by Meryl Sawyer
“DON’T YOU HAVE HOMEWORK?” Trent asked Timmy.
“He finished it earlier.” Courtney spoke up before Timmy could answer.
The boy looked down at his tiramisu. The kid had poked at it but hadn’t eaten more than a small bite. What kid liked fancy Italian desserts? Courtney had the maid prepare it to impress Chad, but she could have served Timmy ice cream or cake.
Trent looked at Chad and forced a smile. He’d invited the attorney for dinner so they could have a private discussion.
“More coffee?” Courtney asked Chad.
“No, thanks. Dinner was great. I’m stuffed.” Chad turned toward Timmy, who was seated on his left. “Done any surfing lately?”
Trent snuffed a hoot. Surf? The kid was afraid of the water. He barely went in their swimming pool. Braving itty-bitty waves that lapped at his ankles was terrifying. Could this be his son?
Well, no question about it. Timmy didn’t have his guts or his personality but the kid looked just like Trent had at the same age. Just went to show you that Timmy’s chickenshit genes came from his mother.
“Back still bothering you, Courtney?” Chad asked.
Trent watched his wife nod. Her dilated pupils and slow responses probably hadn’t fooled Chad. Courtney was high on pain pills. Chad undoubtedly sympathized. The guy lived on Ritalin and Red Bull. He was pumped all the time. Not physically addicted the way Courtney was but hooked just the same.
Chad had begun taking Ritalin in college. Claimed it enhanced brain activity as did many other guys Trent knew. He thought it was a crutch. Chad was intelligent and cunning. His brain didn’t need a boost.
Trent pushed back from the table. “We’re going down to the beach to look at the new board I designed.”
“Now?” Courtney asked. “It’s almost dark.”
“We’ve got time.” Trent gave Chad a look that said they needed to talk in private.
“Can I come?” Timmy asked in a weak sissylike voice.
“No. Do your homework.” Trent knew Timmy had already completed his assignments, but he hadn’t known what else to say to get rid of him. The boy never wanted to go to the beach. Why now?
Chad rode in Trent’s Porsche down to the parking lot above Crystal Cove Beach. The attorney complained about the lack of business due to the downturn in the economy. He never mentioned Hayley and hadn’t at dinner, either. Chad had been so determined to get back together with her when she’d been alive. Didn’t he miss her now?
They parked and took the stairs down the bluff to the beach. The tang of the sea brought back happy memories of times spent here with his father. He had been a great father but not much of a businessman; he refused to change with the times and import surfboards from China.
Chad didn’t question why they hadn’t brought a surfboard. Trent had already tipped the attorney with a handwritten note that said he thought the Feds might be tapping his phones and planting bugs in an attempt to pin Hayley’s murder on him.
Trent stopped just short of the tide line. No point in ruining his shoes. “I don’t think anyone can hear us over the sound of the waves.”
Chad looked around as if he expected a Federal agent to leap out of the surf. “I guess not. What’s up?”
“I’m really worried about this investigation. The Feds are looking into everything. I mean everything.”
Chad stared out at the sea, which was dappled with gold by the last rays of the setting sun. “I know. They came to see me.” He turned to face Trent. “I told them that I couldn’t show them any records without a warrant. But I assured them that you had nothing to do with Hayley’s death.”
“Why didn’t you call me and tell me?”
“For the same reason you wanted to talk down here where we can’t be taped or overheard.”
“Do you think they’re onto…anything?”
Chad shook his head, looking out toward Catalina Island. “No. I’ve told you a dozen times. There’s nothing to find.”
“Right.” Trent trusted Chad. The guy was sharp and stayed on top of things. “I’m just nervous with all the scrutiny. They tore the business apart, looked in shipping containers, questioned employees and searched my home.”
“What did they find?” Chad started to walk along the shore and Trent fell into step beside him. “Nada. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m concerned about Ryan Hollister. He came around today asking questions.”
Chad stopped and kicked at a chain of seaweed. “Is that prick working on the case?”
“I guess. He wanted to know about Laird McMasters and his offer to buy Surf’s Up.”
“What did you tell him?” Chad’s voice was cautious and barely audible above the crash of the waves.
“As little as possible.”
AS DARKNESS FELL, Farah waited at the bar in Duke’s, gazing out at the bay with its endless parade of boats, thinking. The popular bar at the Balboa Bay Club resort had been named after John Wayne, who used to frequent the place when he’d been alive. Her mother remembered him, of course, but Farah’s only impression of the man came from old movies her mother watched.
Her mind shifted to her boyfriend. Kyle, she thought with an inward sigh of frustration. Why didn’t he just get another job instead of surfing all day and playing video games all night? If the sex wasn’t so hot, she’d dump him in a New York minute, but it was almost impossible to find guys who were into S & M that she could be seen with in public.
“There you are.” Farah’s mother interrupted her thoughts. “Let’s grab a table by the window before the place fills up.”
“Right.” Farah took the cosmopolitan she’d barely touched and followed her mother to a table overlooking the bay.
As usual, Cynthia Fordham swanned across the room to attract the attention of the clusters of mostly older males who patronized the bar. Her mother was still very attractive with a great figure, which pleased Farah. She looked exactly like her mother and hoped she still had her good looks when she aged. True, Cynthia had had cosmetic surgery a few months ago, but Farah hadn’t thought her mother really needed it.
“How’s business?” Farah asked as they settled at the table and Cynthia signaled the waitress for her usual chardonnay.
“I’m a little concerned,” admitted Cynthia. “We have sales going all the time but business is still slow.”
Cynthia managed The Show, an upscale boutique in the resort. It featured trendy casual clothes and swimsuits that sold to the tourists who visited and the tenants of the Balboa Bay Club condominiums adjacent to the resort. It also catered to wealthy women in Newport Beach, who lunched at the private club dining room on the second floor of the facility.
Farah hated to ask but forced herself. “How are you doing financially?”
“Fine,” her mother replied in a tone that was a shade too flip as she reached for the martini the waitress was delivering. “I’ve got money tucked away.”
Farah knew that her mother had saved most of the money from the sale of their childhood home. Cynthia had rented a studio at the Balboa Bay Club condominiums after her children had moved out. She should have enough money to see her through retirement, but it was difficult to tell with her mother. She was often very secretive.
Farah sipped her cosmo and watched while her mother downed the wine in a few gulps, then frantically signaled the waitress for another. Something’s wrong, Farah decided. Her mother never drank more than one glass of wine when they met every other week for a drink and dinner.
“Mother, is something bothering you?” Farah asked.
Her dark eyes met Farah’s. “Not really. It’s just your father’s death and now this mess with the car bomb.”
The plane crash that had killed Russell and Alison had been a shock to everyone, but the way Cynthia had grieved surprised Farah. She knew her mother still had been in love with her father even though she acted as if she hated him. But Farah hadn’t realized how deep those feelings went or how much her mother had counted o
n Russell being around even if she wasn’t married to him.
“I’m sure this car-bomb thing will blow over,” Farah told her mother. “Have they questioned you?”
Cynthia shook her head. The waitress arrived with the second chardonnay. “Why would they? I don’t stand to gain anything from Hayley’s death.”
But you hated her, Farah thought. You cursed Hayley countless times.
“I just don’t like the way the authorities are hounding Trent.” Her mother sipped the wine. “People are talking, thinking he’s guilty.”
Farah couldn’t deny it. She’d been questioned, but Kyle had provided her alibi for the evening of the murder. Trent had an alibi also, but they seemed to think he had a drug connection that caused Hayley’s death.
Cynthia leaned forward and whispered across the table. “Do you think your brother is bringing in drugs with shipments from Asia?”
“No. He didn’t place the order until after Dad died. That’s not enough time to set up a drug deal.” Farah assumed this was true, but she couldn’t be sure.
“Could he have hired someone to kill Hayley?” her mother asked.
“No way—” Farah stopped talking when she spotted Ryan Hollister headed for their table. What on earth was he doing here?
He walked up to them with a smile. “Hello, Farah.”
She was instantly on guard. Being Conrad Hollister’s son was one thing; being an FBI agent was another. “Hi. I’m surprised to see you here.”
Ryan pulled out one of the two unoccupied chairs at their table even though they hadn’t invited him to join them. Farah’s wariness ticked up a notch.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your handsome friend?” Her mother fairly gushed the words.
Farah had to admit Ryan was drop-dead gorgeous in a rough-hewn masculine way. He was dressed in dark slacks and a blue polo shirt that made his eyes seem a deeper shade of blue. Even in casual clothes, one look at the man told you he’d been a star athlete. “This is Ryan Hollister.”
Her mother offered him a smooth hand crowned by long coral nails. “I don’t believe Farah’s told me about you.”
Farah knew from her mother’s tone and the look on her face that she was hoping this man was a replacement for Kyle. Cynthia had never liked Kyle, never thought he was good enough for her daughter. Farah should have listened to her, but had ignored the advice because Kyle was the kind of guy who’d never looked in her direction when she’d been in high school. The cool surfers always chased Hayley, but never paid any attention to a brain like Farah.
“Mother, this is Conrad Hollister’s son. You know, Meg Amboy’s friend.” Farah hoped her mother would recall her mentioning him. Since the divorce, Cynthia never attended family dinners but Farah had told her about them. Her mother had always asked endless questions. She had to know every detail of Russell Fordham’s new life.
“Weren’t you a football star?” Cynthia asked in her most charming manner.
“I played pro ball for two seasons. I’m with the FBI now. We’re working on Hayley Fordham’s murder.” Ryan’s tone was all business.
“Oh, really?” There was a quaver in her mother’s voice.
“I don’t believe anyone has asked you yet where you were the evening of the car bombing.”
Her mother’s wine sloshed over the rim as she quickly set it down on the table. “Am I a suspect?”
Ryan shook his head. “We’re just eliminating people.”
“I—I don’t know. I closed the shop at five the way I always do and went home. I live—”
“I know where you live. Did you see anyone, call anyone?”
Cynthia picked up her wine and guzzled it while she thought. “I don’t think I called anyone. I know I didn’t see anybody that evening.”
Anger cracked through Farah like a whip. “My mother didn’t plant that bomb. She wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to—”
“How did you feel about Hayley?” Ryan asked Cynthia.
“She was a spoiled brat from the second she was born.” The venom in Cynthia’s voice astonished Farah. She knew her mother despised Hayley, but did she have to sound so vindictive in front of this man? “I had nothing to do with her death, but I’m not sorry she’s gone. She got what she deserved.”
“Mother!”
“Don’t pretend you’re sorry she’s dead. You never liked her, either. She ruined your relationship with your father.”
RYAN DROVE HIS rented SUV out onto the peninsula after stopping at the market. His left shoulder still ached from tackling Hayley and hitting the floor. He tried to rotate it the way the therapist did but that made his damaged nerves tingle. He put the pain out of his mind the way he had when he’d played ball.
He’d called Hayley earlier to tell her when he’d be back. She sounded more upbeat than when he’d left this morning. He wished he had something to tell her. He’d poked around all day long—as much as he could without being officially on the case—and hadn’t learned much. But his suspicions had grown. He’d developed a sixth sense while playing football. Often he knew which way a play would go before it happened.
He hadn’t had much chance to use his precognitive instincts since joining the FBI. His assignments had been routine white-collar investigations that required more book work than anything else. Then he’d trained for the cyber crimes unit. That relied on facts and little else.
But he had sensed something when he’d interviewed Trent Fordham. The guy was shading the truth. He knew more than he admitted.
Follow the money. That was the cardinal rule of most crimes. There had to be a money trail. Since it didn’t appear that Trent or Farah, the ones who stood to gain the most from Hayley’s death, had actually committed the crime. Evidently they’d hired someone and funds to pay for it must have come from their accounts.
Homeland Security was checking those accounts. The nice thing about having them involved was it didn’t take a warrant to access the info. When terrorism might be involved, Homeland Security didn’t have to follow regular legal channels. They’d promised to give Ed Phillips copies of those documents.
By inviting Hayley to stay with him at his father’s house, Ryan had gone way beyond the professional boundaries that he should have set. He’d wandered into dangerous territory—professionally and emotionally. He could easily be fired for the infraction.
Somehow it didn’t bother him the way it should. Perhaps Jessica’s death had changed him more than he realized. People were what counted—not rules. He’d been stunned—blown away, actually—to discover Hayley was still alive. It had taken some convincing to make her understand that someone who would go to all the trouble to plant a car bomb wanted her dead. And would stop at nothing.
Last night, when he’d held Hayley in his arms and flashed the light on her face, he’d experienced something that he could only describe as a special connection. Before that moment, Hayley Fordham had been a picture in his mind. The reality was much more compelling.
Aw hell, why was he lying to himself? Tension tightened his nerves as he thought about her. He was attracted to her—wanted her—in a way that surprised him. Since cancer took Jessica, he hadn’t been attracted to another woman. But now he was involved—big-time. It was a mistake and he knew it, but he couldn’t help himself.
The instant he’d seen Hayley’s green eyes wide with panic and her sexy lips set to scream, something inside him clicked. She’d been terrified yet brave. Screaming like a hell cat—kicking and biting. His intense reaction hadn’t diminished as he listened to her story. He experienced the urge to help her, protect her. No matter what the cost to himself.
The phone on his belt buzzed and he yanked it off with a quick look around. It was against the law in California to drive and talk on your phone, but since he hadn’t bought a new car after totaling his in the accident, Ryan hadn’t set up a hands-free system on his father’s car. “Hollister.” It was Ed Phillips. “Hey, I was just thinking about you. Anything in those bank a
ccounts?”
“Hard to say,” Phillips replied. “Trent and Farah both have made sizable cash withdrawals all year long. I’m talkin’ in the five-to eight-thousand-dollar range.”
Ryan couldn’t imagine anyone agreeing to plant a car bomb for that little. “You’re thinking drugs?”
“You got it, pard. What else would they continually need cash for?”
“Good question. Something off the books, that’s for sure.” Ryan hadn’t told Phillips about Hayley’s miraculous return. He shouldn’t have withheld the information. The guy had brought him into the investigation, but Ryan felt he didn’t have any choice. He seriously believed Hayley’s life was in jeopardy. He didn’t want anyone to know she was alive yet.
“Most of the guys think this is some Asian drug deal that has to do with the container of surfboards Trent imported. We’re the only ones really looking hard at the family. I got their tax returns and went through them. Sure ’nuf, both Trent and Farah are in debt.”
“What about Hayley?”
“Clean. No debt and no large cash withdrawals until the day of her death. Looks like a thousand dollars in cash went up with her.”
Ryan turned right and pulled onto the short street that led to his father’s house. “I interviewed Trent Fordham today.”
“Oh?” Ed didn’t have to remind Ryan that he wasn’t authorized to investigate. He heard the reprimand in the single word.
“He’s hiding something.”
“How do you know?”
Ryan pulled to a stop in the alley just behind the garage and pressed the remote control for the garage door to open. “Just a feeling.”
“Jeez-a-ree! That’s it?”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Nah. I could, but he’s been interviewed every which way already.”
The door moved up and Ryan drove into the garage. “See what you get on the mother, Cynthia Fordham. I just ran into her at the Balboa Bay Club.” Ryan was shading the truth here, but he didn’t want Phillips to order him to stop asking questions. “She admitted she hated Hayley and was glad she was dead.”
