Clawback (19 page)

When Cami finished reading the interview, she checked out some of the news stories about the incident that were circulating on the Web. There was still no mention of the victims' names—pending notification of next of kin—but a police spokesman had acknowledged that the two people had died of multiple stab wounds.

Multiple stab wounds didn't sound like what Cami knew of Bob Larson, either. Yes, he'd been found with blood all over him, but the man was in his seventies. Did he have the physical strength to overpower two people and then stab them to death? Wielding a knife like that would take effort and endurance. It was easy to dismiss Bob as a hands-on killer, but maybe not as a mastermind. Cami realized that he could have had someone else do the job if he hadn't been physically carrying it out himself.

Looking over at Stu's littered desk, Cami noted the profusion of empty food wrappers and drink containers, not to mention the fact that Stu was still dressed in yesterday's clothes. That told her that he had been at his desk all night long, without so much as walking to the far end of the room and entering his private living space. No wonder he was grumpy, but still, Cami couldn't help wondering what he could have been doing all that time that had kept him chained to his desk.

Turning back to her own computer, Cami opened the list of shared files, scrolled through Recently Added, and opened the newest of those, one entitled: “Phone Tracker.” As soon as she started viewing it, she realized Stu must have spent much of the night working on this one file.

With a time stamp in the corner clicking off seconds and minutes, she watched the tracked movements of a dot labeled “Bob's Cell” overlaid on a satellite view of the area. The tracking began at a spot Cami recognized as the location of Sedona Shadows and eventually entered a neighborhood she recognized as Dan and Millie Frazier's. Then it turned on to a small cul-de-sac labeled “Elberta Drive.”

Once on the street it stopped and remained stationary for some time. Cami fast-forwarded through that, but when she slowed the footage down and the label moved again twenty minutes had elapsed on the time stamp. Cami followed the moving cell phone up a long driveway. At the top, there was another short pause before there was a second burst of activity—first into a structure that was evidently a garage, then after another brief pause, into the house, then back to the garage, and finally back out into the yard. It paused again before coming to rest at another location under what appeared to be a large tree. Shortly after the phone entered the garage the first time, Stu had added yet another component to the video—layering in a recording of a concurrent 911 call that came complete with its own matching time stamp.

As far as Cami was concerned, the phone tracker file declared straight out that Bob Larson was innocent. But if he hadn't killed Dan and Millie Frazier, who had? Cami went back to the transcript. The bloody knife—presumably the murder weapon or one of them—had been found in Bob's Bronco. That meant Bob and the killer or killers had been at the Fraziers' residence at the same time. Realizing that sent Cami straight back to her copy of the transcript and to the words “landscaping truck.”

So where was the vehicle? Bob claimed he had seen it there when he drove up, but it must have been long gone by the time the cops arrived. Did it belong there or not? Where had it gone and who had been driving? Was the person behind the wheel one of the perpetrators, or was he a potential witness?

Shutting down her computer, Cami grabbed both her iPad and laptop and then pulled her purse out of her desk drawer. She slammed the drawer shut hard enough that Stu looked up and glanced in her direction.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Out,” she told him.

After all, two could play that game.

H
aley slept some, but not well. Mostly she tossed and turned. The next morning, still rummy from lack of sleep, she staggered into the kitchen later than usual to start coffee and make breakfast. Most mornings she'd be dressed and ready to go to work by now, but today, with no news from Agent Ferris about when they'd be allowed back into the office, going to work wasn't an option. She had just poured oatmeal into the pot of boiling water when the doorbell rang.

It was 7:40. Having someone turn up unannounced on the front porch at this hour of the morning was very much out of the ordinary. Concerned about waking Gram, Haley hurried to the door before the visitor could ring the bell again. Opening the front door she found a man she recognized standing on the far side of the sturdy security screen.

“Detective Eric Drinkwater, Sedona PD,” he said, holding out his ID wallet. “I'd like to speak to you for a few minutes.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, stepping out onto the porch. “I don't want to awaken my grandmother.”

Detective Drinkwater, wearing a suit and tie, left Haley feeling ill at ease and self-conscious in a tank top, shorts, and flip-flops.

“I'm assuming you're aware of the Frazier double homicide?”

Haley nodded. “Yes,” she said faintly. “I heard about that.”

“I understand you worked for Mr. Frazier for a long time.”

“Eighteen years. For part of that time I worked for Millie as well, less so once Dan started working out of the Ocotillo Fund Management headquarters down in Phoenix.”

“In other words, you knew him well.”

Haley nodded. “Probably better than most.”

“Are you aware of anyone who might have wished to harm either one of them?”

Haley sighed. “I don't know of anyone in particular, but after the news about OFM's bankruptcy broke yesterday morning, I'm sure lots of people are understandably upset with him right now. Still, I can't imagine that any of those folks, including Bob Larson, would go so far as to physically attack Dan or Millie.”

Drinkwater blinked in surprise at that. “What makes you mention Mr. Larson?”

Haley realized it was time to come clean. “I saw the whole thing,” she answered.

“You saw the murders?”

“No, not the murders, but I was nearby during most of the investigation. When cops and aid cars started showing up at Dan's place, the woman who lives across the street, Julia King, came by the office to let me know. She brought me back to her house. I was there from late morning until late afternoon. I saw Mr. Larson's vehicle—his Bronco—parked in Dan's yard, and when one of the cop cars came down the driveway, I'm pretty sure I saw him in the backseat—like he was under arrest or something.”

“Bob Larson is someone you recognize on sight?”

“I work in a small business,” Haley said. “It's my job to recognize all of our clients on sight, including you, Detective Drinkwater. I believe we carry your homeowners policy. Bob and Edie Larson have been clients for years, too. Dan handled their investment accounts personally, but the office here in Sedona still handles their insurance needs. So, yes, I know Bob personally. I know his wife, and I know both their vehicles, too. By the way, there aren't that many ancient red Broncos driving around here in Sedona, especially ones with old-style plates.”

“So if OFM went broke and Bob and Edie lost a ton of money, is it likely that they might have held Dan responsible?”

“I suppose,” Haley said, “but the same applies to plenty of other people here in town as well.”

“When did you first learn of the Ocotillo bankruptcy issue?”

“I didn't know the first thing about it until a crew of guys from the SEC turned up on Monday afternoon and ordered us to shut down.”

“Dan didn't call you or give you any advance warning?”

Haley bit her lip. “No,” she said.

“Doesn't that strike you as odd? If you'd worked for him for that long, shouldn't Dan have been the one to let you know things were going south?”

Odd?
Haley thought.
It wasn't just odd. It was infuriating!
But she wasn't about to speak ill of the dead or run down the man who had always been her mentor. “He was probably dealing with other pressing issues,” she said.

“Were you aware of any clients who were particularly upset when they heard the news about Ocotillo Fund Management going bankrupt?”

Haley thought about Frank Merrick, standing there with his placard and yelling insults at her. “Maybe,” she said. Then, after a pause she added, “Probably.”

Drinkwater appeared to be gearing up for another question when the screech of a smoke alarm pierced the air. “The oatmeal,” Haley moaned, turning on her heels and racing inside. The smell of burned cereal filled the whole house. In the kitchen, Haley grabbed the smoldering pan with a hot pad and flung it into the sink. After turning cold water full blast on the stinking remains, she raced toward the smoke alarm panel and keyed in the code.

By the time Haley returned to the living room, she found Gram, still wearing her nightgown and robe, standing face-to-face with Eric Drinkwater. Haley couldn't tell which had unnerved Gram more—the screeching smoke alarm or finding a strange man in the living room.

“Sorry about that,” Haley said to the detective, then to Gram she added, “He's here investigating the murders.”

“Well,” Gram said. “Since you're already here at this ungodly hour of the morning, are you making any progress?”

Ignoring Gram's question, Eric focused on Haley. “Although people here in town are already well aware of who the victims are, we're still trying to locate their next of kin. I was hoping maybe you could help us with that.”

“Dan and Millie have no kids and hence no grandchildren. Dan's folks are both gone, and he was an only child. I believe Millie still has people back in Missouri—an aunt or uncle or two and maybe some cousins,” Haley offered. “I still have their Christmas card list on my computer, so I could give you names and addresses, but there's a problem with accessing that list right now.”

Bristling at being ignored, Gram went over and sank into her recliner. She didn't suggest that Eric should have a seat—a subtle way of returning the favor and letting him know she hoped he'd be leaving sometime soon. Failing to take the hint, however, he settled onto the sofa.

“I noticed that on both of their phones, you're listed as a person to call in case of an emergency.”

“That's true,” Haley agreed, “and has been for years. They didn't have anyone else.”

“She's also their executrix and will most likely have to be responsible for arranging Dan and Millie's funerals,” Gram interjected. “Which means she needs to know how soon the bodies will be released from the morgue.”

Drinkwater looked from Gram back to Haley. “If you're their executrix, are you also a beneficiary under their wills?”

“Not of their wills. With both of them gone, most of their joint estate will be going to charity, although I am the named beneficiary on one of the life insurance policies. I'll also need to have copies of the death certificates so I can initiate the death claims.”

There was a sudden shift in Drinkwater's demeanor. Haley guessed that the possibility of her receiving some kind of financial gain had just caused the detective to move her into his suspect column.

“Why would you be a beneficiary?”

“It's part of a business continuation plan,” she explained. “In the event of Dan's death, it allows me to purchase my part of the book of business—the insurance portion—from the estate.”

“Is that plan still in effect?” Drinkwater asked.

“Yes,” Haley replied.

“Which gives you a certain amount of motivation as well, doesn't it, Ms. Jackson?”

“I suppose it does,” Haley agreed.

“Which means I'll also need a complete listing of your activities from yesterday—where you went, when you arrived, and the names of people who can account for your presence there.”

Gram rose from her chair, favoring Detective Drinkwater with a steely-eyed glare. “I am not going to sit here and listen while you grill my granddaughter about something she couldn't possibly have done,” she snapped. “Since our oatmeal is obviously burned to a crisp, I'm going to get dressed so we can go somewhere to have a decent breakfast. If you know what's good for you, young man, by the time I'm ready to go, you will be, too.”

D
ressed casually in a pair of jeans, a short-sleeved T-shirt, and sandals, Ali set out for her first stop that morning—Sedona Shadows. She didn't bother calling before she went, and she didn't worry about showing up too early, either. Her mother had always been an early riser, and she still was. When Ali tapped on the door, a fully dressed Edie answered, holding a finger to her lips.

“Your father's still sleeping,” she whispered. “I'll get my key, and we can go to the dining hall.”

“After everything that happened yesterday, it's not surprising that he didn't sleep much,” Ali said when her mother stepped back out of the apartment and they headed down the long, carpeted corridor.

“It's not just a matter of not sleeping,” Edie said. “The crazy old coot was out running the streets until all hours—and in my car, too.”

“Running the streets?” Ali asked. “What do you mean?”

“Just that,” Edie said. “When I woke up this morning there was a rose on my pillow. I can tell you for sure there was no rose there when I went to sleep. So I checked the trash. Sure enough, the receipt was right there with a time stamp—1:27 a.m. I can't imagine what Bobby was thinking—running off to the store like that in the middle of the night. I liked the rose, though,” she added. “That was sweet of him. Now if we just didn't have to worry about Eric Drinkwater shipping him off to jail.”

“I don't think you need to worry so much about the jail part,” Ali counseled. “I believe B. and Stu have come up with a way to corroborate Dad's version of events about when he arrived at the Fraziers' place and what happened once he got there.”