Bishop said, “We’ve got it all taken care of.”
“I was hoping for a chance to meet you and to say hi in person. Your father suggested bringing me along today, before the concert.”
So, that was it. Kayleigh understood. Dammit. Her father had said they’d think about canceling the show and yet he was going to do whatever he needed to make sure it went forward. Anything to edge her career in the right direction. He’d be thinking that her knowing that the congressman—and accordingly more reporters—would be in the audience would pressure her not to cancel.
Kayleigh fumed but smiled pleasantly, or tried to, as Davis rambled like a schoolboy, talking about songs of hers he particularly loved. He really was quite a fan. He knew every word of every tune, it seemed.
Myra Babbage said, “I can’t thank you enough for letting us use ‘Leaving Home’ on the website. It’s really become an anthem for Bill’s campaign.”
Kathryn Dance said, “I heard you on the radio, Congressman. On the drive over here—that debate on immigration issues. That was some heated discussion.”
“Oh, it sure was.”
“I think you won, by the way. You drove ’em into the ground.”
“Thanks. It was a lot of fun,” Davis said with a gleam in his eye. “I love debates. That was my, quote, ‘sport’ at school. Less painful to talk than getting run into on the football field. Not necessarily safer, though.”
Kayleigh didn’t follow politics much. Some of her fellow performers were active in campaigns and causes but she’d known them before they’d hit it big and they hadn’t seemed particularly interested in animal rights or hunger before they started drawing the public limelight. She suspected that a number had been tapped by their public relations firms or their record company publicity departments to take up a cause because it would look good in the press.
She knew, though, about U.S. Congressman Bill Davis. He was a politico with an electric mix of positions, liberal and conservative, the most controversial of which was relaxing border controls to let in more foreigners, subject to requirements like an absence of criminal conviction, an English-language test and guarantees of employment prospects. He was one of the front-runners for the next presidential campaign and had already started stumping.
Peter Simesky, the aide, said, “I’ll confirm he’s a fan. On the campaign buses, you’re right up there with Taylor Swift, Randy Travis, James Taylor and the Stones for our listening pleasure. Hope you’re okay with that company.”
“I’ll take it, you bet.”
Then the congressman grew serious. “Your father said there’s a bit of a problem at the moment, somebody who might be stalking you?” This was half directed to Dance, as well. Kayleigh’s father must have mentioned that she was an agent.
“Afraid that’s true,” Dance said.
“You’re … with Fresno?” Myra Babbage asked. “We’ve been working with a few people there on security.”
“No, CBI.” That she was here would normally mean the case was a major one. But she added, “I’m based in Monterey. Happened to be here unofficially and heard about the incident. I volunteered to help.”
“We were just in Monterey too,” Davis said. “Campaigning at Cannery Row.”
“That’s why the traffic was so bad back at home before I left,” Dance joked.
“I wish it had been worse. It was good turnout, not a great turnout.”
Kayleigh supposed Monterey and particularly Carmel were bastions of conservative voters, who would not be particularly happy about a pro-immigration candidate.
The congressman nodded toward the agent. “I’m sure the CBI and the local authorities are doing everything they can but if you need any help from me, just let me know. Stalking can be a federal crime too.”
Kayleigh thanked him, Dance did too and Simesky gave the agent his card. “You need any help, seriously,” the slim young man said earnestly, “give me a call. Any time.”
“I’ll do that,” Dance replied and glanced down to her hip as her phone buzzed. “It’s a text from Detective Harutyun.” She looked up. She sighed. “They’ve found the next crime scene. It’s another killing, another fire. But it was worse than at the concert hall. He says there might be more than one victim. They just can’t tell.”
Chapter 26
“THE FIRE’S STILL going,” Harutyun told her over the phone. “He must’ve used five gallons of accelerant. It’s in a shed beside the San Joaquin River.”
You sit by the river, wondering what you got wrong,
How many chances you’d missed all along.
Like your troubles had somehow turned you to stone
and the water was whispering, why don’t you come home?
Everyone in the room was staring at Dance. She ignored them and concentrated on her conversation with Harutyun. “Any witnesses?”
“No.”
“How do you know it’s related to the stalking?”
“Well, I don’t know how to put it but out front we found a little shrine to Kayleigh.”
“What?”
“Yes’m. Pretty sick. A mound of rocks and a couple of her CDs next to them in front of the shed. And, you know what was weird?”
More than that? Dance couldn’t begin to guess.
“A twenty-dollar bill under a rock. Like an offering.”
“And no idea of the victim?”
“Or victims,” he reminded. “The team got a look inside and saw a couple of legs. That’s about all that was left. Then the roof came down. It was part of an old gas station so they’re being careful, thinking there could be a buried tank nearby. Charlie Shean has his CS people running the scene outside, as close as they can. It’s hot as Hades out there. One of the techs fainted from the heat, the jumpsuit. No tire treads or footprints. We’ve found two shell casings. Nine-millimeter.” A click of the detective’s tongue. “Same as Fuentes’s gun, got stolen. But that could be a coincidence. At least—I pray this happened—he shot ’em before he set ’em on fire.”