Play Dead (4 page)

His father’s lips clamped together in resentment and tears shimmered in Meg’s eyes. The air around them was fraught with pain and desperation. Ryan could see that they had no idea of the magnitude of this investigation. He wouldn’t add a damn thing.

“The Joint Terrorism Task Force includes the FBI, local fire and police, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives as well as Homeland Security. That’s tremendous manpower focused on this crime. They’ll solve the case.”

“They’re not you.” Determination was etched on every time-worn line on his father’s face. “This isn’t personal to them.”

Something inside Ryan clicked, a painful echo of the larger than life man his father had once been. Back then, Conrad Hollister would never have begged anyone for help. A host of conflicting emotions warred inside Ryan. It wouldn’t be long, he realized, before he lost the only other person he loved.

“You know I’m not an investigator. I’m a computer jock.” He said this more to Meg than his father. Meg knew what he did; they’d discussed it the first time he’d met her. But she looked so stricken, as if she’d keel over any second, that he felt he had to explain.

“I don’t trust them,” Meg said in a surprisingly firm voice. “They were here to interview me. They don’t have a clue. The car bomb has thrown them. The police think there’s some foreign connection. I tried to explain Hayley
designs clothes. She doesn’t have foreign connections, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“Can’t you just look through Hayley’s things?” his father pleaded. “See if the police missed something.”

The tone of his father’s voice triggered a raw ache in Ryan. He’d miss his father as much as—if not more than—he missed Jessica. “The police won’t let me waltz into her place—”

“My place,” Meg corrected him. “I own the loft. The detectives who interviewed me said they would be through with it this afternoon. I asked because I need to find one of Hayley’s dresses for the funeral.”

Ryan struggled to hold in a gasp. After a bomb, what could be left? He couldn’t imagine a coffin with nothing in it but a dress.

Meg rose and walked with surprising agility across her suite, returning to where they were sitting with a photograph in a sterling silver frame.

“This is my Hayley.” Meg’s voice cracked. “She’s all I have.”

Kicking himself for getting into this, Ryan gazed at the girl in the photo as Meg handed it to him. It was a candid headshot obviously taken at the beach. Tousled brown hair shimmering with coppery highlights. Clear hazel eyes blazing with happiness.

Pretty. Healthy. Sexy. The typical California girl.

Except for the arresting smile that hit Ryan like a sucker punch to his gut. She had a mysterious glint in her eyes that made him wonder just what she was thinking. Something told him that there was nothing “typical” about Hayley.

He studied the photograph more closely. Those full pouty lips. Did they taste as good as they looked? And
that skin the color of honey. Would it be silky smooth to the touch? His pulse kicked up a notch.

Annoyed at the direction his thoughts had taken, Ryan realized he felt some sort of connection with this woman, which was totally unexpected. Since Jessica’s death, not one brain wave had focused on sex for over a year. Why now?

“All right,” he said, feeling like a cat who’d just horked up a hairball. “I’ll check her place. I’ll also make a few phone calls and see what I can find out.”

This was like dancing on eggs. He didn’t want to give them false hope that he could personally solve this. “It may be hard to tell much at her place. I’m sure the task force has removed a lot of evidence.”

“Thank you, son,” his father said in a low-pitched voice that couldn’t hide his emotion.

“Bless you,” Meg added. “Bless you.”

Doing this small favor that meant so much to his father wasn’t a big deal, he assured himself. Still, he had the disturbing feeling that he shouldn’t be doing this. His sixth sense kicked in, telling him that Hayley Fordham was nothing but trouble.

“W
HATDAYA THINK
?”
Ed Phillips asked Ryan.

“Too soon to tell, but so far I’m not finding much.”

Ryan had arrived at Hayley Fordham’s loft to discover the authorities were still there. He wasn’t surprised. He’d thought releasing the crime scene as early as Meg indicated was unlikely. His bad luck had not run out when he’d agreed to help Meg. The first person he saw when he walked up was Phillips.

The special agent worked with Ryan in the L.A. office. Phillips was a senior criminal intelligence analyst while Ryan was in cyber crimes, but they knew each other from previous cases. Phillips had been sent to represent the FBI on the Joint Terrorism Task Force that Ryan had predicted would investigate this case. A car bombing so close to an airport was a huge red flag for a terrorist act.

Phillips had immediately enlisted Ryan to check Hayley Fordham’s computer and introduced him to the local detectives investigating the murder. He also spoke to the ATF guys, who were still called ATFers even though their official title was now Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.

“This is the computer guru who cracked the Rosier case,” Phillips announced to the team gathered in the makeshift command post set up in the ground-floor garage of Hayley
Fordham’s loft. This introduction wowed the group. The Rosier case had been a fraud scam that made headlines early last year. The information that hung Carleton Rosier had been encrypted and buried on his corporation’s computers. Ryan had figured out how the con artist had created two sets of books on his computers.

“What have they got?” Ryan asked as he kept punching keys and concentrating on Hayley’s twenty-one inch screen. Phillips was standing behind him, watching. This was annoying but Ryan didn’t say anything because he needed to find out as much as he could about Hayley.

“Nothin’ unless ATF finds out something.”

ATF bomb experts spent so much time training that even though the FBI had their own team, they took a backseat to ATF. They would be looking for bomb-making equipment, although Ryan thought it was unlikely that Hayley made the bomb that killed her. Yet stranger things had happened. The bomb could have been intended for someone else and she’d accidentally detonated it.

“Nothing like this case on VICAP,” Ryan said, referring to the Violent Crimes Apprehension Program that maintained a massive database on crimes at their headquarters in Quantico.

Phillips shook his head. “Whoo-ee, this is one for the books. We get two, maybe three car bombings a year, most of them along the border. Mexican cartels have a buncha’ crazy muthafuckers who rig bombs.”

Phillips had grown up in Alabama and his roots could be heard when he talked and in the expressions he used, which was unusual at the Bureau. They encouraged the neutral cadence of newscasters. Accent aside, Phillips was one of the sharpest guys Ryan had encountered at the FBI.

“Could Hayley Fordham have been involved with
drugs? Should I be looking for something like that on her computer?”

Phillips shrugged. “I doubt it, but
shee-it.
Who knows?”

“Are we sure that it was Hayley who was killed?”

“Ninety-nine percent sure. She used her credit card just minutes before her dadgummed car blew sky high. The license plate flew off or we wouldn’t have been able to ID the car. No body parts. She was vaporized.”

Ryan imagined the dress that Meg was coming to pick out tomorrow. Evidently, the poor woman had no idea her niece’s body was dust. “What about the security cameras? What do they show?”

“The camera at the entrance nearest the car was on the fritz but the ones in the restaurant clearly show the woman Trent Fordham identified as his half-sister, Hayley. She had drinks with an unidentified female friend, then got in her car and yow-zer. That’s all she wrote.”

“What does the friend say?”

Phillips quirked one dark eyebrow. “The brother didn’t recognize the woman and the locals haven’t tracked her down yet.” He sounded as if he didn’t have much confidence in the police.

Ryan stared at the computer screen as he tapped a few keys. His mind was on the intriguing face in the photograph. Hayley was something else, and according to her aunt, talented and smart. Who would want her dead?

They were on the loft’s third floor, which Hayley used as an office/studio. The small desk with her computer was a fire hazard of notes and sketches. There was a work table with some fabric laid out. Two empty easels faced the twelve-foot floor-to-ceiling windows that provided natural light during the day. Racks of oil tubes and brushes were on the wall next to pegs for oilcloth to cover
artwork and paint-splattered smocks. Several completed oils were stacked against the far wall.

Ryan again thought about what Meg had told him about her niece. Hayley was the clothing designer for Surf’s Up, the family company. Except for the fabric on the table, this place looked more like an artist’s studio. But hey, what did he know?

Hayley did have a CADCAM with a clothing design program loaded on her computer. There were lots of designs in the archives; some of them were downright weird. He didn’t see much else but he hadn’t checked her e-mails or looked for trapdoors.

“We’re cutting out,” the ATFers told them.

“Any sign of explosives around here?” Ryan asked over his shoulder. “Or drugs?”

“Nothing except a half-full bottle of prescription sleeping pills.”

“I think the guys from the office and the police are ready to pull out, too,” Phillips told him. “You almost finished?”

He was, but Ryan wanted time alone to look around the place. “Nah. I’ll be awhile. Go on. See if you can get me cleared to stay.”

“No problem. I already called the office and had you put on the case.” He patted Ryan’s shoulder. “Guess your vacation is over until you check out this computer. Catch ya later.”

Detective Wells, the lead detective with the Costa Mesa police, came up, asking, “Anything?”

“I’m still checking. It’ll take me a few hours.”

Wells paused a second, then said, “I understand you’re a friend of the family.”

Ryan wasn’t sure where or how he’d obtained this in
formation. “Not the family exactly. My father is close with Meg Amboy, who is Hayley’s aunt.”

“We interviewed her.”

Ryan turned away from the computer to ask, “You personally or one of your men?”

Wells, a dapper-looking older man with silver hair and intelligent blue eyes shrugged. “I sent one of the guys. Didn’t seem likely that she’d know much.”

“She’s a pretty sharp gal. Made a fortune on her own.”

“What’s she saying in private?”

“She believes it might be a member of the family. They own a local surf store that sells their clothing nationwide. It was started by the father who was killed late last year in a plane crash.” He thought Wells knew all this but since the guy hadn’t interrupted him, the detective might not have received a report from his men yet. “The three children will inherit the business and other property when the probate is settled. It’s a sizable estate.”

Wells nodded. “Farah and Trent Fordham have alibis, although it is possible they hired someone. Bomb-making instructions are easily found on the Internet but not many people are willing to risk making one.”

“I’m a computer guy—”

“Yeah,” Wells said with a knowing smile, “and you played two years in the NFL until your shoulder was ruined after a questionable tackle.”

Ryan nodded; he never mentioned his pro career, but buffs like Wells remembered him. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m not an expert, but bombings are usually revenge crimes. The killer wants to obliterate the person.”

“I know. It’s a strange one all right.” Wells pulled a card out of his jacket pocket. “I’ve got a man posted
downstairs. When you leave, he’ll lock up. I want you to call me with a report no matter how late it is.”

Ryan checked the e-mail log and it yielded only a few interesting items. Apparently Hayley had some sort of business arrangement with an Ian Barrington. He appeared to be an art dealer. He was expecting several oil paintings for what must be a show. That would account for all the art supplies and easels in the room.

He rummaged through the papers on Hayley’s desk, assuming the police had already checked them and removed anything important. He found a CD labeled
The Big 3-0
. He popped it into her computer and watched the family barbeque given for Hayley almost two years ago. Most of the jerky footage was of a laughing, smiling Hayley opening gag gifts. There wasn’t any sound on the CD but it wasn’t hard to tell what was happening.

At her side was a man that most women would call drop-dead gorgeous. Tall, dark hair, lively blue eyes. For some reason, Ryan experienced a pang of something that he didn’t want to call jealousy. Why? He’d never met Hayley or the man, who must be her former fiancé. Wasn’t his name Chad Bennett? Meg had said Hayley had dumped him after catching him cheating.

He watched the very sexy Hayley blow out a platoon of candles on a cake with the inscription
Over The Hill
. Yeah, right. Hayley was anything but over the hill. Just at her prime was more like it.

She looked right into the camera and blew a kiss as the CD ended. Ryan sat staring at the screen, half-convinced she’d meant the kiss for him. He must be losing it big-time. He removed the CD and forced his attention back to checking her computer.

Since Phillips had Ryan officially on the case, he
logged into the network in his L.A. office and let the special software he’d designed run a check for trapdoors on Hayley’s computer and see if anything was hidden. It would take half an hour to thoroughly scrutinize all of her files. That would give him time to look around.

He climbed down the high-tech stainless-steel stairs from the third floor office/studio and master bedroom to the middle level, where the kitchen and living room took up the entire floor. He stood still beside the refrigerator, the strangest sensation coming over him. He felt as if he’d been there before. No, that wasn’t it. He felt as if he belonged here somehow. It made no sense.

Get real,
he thought, kicking himself. Lofts were just huge open rooms portioned off by walls that weren’t attached to the rafters. He’d never been in a loft, but he’d seen them on TV. Still, something there spoke to him.

What? He looked around. Honest to God, he couldn’t figure out his strange reaction. The entire place was covered with fingerprint dust, a fine charcoal-colored powder. He grabbed a tissue from a dispenser and covered his fingers to open drawers without leaving prints. Not that the crime techs were coming back, but he was too much of a professional to contaminate a crime scene.

The kitchen drawers revealed little except for a utility drawer that had a stash of notepads and matches from various restaurants. There wasn’t a personal telephone book, but he didn’t find that unusual. Most people Hayley’s age kept that info on their cell phones.

He noticed a dog’s water bowl and dish on the floor near the refrigerator. The fine dark powder around it indicated that the dishes had been dusted for prints. The local crime scene techs were thorough, he’d give them that.

Stylized surfboard magnets held several photographs
to the refrigerator door. One was of a golden retriever with a red ball in its mouth. Another was of a stunning auburn-haired woman—Hayley—sitting on the beach, hugging the dripping-wet retriever. The third was of a weird-looking dude in a T-shirt with the Grim Reaper on it. Obviously, it was a publicity photo. Scrawled at the bottom were the words
Hayley, you’re the bomb.
It was signed
The Wrath.

The Wrath? The name dinged some distant bell in Ryan’s brain. Then it came to him. The Wrath was the Mixed Martial Arts national champion. Ryan had watched a few matches while he’d been home with his shoulder injury. It combined boxing, wrestling, kickboxing, judo and other fighting techniques in a no-holds-barred smack-down fight. The barefoot fighters wore shorts and padded gloves. The only rule that governed their fight was no biting or eye-gouging.

Interesting, Ryan thought. Hayley didn’t seem like a woman who’d hook up with an MMA fighter, but what did he know? The way Ryan had responded to her blowing a kiss at the end of the CD still had him on edge. How could he react so strongly to someone he’d never met?

He wandered out of the kitchen and into one of two bedrooms sectioned off from it that opened onto a living room overlooking the bay. It was Hayley’s room, he realized the instant he entered. The crime techs had dusted everything and removed the sheets from the bed.

Something swept through him, like an adrenaline rush but stronger. Ryan opened the closet door and a delicate scent came from the clothes hanging in front of him. He inhaled deeply. Vanilla, he decided. The perfume Hayley wore had a trace of vanilla in it.

Lavender was her favorite color, he realized. And she
didn’t own a suit unless the crime techs had bagged one as evidence, which he doubted. Most of the items hanging in her closet were casual clothes. He checked the dresser drawers, knowing they’d been searched but wanting to get a feel for this woman.

Okay. She loved skimpy thongs and lacy bras—size 34C. Not centerfold material, but Ryan always said anything more than a handful was wasted. Honest to God, what was he thinking?

Ryan slammed the drawer shut and stood there, furious with himself. He caught his reflection in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. He hardly recognized the image. In his mind’s eye, he always saw himself the way he’d looked in his wedding picture, taken just before the season that ended his career.

Time and Jessica’s illness had changed him. Even though he was just thirty-five, Ryan thought he looked older. It was because he was thinner than he’d ever been and his face seemed gaunt. Black stubble shadowed the square line of his jaw, making him look more serious than he felt. He tried to smile, the way he once had so easily, but it was just a grimace.

A tragedy, sure,
he told himself.
You’re still alive. You’ll get past this eventually.
He didn’t want to get over Jessica. But another part of him must feel the need to move forward with his life. That’s why he was reacting so strongly to Hayley.