"He's done that before," Thom Reston said, earning a raised eyebrow from Rhyme, which told Dance that he was quite serious about offering Shean a job.
Since the criminalist wasn't explaining his contribution further, Dance did. "There were some questions raised about what Charlie's crime scene people found at the convention center and behind Edwin's house, where he claimed somebody'd been spying on him."
"Yeah, Edwin told me," Madigan said with a grim visage. "And I didn't believe him."
Dance continued, "One was bird droppings from seagulls."
Rhyme corrected, "The actual phrase was shit from, quote, 'birds most likely resident in a coastal region.' Not indigenous, mind you. I had no idea where they came from or where they were going. My only point was that the birds in question probably spent time recently on the coast dining on oceanic fish. And then we also identified some oil and fungus used in organic farming." A nod toward Sachs. "She has a pretty decent garden, by the way. I don't get the point of flowers myself but the tomatoes she grows are quite good."
Dance elaborated, "I remembered that Congressman Davis, Simesky and Babbage had been in Monterey campaigning, which is on the coast, where they might've picked up the bird-do trace. And they'd been stumping in ecofriendly organic farms from Watsonville to the Valley here."
"But why'd you get suspicious enough to consider that maybe Edwin wasn't the killer in the first place?" Madigan asked.
Dance laughed. "Bird shit again, in a way. See, in the header, Lincoln wrote just that. 'Bird shit.' But in the evidence chart he sent me he used the word 'excrement.'"
"That was Sachs," Rhyme grumbled.
"Well, that made me think of the website post threatening the congressman. I realized it just didn't sound like Edwin."
"The kinesics of language," O'Neil said.
"Exactly."
She showed them the post that had raised some alarms.
I've seen all your postings, about Kayleigh. You claim you like her, you claim you love her music. But you use her like everybody does, you stole Leaving Home to keep the hispanics happy. Your a fucking hypocrit....
"That's not Edwin's tone. I've never heard him say or write an expletive. And there're grammatical mistakes: commas that weren't necessary and the misspelling of 'hypocrite' and 'you're,' which he never did in his emails to Kayleigh. Oh, and in his emails when he referred to one of her songs, he put the title in quotation marks. In the post that threatened Congressman Davis, the title wasn't set off at all. It struck me that it could have been written by somebody who thought that's what a crazy stalker would post.
"Then there were some questions that came up during my interview with Edwin." She explained about using content-based analysis in looking at what Edwin had said, rather than kinesics and body language. "Since I couldn't use traditional kinesic analysis I looked at the facts he was telling me. And some of them were inconsistent. Like the number of letters and emails Edwin received from Kayleigh. She and her lawyers said Edwin was sent a half dozen replies--all form emails or snail-mail letters. But in the interview Edwin told me he'd received more than that ... and he suggested to Pike that he'd found them very encouraging.
"I thought at first that was a product of his problems with reality awareness. But then I realized this was different. See, stalkers may misinterpret the implications of facts but they'll know what those facts are. However Edwin misconstrued Kayleigh's message in the letters, he'd know for certain exactly how many letters he received. Did that mean somebody else, posing as Kayleigh, had been sending him emails and letters?
"And then"--she delivered this with a wry smile at Michael O'Neil--"I wondered why was Peter Simesky so interested in me? He said the congressman wanted to bring me on board and maybe he did. But I think Simesky put that in Davis's head. It gave Simesky a chance to see how we were coming with the investigation and what we knew. Myra also seemed very interested in who I worked for. And the two of them, and Davis, had flown into San Francisco the other day; they might've bought the prepaid mobiles in Burlingame then. It's near the airport."
Madigan muttered, "So they killed Bobby and the file sharer to establish the pattern of Edwin's guilt."
"As tough as it is to consider that," Dance said, "yeah. I think that's the only reason they died." She glanced Rhyme's way. "After I got your text in the safe house about the bird excrement, I got suspicious about people close to Davis. I emailed my associate, TJ Scanlon, to run deep background checks on everyone on Davis's staff. Everybody was clean--but Simesky and Myra were too clean. They were perfect models of political aides, textbook. And they'd joined the campaign on the same day. And it was impossible to find out anything about them before they joined. TJ thought that was odd and kept digging and found some connection with the Keyholders group--who were on record as condemning many of Davis's positions but were especially vehement about his stand on easier immigration.
"I decided to play it safe and we got out through the side window of the safe house just as Myra arrived and engaged Tim." A nod toward Raymond. "We know what happened next."
P. K. Madigan pointed his spoon at the man in the wheelchair. "You sure you don't want any ice cream?"
"Not my vice of choice," the criminalist said.
Crystal Stanning walked into the sheriff's office. "We just found the good Samaritan."
"Who?" Madigan asked in blunt impatience. Apparently forgetting he was a civilian.
"The woman who gave Edwin directions when he got lost."
Ah, Alibi Woman.
"Edwin was right. It was at the same time Sheri Towne was attacked. And she positively identified him."
Madigan sighed. "Well, we got this one wrong, boys and girls. Get Sharp in here. I for one am going to apologize."
A moment later Edwin was escorted into the office and he looked around a little bewildered. His hair was askew. He seemed a bit dizzy, though he was fascinated with Rhyme and the wheelchair.
Gonzalez explained what had happened--which included the revelation that most of the emails he'd received from Kayleigh were fake, not from her at all.
Dance noted his face fall. "She didn't send them?"
Thick silence for a moment and Dance said, "She sent a few but, I'm sorry, Edwin, the ones actually from her were just form letters. Like she sent to everybody."
Edwin slipped his hands into his jeans pockets. "I never would've gotten so ... you know, funny about her, if I knew. Think about it, somebody as pretty and talented and famous as her tells you she's interested in you, that you mean a lot to her ... what was I supposed to think?"
"I understand, Edwin," Dance said kindly.
Madigan said, "I'm sorry too, son."
Edwin said nothing for a moment, eyes again on the wheelchair. "So, I'm not a suspect or anything?"
"Nope," Harutyun said.
He nodded and then focused on Madigan. "Well, then, I don't have much interest in that complaint I made against you, Detective. And Deputy Lopez. I was just doing what I needed to. It was like self-defense, you understand."
"I do, and that's good of you, Edwin. Fact is, when it comes to Kayleigh, we all get a little overly enthusiastic."
"I'd kind of like to leave now. Is that okay?"
"Sure is, son. We'll get a statement from you later or tomorrow about what happened with Simesky and the woman--the kidnapping. I'll have somebody get you home now. You're in no shape to drive. You can pick up your car tomorrow."
"Thanks, Detective." Shoulders down, chest collapsed, he headed out the door. Despite the fact he was hard to read kinesically, Dance could see genuine sorrow in his posture.
Chapter 60
IN THE SERVICE area of the sheriff's office Lincoln Rhyme aimed for the ramp leading outside. He was accompanied by his New York companions, as well as Kathryn Dance and Michael O'Neil. "Time for a drink, I'd say, then back to San Jose."
"Time for coffee in the van," Thom corrected, his boss.
"I'm not driving," Rhyme replied acerbically. "I c
an drink."
"But," his aide countered fast, "I'm sure it's illegal to have open containers of liquor in a moving vehicle, even if you're not driving."
"It's not open," Rhyme snapped. "My tumbler has a lid on it."
The aide said thoughtfully, "We could of course stay here talking but that just means we'll get to the bar in San Jose that much later."
Rhyme scoffed but the expression vanished as he said good-bye to the law enforcers and, with a smooth gesture, lifted his working right arm to Dance and gripped her hand. She kissed his cheek, then embraced Sachs.
O'Neil added, "I'll see you both Sunday. I'm bringing the kids over." He glanced at Sachs. "You're interested, we just got the new H&K MP7."
"The little bullet."
"Right. Smaller than a BB, seventeen-caliber. You want to come out to the range and put some holes in paper on Monday?"
"You bet I do," Sachs said enthusiastically.
"Kathryn?" O'Neil asked.
"I'll pass, I think. I'll hang out with Lincoln and Thom."
And with Jon Boling too? she wondered, then stepped on that thought.
The trio from New York headed out the door.
O'Neil too said good-bye to the locals, and Dance walked with him outside into the sultry air.
"You in a hurry to get back?" she found herself asking. Hadn't planned it. She was thinking they might have dinner, just the two of them.
A pause. She could tell he too wanted to stay. But then he shook his head. "Thing is, Anne's driving down from San Francisco, picking up some things. I ought to be there." He looked away. "And the papers'll be ready tomorrow, the settlement agreement."
"So soon?"
"She didn't want much."
Also, a woman who cheats on her husband and abandons her children probably isn't in much of a position to demand much, Dance reflected. "You doing okay?" One of those pointless questions that's usually more about the asker than the askee.
"Relieved, sad, pissed off, worried about the kids." As lengthy a discussion of his emotional health as she'd ever heard from Michael O'Neil.
Silence for a moment.
Then he gave a smile. "Okay, better go."
But before he turned Dance found herself impulsively reaching up, one hand behind his neck, her arm around his back, and pulling him close. She kissed him hard on the mouth.
She thought, No, no, what the hell are you doing? Step back.
Yet by then his arms were enveloping her completely and he was kissing her back, just as firmly.
Then finally, he eased away. Came in for one more kiss and she gripped him even harder and then stood back.
She expected an oblique glance--his waiting state--but O'Neil stared easily into her eyes and she looked back just as comfortably. Their smiles matched.
Brother, what have I done now?
Kissed the man I truly love, she thought. And that unexpected thought was more stunning than the contact itself.
Then he was in the car. "I'll call you when I get back. See you on Sunday."
"Drive carefully," she said. A phrase that had set her on edge when her parents would tell teenage Kathryn the same. As if, oh, right, I was going to drive off the road until you reminded me.
But as a woman who'd lost one husband to the highway, it was a sentence she could not stop herself from uttering occasionally. He closed the door, glanced at her again and lifted his left palm to the inside windshield and she pressed her right to the glass outside.
He put the car in gear and pulled out of the lot.
"IF THAT DON'T beat all," Bishop Towne said, sipping his milk.
"Right," Dance said to him and his daughter, on the front porch of his house. "Edwin was innocent. Didn't kill a soul. Totally set up."
"He's still a shit."
"Daddy."
"He's a little fucking shit and I wouldn't mind if he went to jail for something. But it's good to know he's not going to be a problem anymore." The grizzled musician squinted at Dance. "He's not, is he?"
"I don't think so. He's mostly sad that Kayleigh didn't send him those personal emails and letters, the ones Simesky made up."
"We should sue those bastards," Bishop said. "The Keyholders? The fuck are they about?"
"Daddy, really. Come on." Kayleigh nodded toward the kitchen, where Suellyn and Mary-Gordon were helping Sheri bake something fragrant with vanilla. But the man's raspy voice probably hadn't carried inside.
Kayleigh said, "I'm not going to sue anybody, Daddy. We don't need that kind of publicity."
"Well, we're going to get publicity whether we want it or not. I'll talk to Sher about spinning it." Then he patted his daughter on the shoulder. "Hey, lookit the good news, KT The bad guys're dead and Edwin's out of the picture. So, no more talk about canceling any concerts. Speaking of that, I've been working on the song order again and I think we've got to move 'Leaving Home.' Everybody wants it. Encore'd be best. And I'd get the kids' choir to sing the last part in Spanish."
Dance was aware that Kayleigh's shoulders had risen in tension at these comments. Clearly she herself still wasn't so sure about the concert. Just because the killers had been stopped and Edwin absolved didn't mean she was in the mental state necessary to put on a show in the shadow of the recent crimes.
And then Dance noticed the young woman's posture collapse subtly. Which meant surrender.
"Sure, Daddy. Sure."
The tone of the evening had changed quickly but, oblivious to it, Bishop Towne rose like a buffalo climbing out of a stream he'd just forded and ambled inside. "Hey, M-G, whatcha baking?"
Kayleigh looked after him, grim-faced. Dance used the opportunity to fish into her purse and hand her the sealed envelope that contained Bobby's in-the-event-of letter and a copy of the adoption papers. The singer weighed it in her hand. Dance said softly, "That turned up in the investigation. I'm the only one who knows. You handle it however you want."
"What--?"
"You'll see."
The woman stared down at the slim envelope, clutching it as if it weighed ten pounds. Dance realized that she knew what it contained. "You have to understand. I just ..."
Dance hugged her. "It's not my business," she whispered. "Now, I'm going to get back to the motel. I've got a report to dictate."
Kayleigh slipped the envelope into her pocket, thanked Dance for all she'd done and went into the house.
Dance walked down to her SUV. She happened to glance back into the house and could see a bit of the kitchen, Suellyn and Sheri at the island, looking at a cookbook. Kayleigh scooted up onto a stool nearby, lifted Mary-Gordon to her lap. No kinesic analysis was necessary to tell from the girl's amused squirming that the embrace was particularly strong.
Driving down the lengthy, dim driveway, Dance was thinking not of the Towne clan but of the potential train wreck her personal life might be headed for. She thought back to kissing O'Neil and felt a twisting in her belly--radiating a perfect balance of joy and alarm.
She scrolled through her iPod playlist on the SUV's entertainment screen to find the song that had just come to mind, one of Kayleigh's, not surprisingly. "Is It Love, Is It Less?" The lyrics rolled out through the Pathfinder's resonant sound system.
Is it left, is it right? Is it east, is it west?
Is it day, is it night? Is it good or the best?
I'm looking for answers, I'm looking for clues.
There has to be something to tell me the truth.
I'm trying to know, but I can just guess,
Is it love between us?
Is it love, is it less?
Chapter 61
"GRACIAS, SENORA DANCE."
"De nada."
In the garage of Jose Villalobos, Dance clicked off the digital recorder and began to pack away the cables and the microphones. She'd spent the day not as a law enforcement agent but as a recording engineer and producer, and Los Trabajadores had just finished the last tune--a son huasteco, in the traditional style of music from northeastern Mexico
, featuring a resonant eight-stringed instrument like a guitar, a jarana, and a fiddle. The violinist, a wiry forty-year-old originally from Juarez, had played up a storm, even slipping into Stephane Grappelli Hot Club de France improvs.
Dance had been delighted at the bizarre, captivating journey of the music and had to force herself to keep from clapping time to the speedy, infectious tunes.
Now, just after 5:00 P.M., she shared Tecates with the band and then wandered back to the Pathfinder. Her phone hummed and she saw Madigan's text, asking if she would come in and review the transcript of her report about the Peter Simesky-Myra Babbage case, which she'd dictated last night.
She debated a moment--she was exhausted--but decided to get it over with. Scrolling through her iPhone she saw a missed call too.
Jon Boling.
She debated again about the "San Diego Situation," as she'd taken to calling it. And the first thing in her thoughts was the kiss with Michael O'Neil.
I can't call Jon, her mind told her.
As her finger hit REDIAL.
A trill of numbers. Then ... voicemail.
Disappointed, angry and relieved, she disconnected without leaving a message, thinking that would be a good title for a Kayleigh Towne song: "Straight to Voicemail."
A half hour later she arrived at the sheriff's office. She was now an official honorary deputy and she strode past the desk sergeant and security without any challenges. Several law enforcers she hadn't met waved friendly greetings to her.
She stepped into Madigan's office. The chief detective had been officially reinstated; Edwin had dropped the charges.
"Don't you ever do sprinkles?" she asked, sitting down on the battered couch, eyeing the cardboard cup he was enthusiastically excavating.
"What?" Madigan asked.
"On your ice cream? Or whipped cream or syrup?"
"Naw, it's a waste of taste. Calories too. Like cones. I'll give you my theory of ice cream sometime. It's philosophical. You ever make it?"
"Make ice cream?"
"Right."
She said, "The world is divided into people who make ice cream and yogurt and pasta and bread. And those who buy it. I'm a buyer."
"I'm with you there. This's yours."
He produced another cup. Chocolate chip. A metal spoon too.
"No, I--"
"You say no too quick, Deputy," Madigan grumbled. "You want some ice cream. I know you do."