Xo

himself fast, wrapped his computer bag strap around his chest and poised for a sprint, then wisely chose to stop as he glanced at the guns in the hands of Dance and O’Neil, both of the muzzles pointed steadily at his head.
    Two other somber deputies, one Latino and one Anglo, joined them in the back. They were the ones who slapped the cuffs on Kayleigh’s producer, Barry Zeigler, and led him toward the parking lot around front. It was Kathryn Dance who took possession of the computer bag that would contain the priceless songs that he’d stolen from Bobby Prescott’s trailer, the morning after he’d killed the roadie.

 
     

Chapter 49
    “YOUR HEIGHT,” DANCE explained to him.
    Zeigler sat, miserable, in the backseat of a sheriff’s office cruiser. The door was open and he was facing outward, hands shackled behind him.
    She continued to elaborate, answering his question about how she knew it was he. “The perp would know Bobby pretty well and had probably been in his trailer before. And he’d been somebody who was very familiar with everyone connected with the band.”
    The deciding factor was what she told him next: “And he was tall.”
    “Tall?”
    She explained about her interview with Tabatha, across the street, several days ago. “She said she’d seen somebody inside that morning. Except, she couldn’t see the intruder’s head, only his chest.”
    This was why she’d put O’Neil in front of the window of the trailer a half hour ago. Recalling that she’d been eye-to-eye with P. K. Madigan, outside, when she’d searched the trailer, she’d positioned the Monterey detective about where Tabatha had seen the intruder. She’d then stepped outside and walked across the street. Looking back, she’d clearly seen O’Neil’s face.
    Which meant that the intruder Monday morning had been well over O’Neil’s height of six feet. The only person she’d met recently with an interest in Kayleigh Towne, who knew Bobby and who fit that stature was Barry Zeigler.
    “Shit,” the man muttered, utterly defeated. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”
    Dance heard that often as an interrogator.
    Sorry …
    Of course what it meant, ten times out of ten, was: I’m sorry I got caught.
    “When I met you at Kayleigh’s house you said you’d just driven there from Carmel. But we talked to the desk clerk here. You checked in the morning after Bobby was killed.”
    “I know, I know. I lied. I’m sorry.”
    That, again.
    Dance said, “And then there was the recording of Kayleigh singing ‘Your Shadow.’ That you played to announce the attacks? It was done on a high-quality digital recorder. The sort that pros use—pros like you, producers and engineers.”
    “Recording?” he asked, frowning.
    She glanced at Dennis Harutyun, who ran through the Miranda warning. He added, “You’re under arrest for murder, for—”
    “Murder? What do you mean?”
    Dance and Harutyun exchanged glances.
    “You’re being arrested for the murder of Bobby Prescott, sir,” the Fresno detective said. “And Frederick Blanton. And assault and battery on Sheri Towne and Agent Dance. Do you wish to—”
    “No, no, I didn’t kill anyone! I didn’t attack anyone!” The producer’s face was shocked. Dance had seen a lot of performances from suspects; this was one of the best. “I’d never do that! Why would I do that?”
    “Yessir. You’ll have your day in court. Do you understand your rights?”
    “Bobby? You’re thinking I killed Bobby? No! And I’d never hurt Sheri. This is—”
    “Do you understand—?”
    “Yes, yes. But—”
    “Do you wish to waive your right to remain silent?”
    “Sure, yes. This is ridiculous. This is a huge misunderstanding.”
    Harutyun asked, “Did you drive up here on Sunday and kill Bobby Prescott that night?”
    “No, no. I drove in on Monday morning, about eleven. After I heard from Kayleigh that Bobby had died. Yes, I broke into Bobby’s trailer but it was just to get some personal things.”
    “The songs,” Harutyun said. “We know all about them.”
    “Songs?”
    “The Beatles songs.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    The quality of his confusion seemed genuine so she decided to add,“Bobby’s father was a technician at Abbey Road in the sixties and seventies.”
    “Right. A pretty famous one. But what does that have to do with anything?”
    “The Beatles gave him four original songs they wrote after they finished Abbey Road.