by J. A. Jance
“What about him?”
“He’s apparently having some health issues,” Leland said quietly.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Ali said. Leaving her grilled cheese to cool, she picked up her spoon and dipped it into the spicy gazpacho. When she sampled it, the fiery flavor sent her taste buds dancing. “Serious health issues?”
Leland nodded. “The tests have come back positive for lymphoma.”
Ali set down her spoon. “That’s not good.”
“Not at all,” Leland agreed. “I’ve been doing some online searches. It turns out there are far more cutting-edge treatments available for lymphoma here in the US than there are back home in the UK.”
“Which is where he is.”
“Yes. The problem is, that’s where Thomas wants to stay. My plan is to go there and convince him otherwise. I’d like him to come here for treatment, either on a visitor’s visa or as a spouse if need be, but he is adamant about not coming.”
“Which means you need to go to him.”
Leland nodded. “That’s the only way to be sure he’ll be properly looked after.”
Ali studied Leland’s weathered countenance. The man had spent a lifetime making sure that other people were “properly looked after.” Ali’s worry was whether there’d be someone on hand to do the same for Leland, if and when the need arose.
“Of course,” Ali said. “You must do so at once.”
“But not without taking care of things here beforehand,” Leland argued. “I have no intention of going off and leaving you and Mr. Simpson in the lurch. Knowing that Thomas was undergoing tests and that this might be the end result, I’ve taken the liberty of making inquiries about a possible replacement for me. Since speed is of the essence, I’ve asked the three top candidates to plan on being available for interviews toward the end of the week—if that’s all right with you, that is. Two of them will need to be interviewed via Skype. The third candidate is currently visiting relatives in the Phoenix area. He may be able to show up in person. If one of the three proves to be acceptable, I’d like that person to be on the job as soon as possible so I can bring him up to speed. Thomas’s first go-round of treatment is set for three weeks from now, and I’d like to be on hand for that.”
“Does B. know about any of this?”
Leland shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “You’re the first to have the news.”
For a moment Ali said nothing. Saddened by the news, she looked around the spotless kitchen, one that had been designed to Leland’s exacting specifications. It was hard to think of this house without him in it, smoothing the way and keeping everything shipshape. And it wasn’t just Leland’s ability to keep the household in order. He had played an important part in Ali’s ongoing commitment to running a locally based college scholarship program, and on at least one occasion, Leland’s training as a Royal Marine had saved Ali’s life.
“I’m so sorry to lose you,” she murmured at last. “I can’t imagine how we’ll manage.”
Leland smiled. “Thank you,” he said, “but I’m sure you’ll be fine. Just to be on the safe side, though, I can tell you that two of the three applicants are ex-military, so they come complete with weapons training and experience as well as concealed carry permits. I mentioned to them that you have a tendency to land in hot water on occasion, and that in addition to cooking and cleaning, being able to look out for your personal safety might well be part of their brief. The third one is a trained butler who happens to be another transplanted Brit. He’s probably the best-qualified of the bunch, but I’m not sure he’d be a good fit.”
“Why not?”
“Bit of a snob, I suspect,” Leland said. “At least that’s how he sounded on the phone.”
“When do I get to look at their applications?” Ali asked.
Leland picked up his phone and tapped it several times. “There,” he said when he finished. “I just e-mailed them to you, and now that the two of us have had a chance to discuss the situation, I’ll send them along to Mr. Simpson as well. Of course, if you don’t feel it’s necessary to have someone full-time . . .”
Ali smiled back at him. “It’s not a matter of our having someone full-time,” she said. “It’s more a question of how many full-timers it’ll take to fill your shoes. And what about your RV?” Ali asked. “What are your plans for that? Will you keep it or let it go?”
For the past several years Leland had lived in a cozy fifth-wheel trailer parked behind the garage. It had been an ideal, not-quite-live-in arrangement that had given a measure of privacy to B. and Ali and to him as well.
“I can probably go on Craigslist and unload it without a great deal of difficulty.”
“So you plan to sell it?”
“I can’t very well take it across the water with me.”
“Look,” Ali suggested, “how about coming up with a fair price and selling it to us? That way we can have it available should someone need to use it as living quarters. Later on, if you and Thomas decide to return and you want to have it back, we can make that happen, too.”
“You’re very kind,” Leland said with a sad smile. “I’m not so sure our coming back is a real possibility, but still—hope for the best; plan for the worst. That’s my motto.”
After that, they finished their meal in relative silence. Ali was sure the gazpacho, the sandwich, and wine were all perfect, but the prospect of losing Leland’s steadying presence took some of the blush off that rose.
When Ali had returned home to Sedona after her life in California had blown up in her face, Leland had been an important part of her reconstruction process—not just for the remodel of the house on Manzanita Hills Road that he had overseen from beginning to end, but for helping launch her into this whole new existence. Of course, with Leland in his eighties, she had known the situation couldn’t last forever and that he would have to leave eventually. Still, Ali wished she’d had more time to prepare.
After dinner, she retreated to the library and read through the three applications. Walter Hopkins, the Brit, was a fifty-something widower who had served as a butler for thirty-some years. Before his wife’s death two years earlier, the two of them had spent decades looking after a well-to-do couple with homes in NYC, Aspen, and Connecticut. That had changed abruptly after the husband’s unexpected death. The couple’s children had encouraged their widowed mother to unload all of her properties and the hired help as well, leaving Walter out in the cold. On the application he stated quite plainly that one of the reasons he had applied for this job had to do with Sedona area weather reports.
Alonso Rivera, an unmarried immigrant from Guadalajara, Mexico, had joined the US Navy at eighteen and ultimately become a US citizen by spending the next twenty years working as a CSS—a culinary specialist—on board submarines. He had retired from the navy at age thirty-eight. Now age forty-six, he had spent some time in the hospitality industry, working on cruise ships, both in food service and as a cabin attendant. In his application he stated he was ready to give up his sea legs and put down roots on dry land.
James Hastings, the youngest and originally from San Antonio, Texas, listed his marital status as divorced. He had enlisted in the US Marine Corps on September 12, 2001. His third tour of duty in the Middle East had ended with an IED explosion in Iraq that had sent him home with a medical discharge and a prosthetic left leg.
Sitting in one of the library’s easy chairs, with her computer open on her lap, and with Bella cuddled up against her thigh, Ali stroked the dog’s smooth fur and considered the complications of weaving another stranger into their lives. When the dog had turned up, Bella had been entirely foreign to them. After a few initial bumps, she’d become a good fit, and one of these new people would probably fit in just fine as well—eventually.
The phone rang. “Good morning,” B. said.
With B. often on the far side of the At
lantic, Ali was accustomed to the fact that his mornings were generally nighttimes for her. She quickly brought him up to date.
“We knew that shoe was going to drop sooner or later,” B. observed. “And it’s so like Leland to take responsibility for handling the whole thing, up to and including rounding up prospective candidates and scheduling interviews. Have you looked at the applicants?”
“Just did,” Ali answered.
“What do you think?”
“I think we’re looking at three people who want to reinvent themselves—at our expense.”
“Reinventing yourself isn’t such a crazy idea,” B. said. “It worked out pretty well for both of us. As far as Leland is concerned, speed is of the essence. I won’t be home until Friday afternoon. Go ahead and schedule the interviews. If one of them really stands out, make the guy an offer with, say, a ninety-day trial period during which either side can call it quits for any reason. We may need to include a housing allowance.”
“I told Leland we’d buy his fifth-wheel, so that would still be available as possible housing.”
“In that case, I’d go for the submariner,” B. said with a laugh. “He’s bound to be used to living in very small spaces. In addition, it says here that he’s got his dolphins.”
“I saw that,” Ali admitted, “but I have no idea what it means.”
“It means he’s been trained so he can both fix and operate any system on board the submarine.”
“Which in turn would make him very handy to have around the house,” Ali allowed. “But we’ll see. Interview first; hire later.”
10
For Odin, one of the best things about being a god was putting things in motion. Next best, of course, was watching how things he had put in motion played out afterward. With Frigg keeping a watchful eye on all media coverage, it was easy for him to follow the aftermath of Paul Abernathy’s supposed suicide. Odin briefly considered attending Paul’s funeral service, but decided against it. He didn’t want to chance running into any denizens of the Dive Bar who might possibly recognize him; the potential risks exceeded the emotional rewards.
The funeral wasn’t the end of it, however, not by any means. Paul’s mother, LuAnn, was a tiger about defending her dead son’s legacy. She clawed her way onto local news shows and digital news sites, telling the world that the cops had it all wrong. She insisted that the official conclusion—that of suicide by means of an accidental overdose from a substance that wasn’t Paul’s drug of choice—was out of the question. She claimed instead that her son was actually the victim of a homicide.
When Odin heard her say that during a televised news interview, he was somewhat taken aback. This fierce-looking, white-haired, little old lady was far closer to the mark than law enforcement was. Worried that she might make some headway in getting the cops to reinvestigate the situation, Odin sent Frigg on a virtual trip down Kester Avenue looking for the unwelcome presence of security cameras.
Meanwhile, the AI was constantly trolling the Internet looking for any mention of names on the Target Group list. Under her watchful eye, two listees had recently turned up in separate obituaries. A guy named David Salas had died of pancreatic cancer in St. Louis, Missouri, and a woman named Laura Kenton Fisher had died of complications due to diabetes at her home in Tallahassee, Florida. Odin couldn’t help but regard those clearly natural deaths as missed opportunities.
That was about the time Roger McGeary’s name turned up. The mention was in an obscure blog devoted to cyber security where Roger was cited for having foiled a hacking attack intended to take down an Italian cruise line’s US-based reservations center. By then, Frigg was getting with the program and learning to play the game. Once Roger McGeary’s name came to the AI’s attention, Odin didn’t have to tell her to put him under a microscope. She began amassing information on him of her own volition, and that’s how Roger McGeary became victim number two.
11
On Wednesday morning, after giving Leland the go-ahead to set up the interview appointments, Ali embarked on the half-hour drive from her home in Sedona to Cottonwood. Sedona’s sky-high property values had argued against setting up High Noon’s corporate headquarters closer to home. Instead, B. had opted for a location just outside Cottonwood. After years of commuting through smoggy rush-hour traffic in L.A., Ali’s new daily commute through mostly pristine high desert was definitely not a hardship.
On this clear early-September morning, with almost no other traffic on the road, Ali should have been drinking in the scenery. The summer monsoons had been exceptionally generous this year. The landscape was awash in knee-high grass against which Sedona’s red rock cliffs stood in vivid contrast.
Today, however, Ali was impervious to the view. Instead she spent most of the drive thinking about Leland’s impending departure. She and B. would be fine, but she couldn’t help worrying. What would the future hold for the aging caretaker of a cancer patient who was every bit as old and far frailer than Leland himself? This new situation wouldn’t be a bed of roses for either of them.
As Ali arrived at the parking lot in Cottonwood, Cami, driving her red Prius, was about to exit the office complex. She stopped and rolled her window down as the two cars came even with one another.
“Stu and I have just done an all-nighter,” Cami said. “Be advised, it’s Mood Swing Central around here. I suggest you don’t poke the bear until I get back from a doughnut run.”
That bit of conversation took Ali aback. “I’m not surprised about Stu pulling an all-nighter,” she said, “but I had no idea you’d be in on it, too. The last I heard, you were on your way home.”
“I was,” Cami said. “But Stu called as I was leaving the gym and asked me to come back in to help out. Since he used the word ‘please,’ which I didn’t think was part of his vocabulary, I couldn’t very well say no.”
“He wanted you to help with the McGeary situation?”
Cami nodded.
“Did you make any progress?”
“Some. I left a sticky note on your desk with a name and number on it. Detective Inspector Esteban Garza is the homicide cop from Panama’s National Police. He’s the guy who flew out to the ship to investigate the man overboard case. I’m hoping you’ll give him a call and ask if we can have access to his written reports.”
“Why me?” Ali asked. “Why not you or Stu?”
“Because a certain amount of diplomacy is called for. Stu figured he’d make a botch of that, and rightly so. As for me? We were both afraid I’d sound too young on the phone to be taken seriously.”
“I’m nominated to make the call so I can provide a certain amount of gravitas?” Ali asked.
“Pretty much,” Cami replied with a grin.
“What about the language issue?” Ali asked. “I took high school Spanish, but I don’t really speak it.”
“I’m in the same boat, but not to worry,” Cami said with a surprising lack of concern.
“Why not?”
“I found an article about Garza in a local newspaper. He’s something of a local legend. It said in the article that he speaks fluent English, which may be part of the reason he got the cruise ship gig.”
“So how’s Stu doing?” Ali asked.
Cami sobered at once. “Not well,” she said. “He’s really broken up about this, Ali, and running on empty, too. Which is why I’m off in search of emergency doughnut rations.”
When it came to food, Camille Lee and Stuart Ramey were at opposite ends of the spectrum. Stu’s penchant for surviving on a steady diet of pizza, burgers, doughnuts, and Diet Coke drove Cami mad. And her attempts to bring him into the world of a more balanced diet was something that sent Stuart into spasms. As far as Ali knew, this current bit of doughnut détente was completely unprecedented.
“Bring me one, too,” Ali said. “It sounds as though we could all use some comfort food this morning.”
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Cami drove away. Ali parked and went inside, where Shirley greeted her with a raised eyebrow. “I understand things are a bit dicey in the back,” she said. “I’d give him a few minutes if I were you.”
“Cami told me the same thing, but thanks for the warning,” Ali said. She went straight to her office without venturing into the lion’s den. A sticky note bearing Esteban Garza’s name and phone number was plastered on the monitor of Ali’s desktop.
Ali stowed her purse in an otherwise empty file cabinet and then sat down at the desk. She studied her office phone for a moment or two. She wondered if she should use that, which would show up on caller ID as High Noon Enterprises, or opt for calling on her far more anonymous cell phone. In the end, she took a deep breath, picked up the handset, and began dialing the international code of Panama. When the phone on the opposite end of the line started ringing, Ali more than half expected a female voice—a clerk or receptionist of some kind—to answer the call
While Ali tried to sort out a passable bit of conversational Spanish, a gruff male voice came on the line. “Garza.”
“Detective Inspector?” she asked uncertainly.
“Yes.”
No doubt Garza had been expecting to answer the phone in Spanish, but his smooth transition to unaccented English was immediate and flawless.
“My name is Ali Reynolds,” she said. “I’m with High Noon Enterprises, a cyber security company located in the US.”
“I’m not sure how you obtained my cell phone number,” Garza said stiffly, “but I can assure you I’m not interested in purchasing any additional programs. The security measures offered by my provider are entirely adequate.”
Clearly the call had gotten off on the wrong foot. “I’m not calling to sell you something,” Ali said quickly, hoping to salvage it. “We were contacted by a woman named Julia Miller. She has expressed some concern about the investigation into the death of her nephew, Roger McGeary.”
