“No.”
“What, then?” James tried and failed to keep the irritation out of his voice. He’d known Rowdy since junior high, expected some of his high jinks. It was all part of the Rowdy Crocker package. But it was still irritating as hell.
“You know that Charity Spritz was murdered?”
James nodded, still bothered. “Heard it on the news, just in the last hour.”
“You have any idea why she was in the Bay Area?” Rowdy was already at the fridge and pulling out two more bottles.
“I can guess.”
Rowdy glanced over his shoulder. “I can do better than that.” He found the opener he’d left on the counter and opened both new bottles, then finished his first bottle and left the empty in the sink.
“I’ve set up in the dining room. That’s where I saw your computer and thought I’d clean it up; you know, you should get a better security system for it. Any hack could get into your files.”
“Just like any hack could get into my house?”
Rowdy barked out a laugh. “If the shoe fits . . .”
They settled at the table, where Rowdy’s open laptop sat next to his iPad and two cell phones. “Rudimentary, I know. But it’s what we have to deal with.”
James could only imagine what Rowdy had in his own home, a cabin in the woods that was supposedly “off the grid” but was actually equipped with the latest in technological equipment, everything from cameras to recording equipment, computers with layers of security, and the kind of spying equipment a CIA operative would drool over—or at least that’s what Rowdy claimed.
Taking a chair next to him, James drank from his bottle as Crocker settled in, working the keyboard, and Ralph curled at his feet under the table.
“Okay, as I said, I haven’t located Megan. Not yet. But I will tell you this, the police have just found her car.”
“They have? How do you—?”
“Remember my ‘don’t ask’ policy.”
Crocker demanded ultimate secrecy.
“Just trust me. They got it. I haven’t pinpointed the location, but in the mountains.”
James’s heart was pounding. “But what about Megan?”
“She’s not with it. From what I understand, they found her belongings—her phone, her laptop, and purse. They’re checking into it as we speak.” He slid a sideways glance at James. “But you might prepare yourself. They haven’t started looking for a body yet.”
James sucked in a swift breath. “You’re saying she’s dead.”
“I’m saying it’s a very distinct possibility.” No joking. Rowdy was serious. “The kicker is that the property is owned by Harold Sinclaire.”
“Sinclaire?” James repeated. “He bought a tiny home from me.”
“This cabin isn’t a tiny home; it’s been there for half a century, probably longer, but the connection is that Sinclaire is involved with Jennifer Korpi.”
“What?”
“Small world, I guess.”
“But Jennifer . . . I mean, she would never be involved in anything like this,” James said. “Doesn’t make any sense. You’re sure about this.”
Crocker gave him a long look. “You know who you’re talking to?”
“Okay. Right.”
“And didn’t you say that her brother, Gus Jardine, he’s going to sue you for an industrial accident?”
“Right.” James snorted. “The thing is, several people who worked near him think he did it on purpose. How crazy is that?”
“Maybe not so crazy.”
“So he’s after money? Going to sue me?”
Crocker cracked his neck. “Maybe it’s more than that. Take a look at this.” Again his fingers flew over his keyboard, and within seconds, a picture of a mangled hand came into view, torn tissue, exposed bone, and ligaments visible in the flesh.
“Holy crap, is this Gus’s hand? How the hell did you get that?”
Crocker didn’t answer, just shot him a reminding glare, then pointed to the screen. “See here, on the palm, on the inside of the first knuckles. It’s been cleaned up, so you can see the tear in the flesh, but if you look closely, here under the ring and middle fingers, there is another set of bruises.”
“From the saw.”
Crocker shook his head slowly. “Look at the marks, several deep but small impressions, almost semicircular.”
James just stared, his mind racing, his muscles tensing. “You’re saying this is a bite mark.”
“A human bite mark,” Crocker corrected.
James was following Crocker’s theory. “You think Jardine intentionally screwed up his hand to cover up the fact that his hand was bitten?”
Suddenly, Crocker scraped back his chair, rounded on James, and grabbed him from behind, his right hand covering James’s mouth.
James reacted, every muscle tensed as he was about to throw Rowdy off of him. “Hey!” he cried, but his voice was muffled, nearly silenced. Ralph jumped up, growling, hackles raised, ready to leap at Crocker as he released James.
“Get it?” he asked, breathing hard.
James did. The “attack” was just a demonstration. And he was following Crocker’s train of thought. “You think Gus Jardine killed Charity Spritz?”
“I think it’s a strong possibility.” He slid into his chair again. “I already did some checking, and he could have done it on the night she was killed and gotten back here in time to look good.” He changed the image on the screen, and this time it was a person leaving a van in a parking lot. “At the San Francisco airport. Does that dude”—he indicated the man in black hurrying from the van—“does he look like Jardine?”
“Maybe,” James allowed. “Maybe not.”
“I’m working on that.”
“Good.” James stared at the screen as Rowdy replayed the short film over and over. The guy had the same build as Gus Jardine, but his face was obscured, his clothes dark and without anything distinguishing. “But why would Gus Jardine kill Charity Spritz?”
“Because she knew something, or was going to find out something.”
“About him. Or his sister?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. Or one of them. Why do you think Charity Spritz was in Northern California?”
“Probably checking into my family. She said as much.”
“To you?”
“Well, she came over here, wanting an interview, and brought up the fact that my family was based there, so I would assume that’s a reason she went there.”
Crocker took a big swallow from his bottle, but kept
