"You let him go."
"Yeah, an hour ago. And released everything we took."
This was, Dance supposed, the best someone like Madigan could do for a contrition.
But she was wrong.
"I wanted to say I'm sorry."
And the apology wasn't over yet.
&nbs
p; "You were right, I was wrong. I got outgunned by that fellow. It was like the only reason he came in was to find out information about the investigation."
"If he's the perp, then, yes, I think that's a possibility."
"This guy's pretty different from what I've been used to. You have a handle on him better than me. If you're still game would you be willing to help us out? We sure could use you."
Without hesitation: "I am, yes."
She'd be sure to call Overby and withdraw her prior request.
"That's much appreciated."
Dance thought back to what Stanning had said about Madigan's concerns. "One thing I wanted to say, Detective. This is your case. I'm a consultant only."
In other words, the glory and the press conferences are all yours. By the way, I hate them as much as your associate Dennis Harutyun does.
"Well, thank you for that. Now get yourself back here, if you would. Oh, and welcome to the FMCSO, Deputy Dance. Hey, that's got a nice ring to it, don'tcha think?"
BUT IT WAS him, after all.
The reason she hadn't seen any red was that the light was glare off the windshield, which shot her way like a theater spot. The crimson of the Buick was below eye level from the house.
Edwin Sharp was fifty feet from her. He'd found a new vantage point. His car was parked on the shoulder and he sat on the hood, legs dangling, as he stared directly toward her house, that sick smile curving his mouth. His rocking, back and forth, had created the intermittent flashing.
She dropped to her knees. He gave no reaction, though, and she knew he hadn't seen her.
Moving a few dozen feet to the side, Kayleigh looked out again, through the brush. He was wearing earbuds and tapped his hand on his thigh in time to the music. It would be one of her songs. Which one?
Occasionally his head would swivel, scanning the property as if he were admiring a work of art.
Or ... wait. There was something about his face. What was that expression?
And then she sensed it was pleasure. Almost ecstasy. And not in a religious sense. His eyelids would droop from time to time and his smile would deepen. He seemed to be breathing hard too, his chest rising.
It was like he was making love.
Was he tapping his thigh to keep time to the music? Or, my God, was he doing something else with his hand? She couldn't see clearly.
No, he couldn't be doing that!
But the look on his face.
Oh, disgusting!
His half-open mouth, the lowered lids beneath the outcropping of eyebrows ... it was too much for her.