Cruel Intent

plastic utensils. A confirmed bachelor, Ali concluded.

B. seemed to read her mind. “I was married once,” he said as he poured freshly brewed coffee from a state-of- the-art Krups brew station into a pair of mugs that were covered with fading Nintendo logos. “Briefly and badly,” he added. “She wanted to fix me and turn our house into something out of House and Garden. I’m more into retro Star Wars. She also wanted me to work regular office hours with nights and weekends off. I took the position that as much money as I was making, I didn’t need to be fixed. We decided to go our separate ways. She lives the way she lives, and I live like this.” He paused and looked at Ali expectantly, as if waiting for her to fill in the blanks of her own life.

“If you’ve Googled me,” she said, “then you already know I got turned in for a newer model. Or two.”

“Yes,” B. agreed. “I believe there was some mention of that. I also read that before all was said and done, you ended up being accused of knocking him off. Is that what got you so bound up in trying to help Bryan Forester?”

It was a fair question, especially in view of the fact that Ali’s involvement had drawn B. into the equation as well. “I suppose,” Ali admitted. “And considering your past history, I really appreciate that you’re willing to help out.”

B. grinned at her before taking a bite of the oversize sandwich. “You’re a paying customer,” he said, when he finished chewing. “And the customer is always right. You brought the thumb drives?”

“Yes.” Ali reached into her purse, pulled out the drives in question, and put them on the table. “I already tried using one of them in my computer,” she said, patting her computer case. “Nothing happened, but as you said, I wasn’t online at the time.”

B. nodded. “Thanks for dropping them off. As soon as I’m done with my sandwich, I’ll check them out. The drives and the computer.”

“Thank you,” Ali said.

“And what about Dave Holman?” B. asked. “Did you tell him about the possible connection between his case and our identity thief?”

“Not yet,” Ali said. “I’ve tried calling him several times. He must be busy. The calls go straight to voice mail.”

“Keep trying,” B. urged. “The more I think about it, the less I like it.”

Ali stayed long enough for B. to polish off the sandwich. Once he reached for her computer, she stood to leave. She still hadn’t heard back from Leland Brooks, and she wanted to make sure someone was at the Manzanita Hills house in advance of the deputies with their search warrant.

“You’re welcome to stay if you want to,” he said.

Ali shook her head. “I’ve already seen you working on computers,” she said. “It’s about as much fun as watching grass grow.”

“That’s funny,” B. said. “It’s almost the same thing my ex-wife used to say.”

CHAPTER 14

Leaving the village, Ali tried calling both Dave and Leland again. To no avail: Neither of them answered. On the way, she drove up to the Manzanita Hills house, expecting to see a pallet or two of tiles sitting in the driveway. There wasn’t one, and Leland wasn’t there, either.

Exasperated, Ali called B. Simpson back. “Have you taken a look at either one of the thumb drives?” she asked.

“Both of them,” he said. “And you’re right. They were both infected, but now that I know how this guy works, it wasn’t hard to disable the worm. I just finished working on Morgan’s. Why?”

“Someone was supposed to deliver a tile order today,” Ali said. “But there’s no sign of it here, and no sign of Mr. Brooks either. I’m wondering what happened.”

“Would you like me to check Morgan’s address book and see if I can find a phone number for you? Do you happen to remember the name?”

“Tile Design,” Ali answered impatiently. “Something like that.”

“Import Granite and Tile Design?” B. returned a moment later. “On Buckeye Road?”

“That’s the one,” Ali said. “Can you give me the number?”

“And down here on the notes, there’s a whole series of invoice numbers,” B. said. “Would you like those as well?”

Ali noted them. Once she dialed the number, she spent the next several minutes on hold before someone from customer service came on the line.

“My name is Alison Reynolds,” Ali told the woman. “My contractor is Build It Construction here in Sedona. I was told my order of limestone tile would be delivered today, but it hasn’t shown up.”

“You were expecting an order today?” the woman asked. “Where again?”

“In Sedona. At my construction site on Manzanita Hills Road. The contractor is currently unavailable, and I was told I needed to have someone on site to sign the invoice and accept delivery.”

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Reynolds,” the woman said. “I see the order right here, but there must be some kind of mistake. We don’t make deliveries in Sedona on Fridays. And your tile is in transit, but it isn’t due at our warehouse here in Phoenix until late next week at the earliest.”

“But I was told it would be here today.”

“Perhaps it’s an order from another company,” the woman said cheerfully. “It’s possible that the contractor ordered from more than one supplier. You should probably check with him.”

I would, if I could find him. Ali thought grimly. If he really is out of jail.

She was still fuming when she pulled into the driveway at Skyview, where she was relieved to see Leland Brooks’s pickup parked right outside the house. That meant he was back here. Maybe he was vacuuming or doing some other noisy chore that made hearing the ringing of his telephone impossible. If nothing else, he might be able to unravel the puzzle of that missing load of limestone tile.

“Hi,” she called, coming inside. “Leland? Anybody home?”

There was no answer as she closed the front door and turned to deposit her keys and purse on the burled- wood entryway table. When she looked up from doing that, she was astonished to find herself faced with a complete stranger. A dark-haired man with a grim expression was seated directly across from her on the leather couch. In one hand, he held a gun-an enormous handgun-that was trained on her. Both that hand and the other one, the one resting casually on his knee, were covered by latex surgical gloves. That was definitely a bad sign-a very bad sign. The man was dressed all in green, like one of the doctors on Scrubs, and he wore a pair of surgical booties on his feet.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “What the hell are you doing in my house? Who let you in? And where’s Leland Brooks?”

The man’s face twisted into a sardonic grin. “So many questions,” he said, “and from someone who no doubt thought she already had all the answers. First let me see that Glock of yours. I understand you never leave home without it. Take it out from wherever it is you carry it. Take it out very carefully and put it right there on the floor in front of you. Then move back to the door and sit there. No heroics, Ms. Reynolds. One false move, and I promise you, I will pull the trigger.”

He spoke so calmly, so deliberately, that Ali had no doubt he meant every word. With her heart slamming wildly inside her chest, she did as she’d been told: She carefully removed the Glock from its small-of-back holster and put it on the floor. Then, as directed, she moved back to the door and slid down to the floor in front of it.

How can this be happening to me? she wondered. Why didn’t I see it coming?

There had been no warning. None. One moment things had seemed completely normal. She had been performing the perfectly ordinary tasks of stepping into her house and closing the door behind her. The next moment her life was on the line: There was a stranger in her house, and she was staring down the barrel of a deadly weapon.

“You still haven’t told me who you are,” she said. With her whole body quaking, she struggled to steady her