by Jance, J. A.
“But she was always curious about how things work,” Ali went on. “She was forever taking stuff apart and putting it back together and improving whatever it was in the process.”
That, of course, was more like Ali’s father. It was how Bob Larson had kept his beloved Bronco in working order all these years.
“She taught herself programming, too,” Ali said, warming to her story. “A couple of years ago, when a friend’s computer got taken down by a virus, Mother made it her business to become a self-taught expert in worms and viruses.”
That last whopper may have been a step too far.
“I suppose next you’re going to tell me she’s also an expert at encryption?” the man asked sarcastically. “Is that another of your remarkable mother’s spare-time specialties?”
“You’re right,” Ali said. “Mom doesn’t know anything about encryption, but she has a friend who does, an elderly friend who specialized in code-breaking during the Cold War. He and his new wife have a winter home in Yuma. Mother asked him to come help out. They’ll be driving up later on this afternoon.”
The man’s momentary expression of dismay was immediately replaced by something cold and calculating. Once again the gun was aimed squarely in Ali’s direction.
“Where are my files, then?” he asked. “Who has them right now, and who has access to them?”
“They’re on my mother’s computer,” she said. “At her house.”
“Where’s that?”
“Here in Sedona. Down by the highway.”
“And where’s your mother?”
Ali glanced at her watch. It wasn’t waterproof, so the glass was covered with a layer of steam from being dunked in the tub, but the watch was still running. It was two o’clock. Soon the restaurant would be closing for the afternoon. Her father and Jan would be cleaning up and putting things away. Her mother, having arrived early to do the Sugarloaf’s morning baking, would have gone home to rest, to put her feet up and have an hour or so of peace and quiet before her husband came in for the evening.
“She’s home now, too,” Ali said.
“Call her, then,” the man ordered. “Have her come here and bring her damn computer with her.”
Ali knew that wasn’t going to work. Asking Edie to bring over her computer with its nonexistent files would provoke an immediate storm of difficult and impossible-to-answer questions. Fortunately, when Ali reached for her phone, it wasn’t there. It had disappeared from under her bra strap during the struggle in the bathroom. It was probably sitting on the bottom of the tub.
“I can’t,” she said. “I lost my phone.”
The man checked his own watch and abruptly changed his mind. Turning away from Ali, he rummaged in her closet, found a jogging suit, and tossed it in her direction.
“Get out of those wet clothes and put these on,” he ordered. “We won’t have your mother come here. We’ll go see her instead.”
Dave had put himself out on a real limb by letting Ali know in advance that the search was coming. Having run that risk, Dave was annoyed when he arrived at the Manzanita Hills house and found that his officers were on the scene and armed with their search warrant but Ali hadn’t bothered to show up. She hadn’t sent Leland Brooks, either. With no keys available, Dave had no choice.
“Cut the padlock on the Mini-Mobile,” he ordered. “If you can jimmy the lock on the front door, do it. Otherwise, knock it down.”
The uniformed officer had just swung open the door on the metal storage unit when Bryan Forester’s Dodge Ram pulled into the driveway. He jumped out of the cab and came running over to the officers, who were about to step inside.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
So Ali did tell him, Dave thought grimly. Too bad for him, he got the news too late. “Back off, Bryan,” he ordered. “My officers have a warrant to search this site.”
“There are valuable tools and equipment in there,” Bryan objected. “I don’t want people messing with them.”
“I said back off,” Dave repeated. “We’re doing a search. We’re not going to bother your equipment. I don’t see any of your guys working today. What brings you here?”
“The tile company in Phoenix called me about some kind of delivery mix-up. Supposedly, someone was on his way here to drop off a load of tile that isn’t mine. I came by to check it out.”
Dave glanced around the driveway and saw nothing. Likely story, he thought. “What tile?” he asked. “I don’t see any tile.”
“I don’t see any, either,” Bryan said. “Like I said, it was a mix-up of some kind—probably someone else’s order. I just didn’t want it to be delivered here by mistake and then have to make arrangements to ship it back.”
“This is going to take some time,” Dave said. “If you want to hang around, how about if you and I go have a seat over at the picnic table and give these officers a chance to do their jobs.”
Nodding, Bryan headed for the table, shaking a cigarette out of a pack as he went. “You let me out this morning,” he said once he was seated and had lit up. “So how come you’re searching my stuff this afternoon? What changed?”
Nothing, except the prosecutor lost his balls, Dave thought. He said, “Letting you out was someone else’s call, not mine.”
“So you still think I did it?” Bryan asked. For a moment the two men glared at each other in charged silence. “Go to hell, then,” Bryan added when Dave didn’t respond. “I shouldn’t be talking to you, not without my lawyer.” He stood up as if to go.
“Sit,” Dave said.
Bryan sat.
“Who’s Peter Winter?”
“Peter who?”
“Winter. Dr. Peter Winter.”
Bryan shrugged. “I have no idea. Never heard of the man.”
“We believe he had some connection with Singleatheart,” Dave said.
“So?” Bryan asked, blowing a cloud of smoke skyward. “What does that have to do with me? Morgan was involved in all that garbage, not me.”
“Maybe you both were,” Dave suggested.
“Like I said before, go to hell,” Bryan told him. “Everyone in town knows your ex screwed around on you while you were off in Iraq. You didn’t kill her.”
“How kind of you to mention that,” Dave returned. “But it turns out my ex isn’t dead. Yours is.”
“Yes, Morgan was screwing around on me, but that doesn’t mean I killed her.”
“If you knew what was going on, why didn’t you divorce her?” Dave asked.
“Why do you think? The first time it happened, it broke my heart. But I got over it. After a while I just didn’t care anymore. I hung in because of the kids, because I didn’t want to lose my girls.”
This was far more than Bryan had said during all the hours Dave had spent with him in the interrogation room. “You knew about Singleatheart, then?” Dave asked.
“Not until Monday night, when I went through Morgan’s computer files.”
“How could you do that?” Dave asked. “Her computer was at the house. It was under lock and key as part of the crime scene.”
“There’s a backup system,” Bryan said. “It was all there—her own little black book. Morgan kept a detailed account of all her conquests: where they went, what they did, when she dumped the poor guy, and how. And if you want to find someone who was pissed about being dumped, maybe you should talk to my old pal Billy Barnes. That two-faced SOB, my good buddy, a guy whose ass I saved by giving him a job, was more than happy to screw around with my wife behind my back. And when she dropped him for that new guy, somebody named Jimmy, Billy went all to pieces. Sent her whiny, pleading messages, begging her to take him back. But by now you’ve been through her files, and you already know all this stuff. You’ve seen it.”
“No, I haven’t,” Dave said. “The files on Morgan’s computer had all been destroyed. So were yours.”
The undiluted surprise on Bryan Forester’s face would have been tough to fake.
“Destroyed?” he demanded. “What do you mean, destroyed? How’s that possible?”
“Someone overwrote the files. There’s nothing left.”
“Nothing?” Bryan repeated, shaking his head. “That can’t be. No way. My whole business is on those two computers—all my contracts and sales records; my tax and insurance information.” He paused. “You don’t think I did this—that I deliberately set out to destroy the information. Besides, I made copies on two thumb drives. I gave them to Ali, but maybe they’re wrecked, too. Crap. If they are, then I’m done for. Out of business. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Somebody’s out to destroy me.”
From Monday afternoon on, from the moment Dave had seen Morgan Forester’s lifeless body in the porch swing, he had been convinced that her husband had done the deed. And when he’d first learned of the damaged computers, he’d been even more certain that Bryan was responsible for those as well. B. Simpson had tried to tell him otherwise, but Dave hadn’t really believed it. Now maybe he did, and for the first time it occurred to him that there might be two victims here—both Morgan Forester and her husband.
Ali felt self-conscious peeling out of her sodden clothing and putting on the jogging suit under the watchful eye of her captor. As she did it, she seesawed back and forth, second-guessing her strategy. She kept hoping that somehow she’d find another way out of this awful mess—a way that wouldn’t require involving her mother in a desperate life-or-death gambit.
Ali knew she should leave Edie out of it, even though her mother and her newly activated Taser held the key to evening the odds. What if it all went bad—if one or both of them died? Ali knew in advance that no matter what happened, her mother would forgive her, and so would her father. There was no question about that. The problem was, if something awful happened to Edie and her daughter somehow survived, would Ali ever be able to forgive herself?
Even so, Ali knew several important things about Edie Larson that the bad guy didn’t. For one thing, Ali understood that her mother would fight to the death to help protect her child, in the same way Ali would fight for Chris if the situation called for it. Ali knew, too, that her mother was stubborn. Having gone to war with her husband over whether she should have a Taser, Edie would be damned rather than leave the restaurant without it. Just to show her husband, she would have taken it home with her. It would be someplace close at hand—in her pocket or her purse.
Ali’s captor wouldn’t consider the possibility that Edie Larson would be armed for bear. This arrogant jerk would automatically assume that Edie—a harmless-looking gray-haired, hearing-aid-wearing old lady—would pose no threat to him at all. Ali understood instinctively that he would totally “misunderestimate” her mother.
Edie Larson’s stubborn streak was much like Ali’s own, and Edie would fight like crazy once she knew what was going on—if she knew what was going on. That was the problem. How could Ali manage that feat of mother/daughter communication? How would she let Edie know what was at stake without alerting the gunman?
At last Ali was dressed. When she stood up, she was woozy. Clutching at the dresser for support, she looked around for her shoes, which were nowhere to be seen. The cut next to her eye was still bleeding. She looked down at her bare feet just as a drop of blood trickled off her chin and dripped onto the top of her foot. Her cheek ached, her mouth was close to being swollen shut, but seeing the blood—her own blood—shocked her.
I could die today, she thought. It could all be over.
Meantime, her captor pointed the gun at Leland Brooks, who lay motionless on the floor. “Drag him into the other room,” he ordered Ali. “We’ll load him into the back of his truck and take him with us when we leave.”
To go where? Ali wondered. Where are you taking us?
She didn’t ask that question aloud, though. She knew better. Wherever he planned to take them, it wasn’t going to be good.
When she bent down to lift Leland, she was relieved to find him soaking wet but warm to the touch. He was breathing and probably heavily sedated, but at least he wasn’t dead. He was deadweight, however. Grunting with effort, she managed to drag him out of the bedroom, through the living room, and over to the front door. He moaned softly as she wrestled him out the door and onto the front steps.
She hoped briefly that one of her neighbors might see what was going on and summon help. Ali’s Andante Drive house sat at the top of the hill with an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside, but that also meant the house next door shielded her place from all the others farther down the street. As for her next-door neighbor? She was a single mother who was most likely at work, and her kids were at school. Looking at that deserted street, Ali had never felt more isolated or more alone.
At the edge of the porch, she stopped, panting with effort. “He’s too heavy,” she gasped. “I can’t do this alone.”
With a sigh of disgust, the man shoved the .357 into the top of his pants. Bending over, he effortlessly lifted Leland off the porch and flung him over his shoulder. Ali thought briefly about making a grab for the gun while both of the man’s hands were occupied. She thought about it, but she didn’t even try. She was too spent to make it work.
“Open it,” he ordered.
Months earlier, Leland Brooks had installed an aluminum camper shell on the back of his truck. The tailgate on the camper shell flipped up while the tailgate on the truck flipped down. Ali wrenched both of them open and then stood back while her captor tossed Leland’s helpless body onto the floor of the pickup as casually as if he were a bag of potatoes.
“So much for him,” the man said, closing the tailgates. “We can finish this later. Time to go. You drive.”
But Ali didn’t move right away. The water was finally clearing from her lungs, and the crippling fog was lifting from her brain as well. She stared up at him. He was still wearing his latex gloves. Why? Because he didn’t want to leave any prints behind. He claimed this was all about his stolen files—that he wanted his files back. But there had to be more to it, had to be more at stake. In a moment of insight, Ali understood what it was—the only thing that made sense.
“You murdered Morgan Forester, didn’t you?”
He gave a mirthless chuckle and shrugged. “Brainy as you are, you’re just now figuring that out? Morgan thought she was smarter than I am, but she wasn’t. Neither are you, and neither is your mother.”
“And now you’re going to kill us, too?”
He nodded. “More than likely,” he said. “Get in.”
“But why?” Ali objected. “Why are you going to kill us?”
“Because I have to,” he said reasonably. “Because you have no idea who you’re messing with or what you’ve done. Now let’s go. I don’t have all day.”
When Ali climbed into the pickup, she found Leland’s car key already in the ignition. She turned it, and the engine roared to life. A lightweight windbreaker had been lying on the seat. As they started down Andante Drive through Skyview, her captor put on the jacket and then slipped the .357 into his pocket.
“You still haven’t told me why you killed Morgan,” Ali insisted. “What did she do wrong?”
“I killed her because she asked too many questions, and so do you. Now shut up and drive.”
When they reached the highway, there were still a few cars in the parking lot at the Sugarloaf Café. Ali knew her father and Jan would be fully occupied with shutting down for the day. While they were driving down the hill, Ali had half hoped her mother’s Oldsmobile Alero wouldn’t be parked there. Maybe Edie would have gone off to run an errand, to pick up some groceries for dinner or to have her hair done. Then whatever happened—whatever this maniac had in mind—would happen to Ali alone. Her mother wouldn’t be involved.
But Edie’s Alero was there, parked right next to her husband’s venerable Bronco. Ali expected that her mother was safely ensconced in her cozy living room, where she could indulge in her one guilty pleasure—watching TiVoed episodes of the previou
s day’s Dr. Phil and Judge Judy. That was what she often did in the afternoons before her husband walked in from the restaurant and switched over to nonstop cable news.
The man was right behind Ali with his hand in his pocket as she walked up to her parents’ front door. She could hear the television set blaring from inside. As soon as Ali tapped on the door frame, her mother muted the volume.
“Just a minute,” she said. “I’m coming. I’m coming. I can’t do everything at once.” A moment later, Edie, with a phone in one hand, opened the front door and caught sight of Ali. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?” she demanded. “I’ve been trying to reach you, and so has B. I was waiting for your father to finish cleaning up so we could both come check—” She stopped abruptly. “Ali, you’re bleeding!” she exclaimed. “And your hair’s all wet. What happened? Are you all right?”
Only then did Edie catch sight of the man standing behind Ali. “Who’s this?” she asked.
“It’s the man whose files we stole this morning.” Ali spoke quickly, hoping to stave off any comments that would give the game away. “He’s dangerous, and he’s got a gun. He wants his files back, Mom. I told him they’re on your computer.”
Edie peered up at the man. “Oh, yes,” she said, dropping the phone into the sagging pocket of the worn cotton sweater that was her preferred around-the-house attire. “The files. That means you would be Peter Winter, then, correct? Dr. Peter Winter, I believe.”
Edie’s question may have astonished her daughter, but it floored the man behind her. He took an involuntary step backward.
His name is Winter? Ali wondered. How on earth did Mom know that?
By then he had recovered enough to press the barrel of the gun into the small of Ali’s back. “Move,” he ordered. “Get inside. Both of you. Now.”
Still mystified by her mother’s reaction, Ali stumbled over the threshold and into the comfortable, crowded clutter that was Bob and Edie Larson’s tiny living room. There was the recliner her mother occupied only when Bob wasn’t home, as well as a sagging cloth-covered couch with a colorful crocheted afghan covering the spot on the back where aging material had given way.