by Meryl Sawyer
There were five cameras taking pictures from various angles. This was much more than most companies used unless they were some type of financial institution or had something valuable to protect.
At eleven thirty-three, Hayley drove up in an older model blue Beamer. She took what appeared to be an oversize sketchbook and went into the building. She walked briskly—all business—but she still managed to look sexy.
Ryan carefully studied the tape. Several cars arrived with more guys. One of them was butt ugly, with jaws like bowling pins and a body like a tombstone. He stared a Hayley’s car for a moment but didn’t go near it. “Who’s that?”
“Kick Azz. A fighter from up north. Not very good,” The Wrath said, “but he tries hard. Trains a lot.”
They watched every frame of the tape. Nothing else happened until 12:17 when Hayley came out, still carrying the sketchbook and drove away.
Hayley said, “The tracker wasn’t put on here.”
The Wrath got up and turned off the machine. He removed the CD. They followed the fighter back to his office where he returned the disk to the shelf.
Ryan said, “Sorry to be so suspicious. It’s just—”
“No apology necessary,” The Wrath assured him with a broad smile for Hayley. “I don’t want anything to happen to my marketing genius.”
So what else was new? The Wrath was as taken with Hayley as most men. Too late, Ryan told himself. They belonged together.
The Wrath turned toward Ryan. “You see, I was a champ but I lacked a concept, a brand that drew my fans. Hayley came up with the idea. The saying was her aunt’s. Hayley made the whole enchilada come together.”
“No big deal,” Hayley said a little self-consciously.
“I don’t want anything to happen to my marketing guru. When I thought she’d died, I was totally bummed,” he told Ryan. “If there’s anything I can do to help—”
“I don’t think she should be in the booth with you at the Board Wars,” Ryan responded.
“Do you think I’d let anyone walk up and take her?” The Wrath’s face turned red. “Ain’t gonna happen.”
Ryan could see the guy was sincere and believed he would protect Hayley. “This person is sly and clever. No one would have expected a bomb. The next attempt will take us by surprise.”
The Wrath didn’t appear convinced. “They have to get to her, right? I’ll be with her and so will PimpIt. He’s an up-and-comer who trains here.”
“I want to be in the booth,” Hayley insisted. “I need to see for myself how people react to my new items. It’s a huge investment risk for Surf’s Up. Trent doesn’t want to do it. I promised him that I would drop it if people aren’t really enthusiastic.”
“You can tell by the numbers if it’s selling.”
“It’s still not like being there and talking to customers.”
Hayley was as stubborn as a Kansas mule, Ryan thought.
“No one will get to her,” the fighter assured him. “I guarantee it.”
“What about a sniper? A sharpshooter can blow your head off from a mile away.”
Hayley touched his arm and the affection he saw in her eyes startled him. “Ryan, all the booths have covered backs and face the ocean. A sharpshooter a mile away would be out at sea. No one’s getting on the sand carrying a gun. There’s always security at these events.”
“Umm-hmm.” Ryan didn’t give two nickels for rent-a-cop security. “Remember the two Somali pirates holding that ship’s captain at gunpoint on a small boat?”
“Sure,” Hayley said and The Wrath added, “I remember that.”
“Two SEAL snipers took out the pirates. Both boats were bobbing in heavy seas. This time the target will be on land. Makes it a helluva lot easier.”
“They were lucky the pirates didn’t fire when they were hit and kill the captain,” The Wrath said.
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Ryan explained. “A sharpshooter aims for the head, for the brain stem. The minute the bullet hits—the brain can no longer send any messages to the body. Firing is impossible—the guy drops dead.”
“Really?” said Hayley. “I didn’t realize that.”
“Neither did I.” The fighter shook his head. “Pretty amazing.”
“I think you’re overreacting,” Hayley told him. “Those were the best in the world, right? Where would someone come up with a sniper that talented?”
“Where did they come up with someone to make a bomb?”
The Wrath said, “I thought bomb-making instructions could be found on the Internet.”
“They can,” Hayley insisted. “I checked.”
Ryan silently admitted an amateur with nerve could produce a bomb. It took years of practice and talent to become a world-class sniper, which the shooter would have to be to hit a target from a boat off the shore. His phone vibrated and he pulled it out of his pocket. It was a text message from John Holmes, saying to call him immediately. It was after midnight; this must be important.
“Gotta make a call,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” Ryan went outside the building and dialed the number and John answered on the first ring.
“You know that woman, Sylvia Morrow?”
“Of course.” Ryan had asked John to use Gorilla-Trace.com, a compilation of databases available only to law enforcement that searched for missing people. Ryan had tried to call the woman after discovering she’d left Chad Bennett’s firm about the time the Fordhams had died in the plane crash. He’d been unable to find her, but knew John subscribed to Gorilla Trace.
“I sent an operative to the apartment she was renting in Tustin. Morrow was dead. ME said it looks like a heart attack. She’s been dead less than twenty-four hours.”
For a moment the silence around Ryan was so thick it was suffocating. How could Sylvia Morrow be dead? Since Sylvia had left Bennett’s firm, Ryan had counted on her to verify witnessing the Fordhams’ trust. Now he couldn’t prove a damn thing. If he didn’t have such bad luck, he’d have no luck at all.
“Have you got any influence with the coroner? Can you get him to run a full battery of tests, including an advance tox screen?”
“I’ll try. You thinking this wasn’t natural causes?”
“Let’s make sure.”
Ryan clicked off and leaned against the wall for a moment. Sylvia Morrow had quit after being with the same firm for years, sold a nice home in Costa Mesa and dropped out of sight. Why? Something about this didn’t add up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“I’VE GOT IT!” Ryan shouted.
“G-got w-what?” Hayley mumbled.
It was nearly dawn. They’d been with The Wrath until after two, then returned to the beach house. On the way back they’d talked, and Ryan explained everything he’d recently learned about her case. She forgave him for not telling her first about the GPS, but cautioned him not to leave her out of the loop again.
At the sound of voices, Andy, who’d taken to sleeping beside the bed, began to wag his tail. It thumped on the carpeted floor like a kid lazily tapping a drum.
“I have an idea about where we might find a copy of the trust,” Ryan said quietly, then kissed the soft curve of Hayley’s neck.
“You think Chad kept a copy in his office or on his computer?” Hayley asked, fully awake now.
“I doubt it,” Ryan replied. “Even if he did, getting a search warrant wouldn’t be easy. He probably switched the office computer’s hard drive or purchased a new computer rather than risk disbarment.” Ryan paused before saying, “I’m wondering if your mother used the clouds.”
“Clouds?” muttered Hayley, sounding sleepy again. “What are you talking about?”
“Cloud computing. You’ve heard of it.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t pay much attention. What is it exactly? Why—”
“The new PCs that are so small and lightweight aren’t using their own personal systems to back up data. They’re sending it out over the Internet—into the clouds, so to speak. It’s
backed up on a huge server somewhere that’s maintained by a company. Trouble is they could go out of business or hackers could access the system and steal information. The user might not realize his personal info was stolen until something happened, like identity theft.”
Hayley sat upright and positioned her pillow against the bed’s backboard, saying, “Designs could be stolen. Right?”
“Possibly. So far the systems have been remarkably safe, but we’re just on the leading edge of this new technology. It’s been my experience that there isn’t a system around that hackers can’t get into, given enough time. Hell, even supersecure sites like the Pentagon have suffered attacks that nearly took them down.”
“Mother always backed up her designs on disks. I don’t think she would have trusted the cloud thing.”
“Maybe not, but she was on a newer model Dell. Right?”
“Yes. She bought it a month or so before she died.”
Ryan gazed at her face, barely visible in the moonlight. “It’s possible that she took advantage of their Safe Save service without realizing she was sending info into the clouds. The technology’s new enough that many people don’t realize how it works. Your mother could have used it without realizing what she was doing exactly.”
“It’s possible. I guess.”
Hayley didn’t sound convinced and neither was he. This was a wild shot in the dark. But if something didn’t turn up, Ryan planned to go to the police and tell them what he’d illegally found on Alison Fordham’s computer. He risked being arrested, but after learning about the GPS on Hayley’s car and Sylvia Morrow’s death, he felt too much was happening that he didn’t understand. He didn’t want to conceal anything that might help solve the case.
“It would be great if I could get into the cloud system and find the document again. That would prove to the authorities that Chad and others had concealed the existence of the trust.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Hayley said.
“Uh-oh. I was afraid of that.”
“Kidding aside.” She sounded deadly serious. “I don’t want you to go to the police. If they know you made a copy of info illegally, they might jail you. Right?”
“Possibly, but unlikely. It’s not the crime of the century. Like I told you, I was worried about my job with the Bureau. That’s why I didn’t want anyone to know. Now I’m not concerned. John Holmes won’t care if I hacked into a system. My new job is safe.”
“Please don’t go to the police,” she said in a choked voice that surprised him.
He scooted closer and put his arm around her. “What’s the matter?”
She buried her face against his throat, then whispered, “If they arrest you, I’ll be all alone.”
She was afraid; not that he could blame her. After all they’d learned today, it was clear something was going on—but what? Who—exactly—was a better question.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I’m going to work on the clouds and see what I can find.”
Her expression darkened with an unreadable emotion. “I’ve made up my mind about something.” She didn’t wait for him to respond. “I want to talk to Steve Fulton.”
A warning voice whispered in his head: Don’t let her do it. “Why?”
“I owe him an explanation. I—”
“Look, the guy was abusive. Lindsey was afraid of him, right?”
“True, but…” Tears bordered her eyes. “He saved Lindsey from heroin addiction. He loved her, truly loved—”
“She believed he was going to kill her.”
“Maybe Lindsey was…overreacting.” Her tone seemed strained and a glazed look of despair swept over her lovely features.
Her reaction brought him up short. He recognized something he’d seen in himself, felt in his heart for over two years. Guilt. The crushing weight of the burden he carried over Jessica’s death almost buried him alive at times. He tamped down thoughts of Jessica and what should have been—but never would be. Hayley blamed herself for Lindsey’s death in a similar way that he’d felt responsible for Jessica’s.
“If—” he let the word hang there for emphasis, even though he knew he could do nothing to stop Hayley once she’d made up her mind “—you talk to Fulton, what would you say?”
“He seems to be in denial,” she replied in a voice filled with anguish. “I want him to understand several things. Lindsey loved him and appreciated everything he’d done for her. Getting someone off heroin isn’t easy.”
“No, it isn’t,” he admitted. Ryan considered himself to be a sympathetic man but he couldn’t imagine what it would take to turn around an addict’s life.
“Steve was too controlling, in a scary way. He wouldn’t allow her to have friends—”
“Maybe he was afraid they’d lead her back to drugs.”
Hayley nodded and a wisp of coppery hair fell across her cheek. She brushed it aside. “That’s true. He blamed her friends for her addiction, and her family for not doing more to help her. He was so close-minded about it that she didn’t dare introduce me, even though I’ve never done drugs.”
“Okay. What else do you want him to know?”
“That Lindsey left him because she was afraid of him. She planned to stay at my place and file for divorce. I gave her the keys to my car, not knowing someone had hidden the bomb that killed her.”
“He needs to know this because…”
“Steve doesn’t seem to believe Lindsey is dead. Once he realizes she’s gone, he can put the past behind him.”
Easier said than done, Ryan silently told himself. Much easier than Hayley could possibly realize. He thought about Jessica less often since meeting Hayley, but his wife was still in his thoughts.
“Eventually, Steve will meet another woman. I don’t want him to make the same mistake again.”
“You said he beat her up several times and when she left him it was because he was going to kill her. Right?” When Hayley nodded, he continued, “I don’t see how that translates to the type of personality change this man will require. It would take extensive counseling.”
She took a deep breath, gazing at him defiantly. “You may be right, but I believe Lindsey would want me to try.”
He knew it would be futile to argue with Hayley. She had a soft heart and she was more stubborn than any woman he’d known. No chance she’d change her mind. But for reasons Ryan really couldn’t explain, the thought of Hayley with Steve Fulton seemed dangerous.
HAYLEY SAW STEVE FULTON approaching the fountain outside Peet’s Coffee and Tea where she was waiting with Ryan. She would rather have met Lindsey’s husband alone, but Ryan refused to allow her to be by herself. He wouldn’t even consent to watching from the window of nearby Surf’s Up. He insisted on being at her side.
They’d decided to meet near Surf’s Up so they could quickly get back and pack items to be taken down to the booth at the beach. Tomorrow would be the first day of Board Wars. Hayley wanted to arrange her display items personally.
Steve stopped a few feet from the small round table where she and Ryan were sipping coffee. “I know you. I met you at some gallery.”
“Ian Barrington’s gallery.”
Steve shrugged as if to say: Who cares? He pulled out a chair and stared at Ryan with narrowed eyes filled with hostility and contempt. He was older than Hayley remembered. Steve Fulton appeared to be a little over forty, with black hair burnished at the temples with silver and deep-set brown eyes. He was tall—almost as tall as Ryan—and whipcord lean, like a long-distance runner.
“This is my friend Ryan Hollister,” Hayley said. “Would you like some coffee? Peet’s has the best in Newport.”
“I’m not here for coffee,” Steve snapped, barely holding his anger in check.
Hayley felt Ryan lean forward slightly and knew he was going to put Steve in his place. Under the table, she squeezed Ryan’s knee. She could handle this. “I owe you an explanation about what happened to Lindsey.”
Just saying her friend�
�s name nearly made Hayley choke up. If only she’d encouraged Lindsey to go to a women’s shelter, she might still be alive. Instead, she’d insisted Lindsey fly down here where Hayley could make sure she was safe. Safe? What a joke. She’d been so naive; no one had the power to keep another safe—if a killer was determined to eliminate them. But Steve wasn’t that kind of man. His crime was obsessive love that in the end drove Lindsey away.
“Okay, so talk,” Steve said brusquely.
Hayley cut a sideways glance at Ryan. “It was two years ago that you and I met at Ian’s gallery.”
Steve shrugged. “I guess. I didn’t recall your name. When the police said Lindsey had come to visit you, I didn’t believe it because I didn’t remember you. I know all her friends.”
“Did she have many?” Hayley asked, careful to keep her tone level. No telling what might antagonize this man.
“A few.”
Hayley waited to give him time to name them. From what Lindsey had told her, Steve hadn’t allowed her to associate with anyone.
“I was her best friend,” he continued, his tone softening.
“I was her friend, too,” Hayley added when it became clear that was all the man would offer on the subject. “We had art in common. Lindsey loved to paint. She appreciated the lessons you paid for her to take.”
The look that crossed his face said she’d stepped into verbal quicksand. Maybe Ryan had been right. This wasn’t such a great idea. Still, she felt she owed it to Lindsey.
“Is that where you met Lindsey—in class?”
“No. I met her when the class came to Ian’s gallery. She was there and we began talking, then went for coffee. We had a lot in common.”
Something glinted in the depths of his brown eyes that Hayley did not like. “A lot in common, huh? You’re an addict, too?”
Keep it together, she told herself. He’s deliberately trying to antagonize you. “No. We were both interested in art but didn’t think we could sell enough to support ourselves.”
