O’Neil said, “You killed him and stole the songs. They’re worth millions.”

The producer continued, “It’s an urban legend. All those rumors about outtakes and secret recordings. All that nonsense about Paul is dead. No rumor spreads faster in the music world than ones about the Beatles. But there’s nothing to it. There are no undiscovered songs.”

Dance was sizing up behaviors. Zeigler seemed more or less credible. She said, “What about this?” She showed him the plastic envelope containing the letter to Bobby’s father.

Zeigler looked at it and shook his head. “Those aren’t Beatles songs. It was some local group from Camden Town in London, I don’t even remember the name. They were nothing. After the Beatles wrapped Abbey Road, this group booked studio time. They laid down fifteen or sixteen tracks and used twelve or so for their album. I guess they liked Bobby’s father so much they let him have the ones they didn’t use. Nothing ever came of the group. Fact is, they wrote pretty sucky songs.”

Dance looked at the language of the note again.

So, in appreciation for all those sleepless nights the tapes to those songs we did playing around after ‘Abbey Road,’ are yours, all the rights, everything. The list’s below. Cheers!

Yes, it could simply refer to studio time after the Beatles had finished recording their album.

“But you just admitted you stole something from Bobby’s trailer that morning.”

Zeigler was debating. He looked to O’Neil and the other deputies. “Leave us alone, Agent Dance and me. I want to talk to her alone.”

She considered this. “It’s all right.”

The others walked away from the squad car. Dance crossed her arms and said, “Okay, talk.”

“You can’t tell a soul.”

“You know I can’t agree to that.”

The man’s long face screwed into a disgusted knot. “All right. But take a look first and then decide. In the bag, there’s a zipper liner. Some papers. That’s what I took from Bobby’s.”

Dance opened the computer bag and found the compartment. She withdrew an envelope and opened it, reading through a four-page document.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“Happy now?” Zeigler muttered.

Chapter 50

WHAT HE’D STOLEN was a letter from Bobby Prescott about how he wanted his property distributed in the event of his death.

Most of it would go to one person: the child who was his and Kayleigh Towne’s, Mary-Gordon.

Apparently Kayleigh had had the child at sixteen and Suellyn and her husband, Roberto Sanchez, had adopted the little girl within weeks of her birth.

The envelope included a copy of the adoption papers and some personal messages to the girl, for her to read when she was older.

“He told me a few years ago that he’d written it,” Zeigler said. “I couldn’t let it become public.”

Dance recalled the close relationship she’d sensed between Bobby and Kayleigh at the restaurant. And the other things she’d noted: Mary-Gordon’s blond hair color, the girl’s forthright demeanor. Her eyes were Kayleigh’s bright blue, while Suellyn’s—and presumably her Latino husband’s—were brown.