As soon as she did, the hotel phone rang.

“Agent Dance?” A pleasant male voice.

“That’s right.”

“It’s Peter Simesky? Congressman Davis’s aide?” he asked as if she’d have no clue who he was.

“Yes, hi.”

“Hi. Actually I’m in the lobby … of your motel. The congressman was speaking at a farm nearby. Could I talk to you? Am I interrupting anything?”

She could find no credible excuse and said she’d be out in a minute.

In the lobby she found the man on his phone and he politely ended the call when he spotted her. They shook hands and he grinned, though the smile soon morphed into a frown.

“I heard they confirmed another attack.”

“That’s right. Homicide.”

“Anyone connected to Kayleigh?”

“Not directly.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“So far, no. But appreciate that.”

“It’s this stalker?”

“Pointing to him but we don’t know for sure.”

Simesky tilted his head in a certain way and Dance knew a related story would be forthcoming. “The congressman’s had a few problems himself. A couple of campaign workers and interns. Two women and a gay man too. They got infatuated, I guess you could say.”

Dance explained about erotomania. “Fits the classic profile. A powerful man and somebody in a lower professional position. Any physical threats?”

“No, no, just got awkward.”

Simesky had a large bottle of water and he drank it thirstily. She noticed his white shirt was sweat stained. He followed her glance and laughed. “The congressman’s been delivering his ecofriendly speech at farms from Watsonville to Fresno. The temperature was a lot more pleasant in your neighborhood.”

Watsonville, just north of where Dance lived, was near the coast. And, she agreed, a lot more pleasant, weather-wise, than the San Joaquin Valley.

“You got a good turnout, I’ll bet.”

“At the farms, because of his immigrant position, you mean? Oh, you bet. We considered it a success—and there were only forty protesters. Maybe fifty. And no one threw anything. We get tomatoes sometimes. Brussels sprouts too. Kind of ironic, a candidate in support of farmworkers getting pelted by vegetables from the anti-farmworker contingent.”

Dance smiled.

Simesky looked toward the motel’s bar. “How ’bout a glass of wine?”

She hesitated.

“This won’t take long. It’s important.”

Dance remembered his look her way at Kayleigh’s house and his slightly overlong handshake. Was she the object of a stalker herself? She said, “Just to set the record straight, I’m seeing somebody.”

He gave a wistful, embarrassed smile. “You caught that, hm?”

“I do this for a living.”

“I’ve heard about you.” A grin. “I better watch my body language…. Well, Agent Dance—”

“Kathryn.”

“Yeah, I was flirting a bit—then and just a few seconds ago. And I’m disappointed to hear about your friend. Never hurts to ask.”

“Never does.” Edwin Sharp should take some lessons from Peter Simesky.

“But there was another point to this too. Completely innocent.”

“Okay, let’s get that wine.”

In the dim, tacky bar she ordered a Merlot and Simesky a Chardonnay. “What a case you’ve got yourself, that stalker,” he said.