She stuffed her hair up under a silly canvas sun hat and examined her crops. The air was hot but comforting; insects buzzed around her face and even their persistent presence was reassuring, as if reminding that there was more to life than musical performances.
More than the Industry.
But suddenly she froze: a flash of light.
No, not Edwin. There was no brilliant red color from his car.
What was it? The light was coming from the south, to the left as you faced the garden, about one hundred yards away. Not from Edwin's hunter's blind at the arboretum or main road in front. It was from a small access road, running perpendicular to the highway. A developer had bought the adjacent land a year ago but gone bankrupt before the residential construction had started. Was this a survey team? Last year, she'd been glad the deal fell through; she'd wanted her privacy. Now, perversely, she was happy there might be crews around--and eventually neighbors--to discourage Edwin and others like him.
But what exactly was the light?
On off, on off. Flashing.
She decided to find out.
Kayleigh made her way through the brush toward the stuttering illumination.
Bright, dark.
Light, shadow.
Chapter 18
KATHRYN DANCE WAS in south Fresno, trying to find a restaurant that Crystal Stanning had recommended.
Her thoughts, though, were on how to handle the explosion when Charles Overby or, more likely, the CBI director in Sacramento told Sheriff Anita Gonzalez that Dance was going to be running the Bobby Prescott homicide.
She actually jumped when her phone buzzed.
Ah, Charles, hope I didn't disrupt one of your leisurely lunches....
But the number on caller ID was a local one.
"Hello?"
"Kathryn?"
"Yes."
"It's Pike Madigan."
She said nothing.
"Talk for a minute?"
She thought she heard scraping of a spoon. A smack of lips. Was he eating lunch, the phone tucked between shoulder and ear? More ice cream? "Go ahead."
"What're you up to?"
She said, "Going for chicken mole at Julio's."
"Good choice. Only don't do the tamales. Lard city."
A pause on his part now. "I got a call from the head of our Crime Scene Unit, Charlie Shean. Spelled S-H-E-A-N. Not like the actor. Takes some grief for that. Good man."
She recalled the efficient team at the convention center and at the trailer, on a par with a big-city CSU.
"All the forensics were negative. None of the dust or other trace on the pictures and memorabilia in Edwin's rental matched what was in Bobby's trailer. And one of our people ran Edwin's credit card data? He bought everything we found in his house on eBay. And we got his prints when we booked him. None of the ones at Bobby's or the convention center match. No footprints, no nothin'. Tire treads for his car, zip. Was a washout."