XO by Jeffery Deaver

scent of burned flesh and hair was unexpected; it hit like a fist in her belly.
    She didn’t hesitate but she did steel herself and pushed past the assault, somehow keeping the nausea under control. She walked into the massive arena, which would hold thirty thousand, she guessed. All the overheads were on, revealing the tired and shabby décor. It was as if a play or concert had ended and the promoters were eager to prod the audience into the lobby to buy CDs and souvenirs.
    On the stage and main floor were a dozen people in the varied uniforms of law enforcement, fire and EMS.
    Climbing to the stage, she joined a cluster at the edge, looking down into the orchestra pit. It was from there that a faint trail of fetid smoke rose. Slowing, she struggled not to gag, then continued on.
    What had happened? she wondered. She recalled the falling light from yesterday.
    Dance noted immediately, from their posture and the sweep of their eyes, that two of the law officers, who all wore tan uniforms, were senior to the others. One was a woman hovering in her fifties with long hair and a pocked face. With Latina features, she was stocky and stood in a pose that suggested she disliked the uniform—the tight slacks and the close-fitting blouse, which blossomed outward at the waist, painted on rolls of fat.
    The man she was speaking to was Caucasian, though sporting a dark tan. He also was stocky but his was targeted weight, situated in his gut, which rode above thin hips and legs. A large, round face crisscrossed with sun wrinkles. His posture—leaning forward, shoulders up—and still, squinting gray eyes suggested an arrogant and difficult man. His head hair was black and thick. He wore a revolver, a long-barreled Colt, while on the hips of everyone else here were the semi-auto Glocks that were de rigueur among law enforcers in California.
    Ah, yes, she was right in her guess; he was P. K. Madigan, the head of detectives.
    Conversation slowed as they turned to see the slim woman in jeans and sport coat stride toward them.
    Madigan asked brusquely, “And you are …?” in a way that didn’t mean what the words said at all. He looked over her shoulder darkly toward who might have let her breach his outer perimeter.
    Dance noted the woman was named Gonzalez, the sheriff, and so she addressed her and displayed her ID, which both of the in-charge duo examined carefully.
    “I’m Sheriff Gonzalez. This is Chief Detective Madigan.” The decision not to offer first names in an introduction is often an attempt to assert power. Dance merely noted the choice now. She wasn’t here to flex muscles.
    “My office called me about a homicide. I happened to be in the area on another matter.”
    Could be official, might not be. Let the sheriff and chief detective guess.
    Dance added, “I’m also a friend of Kayleigh Towne’s. When I heard the vic was in her crew I came right over here.”
    “Well, thanks, Kathryn,” Madigan said.
    And the use of first names is an attempt to disempower.
    The flicker in Gonzalez’s eyes at this faint affront—but absence of any look Madigan’s way—told Dance reams about the chief detective. He’d carved out a major fiefdom at the FMCSO.
    The detective continued, “But we don’t need any CBI involvement at this point. Wouldn’t you say, Sheriff?”
    “I’d think not,” Gonzalez said, staring Dance in the eyes. It was a magnetic look and based not—as in the case of Madigan—on gender or jurisdictional power but on the woman’s determination not to glance at a figure perhaps four sizes smaller than hers. Whatever our rank or profession, we’re frail human beings first.
    Madigan continued, “You said you were here on another matter? I look over the interagencies pretty good every morning. Didn’t see any Bureau activity here. They—you—don’t always tell us, of course.”
    He’d called her bluff. “A personal matter.” Dance steamed ahead. “The victim was Bobby Prescott, the head of the