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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 Stanley Prescott and the woman they suspected the unsub had killed, positioned under the lights to get pictures for proof of death. If only she could for a brief moment let her eyes be theirs, before they glazed over, and darkness enveloped 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, Dance's performer friend based in Fresno. Crossover/eclectic best described the sound.
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 the girl'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, for the name of the band.
"Cool. Thanks."
