Xo

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 can 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