by Jance, J. A.
Full of impotent fury, Peter watched his computer’s death throes and worried that his whole house of cards was about to tumble down around him. It wasn’t just his computer. He could replace that. Though it would take time, eventually, he’d be able to reconstruct the passwords and most of the files. But he couldn’t do it right then. What left him feeling half sick was that someone—a woman, no less—had been smart enough and had gotten close enough to him to do this kind of damage. And she’d had balls enough to hit him where he lived. Yes, Peter hacked in to other people’s systems all the time, most recently, that hopeless asshole Matt Morrison’s. But to Peter’s knowledge, this was the first time anyone had ever hacked him. Turnabout definitely wasn’t fair play.
Who the hell is this bitch? he wondered. How dare she do this, and what makes her think she can get away with it?
Slamming away from his desk, Peter headed for the shower. Trying to harness his outrage, he stood under the stream of hot water and considered the problem. Nothing Peter had read about Ali Reynolds had indicated that she was any kind of computer genius. In order to take on the unassailable Peter Winter, he knew she must have had help of some kind—talented and very capable help. That detective friend of hers, maybe? What Peter found most disturbing was that the woman had made no effort to conceal her identity, although clearly, the attack had come from her. What did that mean? Was she letting him know she knew everything? And what if she and her helper had somehow managed to gain access to his files or break his encryption code? That would spell utter disaster.
By the time Peter stepped out of the shower, he had settled on a course of action—he’d have to go to Sedona and find her and her helper, too. Fortunately, even without access to his computer, Peter had a good idea where to start looking. He had scanned through a surprising amount of Internet-based Ali Reynolds material the day before and had read about her restoration project on Manzanita Hills Road, which also happened to be where he had located Bryan Forester’s truck. If the house was under construction, she probably wasn’t living there at the moment, but with any kind of luck, Peter thought he’d be able to decoy her into coming there—alone.
And once he found her? It was pretty clear to him that he’d have to put her out of her misery. After that, it would be time for Peter Winter to exit stage left. He’d had that game plan set up and waiting for a long time, along with several suitable alternate identities. The problem was, he hadn’t intended to make use of any of them yet.
Moving deliberately, he dragged two suitcases out of the hallway closet. He packed one with nothing but computer gear—the still-working laptops as well as the dead one. In the other bag he packed clothing, and not much of that, either. Depending on where he ended up, he’d buy whatever he needed. Right now it was important to travel light. He opened his briefcase and made sure he was fully equipped with gloves, scrubs, and duct tape. The last items he placed in the briefcase were the several vials of Versed that he kept at home and at the ready. Experience had taught him that unconscious victims were far less troublesome than those who were able to fight back.
Just before leaving the house, he emptied the safe. The DVD and his collection of false documents went into the briefcase. The key ring went into his pocket. With Alison Reynolds rocking the boat, carrying a cache of phony IDs and precious mementos could prove dangerous, but leaving them behind was even more so. He might find himself in a position where he’d need access to one or more of them. As for the DVD and his collection of rings? He’d carry those with him until he once again had a secure hiding place.
By eight o’clock, Peter was driving north on I-17, heading toward Sedona. When he called the hospital to let them know he wouldn’t be coming in to work that evening, he was already north of Black Canyon City. Careful to keep the right measure of hesitation and concern in his voice, he explained to Louise Granger, the administrator on duty, that he’d just received a distressing phone call from his mother’s physician in upstate New York. “My mom’s in the ICU in Buffalo,” he said. “She may not make it through the day. I’m on my way to the airport right now.”
Louise was nothing if not sympathetic. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Dr. Winter,” she said. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Cover my shifts in the meantime,” Peter said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, but there’s no way to tell how long I’ll be gone.”
“Of course, Dr. Winter,” Louise said. “Don’t give it another thought.”
Thanks, Mom, Peter said to himself as he put down the phone. He hadn’t spoken to his mother in over fifteen years, not since she had caught on to the fact that he’d been using forged checks to take money from her account. That tardy discovery had come years after he’d forged her name to countless excuses and permission slips all through junior high and high school. When the subject of families came up, he usually told people that his mother bounced back and forth between her condo in Florida and her home in upstate New York. That wasn’t true, of course. She’d been dead for a long time.
He’d seen to it.
By the time Ali emerged from the bedroom, Leland had the noisy carpet cleaner up and running. Ali grabbed her computer, the power cord, and the two thumb drives and headed for the Sugarloaf Café. It was cold and spitting snow as she started down Andante Drive. When she reached the Sugarloaf parking lot, her nose was assailed by the unmistakable aroma of freshly baked sweet rolls.
Edie met her at the door. “You’re up bright and early,” she said.
In answer, Ali held up her computer. “I’m looking for office space,” she said. “Leland Brooks is cleaning carpets.”
Edie generally disapproved of people who used her tables for anything other than eating, but the restaurant wasn’t crowded, and she cheerfully led Ali to a booth in the back.
“I know the drill,” Ali said. “I’ll close down and move along if it gets too crowded. In the meantime, I’ll settle for coffee.”
Once the computer booted up, Ali extracted the two thumb drives from her jacket pocket. The two drives looked exactly alike, and neither of them was labeled. The first one she inserted into her computer turned out to be Bryan’s. Ali had no difficulty searching through his various files and folders. The internal passwords that had been installed in his programs worked as though the files were being opened by Bryan on his own computer.
As far as Ali could see, everything was work-related and as dry as dust. There were immense files that held nothing but computerized architectural drawings. The saved e-mail file consisted mostly of back-and-forth correspondence between Bryan and his various suppliers or customers. Some of the e-mails concerned projects that were still at the planning or construction stage, along with others that had been completed.
Ali remembered Morgan’s video complaint about her husband—that the man worked too hard and wasn’t any fun. From what Ali could see, he appeared to be guilty as charged. If he had any interests or pursuits outside work, they weren’t apparent in his computer files.
“Okay if I sit down?” Dave Holman asked. “Your mother thought you might not mind sharing.”
Having lost track of time, Ali looked around and was surprised to find that the restaurant had filled up while she was perusing Bryan’s files. Dave Holman, coffee cup in hand, was standing next to her booth.
“Of course,” she said, closing the computer and setting the Mac down on the banquette next to her. “Have a seat.”
Dave slid into the booth opposite her. “I stopped by your place earlier, looking for you,” he said. “Mr. Brooks told me I could probably find you here.”
“You stopped by before seven A.M.?” Ali demanded.
“Before eight,” Dave corrected. “But I need to talk to you, Ali.” His serious expression worried her.
“What about?” Ali asked.
“I know that when it comes to the Forester situation, the two of us are on opposite sides of the fence,” he said. “I hope you’ll consider this more of a courtesy call than anything else.
”
“What do you mean?”
“Look,” he said with a sigh. “Morgan Forester is dead, and it’s my job to find out what happened to her, even if I end up having to step on your toes.”
“My toes?” Ali asked. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s been brought to my attention that Bryan Forester maintains a storage facility of some kind at your place up on Manzanita Hills Road.”
Ali nodded. “He has one of those Mini-Mobile things. He keeps supplies and equipment in it. Why? What does that have to do with me?”
“Now that we know about it, we’ll have to search it,” Dave said. “And probably the rest of the construction site, too.”
“Wait a minute. You’re planning on searching my house? Why? What are you looking for?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Dave said. “To anyone. This is an active investigation.”
Before Ali had a chance to say anything more, Edie Larson bustled up to their booth with her order pad in hand. “Ali appears to be drinking coffee and using her computer. Are you here to order, or are you just talking?” Edie asked.
“A little of both,” Dave told her. “We’ll have breakfast, and when it’s time for a bill, give it to me. I’m buying.”
CHAPTER 12
After Edie Larson had finished taking their order and left, Dave picked up the conversation. “I wanted to see you before I left town,” he said. “I’m on my way to Phoenix in a couple of minutes. With your help, we’ve located a possible witness down there.”
“My help?” Ali asked.
Dave nodded. “The driver of that vehicle whose license you had Bryan call in to me the other day.”
“The car Lacy saw?” Ali asked.
“That’s the one,” Dave said. “A rental from Hertz. The guy who rented it was from Phoenix. I have an appointment to interview him later on this morning. It could turn out he saw nothing at all, but he played so coy with me on the phone, and that got my attention.”
“If he was evasive on the phone, are you thinking he might be involved?” Ali asked.
Dave shook his head. “Forget it,” he said. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned him. Right now he’s nothing but a potential witness. But after my meeting with him, I’ll be stopping by Prescott on the way home. That’s when I’ll pick up a warrant to search your place on Manzanita Hills Road. We’ll be executing it later this afternoon.”
“Why are you telling me about this in advance?” Ali asked. “Isn’t that a little unusual?”
“It’s a lot worse than unusual,” Dave admitted. “The sheriff would have my badge if he ever found out about it, but the two of us go back a long way, Ali. I’m letting you know in advance so you can be on-site when we do it. There’ll be a lot less chance of damage if someone—you or Mr. Brooks, perhaps—is there to unlock doors with actual keys.”
“As in unlock the doors to my house,” Ali said.
“It may be your house, but it’s also a construction site,” Dave explained. “A construction site where our homicide suspect may have concealed evidence of his crime.”
“But it’s still my house,” Ali insisted.
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Dave’s regret sounded genuine, but Ali didn’t much notice. “Aren’t you afraid I might go there before you do and try to get rid of anything incriminating?”
Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. Dave looked at Ali sadly and shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’m not. To begin with, you wouldn’t know what to look for. Besides, that’s not who you are. You’d never conceal evidence.”
Stealing a look at the computer beside her, Ali wasn’t so sure about that. She was about to tell him about the two thumb drives when Edie arrived at the booth with their breakfasts—ham and eggs for Dave and French toast for Ali for the second day in a row.
“So will we be seeing you and your girls at Ali’s for Thanksgiving?” Edie asked.
Dave looked at Ali. “As far as I know, we haven’t been invited. Besides, the girls will be in Vegas with their mom for Thanksgiving. I get all three kids for Christmas.”
Knowing she had stepped in it, Edie beat a hasty retreat, leaving Ali to sort out her mother’s unintentional gaffe. “Sorry, Dave,” she said. “We’ve both been so busy, and I was waiting to figure out where the dinner would be. But now that we know the new house won’t be ready, it’ll be at the old one. And you’re definitely invited. Are you coming?”
Dave looked at her and grinned. “Depends on who’s doing the cooking,” he said.
Ali’s lack of cooking credentials was well known, but having people continually pointing it out was also a bit tiresome. “That’s not fair,” she said. “Accurate but not fair. And Leland will most likely be overseeing the food, so no one should die of food poisoning. Will you come, then?”
“I doubt I’ll get a better offer,” he said. “Count me in.”
Lighthearted banter had fixed the momentary awkwardness left behind by the warrant discussion. They started into their food. Dave had managed only a bite of his ham and eggs, and Ali was about to tell him about the thumb drives, when his phone rang.
He put down his fork and answered. “Holman here.” Then he listened for a long time while someone else spoke. “What do you mean both hard drives are ruined?” he demanded at last. “How is that possible? You’re telling me somebody deliberately crashed the computers before we could execute our warrant?” There was another short pause before Dave went on. “But crashed or not, surely we can find someone smart enough to retrieve the data.”
As Dave listened again, Ali tried to make sense of what she had overheard. She was sure that the damaged computers in question, picked up as a result of a search warrant, were the ones that belonged to Bryan and Morgan Forester.
“You’re right,” Dave was saying. “I can see how writing over the files is worse than just erasing them. Cute. Well, we’ll see how funny Mr. Forester thinks this is once I finish up with him. Do you remember that computer-science professor up at Northern Arizona University, the guy we asked for help on that other case a couple of months ago? Yes, that’s it. Professor Rayburn. Check with him and see if he has any ideas on how we can go about recapturing the data. With any luck, Bryan Forester isn’t nearly as smart as he thinks he is. There’s always a chance he missed something.”
Shaking his head in disgust, Dave slammed his phone closed and jammed it into his pocket. “What do you know about that!” he muttered. “It seems someone has written over all the files on the Foresters’ computers. And whoever did it thought he was being incredibly cute—he wrote the same letters over and over: H-A, as in ha, ha, ha. That’s funny, all right. Funny as hell. You probably think your friend Bryan is downright hilarious.”
“Bryan wouldn’t do that,” Ali said quietly. She realized as soon as she’d said it that it was absolutely true. Why would Bryan go to so much trouble when he knew there were perfectly usable and readable backup copies available, copies that were, even now, within arm’s reach of Dave Holman? Someone else might have done that, but not Bryan.
“You might believe it, but I don’t,” Dave returned abruptly. “Trust me, there was something incriminating in those files, and I intend to find out what it was.”
“I have them,” Ali said. “I can show them to you.”
Dave stared at her, thunderstruck. “You what?”
“I have Bryan’s files, and I’ve looked at them,” she added. “The ones from his computer, anyway. Believe me, Dave, they’re all business-related.”
“And how is it that you happen to have them?” Dave asked.
“Because Bryan gave them to me. For safekeeping.”
“Sure he did,” Dave said. “Once he took out whatever it was he didn’t want you or anybody else to see. What the hell do you see in the guy, Ali? Don’t you see what he’s up to? He’s playing you for a fool.”
For the first time, Ali wondered if Dave Holman was jealous. “I can give you copies
,” she offered.
“Right,” Dave said. “Sure you can. Copies of copies with everything he wanted deleted already deleted. Don’t bother! It’ll be a waste of your time and mine.” Shaking his head, he once more yanked his phone out of his pocket and punched in a series of numbers. While he waited for his call to be answered, Ali concentrated on her French toast. She had offered the drives to Dave, and he had turned her down. Now, though, she was thinking about her computer, where Bryan’s contaminated thumb drive was parked in her USB port. If a delayed-reaction worm of some kind had corrupted the files on Bryan’s and Morgan’s computers, would hers be next?
“Yes,” Dave was saying into the phone. “This is Dave Holman of the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Office. I’m calling for Mr. Morrison. Mr. Matthew Morrison.” That statement was followed by a long pause and a deep frown. “What do you mean, he won’t be in today? Is he sick or what? I have an appointment with him scheduled for this morning, and I was calling to see if I could move it to a little later.”
There was another pause. “Look,” Dave said curtly. “I already said who this is. I’m Detective Dave Holman with the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department. And it’s urgent that I speak to Mr. Morrison today. No, I don’t need to speak to his supervisor, I need to speak to him. All right, then. I’ll wait.”
While he sat on hold, Dave managed another few bites of breakfast. Then, covering the phone mouthpiece with his hand, he spoke to Ali. “Guess what? It seems that Mr. Morrison, our reluctant witness, has unexpectedly taken the day off work. I wonder if the prospect of having to see me has anything to do with his going AWOL.”
Dave turned his attention back to the phone as someone came on the line. “Yes, Mrs. Helwig. I’m not sure why they brought you into this, but yes, that’s correct. I’m a homicide detective with the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department. Mr. Morrison is a potential witness in a case I’m investigating…”