stool one down from Ali. “I heard they let Bryan Forester out of jail this morning,” Blanche said as Edie filled her coffee cup. “Someone told me they saw his truck parked in front of the funeral home. Probably there making arrangements for tomorrow’s funeral. Under the circumstances, I don’t think the man has any business arranging a funeral, much less attending it.”
The comment was addressed to Edie. Ali had no business involving herself in the discussion, but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t sit idly by while people who had no idea of what had happened sat around proclaiming Bryan’s guilt.
“Why wouldn’t Bryan show up for the funeral?” Ali demanded sharply. “Morgan was his wife and the mother of his children. He has every right in the world to be there.”
Everyone within hearing distance, including Blanche, seemed taken aback by Ali’s outspoken response.
“Your order’s up,” Bob said from the kitchen.
Hurriedly grabbing Ali’s to-go bag from the pass-through, Edie handed it to her daughter. “Go ahead,” she said. “We can straighten this out later.”
“Yes,” Ali declared, standing up and favoring Blanche with a cold-eyed stare. “We certainly can.” With that, she stomped out of the Sugarloaf and headed for the Village of Oak Creek.
Unconvinced that Matthew Morrison’s damaged computer would provide any answers, Dave Holman left the crime scene in Scottsdale and headed for Sky Harbor airport. Shortly after noon, armed with the formerly framed photo of Jenny and Matthew Morrison, Dave arrived at the Hertz car-rental facility at Sky Harbor. Not that it did him much good.
Once Dave showed his ID, Jim Henderson, the young branch manager, was polite and eager but less than helpful. A check of their records showed that the vehicle in question-a blue Ford 500 with Colorado plates-was out on another rental and wasn’t scheduled to be returned again until Sunday evening. As for Morrison’s rental agreement? It had been done through their online facility. Since Matthew Morrison had a valid gold card, he didn’t have to stop at a rental counter. All he had to do was step off the shuttle, climb into his waiting vehicle, and then drive through the guarded gate, showing his paperwork as he went.
“That’s all there is to it?” Dave asked.
Henderson nodded. “It’s a service for our repeat customers. We maintain profiles on each of them. We know what vehicles they like and their insurance preferences. We also have their license information on file, along with their preferred credit card. That’s all we need. It streamlines the process for everyone.”
“What happens when the vehicle is returned?”
“Customers drive up to one of our drop-off lanes. An attendant checks the car for damage, verifies the mileage and fuel readings, and makes sure nothing’s left in the vehicle.”
“Can you tell which attendant that would have been?”
“Sure. Just a second. Attendant 06783. That would be Bobby Salazar. He’s out on the line now.”
“Do you mind if I talk to him?”
“You can try, but I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you,” Henderson said. “These guys check in hundreds of vehicles in a week’s time. Bobby’s one of our best, but this is Thursday. He’s not going to remember a vehicle that was turned in on Monday.”
Dave arrived at Bobby Salazar’s station and waited on the sidelines while the attendant finished checking in two very sunburned guys in shorts and Hawaiian shirts who came equipped with a mountain of luggage and two sets of golf clubs. As they piled their stuff onto a rolling cart, Bobby turned an appraising gaze on Dave. “What can I do for you, Officer?”
Wordlessly, Dave handed over first his ID and then the photo of Jenny and Matthew Morrison. “Have you ever seen this guy?”
Bobby studied the picture carefully, then shook his head. “Nope,” he said confidently. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“That’s funny,” Dave said. “According to the check-in records, he came through your line on Monday-late in the afternoon.”
“Driving what?” Bobby asked.
“A blue Ford 500 with Colorado plates.”
Dave caught the subtle tightening of Bobby Salazar’s jaw. He looked down at the photo and then handed it back. “I remember the vehicle, but this guy wasn’t the one who was driving it. Why? What’s this about?”
“I’m investigating a homicide that occurred outside Sedona on Monday morning,” Dave answered. “This vehicle was seen in the area and-”
“There was blood in it,” Bobby said. “On the floorboard of the passenger seat. At least it looked like blood.”
“And you didn’t report it?”
“My shift was almost over,” Bobby said. “I didn’t want to be late for class. There wasn’t any other damage to the vehicle. Besides, it wasn’t that big a stain. Carpets get dirty over time. The detail guys clean them up as best they can.”
“I’m sure they do,” Dave said. “But this is the man whose name was on the rental agreement.” He held up the photo. “You’re sure this isn’t the man who was driving?”
“I remember the guy very well,” Bobby said. “He was rude to me-a first-class asshole, but not this asshole. This isn’t him.”
When Ali arrived at the address she’d been given, she found herself in front of a sprawling piece of stucco- covered architecture stacked on top of a three-car garage. Looking at it, she knew the modern-looking affair would total up to be well over a million-dollar property, especially since it was built on a steep hillside lot that backed up to a large swath of undeveloped and probably undevelopable open space. In the Sedona area, that kind of privacy meant big bucks.
She parked in the driveway and stepped out of her Cayenne to admire the view. The house overlooked the ninth fairway of a well-kept eighteen-hole golf course, with Sedona’s fringe of deep red rocks dominating the horizon.
B. hurried out to meet Ali as she gathered her purse and the take-out bag containing his sandwich. Ali handed the bag to him and then reached back into the Cayenne to retrieve her laptop. B. led her up the steep driveway and under a covered portico on the south side of the house, where two double doors-either antique or suitably distressed-created an impressive entry.
“For real?” Ali asked, fingering the rough-hewn wood.
B. grinned and shook his head. “Nope,” he replied. “Well done but absolutely fake. There’s a door factory down in Mexico that’s made a real name for itself manufacturing reproduction doors. The doors were going to be part of a whole Mexican-hacienda motif. I had planned on hiring a decorator and really doing the place up in spectacular fashion, but it turns out I’ve had a few other things on my plate. In other words, I haven’t quite gotten around to redecorating. You’ll have to take the house as is.”
The tall wooden doors opened onto a soaring two-story foyer with an exquisitely tiled floor. After that impressive entry, things pretty much went downhill. The living room was huge, with a massive black granite fireplace at the far end. What should have been a spectacular focal point for the home suffered from the furnishings-an oddball collection of mismatched tables, desks, and benches, all of which held one or more computers. The only concession to comfort came in the guise of two rolling desk chairs that evidently migrated as needed from one computer station to the next.
“Why do I feel like I just ended up at a computer garage sale?” Ali asked.
“It’s not,” B. said with a chuckle. “For one thing, not one of these computers is dead. They’re all hard at work doing their own little part of solving our encryption problem. I’ll admit, I probably shouldn’t have set them up in the living room, but there was more room here than anywhere else. The kitchen’s on through there,” he added, pointing and leading the way. “I put on a new pot of coffee, and if you’re hungry, I’ll be happy to share some of my sandwich.”
Taking the hint, Ali followed B. into the kitchen. “Yes on the coffee,” she said. “I already had breakfast, so I’m not hungry. Don’t let that stop you. You go ahead.”
She watched while he dished the sandwich out onto a paper plate and set the table with an assortment of
