by Meryl Sawyer
Hayley did have a CADCAM with a clothing design program loaded on her computer. There were lots of designs in the archives; some of them were downright weird. He didn’t see much else but he hadn’t checked her e-mails or looked for trapdoors.
“We’re cutting out,” the ATFers told them.
“Any sign of explosives around here?” Ryan asked over his shoulder. “Or drugs?”
“Nothing except a half-full bottle of prescription sleeping pills.”
“I think the guys from the office and the police are ready to pull out, too,” Phillips told him. “You almost finished?”
He was, but Ryan wanted time alone to look around the place. “Nah. I’ll be awhile. Go on. See if you can get me cleared to stay.”
“No problem. I already called the office and had you put on the case.” He patted Ryan’s shoulder. “Guess your vacation is over until you check out this computer. Catch ya later.”
Detective Wells, the lead detective with the Costa Mesa police, came up, asking, “Anything?”
“I’m still checking. It’ll take me a few hours.”
Wells paused a second, then said, “I understand you’re a friend of the family.”
Ryan wasn’t sure where or how he’d obtained this information. “Not the family exactly. My father is close with Meg Amboy, who is Hayley’s aunt.”
“We interviewed her.”
Ryan turned away from the computer to ask, “You personally or one of your men?”
Wells, a dapper-looking older man with silver hair and intelligent blue eyes shrugged. “I sent one of the guys. Didn’t seem likely that she’d know much.”
“She’s a pretty sharp gal. Made a fortune on her own.”
“What’s she saying in private?”
“She believes it might be a member of the family. They own a local surf store that sells their clothing nationwide. It was started by the father who was killed late last year in a plane crash.” He thought Wells knew all this but since the guy hadn’t interrupted him, the detective might not have received a report from his men yet. “The three children will inherit the business and other property when the probate is settled. It’s a sizable estate.”
Wells nodded. “Farah and Trent Fordham have alibis, although it is possible they hired someone. Bomb-making instructions are easily found on the Internet but not many people are willing to risk making one.”
“I’m a computer guy—”
“Yeah,” Wells said with a knowing smile, “and you played two years in the NFL until your shoulder was ruined after a questionable tackle.”
Ryan nodded; he never mentioned his pro career, but buffs like Wells remembered him. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m not an expert, but bombings are usually revenge crimes. The killer wants to obliterate the person.”
“I know. It’s a strange one all right.” Wells pulled a card out of his jacket pocket. “I’ve got a man posted downstairs. When you leave, he’ll lock up. I want you to call me with a report no matter how late it is.”
Ryan checked the e-mail log and it yielded only a few interesting items. Apparently Hayley had some sort of business arrangement with an Ian Barrington. He appeared to be an art dealer. He was expecting several oil paintings for what must be a show. That would account for all the art supplies and easels in the room.
He rummaged through the papers on Hayley’s desk, assuming the police had already checked them and removed anything important. He found a CD labeled The Big 3-0. He popped it into her computer and watched the family barbeque given for Hayley almost two years ago. Most of the jerky footage was of a laughing, smiling Hayley opening gag gifts. There wasn’t any sound on the CD but it wasn’t hard to tell what was happening.
At her side was a man that most women would call drop-dead gorgeous. Tall, dark hair, lively blue eyes. For some reason, Ryan experienced a pang of something that he didn’t want to call jealousy. Why? He’d never met Hayley or the man, who must be her former fiancé. Wasn’t his name Chad Bennett? Meg had said Hayley had dumped him after catching him cheating.
He watched the very sexy Hayley blow out a platoon of candles on a cake with the inscription Over The Hill. Yeah, right. Hayley was anything but over the hill. Just at her prime was more like it.
She looked right into the camera and blew a kiss as the CD ended. Ryan sat staring at the screen, half-convinced she’d meant the kiss for him. He must be losing it big-time. He removed the CD and forced his attention back to checking her computer.
Since Phillips had Ryan officially on the case, he logged into the network in his L.A. office and let the special software he’d designed run a check for trapdoors on Hayley’s computer and see if anything was hidden. It would take half an hour to thoroughly scrutinize all of her files. That would give him time to look around.
He climbed down the high-tech stainless-steel stairs from the third floor office/studio and master bedroom to the middle level, where the kitchen and living room took up the entire floor. He stood still beside the refrigerator, the strangest sensation coming over him. He felt as if he’d been there before. No, that wasn’t it. He felt as if he belonged here somehow. It made no sense.
Get real, he thought, kicking himself. Lofts were just huge open rooms portioned off by walls that weren’t attached to the rafters. He’d never been in a loft, but he’d seen them on TV. Still, something there spoke to him.
What? He looked around. Honest to God, he couldn’t figure out his strange reaction. The entire place was covered with fingerprint dust, a fine charcoal-colored powder. He grabbed a tissue from a dispenser and covered his fingers to open drawers without leaving prints. Not that the crime techs were coming back, but he was too much of a professional to contaminate a crime scene.
The kitchen drawers revealed little except for a utility drawer that had a stash of notepads and matches from various restaurants. There wasn’t a personal telephone book, but he didn’t find that unusual. Most people Hayley’s age kept that info on their cell phones.
He noticed a dog’s water bowl and dish on the floor near the refrigerator. The fine dark powder around it indicated that the dishes had been dusted for prints. The local crime scene techs were thorough, he’d give them that.
Stylized surfboard magnets held several photographs to the refrigerator door. One was of a golden retriever with a red ball in its mouth. Another was of a stunning auburn-haired woman—Hayley—sitting on the beach, hugging the dripping-wet retriever. The third was of a weird-looking dude in a T-shirt with the Grim Reaper on it. Obviously, it was a publicity photo. Scrawled at the bottom were the words Hayley, you’re the bomb. It was signed The Wrath.
The Wrath? The name dinged some distant bell in Ryan’s brain. Then it came to him. The Wrath was the Mixed Martial Arts national champion. Ryan had watched a few matches while he’d been home with his shoulder injury. It combined boxing, wrestling, kickboxing, judo and other fighting techniques in a no-holds-barred smack-down fight. The barefoot fighters wore shorts and padded gloves. The only rule that governed their fight was no biting or eye-gouging.
Interesting, Ryan thought. Hayley didn’t seem like a woman who’d hook up with an MMA fighter, but what did he know? The way Ryan had responded to her blowing a kiss at the end of the CD still had him on edge. How could he react so strongly to someone he’d never met?
He wandered out of the kitchen and into one of two bedrooms sectioned off from it that opened onto a living room overlooking the bay. It was Hayley’s room, he realized the instant he entered. The crime techs had dusted everything and removed the sheets from the bed.
Something swept through him, like an adrenaline rush but stronger. Ryan opened the closet door and a delicate scent came from the clothes hanging in front of him. He inhaled deeply. Vanilla, he decided. The perfume Hayley wore had a trace of vanilla in it.
Lavender was her favorite color, he realized. And she didn’t own a suit unless the crime techs had bagged one as evidence, which he doubted. Most of the items hanging
in her closet were casual clothes. He checked the dresser drawers, knowing they’d been searched but wanting to get a feel for this woman.
Okay. She loved skimpy thongs and lacy bras—size 34C. Not centerfold material, but Ryan always said anything more than a handful was wasted. Honest to God, what was he thinking?
Ryan slammed the drawer shut and stood there, furious with himself. He caught his reflection in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. He hardly recognized the image. In his mind’s eye, he always saw himself the way he’d looked in his wedding picture, taken just before the season that ended his career.
Time and Jessica’s illness had changed him. Even though he was just thirty-five, Ryan thought he looked older. It was because he was thinner than he’d ever been and his face seemed gaunt. Black stubble shadowed the square line of his jaw, making him look more serious than he felt. He tried to smile, the way he once had so easily, but it was just a grimace.
A tragedy, sure, he told himself. You’re still alive. You’ll get past this eventually. He didn’t want to get over Jessica. But another part of him must feel the need to move forward with his life. That’s why he was reacting so strongly to Hayley.
He forced himself to look through the books and mementos that must once have been artfully arranged on a bookshelf. They were askew now and covered with fingerprint powder. More photos of the dog and Hayley’s family.
He flipped open his cell phone and dialed Meg’s number. It was late, but Hayley’s aunt had assured him that she wouldn’t be sleeping and to call with any questions.
“What did you find?” Meg asked the instant he identified himself.
“Not much.” This was the truth; he didn’t want to get Meg’s hopes up. “The police have taken a lot of evidence. They might discover something. I do have a couple of questions. Where’s Hayley’s dog?”
Two long beats of silence. “With her, I’m sure. She took Andy everywhere. The police said Hayley parked at the back of the lot under the trees. I know it was dark, but it was early evening and still warm. It would have been cooler under the trees. She probably left him in the car while she went inside.”
Aw, hell. Just what he didn’t want to think about. The dog that Hayley had obviously loved so much—pulverized.
“What was her relationship with Ian Barrington?” he asked to steer their thoughts away from death. “She has several e-mails from him.”
“Hayley knew him from design school in San Francisco. I guess they remained friends when she moved home.”
Interesting, Ryan thought. The e-mails he’d read clearly indicated a business relationship. Obviously, Hayley hadn’t told her aunt everything. What else had she kept from her?
“Did she mention a guy called The Wrath?”
This brought the suggestion of a chuckle from Meg. “Of course, the man who fights in a cage.”
True, he thought. MMA fights were held in chain-link enclosures called cages. There was no escape until one man won—and the other lay bloodied on the mat.
“They have clothing sponsors just like other sports figures,” Meg told him. “Hayley created a line sold at Surf’s Up that The Wrath wears. You know, she had a better head for business than Trent. She knew Tap-something—the designers with the bats on their clothes—”
“TapouT.” The only way to end an MMA fight short of getting knocked out was to physically tap on your opponent or the mat to signal you gave up. TapouT clothes had stylized bats on them. The T-shirts were so popular that even Ryan recognized them.
“That’s it! Hayley figured the surf craze has peaked. MMA clothes will be the next big thing. Her line has really done well so far.”
MMA the next big thing? Who knew? “Did she have a personal relationship with this Wrath guy?”
“N-not really,” Meg replied a bit hesitantly. “They’re just friends.”
He’d asked about current boyfriends and Meg had told him that Hayley hadn’t been dating anyone special since her breakup with the sleazy lawyer who cheated on her. There was no evidence around the loft that a man spent time here.
“She hasn’t been dating. She hadn’t quite gotten over Chad’s betrayal.”
Ryan thanked Meg and hung up. He sat down on Hayley’s stripped bed, thinking. What kind of a man could cheat on a woman like Hayley?
He lay back on the bed and stared up at the loft’s industrial-style rafters, imagining himself there with Hayley. He was drawn to her in a way he couldn’t explain and it bothered him.
CHAPTER FOUR
MIDAFTERNOON two days later, Ryan was standing under the rotunda near the valet-parking stand at the Balboa Bay Club with Ed Phillips. They had just been to Hayley’s standing-room-only memorial service at All Saints Church. He was waiting for his father to arrive with Meg in one of the limousines for the reception while Ed spoke on his cell phone to a bomb expert in Quantico.
Phillips clicked off his cell and tucked it into his pocket. “They have a preliminary report from analyzing the bomb debris.”
Ryan braced himself to hear about body parts. At the service, there had been a huge photograph of Hayley. Her head had been thrown back slightly as if she were on the verge of a laugh. It had been an even more provocative photo than the one Meg had first shown him. Hayley’s haunting eyes followed Ryan no matter where he moved in the church.
“The explosive device was attached with a magnet and a wire to her car’s electrical system. It left a two-foot-deep crater under the car and flash melting on metal three cars away. The instant she turned the ignition, the bomb detonated.”
“How do they know that?” Ryan asked. He hadn’t received any training in bomb-making and none in detection.
“They use infrared spectrography to analyze bomb fragments. The type of device used shows the window of time necessary to place the bomb and where it was located. It was installed after she parked. It didn’t take long to attach it but the killer must have crawled at least partway under the car.”
“And risk being seen? What about the dog in the backseat? Didn’t he bark and put up a ruckus?”
Phillips shrugged. “Maybe. The locals are interviewing people to see if anyone saw anything. So far—nothing. But it does establish the time frame when the killer planted the device.”
“Anything left of the body?” Ryan hated to ask. When Meg had discovered there was nothing to bury, she’d arranged a memorial service. The elderly woman was devastated and he couldn’t blame her. He’d gone through a tough time when he’d buried Jessica, but at least he knew where she was.
“Nosiree. Nada. Bits of bone, a few hairs—most were canine. That’s all they recovered. The rest was vaporized.”
The thought of that beautiful young woman exploding into nothing more than a fine mist depressed Ryan even more. He thought of the CD he’d seen of Hayley’s birthday party. She’d been so happy, so alive. So attractive. Suddenly he felt guilty, as if he’d betrayed Jessica in some unspoken way by admiring—and thinking about—another woman.
“Here’s what I need you to do,” Phillips told him. “Go in there without me. Talk to folks. They oughta tell you more ’cuz you know the family. Know what I mean?”
Ryan nodded; he’d been introduced to the family on the steps before the service. He didn’t have a feel for any of them except Meg Amboy. But his connection with her did give Ryan an excuse for being present and he could ask questions without alarming anyone. He’d had the initial FBI training in interrogation but he hadn’t really practiced it except for a short time in the field office.
“Check the whole shebang but watch for passion. The Behavioral Analysis Unit profiler who worked on this bets it was a crime of passion.”
“Could be the ex-fiancé, Chad Bennett. I haven’t met him yet, but I understand he was really pissed off when Hayley gave him back his engagement ring. Meg says he’s been trying to get back together with her.”
“Anythang’s possible,” Phillips replied, his twang more noticeable than usual. “Wells, who heads u
p the locals, thinks it might be related to the family business. Seems the father who died last year was dead set against importing cheap surf-and skateboards from China the way most of the major companies do. As soon as he was gone, Trent took over the business. The son ordered a container full of boards from Asia. Drugs could have come in with them. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Why would that translate to a bomb that killed their designer?” Ryan asked, but something tripped an internal alarm. Alison, Hayley’s mother and Meg’s sister, had been the lead designer until the plane crash. Two designers dead.
“Jeez-a-ree, who knows?”
“Are they sure the plane crash was an accident?”
Phillips’ dark eyes narrowed as he studied Ryan for a moment. “Where are you goin’ with this?”
Ryan saw three sleek black limos in the valet parking line. His father would be here soon. “Just wondering. Both designers for Surf’s Up get killed? How important are the designers? I could nose around.”
“G’wan. Trust your gut instinct.” Phillips walked away.
Phillips was a bit of a maverick, Ryan decided. He liked working with him. He dodged the chain of command and avoided paperwork wherever possible. Ryan had forwarded his report—nothing interesting on Hayley’s computer—to the L.A. office, the task force and Detective Wells. Ryan was officially off the clock and on his own now. He still had three weeks of vacation before he had to report back to the office. No one except Phillips knew he was investigating this case as a favor to Meg Amboy.
He would find himself in deep shit if his boss found out, but Ryan didn’t give a rat’s ass. He wasn’t sure he wanted to stay with the Bureau. He’d been drifting along, half-heartedly doing his job since Jessica’s death. A contact had offered him a job with a private security firm specializing in computer security for corporations. It was right here in Newport Beach; he wouldn’t have to slog his way through traffic from L.A. He could see his father every day.
