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"They didn't say anything, whoever it was. They just played the first verse."
Dance had downloaded the track and she recalled the words.
You walk out onstage and sing folks your songs.
You make them all smile. What could go wrong?
But soon you discover the job takes its toll, And everyone's wanting a piece of your soul.
"The thing is ... it was a recording from a concert."
"You don't do live albums," Dance said, recalling that Kayleigh preferred the control of the studio.
She was still staring at the screen. "Right. It'd be a bootleg. But it was really high quality--almost like a real voice, not a recording.... But who was playing it, why?"
"You recognize the phone number?"
"No. Not a local area code. You think it was Edwin?" she asked, her voice going tense with stress, looking up at Darthur Morgan, whose dark, still eyes were visible in the rearview mirror. "But, wait, only my friends and family have this number. How could he get it?" She grimaced. "Maybe the same way he got my email."
"Could it be somebody in the band?" Dance asked. "A practical joke?"
"I don't know. Nobody's done anything like that before."
"Give me the number. I'll make some calls. And I'll check out Edwin too. What's his last name?"
"Sharp. No e. Would you, Kathryn?"
"You bet."
Dance wrote down the number of the call and climbed out of the Suburban.
They said good night.
"I guess we better get home now, Darthur."
As the vehicle pulled away, Kayleigh was looking around the empty parking lot as if Edwin Sharp were lurking nearby.
Dance headed inside, aware that she was humming one line to "Your Shadow" as it looped through her thoughts, unstoppable.
What could go wrong ... what could go wrong ... what could go wrong?
Chapter 6
DANCE STOPPED AT the Mountain View bar and got a glass of Pinot Noir then walked to her room and stepped inside. She'd hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the knob earlier and she left it there now, looking forward to that mother's rarity--sleeping late.
She showered, pulled on a robe and, sipping the wine, plopped down on the bed. She hit speed dial button three.
"Hey, Boss," TJ Scanlon said cheerfully, answering on a half ring. Odd noises emanated from the background. Ringing, shouts, calliope music, though Dance realized that she didn't know exactly what a calliope was.
"Are you in an arcade or something?"
"Carnival. Date. We're in line for the roller coaster but I'll go around again for you." His voice faded as he spoke away from the phone. "It's my boss.... Right. You better finish that Slurpee before we get on.... No, I'm telling you. Really. Does the word 'inverted' mean anything?"
TJ was the most alternative of the agents in the Monterey office of the CBI, who were in general a conservative lot. He was the go-to man when it came to long, demanding assignments, undercover work and any trivia regarding the sixties, Bob Dylan, tie-dye and lava lamps.
Quirky, yes. But who was Dance to judge? Here she was taking a week off in Fresno and sitting in a stiflingly hot garage to record obscure songs by a group of cheerful and likely undocumented farmworkers.
"Need you to check out something, TJ."
