“Still have trouble seeing that for a motive for murder.”

“It’s a stalker’s reality, not our reality,” she reminded.

Harutyun looked toward Sheri and Bishop. “She nearly burned to death but what she took hardest was that Kayleigh didn’t really ask her to the lunch.”

“What’s the story on the email he used to invite Sheri to the party?” Dance asked.

“Set up an anonymous account this morning. Something like ‘KTowne’ and some numbers. Sent from an Internet café in the Tower District. One of the deputies checked but nobody recognized Edwin’s picture. ’Course, the baristas said they’d had about two hundred people in over the course of the morning.”

“And sent it to Sheri’s address that was what? On Bishop’s website?”

“Kayleigh’s own.”

“Sure.”

There was silence for a time.

“Hey, Charlie.” Harutyun nodded to a round, pinkish man, approaching in a jumpsuit. “You know Kathryn Dance, CBI? This’s Charlie Shean, head of our crime scene unit.”

He nodded to her, then, frowning: “That true about P.K.? He’s suspended? And Miguel too?”

“Afraid so.”

“And this stalker fellow’s the one orchestrated it?”

“We don’t know.”

“Bullshit and a half,” Shean muttered. And Dance got the impression that he wasn’t a man who cursed much.

“What’d your folks find, Charlie? Business cards? Phone bills with Edwin’s name on it?” Dennis Harutyun, of the thick mustache and unflappable face, seemed to be loosening up a bit.

“He’s good, whoever he—or she—is. No footprints, tire treads or trace other than the five million bits of trace you’re going to find in a forest. Though we did get a little cigarette ash that’s recent, just past the perimeter of the burn. Analysis’ll take time.”

Dance explained about seeing the person smoking outside her motel room window. “I didn’t catch anything specific, though.” She added, “Edwin did smoke. Still may, but I don’t know for sure.”

The crime scene chief said, “The gun was a nine—like Gabriel’s Glock—but we don’t have any casings or slugs from his so we don’t know if there’s a match. No immediate prints on the casings we found.”

“And I didn’t get any description here either,” Dance muttered. “He was in the shade of the trees.” Stalkers were not only good at disguises; they were good at camouflage too. Anything that helped them observe their target undisturbed and unobtrusively, for as long as possible. “Did Sheri see anything?”

“Haven’t been able to interview her. Smoke inhalation was pretty bad.”

It was then that a vehicle sped up to the scene. Dance instinctively reached for her absent Glock once again. But then saw it was Kayleigh Towne’s dark green SUV, driven expertly by Darthur Morgan. They hadn’t stopped completely before the singer was out of the Suburban and running toward Bishop and Sheri. She bypassed her father completely and bent down and threw her arms around her stepmother. Morgan didn’t seem happy his charge had come to the site of a shootout but Dance supposed that, aside from relations with her father, Kayleigh could be pretty single-minded.