Lord ... "Who?" Brushing her dark blond hair from her face. The worse the news, the calmer Kathryn Dance became. Partly training, partly nature, partly mother. Though as a kinesics expert she was quite aware of her own bobbing foot. She stalled it.
"Somebody named Robert Prescott."
She wondered: Bobby? Yes, that was his last name, Prescott. This was bad. She'd noted from their interaction yesterday that he and Kayleigh were close friends, in addition to being work associates.
"Details?"
"Nothing yet."
Dance also thought back to Edwin's unnatural smile, his leering eyes, his icily calm demeanor, which she believed might conceal bundled rage.
TJ said, "It was just a one-paragraph notice on the wire. Information only, not a request for assistance."
The CBI was available to help out local California public safety offices with major crime investigations, but with a few exceptions the Bureau agents waited until they were contacted. The CBI had a limited number of bodies to go around. California was a big state and a lot of bad things happened there.
The younger agent continued, "The vic died at the convention center."
Where the concert was going to be held on Friday.
"Go on."
"It's being handled by the Fresno-Madera Consolidated Sheriff's Office. The sheriff is Anita Gonzalez. The head detective is P. K. Madigan. Been on the force a long time, forever. Don't know anything else about him."
"I'll get over there now. You have anything on Sharp yet? The stalker?"
"No warrants or court orders came up here. Nothing in California at all. Still waiting for the locals from Washington and Oregon. The phone number you gave me? That somebody called Kayleigh on? It was a prepaid, bought with cash, from a drugstore in Burlingame."
South of San Francisco, where the airport was located.
"No video and no other record of the transaction. The clerks have no idea who it was. It was three days ago. No other details yet."
"Keep on it. Email Sharp's full bio. Anything you can get."
"Your command is what I wish for, Boss."
They disconnected.
What time was it? The room was still dark but light showed behind the drapes.
Glasses on. Oh, eight-thirty. The crack of midmorning.
She walked into the bathroom for a brief, hot shower. In twenty minutes she was dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt and a silk business jacket, navy blue, conservative, matter-of-fact. The heat would be challenging with these clothes but the possibility of duty loomed. She'd learned long ago that a woman officer had to be a length ahead of men when it came to appearing profes
sional. Sad but the way of the world.
She took her laptop with her, just in case the intruder returned, if in fact she had been intruded upon yesterday.
Then she was out the door, slipping the DO NOT DISTURB sign onto the L-shaped knob of the hotel room.
Wondering briefly if the prohibition would have any effect.
Outside, under an uncompromising sun, her temples, face and armpits bristled as sweat flowed. Dance fished for the Pathfinder key in her Coach purse and absently slapped her hip, where her Glock normally resided.
A weapon that was, today, conspicuously absent.
Chapter 9
HAD THERE REALLY been just one victim?