Authors: J.A. Jance
“Don’t be silly,” Ali told her. “You said we need to talk. Eating lunch will give Liam something to do in the meantime.”
“You must know something about little boys.”
Ali smiled into the phone. “I had one of those once myself,” she said, laughing. “It’s like riding a bicycle. Some things you never forget.”
Ali had fixed her hair and makeup and was in the process of changing into something more suitable for lunch when her cell phone rang.
“Mr. Forester just called,” Leland Brooks reported. “He’s on
his way here and says he needs to speak with you. He says it’s urgent.”
“All right,” Ali said. “I’m on my way. Is Jacky still there?”
“Mr. Jackson evidently had another engagement,” Leland said.
“Good news,” Ali said. Relieved, she headed back to Manzanita Hills Road. She stepped out of her Cayenne and was delighted when she heard the familiar whine of drills working inside the house. That meant that no matter what else was going on, wallboard installation was still moving forward.
Bryan Forester arrived bare seconds later. When he stepped out of his pickup, she was startled by his gray pallor. “Come on,” he said grimly, gesturing toward the picnic table. “We need to talk.”
He settled down at the table, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. Sitting opposite him, Ali was surprised. She remembered that Billy had mentioned something about Bryan taking up smoking again, but in all the months they’d worked together, she had never seen him with a cigarette.
“They fired me,” he said at last, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air.
“Who fired you?”
“The people at the other two remodel jobs I was doing,” Bryan said. “They’re using the missing cabinet order as cover. They’re claiming I was trying to defraud them by charging for materials that were never ordered.”
“What does that mean?” Ali asked.
“It means both those jobs are shut down. My workers have been ordered off the two properties. Immediately. That’s just an excuse, though. The real reason is what happened to Morgan. As far as the people in this town are concerned, she’s dead, and I’m the abusive murdering husband who did it.”
He sounded so beaten and discouraged, Ali had no idea what to say. “I’m sorry,” she began, but he plowed on.
“You know, I put up with Morgan’s crap for years because I didn’t have a choice,” Bryan continued. “The world may have changed in a lot of ways, but not when it comes to divorce. If there are kids involved, fathers don’t get custody. Period, not unless the mother happens to be a drug-dealing crackhead, and sometimes not even then. So I put up with Morgan’s stunts, with all her whoring around and game playing, because I wasn’t willing to lose Lindsay and Lacy. I kept my mouth shut and lived with it. But now that she’s dead, all of a sudden people have decided I’m the one who’s at fault—I’m the one who must have killed her. That I, someone who’s never killed anything—who’s never even shot a bird with a BB gun—would murder the mother of my children.”
“I’m sure they’re shocked by what happened to Morgan,” Ali interjected. “We all are. They’re looking for someone to blame.”
“They’re blaming me!” Bryan insisted, his voice trembling with outrage. “People I’ve known all my life are saying awful things about me. They don’t say them to my face, of course. No one has guts enough to do that, but I’m not stupid. I’m getting the message loud and clear.”
“What do you mean?” Ali asked.
“I went to the bank just now, and the teller there treated me like crap. The same thing happened to me at the hardware store with a clerk I’ve done business with for years. It seemed to me that with my wife dead, people would be nice to me and might even offer a little sympathy. What a laugh. Instead, they treat me like a leper. Why? What happened to that bit about innocent until proven guilty? And what about the deputy who’s been following me around all morning? I’d be willing to bet he’s parked
at the bottom of your driveway right this minute. What do they think I’m going to do, try to take off somewhere? Take my girls and go live in another country?”
Spent, Bryan subsided into a bleak silence. At that point, the man seemed so far beyond any consolation mere words could offer that Ali wondered if she should even try. But she did anyway. “As I told you, the same thing happened to me when my second husband died.”
Bryan looked at her blankly and shook his head. Bogged down in his own troubles, he clearly didn’t remember their earlier conversation. So she told him again.
“My ex-husband was murdered just before our divorce was due to become final,” she said. “People found it easy to blame me, too. So did the cops.”
“Even though you hadn’t done it?”
Ali nodded. “Even though.”
“And what did you say to those people—to the people who thought you were guilty?”
“They were entitled to their own opinions,” Ali said. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that some of them still think I was somehow involved in Paul Grayson’s murder. The point is, what they think of me is none of my business. It doesn’t matter.”
“Do you believe me?” Bryan asked suddenly. “Do you think I did it?”
“I saw Morgan’s profile on the Singleatheart website,” Ali said quietly. “I know she was cheating on you. Or at least I know she was trying to cheat on you.”
“More than trying,” Bryan corrected. “Did.” He didn’t bother asking how Ali knew about Singleatheart. Obviously, he had known about it, too.
“You told me yourself that you thought she had misappropri
ated the cabinet deposits,” Ali said. “I can see how you’d have reason to be angry.”
“Not angry enough to kill her,” Bryan said.
“No,” Ali agreed, “but in the eyes of the world, the fact that you were angry, even justifiably angry, also makes you a suspect.”
Bryan looked at Ali closely. “What about you? Do you think I did it?” he repeated.
It was an honest question that deserved an honest answer. Ali met Bryan’s questioning gaze without wavering. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t. If I had thought you were guilty of murder, do you think I would have gone ahead and reordered the cabinets?”
“But you’re the only one,” Bryan said. “My other so-called clients sure as hell didn’t reorder.”
“Maybe I have more faith in the justice system than they do,” Ali said. “Maybe I believe in what you called ‘the innocent until proven guilty’ bit.”
“Does that mean you’ll help me?” Bryan asked.
“Wait a minute,” Ali countered. “As I said, I’ve already reordered the cabinets. Your guys are still working here. I haven’t ordered them off the premises. Isn’t that enough?”
“I need more than that,” Bryan said, lowering his voice. “I’m convinced someone is trying to frame me—someone who wants me to go to prison for murdering my wife. Gary, one of the wallboard guys, told me he saw Dave Holman take something out of the back of my truck yesterday afternoon. Gary didn’t know what it was, and neither do I. But whatever it was, I sure as hell didn’t put it there.
“Then, last night, when I was loading a stack of wallboard, I saw something in the bed of my truck—a rust-colored stain that looks like blood. If that’s what it is, I have no idea where it came from, but I’m guessing whatever Dave took away with him
had blood on it, too. They’re probably running forensics tests on it right this minute. That may be why I’m not already under arrest—they haven’t finished running whatever tests they need to run. But once they do that, it’s game over. That’s why I’m here talking to you now. There’s been a cop on my tail all morning long, following me everywhere I go. I doubt I have much more time.”
With that, Bryan reached into the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt and withdrew several items—an envelope with Billy Barnes’s name scrawled carelessly across it and what appeared to be two computer thumb drives. He carefully returned the envelope to his pocket, but after placing the two drives on the table, he pushed them in Ali’s direction.
“I downloaded these from our Web-based backup site,” he explained. “One contains all the files that were on Morgan’s desktop computer as of midnight last night. The other contains all the files on my laptop. I’m sure Dave Holman is trying like crazy to get himself a search warrant for all my property. Once he does that, I have to assume both of those computers are going away. He’ll probably be able to freeze the backup files as well. In the meantime, I want you to keep these for me.”
“Why?” Ali said. “Surely you must know that Dave Holman is a friend of mine. I’m not going to go against him on something like this.”
“I still want you to have them,” Bryan insisted. “I’m not asking you to do anything with them. Just hold them for me, for safekeeping, until I decide what’s to be done with them.”
“Bryan,” Ali said, “if you think what’s on either one of those drives will help your case, you’re far better off giving them to your attorney.”
“What attorney?” Bryan asked. “You’re forgetting I just had
to terminate two full crews of workers. It took every last penny in my checking account to pay them off. And I’ve maxed out my credit cards making a deposit with the funeral director who’s handling Morgan’s services. I don’t have an attorney for the very good reason that I can’t afford one. Period. I’m not going to have any representation at all until the court gets around to appointing someone, and that won’t be until after I’ve been arrested. From the way things are going, help like that could be too late. I need to know that someone is looking at this mess from my side, Ali. Right now it feels like everyone in the world is working against me—everyone but you.”
As Ali struggled to find a way to reply, she realized that the whining drills inside the house had fallen silent. She saw Bryan’s expression darken. His crew emerged from the house. With lunch boxes in hand, the three men sauntered in the direction of the canopy-covered table. They were followed by the camera crew. This time the cameras weren’t running.
“Speak of the devil,” Bryan muttered. Rising to his feet, he went to meet them. A few steps from the table, he barred their way.
“Hey, Bryan,” Billy Barnes said easily. “Good to see you. What’s up?”
In answer, Bryan removed the envelope from his pocket and handed it over.
Billy looked puzzled. “What’s this?” he asked.
“You’re terminated,” Bryan said. “Ryan, you and Gary are still on the job until the wallboarding is done. Understand?”
“Terminated,” Billy repeated. “Wait a minute. What’s the deal? You’re keeping these yahoos and letting me go? What are you smoking?”
“Unfiltered Camels,” Bryan returned. “That’s what I’m smoking, but I’ve also been reading the e-mails on Morgan’s com
puter. Turns out she kept them all—the ones she wrote to somebody named Billy Boy and the ones he wrote back to her several months ago. She didn’t even bother erasing them. Can you imagine that? And here I thought the two of us were friends.” Bryan’s voice dripped with contempt.
Billy Barnes’s customary bluster faded. “Look, Morgan and me were friends,” he said. “And I can explain. What happened was an accident. I didn’t mean for us to get involved like that, and neither did she. Things just got out of hand.”
“Things got very out of hand,” Bryan agreed. “Now get the hell out of here, Billy. Everyone in town seems to think I’m capable of murder. Looking at your slimeball face, I’m beginning to think maybe they’re right. I could do the world a huge favor by wiping your ass off it.” Bryan took a single threatening step in Billy’s direction. Fearing blows were about to be exchanged, Ali held her breath, but before the confrontation had a chance to turn physical, Leland Brooks appeared silently out of nowhere and stepped between the two men.
“Enough,” he said. “You should probably leave now, Mr. Barnes, while you still can.”
Brandishing his lunch pail, Billy glared back at him. “Nobody tells me what to do, you worthless little fag,” he shot back. “Get out of the way.”
“Don’t start with me,” Leland advised quietly, holding up a warning hand of his own. “Looks can be quite deceiving. I just might surprise you. Now, I suggest you do as you were told and go.”
After a moment of bristling silence, Billy backed down. He turned to the other workers, who had melted into the background, putting some welcome distance between themselves and the growing altercation. “Are you two coming with me or not?” Billy asked.
Gary and Ryan exchanged wary glances, but neither of them made a move.
“Suit yourselves,” Bryan told them. “It’s up to you. Go or not. Billy’s the one who got terminated, not you. As far as I’m concerned, you guys are still on this job.”
“Hey, you two, don’t be stupid,” Billy urged. “You heard what the man said. He’s broke. Busted. Tapped out. Once he goes to jail, who’s going to write your checks?”
“I will,” Ali asserted quietly, moving into the breach. “No matter what happens to Mr. Forester, if you’re still working on my job, I’ll see to it that you get paid. Understand?”
“You think she’ll pay you directly?” Billy asked. “What BS!”
“It’s not BS,” Leland said. “If madam says she’ll pay, she will. The woman’s word is her bond. As for you? It’s time for you to leave. Now.”
Heeding the warning, Billy stalked off without a backward glance. Bryan returned to the table and sank down on one of the benches, while Leland turned back to the two remaining workmen.
“It might be best if you went somewhere else for your lunch break today,” he said. “I believe Mr. Forester and Mrs. Reynolds require some privacy.”
G
ary, Ryan, and the two ever present cameramen disappeared into the house without any further discussion.
“Thank you for backing me up, Leland,” Bryan murmured. “If it hadn’t been for you, I might have decked the guy. Then the cops could have me up on an assault charge along with everything else.”
“You’re most welcome,” Leland replied. “Think nothing of it. That’s one of my responsibilities around here—dealing with thorny construction issues.” With that, he turned to Ali. “And now, if you don’t mind, madam,” he added, “I’d like to take the key to your other home and go have a look around.”
“Why?”
“In case we have to change the venue for Thanksgiving dinner in a matter of days, I should probably reconnoiter the situation—see what you have available. That way I’ll know what equipment, if any, I should get out of storage.”
Ali knew at once that she had been outmaneuvered. Had Leland pressed her for the key to her house under any other circumstances, she might have been able to tell him no. Not
wanting to add to Bryan’s difficulties by making more of a fuss about the Thanksgiving issue, she simply handed over her key.
“And the alarm system is still out of order?” Leland asked.
The previous week, the alarm had gone nuts. A technician had stopped by long enough to say that a new motherboard was required. He had yet to return. Ali nodded in confirmation.
“Very well, then,” the butler said. He started away, then turned back. “You’re not forgetting your three o’clock, are you?”
“Which three o’clock?” Ali asked.
“With Marissa Dvorak.”
The other possible scholarship winner. Leland was right: With everything else that was going on, she had forgotten.
“Of course not,” Ali replied. “What makes you think I’d forget that?”
For a long time after Leland Brooks left them there, Ali and Bryan sat at the table in silence while Bryan lit another cigarette. “Thanks for agreeing to pay my guys,” he said at last. “I don’t know when or how, but I will pay you back.”
“I’m sure you will,” Ali said.
“I really appreciate it,” Bryan added. “I understand that you probably don’t want to believe me, either. Thanks for giving me the benefit of the doubt.”
Ali glanced down at the two thumb drives, still lying on the table. Then she looked back at Bryan. “So Billy was involved with Morgan?”
Bryan nodded dejectedly. “Some friend, right?”
“Is it possible he had something to do with what happened to her?” she asked.
Bryan shook his head. “I doubt it. The e-mails I found that
went back and forth between them were from several months ago. Whatever they had going, I think it was pretty much over, but I may have turned up another clue.”
“What’s that?”
He reached into the pocket of his jeans and removed his wallet. From that he took a small piece of paper that he handed over to Ali. On it was a list of numbers—872-GYG, along with a freestanding H that evidently wasn’t part of the number.
“What’s this?” Ali asked.
“You don’t know my daughters,” Bryan said softly. “Lindsey is bright as a new penny—fun and engaging. Lacy is different, smart but different. She likes order. She doesn’t like it if things are out of place or if they’re not what she’s used to. She notices things and can remember details that other kids don’t. Numbers especially.”
Ali studied the paper. “Is that where these numbers came from?” she asked. “From Lacy?”
Bryan nodded. “She saw a car parked along the road that morning when the bus went past on its way to school. It had never been there, so as far as Lacy was concerned, it shouldn’t have been there at all. That’s why she remembered the license number.”
“Is the H part of it, too?”
Bryan shook his head. “That was on the bumper, not the license. So it could have been a rental car—from Hertz, maybe.”
Ali handed the piece of paper back to Bryan. She remembered Dave mentioning that he intended to have the two girls interviewed by one of the children’s forensics specialists from up in Flagstaff.
“Did this information come from an interview with one of the child advocates?” Ali asked.
Bryan shook his head again. “Lacy doesn’t speak to strangers,” he said. “She doesn’t speak to anyone, really, not even me. The only person she actually communicates with is her sister. She told Lindsey about this last night, and Lindsey told me this morning. She said the license was green and white and that it had mountains on it.”
“So the vehicle is registered in Colorado, then,” Ali concluded. “Have you told Dave Holman? If there was an unidentified vehicle in the vicinity of a homicide, the investigating officers need to know about it.”
“There’s no way to know for sure if whoever was driving this vehicle had anything to do with what happened to Morgan,” Bryan said. “It could be totally unrelated—something as harmless as a hiker leaving his car parked along the road while he went for a walk.”
“It could also be a lot more than that,” Ali pointed out. “Dave needs to know about it.”
Several long seconds passed before Bryan replied. “Here’s the problem,” he said. “If Dave learns about it, he’ll want to question Lacy, and I don’t want him hounding her about anything. My girls have already been traumatized enough—Lacy in particular. Their mother’s dead. Their whole world is in an uproar. How much worse could it be?”
“Unfortunately, it could be a lot worse,” Ali told him. “What happens if you go to prison for Morgan’s murder? How traumatized will your daughters be then? If there’s even the smallest chance that this license number might lead to the killer, or even to someone who might have seen the killer and could help iden
tify him, then you have an obligation to your daughters and to yourself to let the authorities in on it.”
Without another word, she picked up her cell phone and scrolled through the phone book until she located Dave’s number. Then she handed the phone over to Bryan.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“That’s Dave’s number. Press send and then talk to him. You can’t sit on this information, Bryan. It’s too important. It could be vital.”
Bryan stared at the phone in his hand but made no move to use it.
“Look,” Ali insisted, “you asked me to help you. I’m willing to do that, but not if you’re not willing to help yourself.”
“All Dave Holman is looking for is an excuse to slap me in jail.”
“Dave Holman doesn’t screw around,” Ali returned. “He’s a straight shooter. And he’s got kids who aren’t perfect himself. If you ask him to leave Lacy alone, he probably will. But you decide. Either call him and give him the information, or you’re on your own.”
For a moment her ultimatum hovered between them, then reluctantly, Bryan pressed send.
“Detective Holman?” he said when Dave answered. “It’s Bryan Forester. I have some information for you. Yes, I know I’m calling on Ali Reynolds’s phone. She insisted that I call.”
There was a long pause before Bryan spoke again. “It has to do with a vehicle that was spotted in the vicinity of our place the morning my wife died.” After another long pause, Bryan swallowed hard before he replied to Dave’s obvious question. “That would be my daughter Lacy. And no, I don’t have a description,
beyond the fact that the car was blue but I have what I believe to be the license number—from Colorado. Yes. I’ll wait.” He turned to Ali and mouthed, “He’s getting a pencil.”
Several minutes later, Bryan had relayed the information. He closed the phone and handed it back to Ali. “There,” he said. “I hope you’re happy.”
Ali nodded. “It’s a start,” she said.
Bryan stood up.
“Where are you going?” Ali asked.
“I’ll go into the house and check on progress, then I’ll head back to the hotel. My mother doesn’t do well with Lacy, especially when it comes to mealtimes. Mother thinks Lacy is spoiled. She’s not. She’s just Lacy.”
He walked away, leaving Ali to wonder if Lacy’s different way of viewing the world might provide the one telling detail that could end up proving her father’s innocence.
Bryan was still in the house when Ali’s phone rang. She wasn’t surprised to see Dave Holman’s phone number.
“You had Bryan Forester call me on your phone?” Dave demanded. “Why are you having anything to do with him, Ali? He’s a possible murder suspect, a dangerous man.”
“Yes,” Ali agreed. “That’s the word on the street. I’m hearing the same thing from all the local hairdressers.”
“Ali, he’s playing on your sympathies. And this license thing. Where did that come from? It certainly didn’t show up in the CHAP interview.”
“I’m not surprised,” Ali said. “According to Bryan, Lacy doesn’t talk to anyone but her sister, but are you going to check the lead or not?”
“Of course I’m going to check it out,” Dave said, sounding exasperated. “But I’m also telling you that it’s in Bryan’s best
interest to have us running around in circles and following up on useless leads. It’s what guys like him do. That’s how they think and how they work.”
“Bryan Forester didn’t kill his wife,” Ali asserted.
“How do you know?” Dave asked.
“Because he told me.”
“Right,” Dave said with a mirthless chuckle. “He told you, and you believed him. How does that old George Strait song go? ‘If you’ll buy that, I’ve got some oceanfront property in Arizona.’”
“But I do believe him,” Ali said.
Dave backed off. “Look, things were going badly for him. I’m hearing that Morgan wasn’t exactly walking the straight and narrow and that she was fooling around—a lot. I think it’s possible he and Morgan got into some kind of argument, and he lost it. I’m not saying that he didn’t have some real provocation, and I’m not saying it was premeditated. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous and unpredictable. Do yourself a favor, Ali. Do us all a favor. Stay away from him. Don’t get involved.”
“Sorry, Dave,” she said. “Remember, I was a murder suspect, too—and not all that long ago.” Ali ended the call knowing it was too late for Dave’s warning. She was already involved—very involved.
Bryan emerged from the house. “Ryan and Gary are close to finishing up with what little wallboard they have left. I told them that when they quit for the day, they should call me. I’ll pay them for whatever hours they’ve worked so far. After today, though, they should plan on taking the rest of the week off. I told them either I’ll give them a call or Mr. Brooks will when it’s time for them to come back.”
Ali nodded. “That’s fine,” she said.
“Thanks for all your help,” he said. “The best I can possibly hope for now is that Dave Holman won’t throw me in jail until after the funeral and until after I can make some kind of arrangement for the girls. That’s not asking too much, is it?”
“I hope not,” Ali said. “When is the funeral?”
“Day after tomorrow,” Bryan answered. “Friday at ten
A.M.
”
What if Dave does have evidence that links Bryan to Morgan’s mrder?
Ali wondered. Here was Bryan, hoping he’d be able to be with the twins for their mother’s funeral. But what would happen to them after that, especially if he ended up being tried for murder and going to prison? The idea of those two little girls—the one, especially—having to live with a grandmother who didn’t particularly like them made Ali’s heart ache.
Bryan had barely driven away when Ali’s phone rang. “Liam didn’t take much of a nap,” Nelda Harris told her. “We’re on our way.”
Switching gears, Ali left the house and went straight back to the Sugarloaf. It was long enough after the lunch rush that the place wasn’t crowded. She corralled the corner booth—the one that offered the most privacy—and asked her mother for a high chair.
“Whose baby?” Edie Larson asked.
Ali wasn’t eager to go into detail. “A friend’s” was all she said.
Nelda arrived a few minutes later. She walked through the restaurant with Liam following behind. He carried a miniature truck in each hand and grinned happily when he saw Ali.
Nelda nixed the high chair in favor of a booster seat and then hefted Liam into that. “He gets in less trouble if he has a truck in each hand,” she observed.
Ali’s mother followed them to the table, bringing along the one-page children’s menu and a pack of four Crayolas. When
she returned a few minutes later, she beamed at Liam, who was busily coloring, and handed Nelda a package of oyster crackers. “What’s Mr. Handsome here having today?” she asked. He looked back at her with his wide-eyed killer smile.
For lunch, Nelda asked to share a grilled cheese with the baby. Ali, still full from breakfast, ordered nothing but coffee. As Edie pocketed her order pad, she gave Liam an affectionate pat on the head. “This kid is cute as a button,” she said. “I’ll bet he takes after his daddy.” As Edie walked away, she didn’t glimpse the dismay that flashed across Nelda’s face at the well-meaning remark. Ali did and knew that her mother had stepped in it.
So that’s it,
she thought.
Something to do with the father. Some kid knocked Haley up and then declined to do the right thing.
Since Edie had already broached the subject, Ali went ahead and followed up. “I suppose this is the same old story,” she said. “The boy gets off scot-free, and the girl is left holding the bag and the B-A-B-Y.” Ali didn’t know exactly how old Liam was or how much he’d be able to understand. Spelling some of the critical words seemed like a good thing.
For a moment, rather than replying, Nelda busied herself with doling out a few of the oyster crackers to Liam. “It wasn’t quite like that,” she said at last. “It was actually a lot worse. Do you remember what I asked you about this morning?”
“You mean about good and evil?”
Nelda nodded. “I think most people believe that good comes from good and evil comes from evil, but that’s not necessarily true. My husband, Liam, was one of the nicest people who ever lived. And I consider myself a good person, too, but our daughter, Patsy, was pure evil. Still is pure evil. And yet Haley is her daughter. And Liam here is her grandson.”
Liam took that as a cue to toss a handful of crackers over his head. And when his grandmother—his great-grandmother, Ali realized—chided him about it, he gave her a grin punctuated by tiny white teeth. Shaking her head, Nelda gathered up the crackers and gave him the menu and the Crayolas.