"I'd think not," Gonzalez said, staring Dance in the eyes. It was a magnetic look and based not--as in the case of Madigan--on gender or jurisdictional power but on the woman's determination not to glance at a figure perhaps four sizes smaller than hers. Whatever our rank or profession, we're frail human beings first.
Madigan continued, "You said you were here on another matter? I look over the interagencies pretty good every morning. Didn't see any Bureau activity here. They--you--don't always tell us, of course."
He'd called her bluff. "A personal matter." Dance steamed ahead. "The victim was Bobby Prescott, the head of the road crew?"
"That's right."
"Anyone else hurt?"
Madigan wasn't inclined to answer and used a nearby deputy as an excuse to turn away and have a very quiet conversation with him, leaving his boss to respond to the interloper as she liked.
Sheriff Gonzalez offered, "Only Bobby."
"And what happened?"
Madigan rejoined the conversation. "We're in the preliminary stage. Not sure at this point." He definitely didn't want her here but since she was with a senior agency he had at least to act deferential. Dance was a large dog wandering into a picnic--unwanted but possibly too dangerous to shoo away.
"COD?"
A pause then Gonzalez said, "He was doing some work on the stage last night. It seems he slipped and fell, a spotlight landed on him. It was on. He caught fire. Cause was blood loss and the burns."
Lord, what a terrible way to die.
"Must've burned for a while. The alarms didn't go off?"
"The smoke detectors down there, in the pit, weren't working. We don't know why."
The first thing in her mind was the image of Edwin Sharp, glancing toward Bobby Prescott, with that fake smile and with eyes that could easily reflect a desire to turn the roadie into a bag of dust.
"You ought to be aware--"
"'Bout Mr. Sharp, our stalker?" Madigan asked.
"Well, yes."
"One of the boys with the crew, Tye Slocum, told me that there was an incident yesterday at the Cowboy Saloon."
Dance described what she had seen and heard. "Bobby confronted him a couple
of times. And Edwin probably overheard Bobby say he was going to come back here later last night and check out some equipment malfunction. It would be late because he had to go to Bakersfield to pick something up."
Madigan added absently, "Edwin's on our radar. We know he's renting a house near Woodward Park, north part of town. For a month."
Dance recalled that Edwin had been quite forthcoming about his residence. She was still curious why he'd rented for that time length.
Dance noted too that both Madigan and she herself tended to refer to the stalker by his first name; this often happened when dealing with suspects who were potentially ED, emotionally disturbed. Dance reminded herself that whatever name they used, not to sell the young man short.
The chief detective took a phone call. Then he was back with Dance, though only for the briefest of times. And with the briefest of smiles--just as phony as Edwin's, she reflected. "Appreciate you stopping by. We'll give CBI a call if there's anything we need."
Dance looked over the stage, the misty air above the pit.
Gonzalez offered, "So long now."
Despite the double-barreled good-bye, Dance didn't feel like leaving just yet. "How did the light fall on him?"
The sheriff said, "Maybe tugged it after him when he fell. The cord, you know."
"Was it a strip light?" Dance asked.