“YOUR HEIGHT,” DANCE explained to him.
Zeigler sat, miserable, in the backseat of a sheriff’s office cruiser. The door was open and he was facing outward, hands shackled behind him.
She continued to elaborate, answering his question about how she knew it was he. “The perp would know Bobby pretty well and had probably been in his trailer before. And he’d been somebody who was very familiar with everyone connected with the band.”
The deciding factor was what she told him next: “And he was tall.”
“Tall?”
She explained about her interview with Tabatha, across the street, several days ago. “She said she’d seen somebody inside that morning. Except, she couldn’t see the intruder’s head, only his chest.”
This was why she’d put O’Neil in front of the window of the trailer a half hour ago. Recalling that she’d been eye-to-eye with P. K. Madigan, outside, when she’d searched the trailer, she’d positioned the Monterey detective about where Tabatha had seen the intruder. She’d then stepped outside and walked across the street. Looking back, she’d clearly seen O’Neil’s face.
Which meant that the intruder Monday morning had been well over O’Neil’s height of six feet. The only person she’d met recently with an interest in Kayleigh Towne, who knew Bobby and who fit that stature was Barry Zeigler.
“Shit,” the man muttered, utterly defeated. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”
Dance heard that often as an interrogator.
Of course what it meant, ten times out of ten, was: I’m sorry I got caught.
“When I met you at Kayleigh’s house you said you’d just driven there from Carmel. But we talked to the desk clerk here. You checked in the morning after Bobby was killed.”
“I know, I know. I lied. I’m sorry.”
That, again.
Dance said, “And then there was the recording of Kayleigh singing ‘Your Shadow.’ That you played to announce the attacks? It was done on a high-quality digital recorder. The sort that pros use-pros like you, producers and engineers.”
“Recording?” he asked, frowning.
She glanced at Dennis Harutyun, who ran through the Miranda warning. He added, “You’re under arrest for murder, for-”
“Murder? What do you mean?”
Dance and Harutyun exchanged glances.
“You’re being arrested for the murder of Bobby Prescott, sir,” the Fresno detective said. “And Frederick Blanton. And assault and battery on Sheri Towne and Agent Dance. Do you wish to-”
“No, no, I didn’t kill anyone! I didn’t attack anyone!” The producer’s face was shocked. Dance had seen a lot of performances from suspects; this was one of the best. “I’d never do that! Why would I do that?”
“Yessir. You’ll have your day in court. Do you understand your rights?”
“Bobby? You’re thinking I killed Bobby? No! And I’d never hurt Sheri. This is-”
“Do you understand-?”
“Yes, yes. But-”
“Do you wish to waive your right to remain silent?”
“Sure, yes. This is ridiculous. This is a huge misunderstanding.”
Harutyun asked, “Did you drive up here on Sunday and kill Bobby Prescott that night?”
“No, no. I drove in on Monday morning, about eleven. After I heard from Kayleigh that Bobby had died. Yes, I broke into Bobby’s trailer but it was just to get some personal things.”
“The songs,” Harutyun said. “We know all about them.”
“Songs?”
“The Beatles songs.”
“What are you talking about?”
The quality of his confusion seemed genuine so she decided to add, “Bobby’s father was a technician at Abbey Road in the sixties and seventies.”
“Right. A pretty famous one. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“The Beatles gave him four original songs they wrote after they finished
Barry Zeigler laughed. “No, no, no…”
O’Neil said, “You killed him and stole the songs. They’re worth millions.”
The producer continued, “It’s an urban legend. All those rumors about outtakes and secret recordings. All that nonsense about Paul is dead. No rumor spreads faster in the music world than ones about the Beatles. But there’s nothing to it. There are no undiscovered songs.”
Dance was sizing up behaviors. Zeigler seemed more or less credible. She said, “What about this?” She showed him the plastic envelope containing the letter to Bobby’s father.
Zeigler looked at it and shook his head. “Those aren’t Beatles songs. It was some local group from Camden Town in London, I don’t even remember the name. They were nothing. After the Beatles wrapped
Dance looked at the language of the note again.
Yes, it could simply refer to studio time after the Beatles had finished recording their album.
“But you just admitted you stole something from Bobby’s trailer that morning.”
Zeigler was debating. He looked to O’Neil and the other deputies. “Leave us alone, Agent Dance and me. I want to talk to her alone.”
She considered this. “It’s all right.”
The others walked away from the squad car. Dance crossed her arms and said, “Okay, talk.”
“You can’t tell a soul.”
“You know I can’t agree to that.”
The man’s long face screwed into a disgusted knot. “All right. But take a look first and then decide. In the bag, there’s a zipper liner. Some papers.
Dance opened the computer bag and found the compartment. She withdrew an envelope and opened it, reading through a four-page document.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
“Happy now?” Zeigler muttered.
Chapter 50
WHAT HE’D STOLEN was a letter from Bobby Prescott about how he wanted his property distributed in the event of his death.
Most of it would go to one person: the child who was his and Kayleigh Towne’s, Mary-Gordon.
Apparently Kayleigh had had the child at sixteen and Suellyn and her husband, Roberto Sanchez, had adopted the little girl within weeks of her birth.
The envelope included a copy of the adoption papers and some personal messages to the girl, for her to read when she was older.
“He told me a few years ago that he’d written it,” Zeigler said. “I couldn’t let it become public.”
Dance recalled the close relationship she’d sensed between Bobby and Kayleigh at the restaurant. And the other things she’d noted: Mary-Gordon’s blond hair color, the girl’s forthright demeanor. Her eyes were Kayleigh’s
