On the stage and main floor were a dozen people in the varied uniforms of law enforcement, fire and EMS.
Climbing to the stage, she joined a cluster at the edge, looking down into the orchestra pit. It was from there that a faint trail of fetid smoke rose. Slowing, she struggled not to gag, then continued on.
What had happened? she wondered. She recalled the falling light from yesterday.
Dance noted immediately, from their posture and the sweep of their eyes, that two of the law officers, who all wore tan uniforms, were senior to the others. One was a woman hovering in her fifties with long hair and a pocked face. With Latina features, she was stocky and stood in a pose that suggested she disliked the uniform—the tight slacks and the close-fitting blouse, which blossomed outward at the waist, painted on rolls of fat.
The man she was speaking to was Caucasian, though sporting a dark tan. He also was stocky but his was targeted weight, situated in his gut, which rode above thin hips and legs. A large, round face crisscrossed with sun wrinkles. His posture—leaning forward, shoulders up—and still, squinting gray eyes suggested an arrogant and difficult man. His head hair was black and thick. He wore a revolver, a long-barreled Colt, while on the hips of everyone else here were the semi-auto Glocks that were de rigueur among law enforcers in California.
Ah, yes, she was right in her guess; he was P. K. Madigan, the head of detectives.
Conversation slowed as they turned to see the slim woman in jeans and sport coat stride toward them.
Madigan asked brusquely, “And you are …?” in a way that didn’t mean what the words said at all. He looked over her shoulder darkly toward who might have let her breach his outer perimeter.
Dance noted the woman was named Gonzalez, the sheriff, and so she addressed her and displayed her ID, which both of the in-charge duo examined carefully.
“I’m Sheriff Gonzalez. This is Chief Detective Madigan.” The decision not to offer first names in an introduction is often an attempt to assert power. Dance merely noted the choice now. She wasn’t here to flex muscles.
“My office called me about a homicide. I happened to be in the area on another matter.”
Could be official, might not be. Let the sheriff and chief detective guess.
Dance added, “I’m also a friend of Kayleigh Towne’s. When I heard the vic was in her crew I came right over here.”
“Well, thanks, Kathryn,” Madigan said.
And the use of first names is an attempt to disempower.
The flicker in Gonzalez’s eyes at this faint affront—but absence of any look Madigan’s way—told Dance reams about the chief detective. He’d carved out a major fiefdom at the FMCSO.
The detective continued, “But we don’t need any CBI involvement at this point. Wouldn’t you say, Sheriff?”
“I’d think not,” Gonzalez said, staring Dance in the eyes. It was a magnetic look and based not—as in the case of Madigan—on gender or jurisdictional power but on the woman’s determination not to glance at a figure perhaps four sizes smaller than hers. Whatever our rank or profession, we’re frail human beings first.
Madigan continued, “You said you were here on another matter? I look over the interagencies pretty good every morning. Didn’t see any Bureau activity here. They—you—don’t always tell us, of course.”
He’d called her bluff. “A personal matter.” Dance steamed ahead. “The victim was Bobby Prescott, the head of the road crew?”
“That’s right.”
“Anyone else hurt?”
Madigan wasn’t inclined to answer and used a nearby deputy as an excuse to turn away and have a very quiet conversation with him, leaving his boss to respond to the interloper as she liked.
Sheriff Gonzalez offered, “Only Bobby.”
“And what happened?”
Madigan rejoined the conversation. “We’re in the preliminary stage. Not sure at this point.” He definitely didn’t want her here but since she was with a senior agency he had at least to act deferential. Dance was a large dog wandering into a picnic—unwanted but possibly too dangerous to shoo away.
“COD?”
A pause then Gonzalez said, “He was doing some work on the stage last night. It seems he slipped and fell, a spotlight landed on him. It was on. He caught fire. Cause was blood loss and the burns.”
Lord, what a terrible way to die.
“Must’ve burned for a while. The alarms didn’t go off?”
“The smoke detectors down there, in the pit, weren’t working. We don’t know why.”
The first thing in her mind was the image of Edwin Sharp, glancing toward Bobby Prescott, with that fake smile and with eyes that could easily reflect a desire to turn the roadie into a bag of dust.
“You ought to be aware—”
“’Bout Mr. Sharp, our stalker?” Madigan asked.
“Well, yes.”
“One of the boys with the crew, Tye Slocum, told me that there was an incident yesterday at the Cowboy Saloon.”
Dance described what she had seen and heard. “Bobby confronted him a couple of times. And Edwin probably overheard Bobby say he was going to come back here later last night and check out some equipment malfunction. It would be late because he had to go to Bakersfield to pick something up.”
Madigan added absently, “Edwin’s on our radar. We know he’s renting a house near Woodward Park, north part of town. For a month.”
Dance recalled that Edwin had been quite forthcoming about his residence. She was still curious why he’d rented for that time length.
Dance noted too that both Madigan and she herself tended to refer to the stalker by his first name; this often happened when dealing with suspects who were potentially ED, emotionally disturbed. Dance reminded herself that whatever name they used, not to sell the young man short.