Xo

her—acknowledging frustration at their missing quarry—and leaned against his car to make a call. From the brief conversation Dance deduced it was to the deputy at Kayleigh’s house—provided to supplement Darthur Morgan when the manpower allowed. He disconnected. “Was Jose, at the house.” A nod. “Edwin was here ten minutes ago. They didn’t see which way he went.”
    Dance could understand why. From here you could see only the second story of the house, which was about three hundred feet away, down the gravel driveway. She wondered if the windows visible from here—the ones Edwin had just presumably been staring at while he had his meal—were Kayleigh’s bedroom.
    Silence for a time. The sun was low and Dance could feel the day shedding heat in layers.
    Madigan said, “Had a snake in my backyard a couple, three years ago. Big rattler. I mean, a big one. Saw him once and never again for the rest of that summer. Was he under the barbecue, the house, had he left altogether? Walked around with my sidearm all the time, which I never do.”
    “Because of the kids,” Dance said.
    “Because of the kids. We took to calling him the ‘invisible snake.’ But it wasn’t funny. Ruined the backyard for the whole season. And saw him one time only. All right.” He stood with hands on his hips again, looking over the park. “You’re in town all alone. You want to come over for dinner? My wife, she’s a pretty good cook.”
    “I’ll probably just get something back at the motel. Get some sleep.”
    “We got good desserts.”
    “Ice cream?”
    A laugh. “Naw. Judy bakes. Well, ice cream ends up being involved.”
    “Think I’ll pass, thanks.”
    “Good evening to you, Kathryn.”
    “You too, Chief.”
    Dance returned to the Mountain View. The locks on her suitcases were intact and nothing seemed to be disturbed. Dance glanced out the window at the park, saw no surveillance and closed the blinds.
    As soon as she did, the hotel phone rang.
    “Agent Dance?” A pleasant male voice.
    “That’s right.”
    “It’s Peter Simesky? Congressman Davis’s aide?” he asked as if she’d have no clue who he was.
    “Yes, hi.”
    “Hi. Actually I’m in the lobby … of your motel. The congressman was speaking at a farm nearby. Could I talk to you? Am I interrupting anything?”
    She could find no credible excuse and said she’d be out in a minute.
    In the lobby she found the man on his phone and he politely ended the call when he spotted her. They shook hands and he grinned, though the smile soon morphed into a frown.
    “I heard they confirmed another attack.”
    “That’s right. Homicide.”
    “Anyone connected to Kayleigh?”
    “Not directly.”
    “Is there anything we can do?”
    “So far, no. But appreciate that.”
    “It’s this stalker?”
    “Pointing to him but we don’t know for sure.”
    Simesky tilted his head in a certain way and Dance knew a related story would be forthcoming. “The congressman’s had a few problems himself. A couple of campaign workers and interns. Two women and a gay man too. They got infatuated, I guess you could say.”
    Dance explained about erotomania. “Fits the classic profile. A powerful man and somebody in a lower professional position. Any physical threats?”
    “No, no, just got awkward.”
    Simesky had a large bottle of water and he drank it thirstily. She noticed his white shirt was sweat stained. He followed her glance and laughed. “The congressman’s been delivering his ecofriendly speech at farms from Watsonville to Fresno. The temperature was a lot more pleasant in your neighborhood.”
    Watsonville, just north of where Dance lived, was near the coast. And, she agreed, a lot more pleasant, weather-wise, than the San Joaquin Valley.
    “You got a good turnout, I’ll bet.”
    “At the farms, because of his immigrant position, you mean? Oh, you bet. We considered it a success—and there were only forty protesters. Maybe fifty. And no one threw anything. We get tomatoes sometimes. Brussels sprouts too. Kind of ironic, a candidate in support of farmworkers getting pelted by vegetables from the anti-farmworker contingent.”
    Dance smiled.
    Simesky looked toward the motel’s bar. “How ’bout a glass of wine?”
    She hesitated.
    “This won’t take long. It’s important.”
    Dance remembered his look her way at Kayleigh’s house and his slightly overlong handshake. Was she the object of a stalker herself? She said, “Just to set the