scene and armed with their search warrant but Ali hadn’t bothered to show up. She hadn’t sent Leland Brooks, either. With no keys available, Dave had no choice.
“Cut the padlock on the Mini-Mobile,” he ordered. “If you can jimmy the lock on the front door, do it. Otherwise, knock it down.”
The uniformed officer had just swung open the door on the metal storage unit when Bryan Forester’s Dodge Ram pulled into the driveway. He jumped out of the cab and came running over to the officers, who were about to step inside.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“There are valuable tools and equipment in there,” Bryan objected. “I don’t want people messing with them.”
“I said back off,” Dave repeated. “We’re doing a search. We’re not going to bother your equipment. I don’t see any of your guys working today. What brings you here?”
“The tile company in Phoenix called me about some kind of delivery mix-up. Supposedly, someone was on his way here to drop off a load of tile that isn’t mine. I came by to check it out.”
Dave glanced around the driveway and saw nothing.
“I don’t see any, either,” Bryan said. “Like I said, it was a mix-up of some kind-probably someone else’s order. I just didn’t want it to be delivered here by mistake and then have to make arrangements to ship it back.”
“This is going to take some time,” Dave said. “If you want to hang around, how about if you and I go have a seat over at the picnic table and give these officers a chance to do their jobs.”
Nodding, Bryan headed for the table, shaking a cigarette out of a pack as he went. “You let me out this morning,” he said once he was seated and had lit up. “So how come you’re searching my stuff this afternoon? What changed?”
Nothing, except the prosecutor lost his balls, Dave thought. He said, “Letting you out was someone else’s call, not mine.”
“So you still think I did it?” Bryan asked. For a moment the two men glared at each other in charged silence. “Go to hell, then,” Bryan added when Dave didn’t respond. “I shouldn’t be talking to you, not without my lawyer.” He stood up as if to go.
“Sit,” Dave said.
Bryan sat.
“Who’s Peter Winter?”
“Peter who?”
“Winter. Dr. Peter Winter.”
Bryan shrugged. “I have no idea. Never heard of the man.”
“We believe he had some connection with Singleatheart,” Dave said.
“So?” Bryan asked, blowing a cloud of smoke skyward. “What does that have to do with me? Morgan was involved in all that garbage, not me.”
“Maybe you both were,” Dave suggested.
“Like I said before, go to hell,” Bryan told him. “Everyone in town knows your ex screwed around on you while you were off in Iraq. You didn’t kill her.”
“How kind of you to mention that,” Dave returned. “But it turns out my ex isn’t dead. Yours is.”
“Yes, Morgan was screwing around on me, but that doesn’t mean I killed her.”
“If you knew what was going on, why didn’t you divorce her?” Dave asked.
“Why do you think? The first time it happened, it broke my heart. But I got over it. After a while I just didn’t care anymore. I hung in because of the kids, because I didn’t want to lose my girls.”
This was far more than Bryan had said during all the hours Dave had spent with him in the interrogation room. “You knew about Singleatheart, then?” Dave asked.
“Not until Monday night, when I went through Morgan’s computer files.”
“How could you do that?” Dave asked. “Her computer was at the house. It was under lock and key as part of the crime scene.”
“There’s a backup system,” Bryan said. “It was all there-her own little black book. Morgan kept a detailed account of all her conquests: where they went, what they did, when she dumped the poor guy, and how. And if you want to find someone who was pissed about being dumped, maybe you should talk to my old pal Billy Barnes. That two-faced SOB, my good buddy, a guy whose ass I saved by giving him a job, was more than happy to screw around with my wife behind my back. And when she dropped him for that new guy, somebody named Jimmy, Billy went all to pieces. Sent her whiny, pleading messages, begging her to take him back. But by now you’ve been through her files, and you already know all this stuff. You’ve seen it.”
“No, I haven’t,” Dave said. “The files on Morgan’s computer had all been destroyed. So were yours.”
The undiluted surprise on Bryan Forester’s face would have been tough to fake. “Destroyed?” he demanded. “What do you mean, destroyed? How’s that possible?”
“Someone overwrote the files. There’s nothing left.”
“Nothing?” Bryan repeated, shaking his head. “That can’t be. No way. My whole business is on those two computers-all my contracts and sales records; my tax and insurance information.” He paused. “You don’t think I did this-that I deliberately set out to destroy the information. Besides, I made copies on two thumb drives. I gave them to Ali, but maybe they’re wrecked, too. Crap. If they are, then I’m done for. Out of business. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Somebody’s out to destroy me.”
From Monday afternoon on, from the moment Dave had seen Morgan Forester’s lifeless body in the porch swing, he had been convinced that her husband had done the deed. And when he’d first learned of the damaged computers, he’d been even more certain that Bryan was responsible for those as well. B. Simpson had tried to tell him otherwise, but Dave hadn’t really believed it. Now maybe he did, and for the first time it occurred to him that there might be two victims here-both Morgan Forester and her husband.
Ali felt self-conscious peeling out of her sodden clothing and putting on the jogging suit under the watchful eye of her captor. As she did it, she seesawed back and forth, second-guessing her strategy. She kept hoping that somehow she’d find another way out of this awful mess-a way that wouldn’t require involving her mother in a desperate life-or-death gambit.
Ali knew she should leave Edie out of it, even though her mother and her newly activated Taser held the key to evening the odds. What if it all went bad-if one or both of them died? Ali knew in advance that no matter what happened, her mother would forgive her, and so would her father. There was no question about that. The problem was, if something awful happened to Edie and her daughter somehow survived, would Ali ever be able to forgive herself?
Even so, Ali knew several important things about Edie Larson that the bad guy didn’t. For one thing, Ali understood that her mother would fight to the death to help protect her child, in the same way Ali would fight for Chris if the situation called for it. Ali knew, too, that her mother was stubborn. Having gone to war with her husband over whether she should have a Taser, Edie would be damned rather than leave the restaurant without it. Just to show her husband, she would have taken it home with her. It would be someplace close at hand-in her pocket or her purse.
Ali’s captor wouldn’t consider the possibility that Edie Larson would be armed for bear. This arrogant jerk would automatically assume that Edie-a harmless-looking gray-haired, hearing-aid-wearing old lady-would pose no threat to him at all. Ali understood instinctively that he would totally “misunderestimate” her mother.
Edie Larson’s stubborn streak was much like Ali’s own, and Edie would fight like crazy once she knew what was going on-if she knew what was going on. That was the problem. How could Ali manage that feat of mother/daughter communication? How would she let Edie know what was at stake without alerting the gunman?
At last Ali was dressed. When she stood up, she was woozy. Clutching at the dresser for support, she looked around for her shoes, which were nowhere to be seen. The cut next to her eye was still bleeding. She looked down at her bare feet just as a drop of blood trickled off her chin and dripped onto the top of her foot. Her cheek ached,
