Disappointed, angry and relieved, she disconnected without leaving a message, thinking that would be a good title for a Kayleigh Towne song: “Straight to Voicemail.”
A half hour later she arrived at the sheriff’s office. She was now an official honorary deputy and she strode past the desk sergeant and security without any challenges. Several law enforcers she hadn’t met waved friendly greetings to her.
She stepped into Madigan’s office. The chief detective had been officially reinstated; Edwin had dropped the charges.
“Don’t you ever do sprinkles?” she asked, sitting down on the battered couch, eyeing the cardboard cup he was enthusiastically excavating.
“What?” Madigan asked.
“On your ice cream? Or whipped cream or syrup?”
“Naw, it’s a waste of taste. Calories too. Like cones. I’ll give you my theory of ice cream sometime. It’s philosophical. You ever make it?”
“Make ice cream?”
“Right.”
She said, “The world is divided into people who make ice cream and yogurt and pasta and bread. And those who buy it. I’m a buyer.”
“I’m with you there. This’s yours.”
He produced another cup. Chocolate chip. A metal spoon too.
“No, I-”
“You say no too quick, Deputy,” Madigan grumbled. “You want some ice cream. I know you do.”
True. She took it and ate several big mouthfuls. It was nice and melty. “Good.”
“Course it’s good. It’s ice cream. There’s the statement, you want to take a look-see and let me know what you think.” He slid the papers toward her and she read.
Crystal Stanning had transcribed it from Dance’s tape and it was pretty accurate. She expanded on a thought or two. Then slid it back.
Even at this hour the San Joaquin Valley heat permeated the building. Hell, I’m going to Macy’s, pick up a one- piece and float in the Mountain View pool until I wrinkle. Dance stretched and stood up, about to say good night to the detective when his desk phone rang and he hit SPEAKER. “Yeah?”
Dance finished the ice cream. Thought about asking for some more, but decided against it.
“Hey, Chief, it’s Miguel. Lopez.”
“You worked for me for four years. I know your voice,” the man snapped, examining the volcano core of his own cup, maybe tallying up how many bites he had left. “What?”
“Something kind of funny.”
“You gonna tell me what or just let that hang?”
“You listen to KDHT?”
“The radio? Sometimes. Get to the point. What’s your point?”
The deputy said, “Well, okay. I was listening on my way home and there’s a call-in show. ‘Bevo in the Evening.’”
“Lopez!”
“Okay, so he’s the DJ and they do requests. What happens about five minutes ago is some listener requests a song. I mean,
Dance froze. She sat down. Madigan barked, “And?”
“The request was in an email. Signed, ‘A Kayleigh fan.’ It was for ‘Your Shadow.’ The last verse only. The DJ thought it was kind of funny, just the one verse, and played the whole song. But I got to thinking-”
“Oh, Christ,” Dance whispered. “Nobody ever played the fourth verse-to announce Congressman Davis’s killing!” She thought of Lincoln Rhyme’s comment:
“Shit.” Madigan was nodding. He asked Lopez if the email had said anything else.
“No. Just that.”
Madigan disconnected without saying good-bye. He immediately called the station and got put through to the studio, told Bevo it was police business and asked that the email be forwarded to him. As they waited, he muttered, “And, hell, you know, we’re still looking for the connection between Simesky and Myra Babbage and the other killings-Bobby and Blanton, that file sharer, the attack on Sheri Towne. But nobody’s found anything yet.”
A moment later a flag popped up on his computer screen. The email request to the studio from a cryptic account, of random letters and numbers, was nothing more than what Lopez had already told them. Madigan called the Computer Crimes Division and forwarded it. A few minutes later they learned that it was an anonymous free email account and had been sent from a hotel in the Tower District.
“Let’s get the list of guests staying there,” Madigan said.
But Dance frowned. “Won’t do us any good. He won’t be a guest. He would’ve just picked up the wireless signal in the lobby, or even from the parking lot. Probably he’s got some connection with the area. But not the hotel.”
“You think that the assassination plot was just a coincidence? And there really
“Well, we know it can’t be Edwin. He has an alibi. And it doesn’t need to be a stalker. It could be
“Shit. How’d we miss this?… But who’s the new vic? What’s the fourth verse?”
Dance recited,
Madigan sighed. “Kill somebody in their home. That’s like the other verse, about the road-not very fucking helpful.”
“There’s the reference to ‘floating.’ Another river, pool, some other body of water?”
“I don’t have a clue. We’ve got a dozen lakes around here, nothing big close to town, though. Hundreds of miles of riverbanks. And must be a thousand pools. More.”
“Okay, maybe there’s some connection with the Tower District. But we’ve got to narrow it down more.” Dance thought for a moment. “You know, there was some physical evidence that Charlie’s people found that we never really looked at, because we had enough to figure out what Simesky and Myra were up to.”
Madigan called Charlie Shean, at CSU, had a conversation with him and jotted notes. After hanging up he said, “What wasn’t accounted for was gangue… industrial by-product stuff, or whatever it is. Never heard of that before. Human bone dust too. And Marlboros. Did Simesky or Myra smoke?”
“I never saw them.”
The chief glanced at his notes. “Also the boot print, with the really sharp toe. And some neatsfoot oil-leather treatment for baseball gloves. Maybe the dearly departed Peter Simesky played on a fascist softball league.”
Dance cocked her head. “That’s not all it’s used for.”
Chapter 62
FINALLY, KAYLEIGH TOWNE was back in her own house, her sanctuary.
If only for a few hours. Alicia had texted that she wanted to see her about some matters having to do with the concert but she didn’t want to meet her at Bishop’s house.
I hear you there, sister. And when Alicia suggested they meet at Kayleigh’s she readily agreed. Darthur Morgan
