Dennis Harutyun regarded her solemnly and she wondered if he’d bothered to download and review the lyrics to “Your Shadow.” Probably not. He brushed his mustache with the back of a finger and returned to interviewing locals. He moved with the same calm demeanor she recalled from earlier. His personal baseline. But he was also cautious, looking around frequently as if Edwin lurked nearby, armed with a handgun.
Which she couldn’t be sure wasn’t the case. Voyeuristic perps, like stalkers, always set you on edge, while the spying gives them comfort.
P. K. Madigan continued, “So. You didn’t have a chance to talk to those witnesses.”
“I did, yes. But I’m afraid it wasn’t very productive. I talked to Alicia, Kayleigh’s PA, and Tye Slocum and the rest of the crew. Darthur Morgan—”
“Who?”
“Her security guard.”
“That … the big guy was there earlier?”
“That’s right. The facility had a security guard and two other people, one was a gaffer—an electrician—and a carpenter to help out the band. They had to be present because of the union rules. I interviewed them too. Their security man said three of the doors were unlocked. But that wasn’t unusual. During the day, if there’s no show, it’s a pain to keep finding him and unlocking the doors in front, the side and back, so they usually just leave them open. Nobody spotted anyone inside they didn’t recognize, on the scaffolding or anywhere else.”
“You got all that in three hours?”
Eighty minutes, actually. The rest had been devoted to learning where Bobby spent time—hiking in a state park nearby (no leads there), hanging out in a guitar store and a radio station with friends (nothing helpful) and sitting in a particular diner in the Tower District, where he drank copious amounts of coffee and nothing stronger, suggesting he was in recovery (ditto, the lack of leads).
And finally discovering where he lived.
Hence, her presence here.
She chose not to mention this, though. “How’d your crime scene team do at the convention center?”
A pause. “Collected a lot of stuff. Don’t know the results yet.”
Another Fresno-Madera Consolidated cruiser arrived—Crystal Stanning was at the wheel. She parked behind Dance’s Nissan, climbed out and joined the others. She too looked around uneasily.
That’s the thing about a crime like this. You never quite know where the stalker is. Maybe miles away. Maybe outside your window.
Stanning, it seemed, wanted to report to her boss about whatever her mission had been but would say nothing until Dance was elsewhere or she had the okay. The sweating Madigan was impatient. He snapped, “The phone?”
“Service Plus Drugs in Burlingame. Cash. They don’t have any videos. Maybe that’s why he went there.”
Dance had told them all of this information.
But then Stanning continued, “And you were right, Chief, he bought three other phones at the same time.”
A question Dance had not thought to have TJ Scanlon ask.
Madigan sighed. “So this boy may have more on his plate.”
Which was, she guessed, a backhanded acknowledgment of her “farfetched” concern.
Four verses in “Your Shadow,” Dance reflected. Four victims? And that song might not be the only template for murder; Kayleigh had written lots of tunes.
“I got the numbers and the ESNs.”
You needed both the phone number and the electronic serial number of a mobile in order to trace it.
“We should get ’em shut off,” Madigan said. “So Edwin’ll have to buy one here. Easier to trace.”
We don’t know it’s Edwin, Dance observed, but said nothing.
“Sure.” Detective Stanning had three studs in one ear and a single silver dangling spiral in the other lobe. A dot in her nose too, marking where a ball might perch on off hours.
But Dance said, “I’d keep them active, like we haven’t figured out what he’s up to. And then put a locator notice on them. If the perp calls again we can triangulate.”
Madigan paused, then glanced at Crystal Stanning. “Do that.”
“Who should I—?”
“Call Redman in Communications. He can do it.”
Motion from across the street, where a more modest trailer squatted in sad grass. A round woman stood on the concrete stoop, smoking a cigarette. Sunburned shoulders, freckles. She wore a tight white strapless sundress with purple and red stains at toddler level. She eyed everyone cautiously.
Madigan told Stanning to help Harutyun canvass. He walked to the shoulder and after two pickups had passed he crossed the road, making for the heavyset woman, Dance following.
The detective glanced back at her but she didn’t slow down.
The neighbor walked forward uncertainly to greet them. They met halfway from her mailbox. In a rasping voice she said, “I heard the news. I mean, about Bobby. I couldn’t believe it.” She repeated fast, “It was on the news. That’s how I heard.” She took a drag.
The innocent usually act as guilty as the guilty.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Deputy Madigan, this is Officer Dancer.”
She didn’t correct him.
“Your name?”
“Tabby Nysmith. Tabatha. Bobby never caused any trouble. No drugs or drinking. He was just into music. Only complaint was a party one time. Kinda loud. Can’t believe he’s dead. What happened? The news didn’t say.”
“We aren’t sure what happened, ma’am. Not yet.”
“Was it gangs?”
“Like I say, we aren’t sure.”
“The nicest guy, really. He’d show Tony, he’s my oldest, these fancy guitars he had. He had one that Mick Jagger played years ago, he said. Bobby’s daddy worked with them and the Beatles too. Or that’s what he said. We didn’t know, how would you know? But Tony was in heaven.”
“Did you see anybody here recent you never saw before?”
“No, sir.”
“Anybody he had a fight with, loud voices, drug activity?”
“Nope. Didn’t see anybody here last night or this morning. Didn’t see anything.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yessir.” She pressed out her cigarette and lit another one. Dance noted from the butts by the door that she at least had the decency to step outside to smoke, to keep from infecting the children. She continued, “It’s hard for me to see his place.” She gestured at the windows in the front of her trailer, obscured by bushes. “I’m after Tony Senior to trim the bushes but he never gets around to it.”