Xo

  At the bar she ordered an iced tea, drank it down fast and got another, then sat at one of the round tables, overvarnished and nicked, looking at the clientele. Two elderly couples; a trio of tired, jumpsuited utility workers, who'd probably been on the job at dawn; a slim young man in jeans and plaid shirt, studying the old-fashioned jukebox; several businessmen in white shirts and dark ties, minus jackets.

  She was looking forward to seeing Kayleigh, to recording the songs of the Workers; looking forward to lunch too. She was starving.

  And concerned.

  It was now one-twenty. Where was her friend?

  Music from the jukebox filled the place. Dance gave a faint laugh. It was a Kayleigh Towne song--a particularly good choice too, considering this venue: "Me, I'm Not a Cowgirl."

  The song was about a suburban soccer mom, who seems to live a life very different from that of a cowgirl but in the end realizes that maybe she's one in spirit. Typical of Kayleigh's songs, it was lighthearted and yet spoke meaningfully to people.

  It was then that the front door opened and a slab of powerful sunlight fell onto the scuffed linoleum floor, on which danced geometric shapes, the shadows of the people entering.

  Dance rose. "Kayleigh!"

  Surrounded by four others, the young singer stepped into the restaurant, smiling but also looking around quickly. She was troubled, Dance noted immediately. No, more than that, Kayleigh Towne was scared.

  But whatever she'd been concerned about finding here was absent and she relaxed, then stepped forward, hugging Dance firmly. "Kathryn, hey. This is so great!"

  "I couldn't wait to get here."

  The singer was in jeans and, oddly, a thick denim jacket, despite the heat. Her lovely hair flowed free, nearly as long as she was tall.

  Dance added, "I called a couple of times."

  "There was ... well, there was a little problem at the concert hall. It's all right. Hey, everybody, this's my bud, Kathryn Dance."

  Dance greeted Bobby Prescott, whom she'd met a few years ago: thirtyish, an actor's looks belied by a shy smile, curly brown hair. There was also pudgy and terminally shy Tye Slocum, with long reddish hair in need of a trim. He was the band's guitar technician and repairman. Unsmiling, athletic Alicia Sessions, who looked to Dance like she belonged in a downtown Manhattan punk-rock club, was Kayleigh's personal assistant.

  And someone else was in the entourage. An African-American man, over six feet tall, well into the 250-pound range.

  Security.

  The fact that Kayleigh had a bodyguard wasn't surprising, though Dance was troubled to note that he was intently on the job, even here. He carefully examined everyone in the bar--the young man at the jukebox, the workers, the businessmen and even the elderly couples and the bartender, clearly running their faces through a mental database of potential threats.

  What had prompted this?

  Whatever threat he was here to guard against wasn't present and he turned his attention back to Kayleigh. He didn't relax, though. People like him never did--that's what made them so good. He went into a waiting state. "Looks okay to me."

  His name was Darthur Morgan and when he shook Dance's hand he examined her closely and his eyes gave a flicker of recognition. Dance, as an expert in kinesics and body language, knew that she gave off "cop" vibrations, even when not intending to.

  "Join us for lunch," Kayleigh said to the big man.

  "No, thank you, ma'am. I'll be outside."

  "No, it's too hot."

  "Better there."

  "Well, get an iced tea or soda. And come in if you need to."

  But without ordering a beverage, he steamed slowly through the dim restaurant and, with one glance at a wax museum cowgirl twirling a lasso, stepped outside.

  The skinny bartender came around, carrying menus and a fierce admiration for Kayleigh Towne, who smiled at the young man in a maternal way, though they were about the same age.

  Kayleigh glanced at the jukebox, embarrassed that it was her voice serenading them.

  "So," Dance asked, "what happened?"

  "Okay, I'll tell you." She explained that as she was doing some prep work for the Friday-night concert a strip light--one of the long ones above the stage--came loose and fell.

  "My God. You're all right?"

  "Yeah, fine. Aside from a sore butt."

  Bobby, sitting next to Kayleigh, gripped her arm. He looked at her protectively. "I don't know how it happened," he said in a low voice. "I mean, it was a strip light, a cyc light. You don't mount or dismount it for a show. It was there permanently."

  Eyes avoiding everyone's, big Tye Slocum offered, "And you checked it, Bobby. I saw you. Twice. All the lights. Bobby's the best roadie around. Never had an accident like that before."

  "If it'd hit her," Alicia said, anger in her voice, "man, that would have been it. It could've killed her."

  Bobby added, "It's a thousand watts. Could also've set the whole place on fire, if the lamps had shattered. I cut the main power switch in case they did. I'm going to check it out better when I'm back tonight. I've got to go to Bakersfield and pick up a new amplifier and speaker bank."

  Then the incident was tucked away and they ordered lunch. Dance was in fighting trim after the two-week-long kidnapping case--she'd shed nine pounds--and decided to splurge with an order of fries with her grilled chicken sandwich. Kayleigh and Tye ordered salads. Alicia and Bobby had tostadas and opted for coffee, despite the heat. The conversation turned to Dance's musical website and she talked a bit about her own failed attempts at being a singer in San Francisco.

  "Kathryn has a great voice," Kayleigh said, displaying five or six kinesic deception clues. Dance smiled.

  A man's voice interrupted. "Excuse me, folks. Hey, there, Kayleigh."

  It was the young man from the jukebox. Smiling, he nodded at Dance and the table and then looked down at Kayleigh.

  "Hello." The singer's tone had gone suddenly into a different mode, bright but guarded.

  "Didn't mean to be eavesdropping. I heard there was some problem. You all right?"

  "Just fine, thanks."

  Silence for a moment, the sort that means, Appreciate your interest but you can head off now.

  Kayleigh said, "You're a fan?"

  "Sure am."

  "Well, thanks for your support. And your concern. You going to the concert on Friday?"

  "Oh, you bet. I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it for the world. You sure you're okay?"

  A pause, bordering on the awkward. Maybe Kayleigh was digesting the last sentence.

  "Sure am."

  Bobby said, "Okay, friend. You take care now. We're going to get back to lunch."

  As if the roadie hadn't even spoken, the man said with a breathy laugh, "You don't recognize me, do you?"

  "Sorry," the singer offered.

  Alicia said firmly, "Ms. Towne'd like some privacy, you don't mind."

  "Hey, Alicia," the young man said to her.

  The personal assistant blinked. Obviously she hadn't recognized the man and would be wondering how he knew her name.

  Then he ignored her too and laughed again, his voice high, eerie. "It's me, Kayleigh! Edwin Sharp. Your shadow."

  Chapter 3

  A LOUD BANG echoed in the restaurant as Kayleigh's iced tea glass slipped from her grip and slammed into the floor.

  The big glass landed at just the right angle to produce a sound so like a gunshot that Dance found her hand moving to the place where her Glock pistol--presently locked away in her bedside safe at home--normally rested.

  Eyes wide, breath rasping in and out of her lungs, Kayleigh said, "You're ... you're ... Edwin."

  Her reaction was one approaching panic but, with a brow furrowed in sympathy, the man said, "Hey, there, Kayleigh, it's okay. Don't you worry."

  "But ..." Her eyes were zipping to the door, on the other side of which was Darthur Morgan and, if Dance was right, his own pistol.

  Dance tried to piece it together. Couldn't be a former
boyfriend; she'd have recognized him earlier. Must be an inappropriate fan. Kayleigh was just the sort of performer--beautiful, single, talented--to have stalker problems.

  "No embarrassment you didn't recognize me," Edwin said, bizarrely reassuring her and oblivious to her distress. "Since I sent you that last picture of me I lost a bit of weight. Yep, seventy-three pounds." He tapped his belly. "I didn't write you about it. Wanted it to be a surprise. I read Country Week and EW, see the pictures of you with some of those boys. I know you like the slimmer builds. Didn't think you'd appreciate a chubby. And got myself a twenty-five-dollar haircut. You know how men are always talking about changing but they never do. Like your song. I wasn't going to give you a Mr. Tomorrow. I'm a Mr. Today."

  Kayleigh was speechless. Nearly hyperventilating.

  From some angles Edwin would be good-looking--full head of black hair trimmed conservatively like a politician's and sprayed firmly into place, keen, deep brown eyes, smooth complexion, if a bit pale. But that face was also very long, angular, with heavy, protruding eyebrows, like soot. He was trim, yes, but big--larger than she'd noticed at first, easily six-two or -three, and despite the weight loss he was probably two hundred pounds. His rangy arms were long, and his hands massive but curiously--and unsettlingly--pink.

  Instantly Bobby Prescott was on his feet and stepping in front of the man. Bobby was large too but wide, not tall, and Edwin towered over him. "Hey," Edwin said cheerfully, "Bobby. The roadie. Excuse me, chief of the road crew."

  And then his eyes returned to Kayleigh, staring at her adoringly. "I'd be honored if you'd have some iced tea with me. Just over there in the corner. I've got a few things to show you."

  "How did you--"

  "Know you'd be here? Hell, everybody knows that this is your favorite place. Just look at the blogs. It's where you wrote 'Me, I'm Not a Cowgirl.'" He nodded at the jukebox, from which that very song was playing--now for the second time, Dance noted.

  The suburbs and the cities, that's what I'm about.

  Me, I'm not a cowgirl, unless maybe you count:

  Looking people in the eye and talking to them straight.

  Not putting up with bigots or cheaters or with hate.

  Remembering everything my mom and daddy said

  About how to treat my family, my country and my friends.

  Didn't think I was a cowgirl, but I guess that all depends.

  "Love that song," he gushed. "Just love it. Well, you know that. I told you must be a hundred times."

  "I really ..." Kayleigh was a deer in the middle of the road.

  Bobby put his hand on Edwin's shoulder. Not quite hostile, not quite friendly. Dance wondered if this would be the start of a fight and she reached for the only weapon she had--her mobile--to dial 911 if need be. But Edwin simply stepped back a few inches, ignoring Bobby. "Come on, let's get that iced tea. I know you think theirs here is the best in town. I'll treat. Mr. Today, remember? Hey, your hair's really beautiful. Ten years, four months."

  Dance had no idea what that meant but the comment clearly upset Kayleigh even more. Her jaw trembled.

  "Kayleigh'd like to be left alone," Alicia said firmly. The woman seemed to be just as strong as Bobby Prescott and her glare was more fierce.

  "You enjoying working for the band, Alicia?" he asked her as if making conversation at a cocktail party. "You've been with 'em about, what? Five, six months, right? You're talented too. I've seen you on YouTube. You surely can sing. Wow."

  Alicia leaned forward ominously. "What the hell is this? How do you know me?"

  "Listen, friend," Bobby said. "Time for you to leave."

  Then Tye Slocum slowly pushed back in his chair and strode to the door. Edwin's eyes followed and on his face was welded the same smile that had been there from the moment he'd stepped to the table. But something had changed; it was as if he actually expected Kayleigh to join him for tea and was perplexed she wasn't. Tye's mission to summon the security guard seemed to irritate him. "Kayleigh. Please. I didn't want to bother you here but you never got back to me on email. I just want to visit for a bit. We've got a lot to talk about."

  "I really can't."

  Bobby took Edwin's arm once more before Dance could intervene. But again the man simply stood back. He didn't seem to have any interest in a confrontation, much less a physical fight.

  There was a blinding flash and the table was immersed in light as the door opened, then the illumination was blocked. Removing his aviator shades, Darthur Morgan moved in fast. He looked at Edwin's face and Dance could see the muscles around his mouth tighten, a sign of displeasure at himself for missing the slimmed-down stalker.

  "You're Edwin Sharp?"

  "That's right, Mr. Morgan."

  It wasn't hard to get information about people nowadays, especially those connected with a very public person like Kayleigh Towne. But learning the name of her security guard?

  "I'm going to ask you to leave Ms. Towne alone now. She wants you to leave. You're becoming a security threat."

  "Well, under Giles versus Lohan, I'm really not, Mr. Morgan. There's not even an implied threat. Anyway, the last thing that I want is to hurt or threaten anybody. I'm just here offering my friend some sympathy over something that happened to her, something traumatic. And seeing if she'd like some tea. Happy to buy you some too."

  "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."