by J. A. Jance
“Not gonna happen,” Ali said with a laugh. “She’s ours.”
“But seriously,” Dave said. “At this stage of my investigation, knowing that the two cases are related is vital. Thanks for the tip.”
“You’re welcome,” Ali said. “Any theories?”
“Based on what you just told me, I’m thinking Alberto and Jeffrey were hired to take out Dan and Millie, and were rubbed out in turn once the job was done.”
“If it’s murder for hire,” Ali declared, “the person behind all of it is most likely responsible for their deaths, too. My best guess for the guy putting out the contract is Jason McKinzie.”
“Maybe so, but good luck finding him. As I said, McKinzie left the country Friday evening before any of these crimes were committed.”
“All that means is he must be working with someone else,” Ali insisted. “As for him fleeing the country? We’ll find him, all right. High Noon is trying to track the money. If we can find that, we’ll find him, too.”
“Tell you what, then,” Dave said, “if I get a line on McKinzie, I’ll tell you, as long as you agree to do the same.”
“Deal,” Ali said at once.
“Okay, I’m here now, doing a next-of-kin. Gotta go inside and talk to Alberto’s brother.”
Dave hung up. Ali waited less than a minute before calling Stu. “I know B. has you working on something else right now, but could you do me one favor?”
“What do you need?”
“How many evening flights are there from Sky Harbor to Mexico City?”
Ali heard the machine-gun clatter of Stu’s keyboard. She considered herself a fast typist, but compared to Stu, she was a piker.
“Two,” he said. “Why?”
“Everybody’s telling me that Jason McKinzie flew there on Friday evening. I wish there were a way to be sure of that.”
“Maybe there is,” Stu said. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
Her next call was to Cami. “Where are you?”
“Finishing lunch.”
“On the company’s dime, I hope,” Ali said. “You sure as hell earned it today. I’m coming to Sedona. Stop by Dash Summers’s office and show him what we’ve got. If he gives the okay, we’ll meet at Sedona PD and clue Eric Drinkwater in on what’s going on. By the way, don’t expect a lot of gratitude.”
“That won’t bother me in the least,” Cami said with a laugh. “I’m used to it. I work with Stuart Ramey, remember?”
40
After Edie’s morning doughnut run, she and Bob settled into a rhythm. Working in quiet but purposeful fury, Bob went through the list, checking the links, verifying that the Jason McKinzie mentioned in the item was indeed the correct Jason McKinzie, and then sending the file to the printer. He didn’t read through the information or see the photos that showed up on the printouts, but Edie gave him a running commentary as she sorted the material into what Bob regarded as totally arbitrary stacks.
“Look at this,” Edie said, holding up pages of an Architectural Digest article depicting Jason’s “recently reimagined” and very expensive home along the lower flanks of Camelback Mountain.
“Great,” Bob grumbled, glancing at the lush interior. “I wonder how much of our money went into that.”
There was a profile accompanied by McKinzie’s photo from a private jet company’s in-house magazine. There were countless photos of him squiring one gorgeously gowned and bejeweled woman after another to innumerable galas. There were articles citing his amazing record as a brilliant investment analyst and his uncanny ability to spot coming trends. Bob listened to the recitations of Jason McKinzie’s flamboyant opulence with steadily increasing anger, but being angry was better than being dead, and doing something about it was better than being helpless.
Bob clicked on a file that turned out to be Jason McKinzie’s Facebook page. As the computer kicked out page after page of Jason being Jason, Edie plucked them out one by one, studying them as they emerged. Some were duplicates of photos that had appeared elsewhere.
“This whole Facebook thing is weird,” she said. “Most of the people I know who are on Facebook or LinkedIn use those sites to stay in touch with old friends or with their kids or grandkids, but McKinzie doesn’t have any kids or grandkids, and not that many friends, either, as far as I can tell. So why does he even bother? Most of these show nothing but one woman after another, and seldom the same one twice.”
“Must be tough walking around with that kind of arm candy,” Bob observed, ignoring the glare Edie sent in his direction.
“There’s one notable exception to that. Her name is Ana Stander,” Edie continued. “She posts every couple of months or so. I believe she may be from South Africa.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Look.” Edie handed Bob a page that contained a photo of a single tree with the Kalahari stretching in the background. He thought it was a stock photo of some kind because he was pretty sure he’d seen it before, maybe in National Geographic. Below was a caption that said, “Remember when we hiked here?”
“So?” Bob asked.
“The photos are all of places in South Africa, with captions that say ‘Wish you were here,’ or ‘What a great time we had.’ But here’s what’s odd. There are no photos of Ana Stander herself anywhere, and I’ve looked.”
“Maybe Ana’s not very pretty,” Bob suggested. “Maybe she’s seen her competition and knows that her photo would suffer by comparison.”
“Still,” Edie said, picking up one of her many stacks of paper. “Ali asked me to look for something out of place. Facebook is more for faces than scenery. These photos don’t fit. I’m going to go ask Stuart to find out whatever he can on Ana Stander.”
It seemed to Bob that Edie was gone for only a moment, and she was fuming when she returned. “He says you need to send him the links. Stuart Ramey is evidently saving the planet. He told me he doesn’t ‘do’ paper.”
Bob laughed. “Show me which ones you want him to have.”
It took a few moments for him to locate and send the files. While he was doing that, Edie grabbed the next stack of paper from the computer and began shuffling through it.
“Jason McKinzie was part of Ashley Madison?” she demanded.
“Who’s Ashley Madison?” Bob asked. “The link came up. I checked it and found Jason McKinzie’s name and address, so I know it’s the correct Jason McKinzie.”
Edie walked over to where Bob was sitting and gave him a quick buss on the cheek. “What’s that for?” he asked.
“Ashley Madison is a cheaters’ Web site,” Edie replied. “The kiss was because you had no idea what it is.”
“Jason McKinzie isn’t married and, from the looks of things, isn’t in a serious relationship,” Bob mused. “So why would he join something like that? Isn’t this something else that doesn’t fit?”
“Probably,” Edie said.
“Don’t you want to take those into Stu as well?”
“Not on your life,” Edie answered. “He about bit my head off just now. Why don’t you send him the link and let it go at that?”
“All right,” Bob said, “I will.”
And he did.
41
Cami called Ali before she made it into town. “Sedona PD it is. I showed Dash the video. He said that since whatever we have will all come out in discovery anyway, I should—quote unquote—knock myself out.”
“Let’s do it, then,” Ali said. “Drinkwater was in Cottonwood a little while ago, but I sent him packing with his tail between his legs. I’m guessing he’s back in the office by now licking his wounds. Meet me there.”
The previous night when Ali had entered the lobby of Sedona PD, she’d been worried sick about her father. Today, walking inside with Cami at her side and with the evidence clearing her father readily at hand, she felt six feet tall and bulletproof.
It was business hours. The desk by the security door where Sgt. Kronnan had held sway
the night before was empty. They turned instead to the counter on the other side of the room, where several office clerks were visible behind a thick shield of glass.
“Ali Reynolds and Camille Lee, of High Noon Enterprises,” Ali said through a mouthpiece cut into the glass barrier. “We’re here to see Detective Drinkwater.”
“May I tell him what this is about?”
“Yes,” Ali said. “It’s about the Frazier homicides. We’ll wait.”
Less than a minute later, Eric Drinkwater marched into the lobby. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “I already told you I won’t tolerate any further interference.”
“We’ve uncovered some evidence we thought you should know about,” Ali said sweetly, making no reference to their recent altercation. “Our intention is to offer assistance rather than to interfere.”
“Who’s we?” he demanded, glancing in Cami’s direction for the first time. “And what kind of so-called assistance do you have in mind?”
“Let me introduce my associate, Camille Lee,” Ali said smoothly. “She’s a High Noon operative. She did some investigating on her own earlier this morning, and I think you’ll be interested in seeing the results.”
Drinkwater shook his head. “All right,” he agreed reluctantly, doing a better job of concealing his emotions than Ali would have expected. “Let’s get this over with.” He glanced back at the clerk. “Is the conference room open?” She nodded, and he set off toward the other end of the lobby, leaving Ali and Cami to follow.
“A conference room rather than an interview room?” Ali asked. “That counts as a step in the right direction.”
She could tell by the stiffening of Detective Drinkwater’s shoulders that he had heard the comment. Too bad. The man was a bully, and she was pushing back.
He ushered them into a small conference room next to an office marked CHIEF OF POLICE. Once they were inside, he slammed that door shut behind them and then stood in front of it with his arms folded belligerently across his chest. The agreeable guise he’d worn in the lobby evaporated once they were out of the public eye.
“Show me,” he said.
As far as Ali was concerned, this was Cami’s show. Ali stayed in the background, allowing Cami to tackle Drinkwater head-on. “You’re too tall,” she pointed out. “If you want to see what’s on my iPad, you’ll need to sit down here next to me.”
Sighing with frustration, Drinkwater reluctantly took a seat while Cami produced her iPad and called up a file. “This starts with the phone tracker record.”
“What’s a phone tracker?” Drinkwater asked.
“High Noon is a high-profile company these days,” Cami answered. “In order to protect both employees and their families, we see to it that all electronic devices are equipped with the latest in presence technology.”
“What technology?”
“Presence,” Cami replied. “It allows us to know where an individual is and to follow his or her movements in real time. Those movements are also recorded so they can be accessed later if necessary.”
“Look,” Drinkwater said impatiently. “How about skipping the engineering lecture and just showing me whatever it is you’ve got?”
“Yesterday, when Mr. Larson went to the home of Dan and Millie Frazier, his phone was equipped with state-of-the-art tracking. What you’re about to see here will show you the record of his movements overlaid on a satellite view of Sedona.”
With the iPad on the table in front of her, Cami pressed the arrow to start the video sequence and then pushed it over in front of the detective. “Please notice the time stamp in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. The blue dot is Mr. Larson. At 8:58 a.m. he leaves his unit at Sedona Shadows on foot and follows the corridor to a side entrance. He exits the building and walks to the parking lot, going directly to his designated parking place. Once he’s in a moving vehicle, you’ll notice that the phone movement speeds up.”
“How do I know the blue dot on the screen has anything at all to do with Mr. Larson?”
“Keep watching,” Cami advised. “I’m going to fast-forward through the next section while he’s driving from Sedona Shadows to the Fraziers’ place. You’ll have a copy of this, so you’ll be able to see for yourself that he makes no stops along the way. This is where he enters Dan and Millie Frazier’s neighborhood.”
“He didn’t just drive to their neighborhood,” Drinkwater objected, still peering at the scene. “He drove to their house.”
“No,” she said. “When I said he drove directly to their neighborhood, that’s what I meant. See here? The vehicle turns on to Elberta Drive and stops. Notice that the time stamp says 9:29. Again, I’m going to fast-forward, but Mr. Larson’s phone and most likely his vehicle remain in that spot near the end of the street for the better part of twenty minutes. Only then does it begin moving again, first continuing up the street and turning in to the Fraziers’ driveway. That occurs at 9:50. Now watch what happens next.
“As you can see, the blue dot is hovering over what seems to be a building of some kind—a building that turns out to be the Fraziers’ two-car garage. The blue dot remains over the building as long as the phone is inside the building. Now, up in the corner, you’ll see a second time stamp. That’s from the 911 recording. You’ll see the blue dot move as the phone goes from the garage to the house. You should be able to hear the voice-over of the 911 call. Now, as the the time stamp on the phone tracker video turns over to 9:52, you’ll notice a second time stamp appears on the screen accompanied by the voice-over.”
Ali winced when she heard the desperation in her father’s cry. “We need help!”
As Cami continued to walk the detective through the video, Ali watched disappointment register on Eric Drinkwater’s face as he realized the case he thought he was building against Bob Larson was going up in smoke along with any chance of his making a quick arrest.
“How did you get a copy of the 911 tape?” he wanted to know.
Cami shrugged. “We asked, and they gave it to us,” she said. “So where would you like me to send your copy of the video?”
“I guess you should send me a copy and one to the chief as well,” Drinkwater said at last, pausing long enough to write down the necessary addresses for Cami’s benefit.
“We’ll need to have our experts review the tapes, of course,” he added. “For all I know this whole phone tracker story may be completely bogus. What if you made the whole thing up? Now, if show and tell is over . . .”
“Not quite,” Cami said calmly. “We should probably take a look at the other videos.”
“You have more?” an exasperated Detective Drinkwater demanded.
“Several, as a matter of fact,” Cami said with a smile as she queued up the next one. “My understanding is that Mr. Larson indicated to you that he remembered seeing a truck loaded with landscaping equipment parked near the Fraziers’ house when he arrived there yesterday morning.”
“As I said, we looked into that and found no evidence to suggest that a rig matching that description had been seen anywhere in the surrounding area.”
“Maybe you didn’t look quite far enough,” Cami said. “Here are two sets of time-stamped security footage from the Apple Tree B & B just down from Elberta Drive on Jordan. The first one shows a rig very much like that driving southbound on Jordan past the B & B at 10:01 a.m., which would be while Mr. Larson was still on the phone with the 911 operator. You’ll notice that the video resolution on that south-facing camera leaves a lot to be desired, but when I went looking for the same vehicle going northbound here’s what I found.”
First she ran the enhanced version of the footage time-stamped 7:33 a.m. “You’ll notice that at this point there are three passengers inside the truck. What you’re seeing now was enhanced several times in order for us to run it through our facial rec program. It turns out Dan Frazier is the man sitting slumped over in the front passenger seat. The other two individuals are ex-cons with extensive rap sheets. The driv
er is a guy named Alberto Joaquín, and the guy in back is Jeffrey Hawkins. As you can also see, the enhanced version clearly shows a company logo on the door—A.J. Landscaping.”
Drinkwater studied the two photos and jotted something in a notebook. “All right, then,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll look into it.”
“Actually,” Ali said, “there’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“About those two suspects—they’re both dead.”
“What?”
“Earlier today they were found shot to death in a gravel pit north of Sun City. Dave Holman is investigating.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say so to begin with?”
“Because we wanted you to have the whole story.”
“What are the chances your father hired these guys, and then showed up at the crime scene to report the crime in an attempt to throw us off track?”
“You don’t give up, do you,” Ali said.
“I don’t get paid for giving up.”
“What about my dad’s Bronco? How soon will you be releasing it from the impound lot?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that. We’ll be having our experts review all of this. Releasing that vehicle will take some time.”
“I’ll just bet it will,” Ali said sarcastically, then she turned to Cami. “Come on. We’re done here.”
“In other words,” Cami muttered as they made their way back to the lobby, “don’t hold your breath about getting that Bronco back anytime soon.”
42
There were two matching strip malls, set a block apart, on the west side of Highway 179 in the Village of Oak Creek—Oak Creek Park North and Oak Creek Park South. The office of the Frazier Insurance Agency was located in the one to the south. Among the tenants in the Oak Creek Park North complex were Arizona First Federal Bank and Guido’s. First Federal was where the Fraziers had done their banking for as long as Ali could remember. As for Guido’s? When it came to quality pizza, it was the only game in town.