by J. A. Jance
“No, thanks,” Ali said. “For right now I believe I’ll stick with my Glock.”
Gradually, the Sugarloaf’s lunch crowd began to filter into the restaurant. From the sounds of banging pots and pans in the kitchen, Ali knew her father wasn’t yet over his snit, but he would be. He and her mother had their various differences of opinions, but they always got over them one way or the other.
While Ali waited for the sandwich, she tried calling Leland Brooks, hoping to see how he had fared with the tile delivery. She was a little surprised when he still didn’t answer his phone; he usually picked up after only one ring.
“Back in town now,” she said, leaving another message. “Give me a call when you get this.”
As the booths filled up, so did the stools at the counter. Blanche Sims, a teller from Wells Fargo, slipped onto a stool one down from Ali. “I heard they let Bryan Forester out of jail this morning,” Blanche said as Edie filled her coffee cup. “Someone told me they saw his truck parked in front of the funeral home. Probably there making arrangements for tomorrow’s funeral. Under the circumstances, I don’t think the man has any business arranging a funeral, much less attending it.”
The comment was addressed to Edie. Ali had no business involving herself in the discussion, but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t sit idly by while people who had no idea of what had happened sat around proclaiming Bryan’s guilt.
“Why wouldn’t Bryan show up for the funeral?” Ali demanded sharply. “Morgan was his wife and the mother of his children. He has every right in the world to be there.”
Everyone within hearing distance, including Blanche, seemed taken aback by Ali’s outspoken response.
“Your order’s up,” Bob said from the kitchen.
Hurriedly grabbing Ali’s to-go bag from the pass-through, Edie handed it to her daughter. “Go ahead,” she said. “We can straighten this out later.”
“Yes,” Ali declared, standing up and favoring Blanche with a cold-eyed stare. “We certainly can.” With that, she stomped out of the Sugarloaf and headed for the Village of Oak Creek.
Unconvinced that Matthew Morrison’s damaged computer would provide any answers, Dave Holman left the crime scene in Scottsdale and headed for Sky Harbor airport. Shortly after noon, armed with the formerly framed photo of Jenny and Matthew Morrison, Dave arrived at the Hertz car-rental facility at Sky Harbor. Not that it did him much good.
Once Dave showed his ID, Jim Henderson, the young branch manager, was polite and eager but less than helpful. A check of their records showed that the vehicle in question—a blue Ford 500 with Colorado plates—was out on another rental and wasn’t scheduled to be returned again until Sunday evening. As for Morrison’s rental agreement? It had been done through their online facility. Since Matthew Morrison had a valid gold card, he didn’t have to stop at a rental counter. All he had to do was step off the shuttle, climb into his waiting vehicle, and then drive through the guarded gate, showing his paperwork as he went.
“That’s all there is to it?” Dave asked.
Henderson nodded. “It’s a service for our repeat customers. We maintain profiles on each of them. We know what vehicles they like and their insurance preferences. We also have their license information on file, along with their preferred credit card. That’s all we need. It streamlines the process for everyone.”
“What happens when the vehicle is returned?”
“Customers drive up to one of our drop-off lanes. An attendant checks the car for damage, verifies the mileage and fuel readings, and makes sure nothing’s left in the vehicle.”
“Can you tell which attendant that would have been?”
“Sure. Just a second. Attendant 06783. That would be Bobby Salazar. He’s out on the line now.”
“Do you mind if I talk to him?”
“You can try, but I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you,” Henderson said. “These guys check in hundreds of vehicles in a week’s time. Bobby’s one of our best, but this is Thursday. He’s not going to remember a vehicle that was turned in on Monday.”
Dave arrived at Bobby Salazar’s station and waited on the sidelines while the attendant finished checking in two very sunburned guys in shorts and Hawaiian shirts who came equipped with a mountain of luggage and two sets of golf clubs. As they piled their stuff onto a rolling cart, Bobby turned an appraising gaze on Dave. “What can I do for you, Officer?”
Wordlessly, Dave handed over first his ID and then the photo of Jenny and Matthew Morrison. “Have you ever seen this guy?”
Bobby studied the picture carefully, then shook his head. “Nope,” he said confidently. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“That’s funny,” Dave said. “According to the check-in records, he came through your line on Monday—late in the afternoon.”
“Driving what?” Bobby asked.
“A blue Ford 500 with Colorado plates.”
Dave caught the subtle tightening of Bobby Salazar’s jaw. He looked down at the photo and then handed it back. “I remember the vehicle, but this guy wasn’t the one who was driving it. Why? What’s this about?”
“I’m investigating a homicide that occurred outside Sedona on Monday morning,” Dave answered. “This vehicle was seen in the area and—”
“There was blood in it,” Bobby said. “On the floorboard of the passenger seat. At least it looked like blood.”
“And you didn’t report it?”
“My shift was almost over,” Bobby said. “I didn’t want to be late for class. There wasn’t any other damage to the vehicle. Besides, it wasn’t that big a stain. Carpets get dirty over time. The detail guys clean them up as best they can.”
“I’m sure they do,” Dave said. “But this is the man whose name was on the rental agreement.” He held up the photo. “You’re sure this isn’t the man who was driving?”
“I remember the guy very well,” Bobby said. “He was rude to me—a first-class asshole, but not this asshole. This isn’t him.”
When Ali arrived at the address she’d been given, she found herself in front of a sprawling piece of stucco-covered architecture stacked on top of a three-car garage. Looking at it, she knew the modern-looking affair would total up to be well over a million-dollar property, especially since it was built on a steep hillside lot that backed up to a large swath of undeveloped and probably undevelopable open space. In the Sedona area, that kind of privacy meant big bucks.
She parked in the driveway and stepped out of her Cayenne to admire the view. The house overlooked the ninth fairway of a well-kept eighteen-hole golf course, with Sedona’s fringe of deep red rocks dominating the horizon.
B. hurried out to meet Ali as she gathered her purse and the take-out bag containing his sandwich. Ali handed the bag to him and then reached back into the Cayenne to retrieve her laptop. B. led her up the steep driveway and under a covered portico on the south side of the house, where two double doors—either antique or suitably distressed—created an impressive entry.
“For real?” Ali asked, fingering the rough-hewn wood.
B. grinned and shook his head. “Nope,” he replied. “Well done but absolutely fake. There’s a door factory down in Mexico that’s made a real name for itself manufacturing reproduction doors. The doors were going to be part of a whole Mexican-hacienda motif. I had planned on hiring a decorator and really doing the place up in spectacular fashion, but it turns out I’ve had a few other things on my plate. In other words, I haven’t quite gotten around to redecorating. You’ll have to take the house as is.”
The tall wooden doors opened onto a soaring two-story foyer with an exquisitely tiled floor. After that impressive entry, things pretty much went downhill. The living room was huge, with a massive black granite fireplace at the far end. What should have been a spectacular focal point for the home suffered from the furnishings—an oddball collection of mismatched tables, desks, and benches, all of which held one or more computers. The only concession to comfort came in the
guise of two rolling desk chairs that evidently migrated as needed from one computer station to the next.
“Why do I feel like I just ended up at a computer garage sale?” Ali asked.
“It’s not,” B. said with a chuckle. “For one thing, not one of these computers is dead. They’re all hard at work doing their own little part of solving our encryption problem. I’ll admit, I probably shouldn’t have set them up in the living room, but there was more room here than anywhere else. The kitchen’s on through there,” he added, pointing and leading the way. “I put on a new pot of coffee, and if you’re hungry, I’ll be happy to share some of my sandwich.”
Taking the hint, Ali followed B. into the kitchen. “Yes on the coffee,” she said. “I already had breakfast, so I’m not hungry. Don’t let that stop you. You go ahead.”
She watched while he dished the sandwich out onto a paper plate and set the table with an assortment of plastic utensils. A confirmed bachelor, Ali concluded.
B. seemed to read her mind. “I was married once,” he said as he poured freshly brewed coffee from a state-of-the-art Krups brew station into a pair of mugs that were covered with fading Nintendo logos. “Briefly and badly,” he added. “She wanted to fix me and turn our house into something out of House and Garden. I’m more into retro Star Wars. She also wanted me to work regular office hours with nights and weekends off. I took the position that as much money as I was making, I didn’t need to be fixed. We decided to go our separate ways. She lives the way she lives, and I live like this.” He paused and looked at Ali expectantly, as if waiting for her to fill in the blanks of her own life.
“If you’ve Googled me,” she said, “then you already know I got turned in for a newer model. Or two.”
“Yes,” B. agreed. “I believe there was some mention of that. I also read that before all was said and done, you ended up being accused of knocking him off. Is that what got you so bound up in trying to help Bryan Forester?”
It was a fair question, especially in view of the fact that Ali’s involvement had drawn B. into the equation as well. “I suppose,” Ali admitted. “And considering your past history, I really appreciate that you’re willing to help out.”
B. grinned at her before taking a bite of the oversize sandwich. “You’re a paying customer,” he said, when he finished chewing. “And the customer is always right. You brought the thumb drives?”
“Yes.” Ali reached into her purse, pulled out the drives in question, and put them on the table. “I already tried using one of them in my computer,” she said, patting her computer case. “Nothing happened, but as you said, I wasn’t online at the time.”
B. nodded. “Thanks for dropping them off. As soon as I’m done with my sandwich, I’ll check them out. The drives and the computer.”
“Thank you,” Ali said.
“And what about Dave Holman?” B. asked. “Did you tell him about the possible connection between his case and our identity thief?”
“Not yet,” Ali said. “I’ve tried calling him several times. He must be busy. The calls go straight to voice mail.”
“Keep trying,” B. urged. “The more I think about it, the less I like it.”
Ali stayed long enough for B. to polish off the sandwich. Once he reached for her computer, she stood to leave. She still hadn’t heard back from Leland Brooks, and she wanted to make sure someone was at the Manzanita Hills house in advance of the deputies with their search warrant.
“You’re welcome to stay if you want to,” he said.
Ali shook her head. “I’ve already seen you working on computers,” she said. “It’s about as much fun as watching grass grow.”
“That’s funny,” B. said. “It’s almost the same thing my ex-wife used to say.”
CHAPTER 14
Leaving the village, Ali tried calling both Dave and Leland again. To no avail: Neither of them answered. On the way, she drove up to the Manzanita Hills house, expecting to see a pallet or two of tiles sitting in the driveway. There wasn’t one, and Leland wasn’t there, either.
Exasperated, Ali called B. Simpson back. “Have you taken a look at either one of the thumb drives?” she asked.
“Both of them,” he said. “And you’re right. They were both infected, but now that I know how this guy works, it wasn’t hard to disable the worm. I just finished working on Morgan’s. Why?”
“Someone was supposed to deliver a tile order today,” Ali said. “But there’s no sign of it here, and no sign of Mr. Brooks either. I’m wondering what happened.”
“Would you like me to check Morgan’s address book and see if I can find a phone number for you? Do you happen to remember the name?”
“Tile Design,” Ali answered impatiently. “Something like that.”
“Import Granite and Tile Design?” B. returned a moment later. “On Buckeye Road?”
“That’s the one,” Ali said. “Can you give me the number?”
“And down here on the notes, there’s a whole series of invoice numbers,” B. said. “Would you like those as well?”
Ali noted them. Once she dialed the number, she spent the next several minutes on hold before someone from customer service came on the line.
“My name is Alison Reynolds,” Ali told the woman. “My contractor is Build It Construction here in Sedona. I was told my order of limestone tile would be delivered today, but it hasn’t shown up.”
“You were expecting an order today?” the woman asked. “Where again?”
“In Sedona. At my construction site on Manzanita Hills Road. The contractor is currently unavailable, and I was told I needed to have someone on site to sign the invoice and accept delivery.”
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Reynolds,” the woman said. “I see the order right here, but there must be some kind of mistake. We don’t make deliveries in Sedona on Fridays. And your tile is in transit, but it isn’t due at our warehouse here in Phoenix until late next week at the earliest.”
“But I was told it would be here today.”
“Perhaps it’s an order from another company,” the woman said cheerfully. “It’s possible that the contractor ordered from more than one supplier. You should probably check with him.”
I would, if I could find him. Ali thought grimly. If he really is out of jail.
She was still fuming when she pulled into the driveway at Skyview, where she was relieved to see Leland Brooks’s pickup parked right outside the house. That meant he was back here. Maybe he was vacuuming or doing some other noisy chore that made hearing the ringing of his telephone impossible. If nothing else, he might be able to unravel the puzzle of that missing load of limestone tile.
“Hi,” she called, coming inside. “Leland? Anybody home?”
There was no answer as she closed the front door and turned to deposit her keys and purse on the burled-wood entryway table. When she looked up from doing that, she was astonished to find herself faced with a complete stranger. A dark-haired man with a grim expression was seated directly across from her on the leather couch. In one hand, he held a gun—an enormous handgun—that was trained on her. Both that hand and the other one, the one resting casually on his knee, were covered by latex surgical gloves. That was definitely a bad sign—a very bad sign. The man was dressed all in green, like one of the doctors on Scrubs, and he wore a pair of surgical booties on his feet.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What the hell are you doing in my house? Who let you in? And where’s Leland Brooks?”
The man’s face twisted into a sardonic grin. “So many questions,” he said, “and from someone who no doubt thought she already had all the answers. First let me see that Glock of yours. I understand you never leave home without it. Take it out from wherever it is you carry it. Take it out very carefully and put it right there on the floor in front of you. Then move back to the door and sit there. No heroics, Ms. Reynolds. One false move, and I promise you, I will pull the trigger.”
He spoke so calmly, so deliberately, that Al
i had no doubt he meant every word. With her heart slamming wildly inside her chest, she did as she’d been told: She carefully removed the Glock from its small-of-back holster and put it on the floor. Then, as directed, she moved back to the door and slid down to the floor in front of it.
How can this be happening to me? she wondered. Why didn’t I see it coming?
There had been no warning. None. One moment things had seemed completely normal. She had been performing the perfectly ordinary tasks of stepping into her house and closing the door behind her. The next moment her life was on the line: There was a stranger in her house, and she was staring down the barrel of a deadly weapon.
“You still haven’t told me who you are,” she said. With her whole body quaking, she struggled to steady her voice. She needed to put up a good front and to sound less threatened than she felt.
“Why don’t you tell me who I am?” the man returned.
Just then Ali heard a car pulling up in the driveway. A car door slammed shut. Hearing it, she was terrified that school had let out early for some unknown reason and her son, Chris, was about to walk into a trap. But then a second door slammed as well. She heard the sound of approaching voices, of two men talking. Her captor heard them, too.
“Whoever it is, get rid of them,” he whispered urgently. “Now! And no tricks, either.”
When the doorbell clanged right above Ali’s head, the sound was so loud it took her breath away. She knew that she needed to call for help. Someone was right there, on the far side of the door, but if she did call out and sound an alarm, what would happen? She would be dead, and so might the unsuspecting people outside. For a long time, she didn’t move and didn’t speak.
“I said get rid of them,” the man hissed.
The bell rang again. “Ali,” Jacky Jackson said. “Your car’s parked right outside. We know you’re in there. Why aren’t you answering the door?”