Xo

“Won’t do us any good. He won’t be a guest. He would’ve just picked up the wireless signal in the lobby, or even from the parking lot. Probably he’s got some connection with the area. But not the hotel.”
    “You think that the assassination plot was just a coincidence? And there really is a stalker?”
    “Well, we know it can’t be Edwin. He has an alibi. And it doesn’t need to be a stalker. It could be anybody, trying to frame Edwin to cover up the attacks—of Bobby, the file sharer or Sheri Towne….” She shook her head. “Or maybe those were just to establish a pattern … and the real intended victim’s next on his list.”
    “Shit. How’d we miss this? … But who’s the new vic? What’s the fourth verse?”
    Dance recited,
    You can’t keep down smiles; happiness floats.
    But trouble can find us in the heart of our homes.
    Life never seems to go quite right,
    You can’t watch your back from morning to night.
     
    Madigan sighed. “Kill somebody in their home. That’s like the other verse, about the road—not very fucking helpful.”
    “There’s the reference to ‘floating.’ Another river, pool, some other body of water?”
    “I don’t have a clue. We’ve got a dozen lakes around here, nothing big close to town, though. Hundreds of miles of riverbanks. And must be a thousand pools. More.”
    “Okay, maybe there’s some connection with the Tower District. But we’ve got to narrow it down more.” Dance thought for a moment. “You know, there was some physical evidence that Charlie’s people found thatwe never really looked at, because we had enough to figure out what Simesky and Myra were up to.”
    Madigan called Charlie Shean, at CSU, had a conversation with him and jotted notes. After hanging up he said, “What wasn’t accounted for was gangue … industrial by-product stuff, or whatever it is. Never heard of that before. Human bone dust too. And Marlboros. Did Simesky or Myra smoke?”
    “I never saw them.”
    The chief glanced at his notes. “Also the boot print, with the really sharp toe. And some neatsfoot oil—leather treatment for baseball gloves. Maybe the dearly departed Peter Simesky played on a fascist softball league.”
    A to B to Z …
    Dance cocked her head. “That’s not all it’s used for.”

 
     

Chapter 62
    FINALLY, KAYLEIGH TOWNE was back in her own house, her sanctuary.
    If only for a few hours. Alicia had texted that she wanted to see her about some matters having to do with the concert but she didn’t want to meet her at Bishop’s house.
    I hear you there, sister. And when Alicia suggested they meet at Kayleigh’s she readily agreed. Darthur Morgan had driven her back here and then he’d collected his own car and said good-bye.
    “Tell you, ma’am: been real good working with you.”
    “Still ‘ma’am,’ after all we’ve been through?”
    “That’s right, Kayleigh ma’am.” And he’d cracked what she believed was his first smile.
    She laughed and hugged him, which he responded to stiffly but with good humor.
    Then he’d driven away and Kayleigh was alone. But the relief she felt because Edwin wasn’t really a dangerous stalker was fading and ill ease seeped in to replace it—which had nothing to do with the events of the past few days and those horrible people using her as an excuse to kill the congressman.
    No, it was a discomfort that struck closer to home.
    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….
    Why hadn’t she said no to her father? Just insisted that they cancel? Didn’t he get that danger wasn’t the reason she didn’t want to go ahead with the concert? It wasn’t even that Bobby was dead, that Sheri’d nearly died…. She just plain and simple didn’t want to get up onstage.
    I’m not Superwoman, Daddy.
    Your goals aren’t my goals.
    Why was he so oblivious to that? The whole Industry was a huge bulldozer, pushing forward, forward, and if somebody got crushed—Bobby’s life, Kayleigh’s joy—so what? It was unstoppable.
    No, of course Bishop Towne didn’t get that. All he got was that Kayleigh had to make money, had to feed her staff and family, had to feed the voracious fans, had to keep the record label and promoters happy.
    And, she suspected, keep the memory of Bishop Towne alive—even among younger people who’d never heard him sing, hell, never heard of him at all.
    And screw his