“I think that’s about it now,” Morgan said in a low, insistent baritone.
Edwin continued calmly, “You’re private, of course. You can make a citizen’s arrest but only if you see me committing a crime. And I haven’t done that. You were a police officer, that’d be different, but you’re—”
Well, it’s come to that, Dance thought. Guess I knew it would. And she rose, displaying her CBI identification card.
“Ah.” Edwin stared for what seemed to be an inordinately long time as if memorizing it. “Had a feeling you were law.”
“Could I see some ID?”
“You bet.” He handed over his driver’s license, issued by Washington state. Edwin Stanton Sharp. Address in Seattle. The picture was of somebody who was indeed much heavier and with long, stringy hair.
“Where are you staying in Fresno?” Dance asked.
“A house by Woodward Park. One of those new developments. It’s not bad.” A smile. “Sure gets hot in Fresno.”
“You moved here?” Alicia asked in a surprised whisper.
Kayleigh’s eyes widened at this and her shoulders rose.
“Nope, just renting. For the time being. I’m in town for the concert. It’s going to be the best of the year. I can’t wait.”
Why would he rent a house to attend a single concert?
“No, you wanted to stalk Kayleigh,” Bobby blurted. “The lawyers warned you about that.”
Lawyers? Dance wondered.
Edwin looked around the table. The smile dimmed. “I think all of you … how you’re acting is upsetting Kayleigh.” He said to her, “I’m sorry about that. I know what you’re up against. But don’t worry, it’ll all work out.” He walked to the door, paused and turned back. “And goodbye to you too, Agent Dance. God bless you for the sacrifices you make for the people of this state.”
Chapter 4
WHEN DANCE SAID, “Tell me,” they did. All of them.
At once.
And only after she reined in the intersecting narratives did she begin to grasp the whole picture. Last winter a fan had become convinced that Kayleigh’s automated form letters and emails, signed “XO, Kayleigh,” hugs and kisses, were to be taken personally. Because the songs had meant so much to him, perfectly expressing how he felt about life, he’d told himself that they were soul mates. He began a barrage of correspondence—email, Facebook and Twitter posts, handwritten letters—and he’d sent her presents.
Advised to ignore him, Kayleigh and her assistants stopped responding, except to send back any gifts, unopened, but Edwin Sharp nonetheless persisted, apparently believing that her father and handlers felt threatened by the connection between him and Kayleigh and wanted to keep them apart.
He was told to stop, dozens of times. The law firm representing Kayleigh and her father threatened him with civil action and referral to the police if he didn’t cease and desist.
But he hadn’t.
“It’s been so creepy,” Kayleigh now said, her voice breaking. She took a sip of tea from a new glass the bartender had brought her when he’d come to mop up the spill. “He’d want a strand of hair, a fingernail clipping, a piece of paper I’d kissed, with my lipstick on it. He’d take pictures of me in places where I’d never seen him. Backstage or in parking lots.”
Dance said, “That’s the thing about a crime like this. You never quite know where the stalker is. Maybe miles away. Maybe outside your window.”
Kayleigh continued, “And the mail! Hundreds of letters and email messages. I’d change my email address and a few hours later he’d have the new one.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with the light that fell?” Dance asked.
Kayleigh said she thought she’d seen some “weird” things that morning at the convention center, maybe shadows moving, maybe not. She hadn’t seen an actual person.
Alicia Sessions was more certain. “I saw something too, I’m sure.” She shrugged her broad shoulders, offering hints of tattoos largely hidden under the cloth. “Nothing specific, though. No face or body.”
The band wasn’t in town yet and the rest of the crew had been outside when they thought they’d seen the shadowy figure. Bobby hadn’t seen anything other than the strip light starting to fall.
Dance asked, “Do the local deputies know about him?”
The singer answered, “Oh, yeah, they do. They knew he was planning to come to the concert on Friday—even though the lawyers threatened to get a restraining order. They didn’t really think he’d done anything bad enough for us to get one, though. But the sheriff was going to keep an eye on him if he showed up. Make sure he knew they were watching him.”
“I’ll call the sheriff’s office,” Alicia said, “and tell them he’s here. And where he’s staying.” She gave a surprised laugh. “He sure didn’t hide it.”
Kayleigh looked around, troubled. “This used to be my favorite restaurant in town. Now, it’s all spoiled…. I’m not hungry anymore. I’d like to leave. I’m sorry.”
She waved for and settled up the check.
“Hold on a second.” Bobby walked to the front door and opened it a crack. He spoke to Darthur Morgan. The roadie returned to the table. “He’s gone. Darthur saw him get in his car and drive off.”
“Let’s go out the back, just the same,” Alicia suggested. Tye asked Morgan to drive around to that lot and Dance accompanied the small entourage through a beer-pungent storeroom, past a grim toilet. They stepped into a parking lot of bleached weeds and dusty cars and crumbling asphalt.
Dance noticed Kayleigh glance to her right and gasp. She followed the singer’s gaze.