Xo

time of Sheri’s attack. Dance was calling her Alibi Woman.
    A moment later Charlie Shean walked into the office. He greeted them all and briefed them about the scene.
    In his thick Boston accent, rare in these parts, he said, “We went through his house and collected some trace but it was clean. I wonder if he scrubbed it down, after he gave you permission to search.” A glance toward Dance.
    She recalled the faint hesitation before Edwin gave his okay.
    “Cigarettes?” Dance had asked them to check.
    “No. No lighters or matches or ashtrays. No odor of cigarettes either…. Now, I know from before that the latex gloves in Edwin’s kitchen probably aren’t the same as at the Bobby Prescott homicide. The wrinkle patterns are different. Outside, where the alleged perp was spying on him? Well, we found some shoe prints in the dust, cowboy boots, it looks like, not the sort that garbage men or workers back there would wear. They were distorted because of the wind but at least it hadn’t rained and washed the damn prints away. Can’t tell size, male, female or age. And we collected about thirty samples of trace but the preliminaries are pretty useless. Sorry, Dennis—if there’s anything there, I don’t know how it can help.
    “Now, we confirmed that the cigarette from last night at your motel is a Marlboro. We have ash from the site of the Sheri Towne attack—cigarette ash, I mean—but we don’t have the equipment to analyze it proper to tell what brand it is or how long ago it was left.”
    It was then that Dennis Harutyun’s assistant came to the door and handed him a sheaf of papers. “These’re those emails you were waiting for, about Bobby Prescott. They finally came in.”
    The deputy read them over, laughed. Subdued but for him a significant outpouring of emotion.
    He said to the officers, “One of the things I was looking into was another motive for killing Bobby Prescott, by somebody other than Edwin?”
    “Right,” Dance said.
    “Well, I may’ve found one.”
    “Go ahead.”
    He said, “You ever hear about these guys, John, Paul, George and Ringo?”

 
     

Chapter 48
    DANCE AND O’NEIL conducted the search themselves.
    It felt good, being with him again, working with him. Some of this was simply the comfort of being with a person you were close to, whose subtle looks and smiles and gestures communicated perfectly, without the need for words.
    But part of the pleasure was their combined skills as law enforcers. A Gestalt —the whole greater than the sum of the parts. Policing’s a tough business and can’t be done alone. The job can be a nightmare when you aren’t connected with your partner—and that not only makes for a tough working day but it also means the bad guys are less likely to get caught.
    Police investigation can be an art form, like ballet, a choreography of technique, purpose, and she felt this in near perfection with Michael O’Neil.
    The scene where they were practicing their harmonies was Bobby Prescott’s trailer and what had inspired the search here was the revelation by Harutyun about the Fab Four.
    Dance believed she now knew what had been stolen the morning after the roadie had been murdered—by the person Tabatha Nysmith had seen in Bobby’s trailer. And the object of this theft wasn’t Kayleigh Towne memorabilia. Indeed, it had nothing to do with the singer at all or with the stalker—except to the extent that, yes, Edwin Sharp probably was a fall guy as he’d claimed all along.
    “Well,” she said, somewhat breathlessly, examining a binder from the shelves where she’d noted something missing several days ago, when she was here with P. K. Madigan.
    O’Neil stepped closer and together they looked over a spiral notebook in which Bobby Prescott’s father had jotted details about the recordingshe’d helped engineer at Abbey Road Studios in London during the 1960s and ’70s.
    Dance recalled that Tabatha had mentioned Bobby’s father’s illustrious career.
    It was a breathtaking list of talent from the era: Cliff Richard, Connie Francis, the Scorpions, the Hollies, Pink Floyd and of course the Beatles, who recorded Yellow Submarine and Abbey Road there. Much of the man’s scribbling was cryptic—notes about synthesizers and amplifier dynamics and acoustic baffles and instruments.
    But the most relevant was a carbon copy of a letter to Bobby’s father.
    June 13, 1969
    Bob Prescott:
     
    Hey mate, thanks for the GREAT job, you’re the