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She sighed. The thought vanished before it solidified. Then: Wait ... Yes! That's it!
She grabbed the phone and placed a call to her friend and colleague, Amy Grabe, FBI Special Agent in Charge, San Francisco.
The woman's low, sultry voice said, "Kathryn, saw the wire--kidnapping and possible interstate flight."
"That's why I'm calling."
"It's really the singer Kayleigh Towne?"
"I'm afraid so. A stalker."
"Well, what can we do? You think he's headed this way?"
"That's not why I'm calling. What I need are a couple of field agents in the Seattle area. I have to conduct an interview with a witness and I don't have time to get up there. It's got to happen now."
"Can't you do it over the phone?" the SAC asked.
"I tried that. It didn't work."
Chapter 72
WELL, THOUGHT KATHRYN Dance, staring at the computer screen. Look at this.
The woman she was gazing at, presently in Seattle and connected via Skype, could have been Kayleigh Towne's sister.
Not an identical twin but real close. Straight, blond hair, a petite frame, a long, pretty face.
Edwin's former girlfriend, Sally Docking, stared nervously at the computer screen. Her voice broke as she said, "These people, I don't understand. I didn't do anything wrong." There were two FBI agents behind her in the living room of her Seattle apartment.
Dance smiled. "I just needed them to bring one of their computers so you and I could have another chat."
Actually they were there because she didn't think Sally would voluntarily go onto Skype for a second conversation.
Dance's voice was casual, despite the urgency she felt. "You'll be all right. Provided you tell me the truth."
Not "tell me the truth this time." That was too confrontational.
"Sure."
A discrepancy had occurred to Kathryn Dance--certain facts were not lining up. Now that Edwin Sharp had been revealed to be the perp, his behavior with Sally Docking didn't ring true. Her earlier account of life with Edwin had been more or less credible over the phone but a kinesic expert needs to see her subject, not just hear, to spot deception.
And so Amy Grabe had called the Seattle field office of the Bureau and sent two agents to Sally Docking's apartment in a working-class section of the city. They brought with them a very expensive laptop, which incorporated a high-definition webcam.
Dance was in a conference room in the sheriff's office, the overhead lights off but a desk lamp not far from her face. She'd adjusted the illumination carefully; she needed Sally to see her very clearly--and under ominous lighting. Sally was lit by ambient rays but the lens and software rendered the image perfectly.
"It looks like a nice apartment, Sally." Dance wore her pink-rimmed glasses, the nonthreatening ones, unlike the steel-or black-rimmed predator specs she put on when she wanted to present an aggressive image.
"It's okay, I guess. I like it. Rent's cheap."
Dance asked a number of other questions about the girl, her family, her job, as she drew a baseline of the woman's behavior. She caught only one microburst of stress, when Sally said she didn't mind the commute to her job at a mall fifteen miles from where she lived.
Good, she was getting a feel for the woman, who tended to appear nervous and uncertain even when she was being asked simple questions and answering truthfully.
After ten minutes of this, Dance said, "Now, I'd like to talk to you about Edwin some more."
"Everything I told you was true!" Her eyes bored into the camera.
This was awkward: a blunt denial quickly delivered. Dance couldn't over-or underreact; it might tip her hand. "It's just routine. We often follow up to get more information when there's been a change in developments."
