Xo

  "It could start at any minute."

  "But when the light comes on I can get off."

  How they tested the limits.

  The mother and daughter were at the arrivals area in Fresno-Yosemite airport, their flight from Portland having arrived twenty minutes early. Suellyn looked around for their ride. Saw no one yet and turned back to the girl. "And it's filthy. You'll get your dress stained."

  That risk apparently didn't carry much weight either. But all it took was one "Mary-Gordon," uttered in a certain tone, that very special tone, and the cute blonde stepped back immediately. Funny, Suellyn thought, she and her husband never laid a hand on the girl, never even threatened spanking, and their daughter was far better behaved than the children of neighbors who did wallop their kids--all in the name of raising them right.

  Sadists, she thought.

  And then reminded herself to chill. Bobby Prescott's death had cast a pall over everything. And how was Kayleigh holding up? She and Bobby had quite a history, of course, and Suellyn knew that her kid sister would be reeling from the loss.

  The poor thing ...

  And the possibility that he'd been murdered?

  Maybe by that gross stalker who'd been bothering Kayleigh for the past few months. Terrible.

  She remembered Bishop's call that morning, after she'd learned the sad news from Kayleigh. The conversation with her father had been conducted in the clumsy way he bobbled nearly everything personal. Suellyn was thinking it was odd that he'd called in the first place, much less to ask if she'd come to Fresno to support her sister during this tough time ... until Suellyn realized: Bishop would want to share the bereavement duty with someone else. Anyone else. Well, no, he'd want to hand off the job completely if he could.

  But who knew his real motive? Their father was both transparent and unreadable.

  And where was the luggage? She was impatient.

  Suellyn resembled her younger sister in a vague way. She had a wholly unsupported theory that the greater the distance in age, the less siblings looked like each other. Eight years separated the two, and Suellyn was taller, of broader build and fuller face, which couldn't be traced to the fifteen pounds she had on her sister. Her nose was longer and her chin stronger, she felt, though her light brown hair was of the same fine, flowing texture, light as air. Today she was prepared for the assault of a late Fresno summer, in a burgundy sundress, cut low in front and back, and Brighton sandals, whose silver hearts covering the first two toes fascinated Mary-Gordon.

  Even in this outfit, though, she was uncomfortably hot. Portland had clocked in at 62 degrees that morning.

  "Where's Aunt Kayleigh?"

  "She's getting ready to sing a show. The one we're going to on Friday."

  Maybe. Her sister hadn't actually invited her to the concert.

  "Good. I like it when she sings."

  With a blare of a horn and a flashing orange light, the baggage belt started to move.

  "See, you wouldn't have had time to get off."

  "Yes, I could. And then I could ride around and see what's behind that curtain."

  "They wouldn't like that."

  "Who?"

  Suellyn was not going to talk about TSA and terrorists.

  "They," she repeated firmly and Mary-Gordon forgot about the question as she spotted the first suitcase and gleefully charged toward it, her white Keds squeaking on the linoleum, her pink dress, accented with a red bow, fluttering around her.

  The luggage was retrieved and they both walked away from the belt and the crowds and paused in front of one of the doors.

  Her mobile rang. She glanced down. "Hey, Daddy."

  "You're in," the man growled.

  And hello and nice day to you too.

  "Ritchie's on his way to pick you up."

  Or you could've come to collect your daughter and granddaughter in person. Bishop Towne didn't drive but he had plenty in his crew to play chauffeur--if he'd wanted to come.

  Suellyn found a bogus smile on her face as often happened when she was talking to her father, even though he was miles away. Bishop Towne intimidated Suellyn less than he did his younger daughter but it was still plenty.

  "I can take a cab."

  "No, you won't. You got in early. Ritchie'll be there."

  Then as if he remembered he should be saying something--or possibly had been prodded by Wife Number Four Sheri--he asked, "How's Mary-Gordon?"

  "She can't wait to see you," Suellyn told him.

  Is that passive-aggressive? A little.

  "Me too." And he disconnected.

  I'm taking a damn cab, she thought. I'm not hanging around. "Do you need to use the girls' room?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure? It'll be a while before we get to Aunt Kayleigh's house."

  "No. Can I get some Jelly Bears?"

  "There'll be treats at your aunt's house."

  "Okay."

  "Excuse me, Suellyn?"

  She turned to see Bishop's minion, Ritchie, a young man looking every inch the member of a country musician's entourage. "I'm your chauffeur. Nice to meet you." He shook her hand and smiled toward Mary-Gordon. "Hello."

  "Hello," she said.

  "Welcome to Fresno. You're Mary-Gordon, I'll bet."

  "He said my name right." She beamed.

  Hers wasn't Mary with Gordon as a middle name. It was a good, double-barreled Southern name and the girl wasn't shy about correcting anyone who got it wrong.

  "Let me get those for you," he said and took both suitcases.

  Mary-Gordon yielded up the bag without protest to the Man Who Knew Her Name.

  "Get ready for the heat, a lot different from Oregon. You going to your father's or Kayleigh's?"

  "Kayleigh's. We're going to surprise her."

  "That'll be fun."

  Suellyn hoped so. Bishop had been adamant that Suellyn not call Kayleigh and tell her of the visit--because the younger of the sisters would probably have told her not to come. She wouldn't want any sympathy because of Bobby's death, Bishop said. But family had to stick together.

  Father knows best ... Uh-huh.

  "Kayleigh's got a great swimming pool," Ritchie said to Mary-Gordon. "You going to go swimming?"

  "I have two suits so one can dry and I can still swim in the other."

  "Isn't that smart?" Bishop's associate said. "What kind of suits are they? Hello Kitty?"

  Mary-Gordon wrinkled her nose. "I'm too old for Hello Kitty and SpongeBob. One has flowers on it and the other is plain blue. I can swim without floaties."

  They stepped outside and the heat was as fierce as promised.

  He turned around and glanced down at the girl with a smile. "You know, you're cute as a button."

  Mary-Gordon asked, "What does that mean?"

  The young man looked at Suellyn and they both laughed. He said, "I don't have any idea."

  They waited for traffic then crossed into the lot. He whispered, "It's good you're here. Kayleigh's pretty upset about Bobby."

  "I can imagine. Do they know what happened?"

  "Not yet. It's been terrible for everybody." He lifted his voice and said to Mary-Gordon, "Hey, before we go to your aunt's, you want to see something fun?"

  "Yeah!"

  "It's really neat and you'll like it." He glanced at Suellyn. "Little detour? There's this park practically on the way."

  "Please, Mommy!"

  "All right. But we don't want to be too late, Ritchie."

  He blinked. "Oh, I'm not Ritchie. I came to fetch you instead." They arrived at his car. He took the suitcases and her computer bag and stashed them in the trunk of the big old Buick. It was bright red--a color you didn't see much nowadays.

  Chapter 24

  AT KAYLEIGH'S HOUSE Kathryn Dance was talking to Darthur Morgan, who was holding but, being on duty, not reading, one of his old books.

  "You've got an unusual name," she said.

  "Means 'morning' in German. Spelled different." The huge man's still face
didn't break character.

  "That's funny," Dance told him. She'd been referring to his given name.

  "Used it before."

  They were sitting in the living room, all the shades drawn, while Kayleigh was upstairs, changing clothes, as if being in the place where Bobby Prescott had died had somehow tainted what she'd worn.

  The security man continued, "You know people think, being black, I was named Darthur because my parents didn't know how to spell Arthur, or got confused. You hear that sometimes."

  "You do, true."

  "Fact is, they were both teachers and they like the classics." He lifted his leather-bound book. Dickens. He added, "Malory's Morte d'Arthur was one of their favorites."

  "The King Arthur stories."

  He lifted an eyebrow. "Not a lot of cops know that. But then, you're not just a cop."

  "Not any more than you're just a bodyguard." She didn't add that she was also a mother who helped her children with their homework. She eyed the book in his hand.

  "Great Expectations."

  She asked, "Is Kayleigh handling this okay?"

  "Borderline, I'd say. I don't go way back with her. Her lawyers and her father hired me when that fellow started popping up. She's the best of the celebrities I've ever worked with. Nicest. Polite. I could tell you some stories about clients I've had."

  Though he wouldn't. He was a pro through and through. When this assignment was over, Darthur Morgan would instantly forget everything he knew about Kayleigh Towne, even the fact that he'd worked for her.

  "You're armed?"

  "Yes."

  Dance had been pretty sure but she was glad to hear the confirmation. And glad to hear too that Morgan didn't continue to chat about his weapon or how proficient he was, much less whether he'd ever used it.

  Professional ...

  "It could be that Edwin's stolen a Glock."

  "I know. I talked to Chief Madigan."

  The big man retired to the front door, sat down in a chair challenged by his weight.

  Dance sipped the iced tea that Kayleigh had brought her. She looked around the room at the many awards and gold and platinum records hanging on the walls. There was a framed picture from the cover of Country Times and Dance had to laugh. It was a picture of Kayleigh holding the Country Music Association's Singer of the Year award. As she'd been accepting it, a young man, a country singer with a self-polished reputation for being a bad boy had leapt onto the stage and taken the microphone away, berating her for being too young to win and not true to traditional country roots. He railed that another singer should have won.

  Kayleigh had let him finish and then pulled the microphone out of his hand and said if he was such a supporter of traditional country, then name the top-five lifetime hits of George Jones, Loretta Lynn and Patsy Cline. "Or name any five of them," Kayleigh had challenged.

  He did a deer in the headlights thing for a long ten seconds, in front of a live TV audience of millions, and then slunk off the stage, his arm raised, for some reason, like a heavy metal rocker's. Kayleigh finished her acceptance speech and, to a standing ovation, concluded by naming all the hits she'd asked him to recite.

  Kayleigh now joined them, wearing blue jeans and a thick dark gray blouse, untucked and concealing as if Edwin were observing her from the distance through high-powered binoculars.

  And who's to say he wasn't?

  The singer sighed and sat on a floral sofa in the middle of the spacious room.

  Dance said, "I just talked to the deputy at the convention center. All of the crew are accounted for except Tye and Alicia."

  "Oh, she called ten minutes ago. I told her about the second verse and made sure she was looking out for herself." Kayleigh smiled. "She almost sounded like she was hoping Edwin'd try something with her. She's pretty tough. And's got a temper." She called Tye Slocum and left a message. "I don't know why he left."

  And all the while Darthur Morgan said nothing and didn't even seem to hear the conversation. He simply scanned the house, the windows. He took a phone call and put the mobile away. Then stiffened.

  The big man was on his feet, looking out the front window. "Visitors." He paused. "Hm. Whole entourage. And it looks official."

  Chapter 25

  "ENTOURAGE" DESCRIBED IT pretty well, Kayleigh Towne decided.

  Two SUVs--one dusty white Lexus, Bishop's, and a big black Lincoln Navigator.

  Bishop and Sheri climbed out and turned to the other vehicle.

  Four passengers. First was security, it was easy to tell. A solid, sunglassed man, well over six feet, a pale complexion. He looked around and then leaned into the SUV and whispered something. The next to climb out was a slim, thoughtful-looking man with thinning hair. The third, also in a dark suit, white shirt and tie, was much taller and had a politician's head of hair.

  Which made sense, because, Kayleigh realized, that's exactly who he was: one of California's star congressmen, William Davis, a two-term Democrat.

  Kayleigh glanced at Dance, who observed this all with a careful gaze.

  A woman was the last to climb out of the Navigator, dressed also in a conservative matching navy jacket and skirt, flesh-colored stockings.

  The guard stayed with the SUV and the others followed Bishop and his wife into the house.

  Inside, Bishop hugged his daughter and as if in an afterthought asked how she was holding up. Kayleigh thought it was the way he'd ask a gaffer whose name he didn't know how he was weathering the loss of an elderly parent. He also didn't seem to remember that he'd been here just a few hours ago.

  What on earth were they doing here, anyway?

  Bishop examined Dance as if he'd never met her and he ignored Darthur Morgan completely.

  He said to his daughter, "This here's Congressman Davis. And his aides, Peter Simesky. And ..."

  "Myra Babbage." The slim, unsmiling woman, with square-cut, brunette hair, nodded formally. She seemed a bit star-struck to be in Kayleigh's presence.

  "Ms. Towne, it's an honor," the congressman said.

  "Hey, call me Kayleigh. You're making me older than I want to be."

  Davis laughed. "And I'm Bill. It's easy to remember. I've sponsored a few of them in congress."

  Kayleigh gave a brief smile. And she introduced Dance and Morgan.

  "We just flew into San Francisco a few days ago and have been making our way south. I was in touch with your father, asking about getting to your concert. Oh, I'm paying for tickets, don't you worry. I'm afraid we just need a little extra security."

  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."