Batillo read one more. ‘“Thanks for the ammo.”’

Soldier of fortune …

The officer slipped the phone into a bag with a chain-of-custody card attached. He signed it and put the sealed bag into a large plastic container resembling a laundry basket.

She glanced down at a treatise on the law of eminent domain.

‘How’d he meet the doer?’ Dance wondered aloud. ‘He said a few years ago.’

Batillo said, ‘I saw some texts about “the gun show”. “Enjoyed talking weapons with you.”’

‘And I found the ammo I think he was talking about. Brick of twelve gauge and two twenty-three. “Arlington Heights Guns and Sporting Goods” on the label.’

‘Chicago,’ Dance said.

O’Neil said wryly, ‘Tough manhunt. Six million people.’

‘We’ve got the gun-show reference. The ammo. The phones.’ She shrugged and offered a smile. ‘Needle in a haystack, I know. Right up there with “When it rains it pours.” But that doesn’t mean the needle isn’t there.’

Forty minutes later she was back in her office, scrolling through the crime-scene pictures of the Otto Grant suicide – the rest of the report wouldn’t be ready for a day or two – and considering how to narrow down the task of finding their unsub in the Windy City, or wherever he might be. Page after page … Dance found herself staring at the pictures of Prescott and the woman he’d killed, positioned under the lights to get pictures for proof of death. If only she could let her eyes be theirs for a brief moment before they had glazed over, and darkness embraced them.

To catch a fleeting glimpse of the man who’d done this.

Who are you? Are you headed back to your home in Chicago, or somewhere else?

And are you working for someone else now, a new job? Nearby? Or in a different part of the world?

Questions she would answer, whether it took a week, a month, a year.

CHAPTER 79

Maggie’s eyes were wide and even Dance’s adolescent, seen-it-all son was impressed.

They were backstage at the Monterey Performing Arts Center with Neil Hartman himself. The lanky man in his early thirties, dark curly hair and a lean face, looked every inch the country-western star, though that genre was only part of his repertoire. His songs and performance style were very similar to Kayleigh Towne’s – she was Dance’s performer friend, based in Fresno.

When Dance and the kids had been ushered into the green room, the musician had smiled and introduced everyone to the band members present. ‘Kayleigh sends her best,’ he told her.

‘Where’s her show tonight?’

‘Denver. Big house, five thousand plus.’

Dance said, ‘She’s doing well.’

‘I’ll head out there after tomorrow’s show. Maybe we’ll get to Aspen.’ He was grinning shyly.

That answered one of Dance’s questions. The beautiful singer-songwriter hadn’t been dating anyone seriously for a time. There were worse romantic options than a Portland troubadour with dreamy eyes and a lifestyle that seemed more mom-and-pop than Rolling Stones.

‘Uhm …’ Maggie began.

‘Yes, young lady?’ Hartman asked, smiling.

‘Ask him, Mags.’

‘Can I have your autograph?’

He laughed. ‘Do you one better.’ He walked to a box, found a T-shirt in Maggie’s size. It featured a photo from one of his recent CDs – Hartman and his golden retriever sitting on a front porch. He signed it to her with a glittery marker.

‘Oh, wow.’

‘Mags?’

‘Thank you!’

For Wes, the gift was age-appropriate: a black T-shirt with ‘NHB’.

‘Cool. Thanks.’

‘Hey, you guys want to noodle around on a git-fiddle or keyboard?’

‘Yeah? Can we?’ Wes asked.

‘Sure.’

‘Wooee!’ Maggie sat down at the keyboard – Dance cranked the volume down – and Hartman handed Wes an old Martin. You couldn’t live in the Dance household without knowing something about musical instruments, and though Maggie was the real talent, Wes could chord and play a few flat-pick licks.

When he started ‘Stairway To Heaven’, Hartman and Dance glanced at each other and laughed. The song that will never die.

They talked about the show tonight. Hartman was growing in popularity but not at the Kayleigh Towne level yet, though his Grammy win had guaranteed a sold-out house at the performing arts center – nearly a thousand people were coming to see him.

With the children occupied in the corner, the adults spoke in low voices.

‘I heard you got him. The guy behind the attacks.’

‘Well, the one who hired him.’

‘Grant, right? He lost his farm.’

‘That’s him. But we still don’t have the hit man he hired. But we will. We’ll get him.’

‘Kayleigh said something about you being … persistent.’

Dance laughed. ‘That’s what she said, hm?’ Her kinesic skills told her that Hartman was translating. Maybe ‘obstinate’ or ‘pig-headed’ had been the young woman’s choice. She and Kayleigh were a lot alike in that regard.

‘I thought we were going to have to cancel the show.’

Dance had been fully prepared to do just that – if they hadn’t closed the case before the concert.

‘You hear about Sam Cohen?’

‘No, what?’

‘He’s going to rebuild the roadhouse. A dozen or so of us are doing some benefit concerts, donating the money to him. He’s going to tear down the old building and put up a new one. He didn’t want to at first but we were …’ he laughed ‘… persistent.’

‘Great news. I’m really happy.’

Maybe you can recover from some things, Sam. Maybe you can.

Hartman’s drummer appeared in the doorway, smiled at the kids, then said, ‘Let’s play.’

Hartman gave the children a thumbs-up. ‘You got your chops down, both of you. Next time I’m in town, we’ll work up some tunes, I’ll get you out on stage with me.’

‘No way!’ Wes said.

‘Sure.’

‘Excellent!’

Maggie frowned, considering something. ‘Can I cover a Patsy Cline song?’

Dance said, ‘Mags, why don’t you sing a Neil Hartman?’

Hartman laughed. ‘I think Ms Cline would be honored. We’ll make it happen.’

‘Hey, gang, let’s head to our seats.’

‘Bye, Mr Hartman. Thanks.’

Wes handed over the guitar and, looking at his phone, headed toward the door.

‘Young man.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Say hi to Kayleigh for us.’ Dance gave him a smile.

They left the green room and walked into the theater, which was filling up. There were about eight hundred people, Dance estimated.

Year ago, she had dreamed of being a musician, appearing in halls like this. She had tried and tried, but however hard she worked, there came the point when her skill just didn’t make the final bump into the professional world. There came advanced degrees, a stint as a jury consultant, offering her kinesic skills commercially, then law enforcement. A wonderful job, a challenging job … And yet, what she wouldn’t have given to have the talent to make places like this her home.

But then the nostalgia faded as the cop within her resurfaced. Dance was, of course, aware that she was in a crowded venue that would be a perfect target for their unsub at-large. He was surely a hundred miles away by now. But just because Otto Grant had said he’d gotten sufficient revenge didn’t mean he hadn’t had his man set up a whopper of a finale. On the way back from Grant’s shack, she’d arranged for a full sweep of the concert hall and for police to be stationed at each exit door.

Even now she remained vigilant. She noted the location of the exits, fire hoses and extinguishers. She could see no potential sniper nests. And checked that the red lights on the security cameras glowed healthily and, because those models didn’t sport lights, unlike the one in the hospital elevator, she checked for emergency lighting: there were a dozen halogens that would turn the place to bright noon in the event of trouble.

Finally, confident of their security, Kathryn Dance sat back, crossed her legs and enjoyed the exhilaration that always accompanies dimming lights in a concert hall.