“Any witnesses?”
“Maybe somebody driving by saw me, I don’t know. I was in the living room, listening to music most of the night. I don’t have curtains up yet.”
“I see. Okay.” Then he sprung the trap. Madigan leaned closer and said firmly, “But what do you say to the fact that we’ve got two witnesses that place you at the convention center around the time he died and then at Bobby’s house this morning?”
Chapter 15
WHAT EDWIN SHARP said in reply was probably not what Madigan expected.
With a frown, further blending his dense eyebrows, he asked simply, “Did they have clear views?”
Don’t answer, Dance thought to Madigan.
“They sure did. The house right across the road from the convention center stage door. And directly across from Bobby’s house.”
Hell, Dance thought. Edwin could now figure out exactly who the witnesses were.
He said, shrugging, “Well, they’re mistaken. I was home.”
Dance said to Harutyun, “Tabatha didn’t ID anybody. She couldn’t. Was there somebody else there?”
A pause. “Not that I know of.”
“And is there really a witness by the convention center?”
“Apparently,” Harutyun explained. Then decided to tell her. “Some woman lived nearby saw somebody around midnight.”
“She positively ID’d Edwin?”
“I don’t … I don’t think so.”
The hesitation meant she hadn’t, Dance decided. She recalled the layout. The house would have been across the parking lot, two hundred yards from the stage door. At night, she wouldn’t have been able to make out more than a vague silhouette.
“Well, Madigan just told a possible homicide suspect about two witnesses and it wouldn’t be that hard to find out their identities. They need looking after. He said he’d get some protection for Tabatha. Do you know if he did?”
“Tabatha, yes. The other one, I don’t know.”
“We need to.”
“Okay.”
And in the interrogation room, the one-on-one continued. Madigan was probably brilliant at getting confessions from the typical perp you saw in the Central Valley. But Edwin Sharp was not a typical perp.
Well, under Giles versus Lohan…
The stalker listened patiently, analytically as Madigan said, “And we’ve just been through your house, Edwin. We found a lot of interesting things, including latex gloves, the same sort that were used in the murder. And trace evidence.”
Edwin said calmly, “I see. My house, hm? Did you get a warrant?”
“We didn’t need one. My deputy noticed some things in plain sight.”
“Even from the sidewalk?” the stalker asked. “Tough to see anything inside unless you entered on the property. Well, I don’t really think you had the right to take anything. I want it returned.”
Dance turned to Harutyun. “Did he get a warrant?”
“No, after we saw things were missing from Bobby’s, the Chief sent a deputy over there—Miguel Lopez—and he saw things from the trailer through Edwin’s window, in plain sight…. What’s the matter?”
Dance didn’t reply.
Inside the interrogation room Edwin was saying, “Well, I haven’t been in Bobby’s trailer, so …”
“Oh, how did you know it was a trailer?” Madigan demanded triumphantly.
“That’s right, you called it a ‘house’ earlier. I thought that was odd. I know where he lived because of Kayleigh’s song two years ago. ‘Bobby’s Double-Wide.’ All about the history of country music. Sort of like Don McLean’s ‘American Pie.’ Surprised you don’t know it. Being all gung-ho for Kayleigh, I mean.”
Madigan’s smile deflated and he seemed to be wrestling down his anger. “Just confess, Edwin. You want to, I know you do.”
A textbook line from blunt-force interrogation. This is the moment when the perp might start to cry and, indeed, confess.
But Edwin said, “Can I collect my things now? Where are they? In the Crime Scene Unit? That’s in the building south of here, right?”
The detective blinked. Then he said, “Look, let’s be realistic here. Work with me. I’ll talk to the prosecutor. I’m sure he’ll cut a deal. Maybe you were arguing with Bobby. You know, that chest bumping that started at the Cowboy Saloon that afternoon? It escalated. These things happen. We could be talking reduced counts. And maybe he’ll cut out the stalking charge altogether.”
“Stalking?” Edwin seemed perplexed. “I’m not a stalker. Kayleigh’s a friend. I know it and she knows it.”
“Friend? That’s not the story according to her lawyers.”
“Oh, she’s afraid of them. They’re controlled by her father. They’ve all been telling her lies about me.”
“That’s not the way it is,” Madigan said. “You’re in town to stalk her. And you killed her friend because he threw you out of the Cowboy Saloon yesterday.”
Edwin remained completely placid. “No, Detective. I came to Fresno to get out of the Seattle rain for a time, to come to a public concert … and to pay respect to a performer I like, a woman who’s been nice and frankly shown some interest in me. One of the best musicians of our era, by the way. You accuse me of stalking but I’m sorry, I’m the victim here. You never did anything about my call.”
Madigan’s face revealed confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I thought that was why your deputy Fuentes asked me here. My complaint.”
“Complaint?”
“You don’t know? I have to say that doesn’t surprise me. Saturday night, I called nine-one-one and reported a Peeping Tom, a trespasser, behind my house. But nobody did anything about it. You’ve got, what? Twelve hundred deputies? I just needed one to come out and see where this guy was standing, talk to the neighbors. But did they? No. Not for an out-of-towner.”