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
“Not exactly like on
“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.
