by J. A. Jance
“Was that something he did often?” Detective O’Brien asked. “Have ‘one too many’ on his way home from work?”
“No,” Jenny said. “But there’s always a first time, isn’t there?”
And a last time, Dave thought. “Had your husband been upset about anything recently?” he asked.
Jenny turned back to Detective O’Brien. “I already went over all this with you. Do I have to repeat it to him?”
“Please answer the question, Mrs. Morrison,” O’Brien said. “Believe me, the more information we all have, the easier it’ll be to get to the bottom of this.”
Jenny Morrison gave an exaggerated sigh. “All right, then,” she said. “In answer to your question, no, Matthew didn’t seem particularly upset. If anything, he seemed pretty cheerful.”
“Not what you’d call depressed,” Detective O’Brien offered.
“No more than usual,” Jenny replied.
“What do you mean?”
“My husband was never what you’d call a wild and carefree guy. He was an auditor. The only thing he would have liked more than working for the state would have been working for the IRS. In other words, he wasn’t ever a bundle of laughs. In fact, he may have known a joke or two, but I never heard him tell one. He was just a regular guy who wore a suit and tie when he went to work every day. After work, he came home, ate dinner, watched TV or messed around on his computer, and then went to bed. Mr. Regular-as-Clockwork.”
“Did he have dealings with anyone in or around Sedona?” Dave asked.
“Probably. Matthew had dealings with people from all over the state,” Jenny said. “Like I said, he worked for the auditor general. I’m sure she can tell you which accounts he was working on.”
“Did he mention anything to you about maybe going to Sedona this past Monday morning?”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken about that,” Jenny said. “He told me he had a Monday-morning meeting in Tucson. He brought home a motor-pool vehicle on Friday so he’d be able to leave for Tucson bright and early on Monday.”
On his way to Scottsdale, Dave had already checked on Matthew Morrison’s supposed Monday-morning appointment in Tucson and had found it totally bogus. No record of any scheduled Tucson appointment existed. Period. The car-rental agreement, however, did exist.
“You’re saying your husband was driving a state-owned vehicle on Monday morning when he left here, and not a Hertz rental?” Dave asked.
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“My understanding is that he used his Hertz gold card to rent a vehicle that was seen near Sedona—”
“You think Matthew rented a car? Never. He didn’t have a Hertz gold card,” Jenny declared flatly. “He never rented a car in his life, not once. For one thing, we never went anywhere. Besides that, he was too cheap.”
“You mentioned your husband’s computer. Was it here at home?”
Jenny nodded.
“And did he use it for work?”
“I don’t know. The last few months he was on it almost every evening. But it doesn’t really matter what he did with it. It’s broken.”
“Broken?” Dave asked.
“Yes. To begin with, I thought the same thing you did—that he had done himself in and he might have left me a note. But when I tried to turn on the computer, it wouldn’t even boot up. It was several years old, though. It probably died a natural death and he didn’t want to tell me about it.”
Dave’s phone vibrated in its holder on his belt, but the news about another broken computer made the call easy to ignore. Both Bryan and Morgan Forester’s computers had been tampered with. He tried to keep any sense of urgency out of his voice when he spoke. “Would you mind if we took a look at it?” he asked. “If someone at the crime lab could reinstate some of the data, it might give us a better idea of what was going on with your husband.”
“By all means,” Jenny Morrison said. “Knock yourselves out. You can take it right now if you want to. The sooner you get to the bottom of all this, the sooner I’ll be able to drive my car.”
“What about a photo?” Dave asked. He caught the raised eyebrow that Detective O’Brien gave him. Dave knew that eventually, they’d be able to retrieve Matthew Morrison’s photo from the DMV, but that would take time and going through channels. Right this minute, Detective Holman was looking for speed.
“That one,” Jenny said. With a careless shrug, she pointed to a gold-framed eight-by-ten photo sitting on an end table next to the couch—a photo of both of them together, Jenny with her hard-edged, fashion-plate good looks and beefy Matthew with a bad comb-over and a bulky sport jacket.
“It’s not brand-new,” Jenny said. “It’s from last year’s church directory.”
“Would it be possible to borrow it?” Dave asked.
“Sure,” Jenny told him. “You can keep it if you like. If I need a copy, I can always order another.”
Somehow, listening to Jenny Morrison talk, Dave doubted she’d be ordering another copy.
Half an hour later, he helped Detective O’Brien load Matthew Morrison’s dead PC and old-fashioned CRT into the back of his sedan.
“I’m not sure why we’re even bothering to drag this old computer out of there,” Sean said as he slammed the car door shut behind it. “Sounds as though it’s as dead as he is, poor guy. Maybe Morrison’s death really will turn out to be an accident, although, if I had to be married to a coldhearted witch like her, I’d have blown my brains out long ago.”
“Yes,” Dave agreed. “Jenny Morrison is definitely bad news, but I don’t think her husband’s death was an accident, and maybe not suicide, either.”
“What makes you say that?” Detective O’Brien asked.
“What if I told you I’ve learned about three dead computers connected to this case so far this morning?”
Once Dave explained, O’Brien nodded. “I see what you mean,” he said. “Sounds like at least two too many. I’ll drag this one back to the crime lab and see if anyone there can extract any data from it. What are you going to do with that photo?”
“Go see Hertz,” Dave said. “Matthew Morrison rented a car there on Monday. I want to see if anyone remembers him.”
Ali arrived back at the Sugarloaf during the late-morning lull. The parking lot was empty, and when she stepped inside, the place was deserted except for Jan Howard, who was grabbing a quick cup of coffee. Edie’s laptop sat open on the counter, but what should have been a pre-lunch quiet was punctuated by the sound of raised voices from the kitchen.
“I don’t care what I said about not minding,” Bob Larson was telling his wife. “The reason I didn’t mind is I never thought you’d do it. I thought you’d have better sense. No matter, you’re not bringing that damn thing into our house. I won’t have it. The last thing this world needs is a bunch of hysterical little old ladies going around zapping everything in sight.”
“I’m not hysterical,” Edie returned. “And I haven’t zapped anyone, not yet. And I certainly haven’t zapped you, now, have I?”
“What’s going on?” Ali asked Jan.
Bob and Edie’s longtime waitress rolled her eyes and shook her head. “You know how your parents are, Ali. They’re always squabbling like cats and dogs about one thing or another.”
That was true. For Bob and Edie, a day without a verbal skirmish was like a day without sun.
“What about this time?” Ali asked.
“Your mother’s Taser,” Jan returned.
Ali was aghast. “My mother’s what?”
“Her Taser,” Jan repeated. “FedEx delivered it a little while ago. She went out into the kitchen to load and authorize it, and your father started pitching a fit. Are you here for lunch?” she added, pulling out her order pad. “It’s early, but what can I get you?”
“You’re telling me my mother has a Taser, like on COPS?”
“Not exactly like on COPS,” Jan said. “Theirs are black. Edie’s is that pretty metallic pink. She got one that
matches her cell phone.”
Pink? Ali marveled.
“And what happens when you hit some poor little old guy with a pacemaker and he flops over dead?” Bob’s tirade continued. “What happens then?”
“You need to watch the video,” Edie said patiently. “It goes into all those details. The amount of charge in the Taser doesn’t do anything at all to pacemakers. Besides, how many crooks that are robbing banks or doing carjackings already have pacemakers?”
“And how many carjackings have you been involved in?” Bob demanded.
“None so far,” Edie replied. “But if I ever am, the guy doing it will be in for a big surprise.”
Walking around the end of the counter, Ali stepped into the kitchen. Her father stood leaning against the kitchen sink with his arms folded belligerently across his chest. Edie, frowning in concentration, was holding and manipulating a metal object of some kind in one hand while consulting a piece of paper in her other hand. The pink metallic object was about the same size and shape as an ordinary office stapler, and the color did indeed match Edie’s hot-pink cell phone.
Intent on their argument, neither Bob nor Edie registered Ali’s arrival on the scene. Since bickering was a way of life for her parents, Ali didn’t hesitate before stepping into the melee. “What’s going on here?” she demanded.
“Your mother’s gone off the deep end this time,” Bob replied. “Bought herself one of those Taser outfits from that Frieda Rains woman. With her packing that thing around, God help me if she ever goes on the warpath.”
None of this made much sense, but Ali plucked a familiar name out of her father’s diatribe: Frieda Rains was a local woman somewhere in her mid-to late seventies who had been left virtually penniless by her husband’s long bout with numerous health issues, including his eventual death from complications related to Alzheimer’s. In order to keep a roof over her head, Frieda had taken over as manager of a trailer park somewhere farther up Oak Creek Canyon. In addition to that, she eked out a meager living by doing other various odd jobs, including working as a food demonstrator and selling Tupperware.
“What’s Frieda doing with Tasers?” Ali asked.
“Selling them,” Edie Larson answered. “She can make a lot more money selling Tasers at a party than she can make selling plastic dishware.”
“My point exactly,” Bob said. “Once she sells them to everyone she knows, we’ll all be at risk. No one in town will be safe.”
“You should be grateful,” Edie said. “With the women in town prepared to defend themselves, you’ll be a whole lot safer than you were before.”
“You’re saying Frieda Rains is an authorized dealer, then?” Ali asked.
“Yes,” Edie answered. “She’s a fully authorized dealer. I went to one of her first parties here in town last week. Your father knew at the time that I was going. I told him well in advance.”
“Yes,” Bob grumbled. “But when you came home, you neglected to mention that you actually bought one. You seem to have left out that important detail.”
“Because I knew you’d pitch a fit five ways to Sunday when you found out,” Edie shot back. “Which is what you’re doing right this minute, in case you haven’t noticed. Since I knew having this argument was inevitable, I decided to postpone it until my C2 actually got here and it came time to activate it. Which I’ve done, by the way, by putting in the authorization code.”
“You’re saying that now it’s loaded?” Bob asked warily. “Are you telling me all you have to do is shoot the damn thing? Shouldn’t there be some kind of training program before you’re allowed to go around with it in your hand?”
“It isn’t a lethal weapon,” Edie returned. “And I’ve already done the training. Frieda gave me a copy of the video. I’ve watched it several times. Running this thing is as easy as pie.”
“What about a license? Shouldn’t you have one of those?”
“A license isn’t required,” Edie said. “I brought the computer over from the house so I could answer the questions on the felony check. Obviously, there weren’t any of those. Now that it’s activated, I’m good to go.”
“How about if you go out of my kitchen, then,” Bob suggested. “And take that blasted thing with you. What if it goes off accidentally and messes up my microwave?”
“It doesn’t go off unless you move back the cover and push the red button,” Edie said. “And it’s not going to hurt your microwave.”
“I don’t care,” Bob said. “I want it out of here!”
With a glare in her husband’s direction, Edie stuffed the Taser in the pocket of her apron and headed for the dining room. Bob turned on his daughter. “As for you,” he said, “if you’re looking for lunch, we don’t start serving for another five minutes. No exceptions, not even for you.”
Ali followed Edie back into the dining room. “Can I see it?” she asked. “Please?”
Edie sighed. “As long as you don’t give me any grief about it. See? This is how it works.” She held out the sleek little instrument and pulled back the plastic cover that served as a trigger guard. As soon as she did that, a bright red laser light appeared on the opposite wall.
“A lot of the time, just having that light aimed at his chest is enough to get a crook to back off. If he doesn’t, you press this button, the one with the lightning on it. You’ve got to keep the Taser vertical. The darts shoot out about fifteen feet, and they say you should always aim for the chest. The second dart hits about a foot lower than the first one. If he still doesn’t go down, you can use this as a stun gun in close physical combat, but that’s a lot harder.”
“You seem to know a lot about this,” Ali said.
“You bet,” Edie replied with a grin. “Like I said, I’ve watched the video.”
The bell rang over the door, signaling arriving customers. Without another word, Edie stowed her Taser in the locked compartment under the cash wrap next to her purse. While Jan went to seat the new arrivals, Edie busied herself with brewing a new pot of coffee. “I swear,” she said, “I think your father would be happier living in the twentieth century—the early twentieth century. The moment something new comes along, he digs in his heels. That’s why he’s still driving that old wreck of his.”
Bob Larson’s 1972 Bronco was his pride and joy. It was also his sole means of transportation. Refurbished after being stolen and stripped sometime earlier, it now sported a brand-new coat of paint and newly acquired copper-plated antique-vehicle license plates.
Ali wasn’t about to be deflected from the subject at hand. “But why a Taser?” she asked.
“Why not?” Edie returned. “Not everybody has what it takes to be a martial-arts expert, and we can’t all be like you and carry a loaded Glock around.”
Both of Ali’s parents had objected to her having a gun and a concealed-weapon permit, although the criticism had pretty much gone away after an almost fatal shoot-out in a Phoenix-area hospital waiting room. On that occasion, the presence of Ali’s weapon had played an important part in saving countless lives.
“I used to think Sedona was the safest place in the world, but not anymore,” Edie continued. “I’m the one who takes the receipts to the bank every day. When I’m walking around with that bag of cash in my purse, I can tell you, I feel mighty leery about it. I’m the one at risk, you know. Who’s to say some would-be thief might not take a look at me and decide I’m an easy mark?”
“But Mother,” Ali began.
“No buts,” Edie said. “It’s not a lethal weapon. If someone was coming at me and I had a gun in my hand, I’d probably think about it for a minute. Do I want to kill this guy or not? And by the time I made up my mind, it would be too late. With this, I pull the trigger. And what happens if there’s a struggle and he takes my weapon away and shoots me instead? Same thing. I may be tased, but I won’t be dead. I may fall down on the ground and wet my pants in public, which would be embarrassing as all get out, but again, I won’t be dead. Big difference.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Edie said. “You’ve got the thirty seconds while he’s helpless on the ground to call for help and get out of Dodge. You take off and leave your Taser right there with the darts still in him. Afterward, you submit a police report about the incident to Taser International, and they replace your Taser, no questions asked. So it comes with a lifetime guarantee.”
“Interesting,” Ali said.
“Look what happened to Morgan Forester,” Edie continued. “Whoever killed her did it right there in her own front yard, and she was completely defenseless. If she’d had a Taser, maybe she could have gotten away. Frieda told me that she booked three parties for next week based on that incident alone.”
Ali had to concede that Edie had a point. Sedona wasn’t nearly as crime-free as it had once been. That lethal weapon/ shoot/don’t shoot pause in the action, the critical seconds of wrestling with the decision of pulling the trigger and possibly killing an attacker, had proved fatal for countless police officers and civilians alike over the years. And how many people died when, in the course of a struggle, their own weapons were used against them? Maybe Edie and Frieda were right—that having access to a nonlethal alternative wasn’t such a bad idea.
Edie glanced at the clock. “It drives me nuts when your father starts acting like a prima donna, but it’s after eleven now. If you want lunch, I can take your order, but didn’t you just have breakfast?”
“I need a meatloaf sandwich,” Ali said. “To go.”
“With everything?”
Ali nodded. She didn’t mention that she would be delivering it to B. Simpson at his home. That would spin off another whole set of questions, to say nothing of rumors.
Once Ali’s order was up on the wheel, Edie turned back to her daughter. “Frieda asked me if I thought you’d be interested. Next week’s parties are booked, but she said she’d be able to squeeze you in to one of them if you’d like to attend.”
