Perfect.
The Keyholders had quite some significant resources and it took only a day to get into the Internet service providers handling Kayleigh Towne’s and Edwin’s email accounts. Unfortunately there didn’t seem to be anything particularly threatening about Edwin’s letters and posts. But he was clearly unhinged and troublingly persistent and that would be enough for Simesky’s plan. He and Myra sent Edwin emails and letters posing as Kayleigh, reporting that she was flattered by his attention and even suggesting that she’d like to get together with him. But she had to be careful, put on a facade of indifference, or her father would cause terrible problems.
Delete all the emails, burn my letters. You have to, Edwin. I’m totally afraid of my father!
The notes suggested that, whatever she said in public, she’d enjoy seeing him at the concert on Friday. If possible she’d see him later too. In private.
Edwin, I was thinking about you last night. You know girls have those kinds of thoughts too….
Myra Babbage had come up with those lines.
And Edwin had done just what they’d wanted, descended on Fresno in all his psychotic glory, far more of a nut job than they’d hoped.
He and Myra Babbage had conducted surveillance at Edwin’s rental in Fresno to learn his routine and steal some evidence that could be planted at the site of Davis’s assassination to implicate the stalker. Then, today, it was time to act. Myra had called Edwin, pretending to work for Kayleigh. She explained the singer had decided she wanted to see him but they had to be very careful. He should go to the Fashion Fair shopping mall and lose the police, then wait at Macy’s loading dock.
Myra had cruised past and waved. The poor fool had jumped into the stolen SUV, grinning in anticipation. When he turned to put his seat belt on she’d hit him with the stun gun, injected a sedative and taped him up. She’d then gone into the mall and uploaded the announcement from Java Hut that someone was about to do something that would make Kayleigh remember him forever. The context made clear that Bill Davis was to be the victim.
And now, Myra and a barely conscious Edwin Sharp were en route to the safe house.
In a few minutes the plan would be completed: Myra would arrive, smile at the security man, Tim Raymond, and then blow him away with her pistol. At the same time Simesky would step into the living room and shoot the congressman and the others. Then he and Myra would drag Edwin into the room, shoot him in the head with Harutyun’s gun and dust the stalker’s hand with gunshot residue.
Simesky would make a panicked call begging for help and an ambulance, explaining that he’d gotten the gun away from the stalker and shot the psycho himself.
Plan your acts and act your plans …
But sometimes there were variations.
Kathryn Dance.
Her appearance could help smooth over one matter he’d been worried about—that there might be some suspicion if only he and Myra were left alive. If Dance survived too the scene would seem a bit more legitimate. Though he’d have to orchestrate it so that, of course, she couldn’t see him as the shooter.
Simesky would shoot Dance in the back, paralyzing but not killing her, then he’d murder Davis and Harutyun. After they were dead, Simesky would call out something like, “Edwin, no! What are you doing?”
Ideally Dance would be conscious and she’d hear his cry. She’d later report the story to the police, confirming that Edwin was the sole shooter. If not, and she died, well, no huge loss.
After all, Simesky thought angrily, you could’ve gone out to dinner with me, bitch. What would it’ve hurt?
Chapter 58
SIMESKY GLANCED AT his Rolex.
Three minutes to go.
Myra Babbage would be heading toward the safe house now, moving up the drive. Easing closer to the living room, Simesky couldn’t detect the sound of the tires because of the thick walls, but, over the noise of the game on TV, he could hear Dance saying, “What’s that? You hear something? A car?”
“I think so. Wait, no, I’m not sure.” The voice was Davis’s.
Two shots in Kathryn’s spine. Two in Harutyun’s head. Two in Davis’s.
What should Simesky shout? “My God, it’s him! That stalker!” Was that credible? Maybe: “Edwin, Jesus, no!”
In the living room Davis’s phone trilled. “Hello … Hi. Yeah, we’re inside.” Then, to the others: “It’s Myra. She just got here.”
Harutyun said, “You know, we didn’t tell her to make sure she wasn’t being followed.”
Simesky thought he heard Dance say something to the effect that Edwin did a lot of research but it would be pretty unlikely that he even knew who Myra was, let alone been able to find and follow her.
Ah, if you only knew …
One minute, according to the Rolex.
Dance was saying, “No, Congressman, please stay back from the window.”
“We know who it is.”
“Still, let’s just be on the safe side.”
Out of sight in the den Simesky pulled on latex gloves, opened his computer bag and removed the pistol, a cold one—stolen. That was one thing about this great country; if you wanted an untraceable gun you could get one, real easy. He knew it was loaded and he knew exactly how it worked. And he’d already fired it a dozen times to extract some GSR, gunshot residue, now in a Baggie, which he’d plant on Edwin’s hands. But he checked the weapon again.
Two shots, then two, then two.
“Peter?” the congressman called from the living room.
Simesky replied, “Be there in a sec. Anybody want coffee?”
“No thanks,” Davis said absently. “Myra’s here.”
“Good.”
“Kathryn, Dennis? Coffee?”
They both declined.