She stepped into Madigan’s office. The chief detective had been officially reinstated; Edwin had dropped the charges.

“Don’t you ever do sprinkles?” she asked, sitting down on the battered couch, eyeing the cardboard cup he was enthusiastically excavating.

“What?” Madigan asked.

“On your ice cream? Or whipped cream or syrup?”

“Naw, it’s a waste of taste. Calories too. Like cones. I’ll give you my theory of ice cream sometime. It’s philosophical. You ever make it?”

“Make ice cream?”

“Right.”

She said, “The world is divided into people who make ice cream and yogurt and pasta and bread. And those who buy it. I’m a buyer.”

“I’m with you there. This’s yours.”

He produced another cup. Chocolate chip. A metal spoon too.

“No, I—”

“You say no too quick, Deputy,” Madigan grumbled. “You want some ice cream. I know you do.”

True. She took it and ate several big mouthfuls. It was nice and melty. “Good.”

“Course it’s good. It’s ice cream. There’s the statement, you want to take a look-see and let me know what you think.” He slid the papers toward her and she read.

Crystal Stanning had transcribed it from Dance’s tape and it was pretty accurate. She expanded on a thought or two. Then slid it back.

Even at this hour the San Joaquin Valley heat permeated the building. Hell, I’m going to Macy’s, pick up a one-piece and float in the Mountain View pool until I wrinkle. Dance stretched and stood up, about to say good night to the detective when his desk phone rang and he hit SPEAKER. “Yeah?”

Dance finished the ice cream. Thought about asking for some more, but decided against it.

Course it’s good. It’s ice cream….

“Hey, Chief, it’s Miguel. Lopez.”

“You worked for me for four years. I know your voice,” the man snapped, examining the volcano core of his own cup, maybe tallying up how many bites he had left. “What?”

“Something kind of funny.”

“You gonna tell me what or just let that hang?”

“You listen to KDHT?”

“The radio? Sometimes. Get to the point. What’s your point?”

The deputy said, “Well, okay. I was listening on my way home and there’s a call-in show. ‘Bevo in the Evening.’”

“Lopez!”

“Okay, so he’s the DJ and they do requests. What happens about five minutes ago is some listener requests a song. I mean, part of a song. One of Kayleigh’s.”

Dance froze. She sat down. Madigan barked, “And?”

“The request was in an email. Signed, ‘A Kayleigh fan.’ It was for ‘Your Shadow.’ The last verse only. The DJ thought it was kind of funny, just the one verse, and played the whole song. But I got to thinking—”

“Oh, Christ,” Dance whispered. “Nobody ever played the fourth verse—to announce Congressman Davis’s killing!” She thought of Lincoln Rhyme’s comment: And he’s smart, right? He started with phones to keep you busy, then switched to other ways to play the song, like radio call-in requests? …

“Shit.” Madigan was nodding. He asked Lopez if the email had said anything else.