-sound-faithful but inconvenient reel-to-reel models, followed by cassettes, perpetually looping eight-tracks, and then CDs, optical compact discs.
And though the media changed over the years, people could be counted on to spend millions and millions of dollars to bring music into their homes and cars. Artists often performed, of course, but concerts were mostly a form of promotion to sell the albums. Some artists never set foot on a stage and still grew rich from their music.
But then something happened.
Computers.
On which you could download and listen to any song or piece of music ever recorded.
In the new world order, disks and tapes weren’t needed and the record labels, which made fortunes-for themselves and artists-by producing, pressing and distributing albums weren’t as important either.
No longer did you have to buy a whole album; if you liked only two or three songs on it (and wasn’t that always the case?), you could pick what you wanted. It’s a mixed-tape universe nowadays, thanks to dirt-cheap download and streaming companies like Napster, Amazon, iTunes and Rhapsody and other services-and satellite radio-that let you listen to millions of tunes for a few dollars a month.
And you could even have most of your heart’s desires for free: with music, as with so many other creative arts in recent years, a sense of entitlement has grown pervasive. The little inconvenience of the copyright law shouldn’t stop you from getting what you want. YouTube, the Pirate Bay, BitTorrent, LimeWire and dozens of illegal file- sharing arrangements make virtually any song available free as air.
Record companies used to sue file shares-winning judgments of hundreds of thousands of dollars against broke college kids and housewives, and earning a public relations black eye in the process. Now, they’ve largely given up their police work.
And presently many artists were giving up too-or, more cleverly, were recognizing the value of offering some content at no charge to the public under the open source model. The theory is that free music downloads can generate new fans who will buy future albums and attend concerts, where all the money is being made.
All of which renders the traditional record stores and labels relics of the past.
People like Barry Zeigler are still needed as producers but as for-fee technicians only. With revenues from downloads tumbling, it’s hard for some of them even to make a living at their craft.
Dance had heard of JBT Global Entertainment-it was a competitor of Live Nation, which owned entertainment arenas and concert halls and Ticketmaster and had contracts with many rock, pop, rap and country superstars. These companies were typical of the 360 model, as in degrees. Global covered all aspects of a musician’s professional life-producing the albums, pressing the few CDs that were still sold, cutting deals with download services and big corporations for exclusive promotions and-most important-booking musicians into live performances and arranging lucrative deals for movie sound tracks and advertising, known as synchronization.
Ironically, the music world has come full circle in a mere two hundred years: from live performances prior to the nineteenth century to live performances in the twenty-first.
Barry Zeigler’s world was vanishing fast and Dance understood his desperate concern that Kayleigh might leave him.
The drama of the music Industry was, of course, important to Zeigler and the singer. But the subject had virtually vanished from Dance’s mind now that she knew the private conversation had nothing to do with the Edwin Sharp case. Dance gave up her eavesdropping and collected her purse from inside, deciding she wanted to get back to the motel. As she waited on the porch for Kayleigh to return, she looked out over the darkening pine grove surrounding Bishop’s house.
She was concentrating once more on how best to find a killer as invisible as a snake, who could be stalking them anywhere-even from the thousands of shadows surrounding the house at that very moment.
Chapter 44
AN HOUR LATER Kathryn Dance was doing some stalking herself.
She’d returned to the Mountain View, where she’d called her mother-the kids had gone to bed. Dance had dialed the number with some uneasiness, afraid she’d learn something more about Jon Boling’s impending departure. But Edie Dance said nothing further on the subject, explaining that the children were doing well and Stuart, Dance’s father, had her house ready for the guests and the party planned for this weekend.
After disconnecting, she debated calling Boling. Then decided not to.
Partly because she was a coward, she chided herself. But she also had work to do.
She turned on the TV, a commercial network with a lot of commercials, so the many random flickers from the screen on the window shade would suggest someone was inside. She pulled on the only night-op camouflage she had: a navy sport coat, black jeans and a burgundy T-shirt. The outfit would have to do. For shoes, Aldo pumps; she had no tactical boots.
Finally ready, Dance slipped outside and stepped into the parking lot.
Her mission was to find out who might be the person with the bad habits of nicotine and, possibly, espionage. She’d just seen the glow of the cigarette again, in nearly the same place that she’d seen it earlier, in the park across the road. The smoker was still there.
She glanced out from behind a Caravan filled with dog show paraphernalia and a bumper sticker bragging that the driver was the proud owner of a German shepherd smarter than your honor student.
Dance focused again on the tiny orange glow in a recess between two thick stands of pine.
Was the cigarette just a coincidence? Dance might have thought so except for the fact that Sheri Towne’s attacker had possibly been smoking. And that Edwin might still have the habit.
In any event, she wanted to get a glimpse of the person. If it was a teenage boy sharing a cigarette-or a joint-with his buddies, that would be that. If it was Edwin Sharp-or someone else she might have come in contact with recently-that would be a different matter.
Dance waited until a car entered the lot and drove past her, parking at the entrance. Then she stepped out of the shadows and made her way to the four-lane road and hurried across.
Very aware of the lightness on her hip where her pistol normally was, she circled wide and entered the park through one of the half dozen gaps in a rusty chain link fence.
She stayed close to the trees-the path through the playground would have offered a good view of her approach in the cool moonlight. She waved away lethargic but persistent late summer insects, and bats dipped close, dining on them. Keeping her eyes down to spot noisy vegetation and food wrappers, she moved forward steadily but slowed as she approached the cul-de-sac where the spy, or an innocent citizen, was ruining his health.
Twenty feet farther on she smelled cigarette smoke.
And she slowed even more, crouching.
She couldn’t see him yet but noted that the place where he was sitting seemed to be a picnic area; there were several tables nearby, all of them chained to thick concrete posts in the ground. Was table theft from public facilities a big problem in Fresno?
She moved closer yet, one careful step at a time.
The orange glow was evident but thick pine boughs completely obscured her view of the smoker, about twenty feet away.
She reached out and gripped the bough, moving it aside.
Squinting…
Oh, no! Dance gasped.
The lit cigarette was stuck into a fork of a sapling near a picnic table.
That meant only one thing: Edwin or whoever it might be had seen her leave the motel and drawn her into a
