Play Dead (6 page)

“Right.” He’d instructed Meg and his father to say he was in computers so no one would realize that he was with the FBI. He’d hoped to get more information that way but so far, zilch. “I understand you were good friends with Hayley.”

“Yes. We’re creative spirits in a family of…of…”

“Business types,” he supplied when she seemed to be drifting.

“Exactly.” Courtney paused outside the entrance to the ladies’ room. “I’ll miss her terribly.”

He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Who do you think killed her?”

Courtney’s enlarged pupils welled with unshed tears. “I can’t imagine…”

She walked into the restroom. Something lingered in the nerve endings of Ryan’s skin. His sixth sense told him Courtney knew more than she was saying. Or was it just his imagination? He could be wrong. Anyway, why would Courtney Fordham tell him—a total stranger—anything?

Ryan wandered back into the reception, hoping his father and Meg were ready to leave. He immediately spotted Chad Bennett in a corner talking to Trent. From the looks of it, their discussion was very serious. Ryan went to get another steak on the stick from the beef station and watched the men out of the corner of his eye.

In two gulps, Bennett knocked back a martini with a parade of olives on a pick as he listened to whatever Trent was saying so intently. He munched on the olives.

Bennett was just above average in height but he had an easy smile and long-lashed blue eyes. The man signaled a passing waiter for another martini and Ryan wondered if the attorney had a drinking problem—or was he drown
ing his sorrow? He was listening to Trent but Bennett’s eyes kept straying to the huge photograph of Hayley.

Ryan waited and Trent finally left Bennett when Courtney came teetering into the room. Obviously, she’d done more in the restroom than use the facilities, Ryan decided. The Wrath had been right. Courtney had a problem.

Bennett wandered over to the photograph and Ryan joined him, sipping a glass of sparkling water. Bennett had a fresh martini with another skewer of olives in it. Obviously, the guy thought this was the veggie course.

“Damn shame, isn’t it?” Ryan knew he was repeating what he’d said to The Wrath, but he couldn’t come up with anything better.

“Got that right,” Bennett replied, facing him.

Another set of dilated pupils.
Welcome to the real word, dude,
Ryan told himself. Playgrounds of the rich were havens for drugs and alcohol.
Look on the upside.
Maybe he’d get more out of Bennett like this than he would if the attorney were sober.

“You’re Hollister’s kid, right?” Bennett didn’t slur his words or act inebriated. “I sat next to your father at Thanksgiving two years ago. He told me all about your football career. Your job with the FBI. Computers, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. I wish I’d known Hayley.” He was surprised at how true this was, even though he was merely trying to change the subject. He hadn’t been able to get Hayley out of his mind since Meg had first shown him the photo.

“You know Meg Amboy. She’s an older version of Hayley. Sharp. Unforgiving.” The last word wobbled just a bit as he said it.

“I understand you were engaged to Hayley.”

Bennett kicked back the last of his martini and sucked
on the olives for a moment before, saying, “Until I fucked up. Then it was over with a capital O. Hayley is just like Meg. Never forgive. Never forget.”

Ryan nodded slowly. “Who would kill her so brutally?”

“You’ve got me.” Bennett shrugged and a cord seemed to be pulsing unsteadily in his neck.

T
HE NEXT
evening it poured, which was unusual for Southern California in May, Ryan told himself as he stood in Hayley’s loft looking at the rain pounding the dark water in the bay. He’d promised Meg that he would pack up Hayley’s personal things. Tomorrow movers would remove the rest of her belongings so Meg could sell the loft.

A flash of jagged-white lightning seared the darkness and a few seconds later a deafening clap of thunder shook the loft. The lights at the Blue Water Grill across the small inlet where the loft was located suddenly went dark. The single lamp Ryan had turned on beside Hayley’s computer went out, too.

“Great,” he muttered. A power failure. With this storm no telling how soon Edison would fix it. This would make his job harder and it would take longer. Hadn’t there been a flashlight downstairs in one of the kitchen drawers? He slowly made his way to the staircase to go to the lower level where the kitchen was located. The freestanding staircase was an accident waiting to happen. A fall could land him flat on his back on the first floor where the tiled entrance and garage was located. It was three floors down—a neck-breaker if there ever was one.

He slowly felt his way down the stainless steel staircase. A noise from below, like metallic creaking, made him stop. What was that? It was hard to tell with the wind-driven rain beating on the bank of windows facing
the bay. Probably homesteading rats, he thought. The Cannery, a trendy restaurant, was just a few doors down. A rat magnet for sure, he decided as he continued down the stairs again.

Vaguely uneasy for some reason, he reached the kitchen and felt his way across the granite counter. Beneath his hand traces of the fingerprint dust collected. He reached the bank of drawers near the refrigerator. That’s where he thought he remembered seeing a flashlight. He pulled open a drawer and fumbled through the contents. Wrong drawer. He was reaching for the handle on the next, when he heard the creaking noise again.

His attention was drawn from where he was standing to the living area across from the kitchen. He detected movement—a darker silhouette in a pitch-dark room. Shapes were discernible only by varying degrees of darkness.

A form or a trick of the shadows? He squinted hard, concentrating on the far side of the loft. Something
was
there. A man. The killer? Had he returned to remove incriminating evidence or was this a burglary? Often thieves broke into homes of the deceased because they knew they were vacant.

A flicker of lightning in the distance—almost nonexistent—faintly illuminated the room for a fraction of a second. The man was short, Ryan saw that much, and he had a weapon in his hand. Ryan thought of opening a drawer and extracting one of the knives he remembered but he didn’t want the man to turn and shoot.

He flattened himself against the refrigerator, thankful the intruder hadn’t spotted him. From his brief glance, Ryan knew the man wore a trench coat with the hood up. The gun he carried must have at least six shots. Ryan
would need to take the intruder by surprise to stand a chance.

This was when years of playing football would pay off. He could sprint across the room and hit the guy with a flying tackle before the jerk could turn around and fire the weapon. In a split second, Ryan exploded into the room and clobbered the man full-force. The air blasted from the prick’s lungs in a loud whooshing grunt as their bodies collided.

They both hit the tile floor, a jumble of limbs with Ryan on top. A sharp, bone-deep pain shot through his injured shoulder into his chest, but he ignored it. The weapon the intruder carried bounced across the floor with a thunk.

The little guy was a fighter. He arched his back, twisting and bucking with surprising strength. The gutsy prick swung one leg out and around, attempting what must be some weird move—probably jujitsu or something like it. Ryan immediately thought of The Wrath. Could this be one of his henchmen?

The man was too small to pull off the maneuver and Ryan easily straddled him with his larger frame and pinned him down, but the intruder kept writhing beneath him. Ryan rolled the squirming idiot onto his side. He grabbed for one of the man’s arms, determined to pull it behind his back and force the guy to his feet. He fumbled with the raincoat for a second, trying to capture a thrashing arm. He encountered a soft fullness and a fragrant hint of a scent that stunned him. Common sense said to double-check. He ran his hands over the soft mounds. No doubt about it.

A woman.

Couldn’t be!

But it was. Holy shit! She moaned and gasped for breath. Women were every bit as dangerous as men, Ryan reminded himself. This one had arrived armed. And tried a martial arts maneuver.

She thrashed and kicked, trying to escape, but he had her trapped by his large body. The more she squirmed, the softer she felt beneath him. She cut loose with a screeching cry that could be heard in Japan. She kept screaming at the top of her lungs even though no one could hear her over the roar of the storm.

“Stop it!” He lifted his body and flipped her onto her back. He had a vague impression of a pale face and light-colored eyes. She yanked at his hair, pulling it with astonishing strength. “Cut it out or I’ll have to hurt you.”

He grabbed her throat, planning to scare her a little. She responded by biting hard on his hand. “I’m warning you—”

“P-please…don’t hurt me,” she cried. “Take whatever you want. Just don’t rape me.”

“Rape you?” He stood up, hoisted her upright without letting go. “I won’t hurt you if you hold still while I call the cops.”

“
You’re
calling the police?” she yelled at him, but she sounded scared spitless.

He hauled her with him toward the kitchen’s wall phone. “You bet I’m calling them. You were trying to rob the place.”

“I wasn’t robbing—”

“What about the weapon in your hand? You broke in armed with a gun.”

“Gun? I just had my collapsible umbrella, you jerk! Who are you? What are you doing in my loft?”

Ryan stopped dead in his tracks, holding her close. He
was afraid of the answer, but he asked anyway. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Hayley Fordham. This is—”

She said something about this being her loft and she was calling the police to report him. Ryan reached for the drawer with the flashlight and pulled it out, still not letting go of the intruder. He turned it on and trained the light on her face.

The brown hair highlighted by copper strands that he’d dreamed about running his hands through hung in damp hanks around her pretty face. The gray eyes that had fascinated him were wild with terror and almost green in this light. The full lips that he’d imagined kissing were trembling.

The girl of his dreams—back from the dead.

P
ANIC COURSED THROUGH
H
AYLEY
.
Her breathing was erratic and she was trembling uncontrollably, fear a high-pitched scream in her veins. This monster intended to kill her. She couldn’t see him. The man was nothing more than a looming form and that was going to be the last thing she saw before she died.

The jujitsu kick The Wrath had taught her hadn’t worked. This man was too tall, his body too muscular for her to fight off. Her pulse ricocheted against her temples. If she didn’t do something, he would grab one of the kitchen knives and slit her throat.

“Let me go,” she pleaded, although she doubted it would do much good. Dread and defeat permeated her body and settled in her bones.

In response, he swung her around, his powerful arm just below her breasts. He manacled both her wrists in one fist, his fingers like steel bands. She was trapped by his muscular frame, his height. Even through her raincoat she felt the heat of his menacing body.

He grabbed something out of one of her kitchen drawers. She struggled to wrench herself free by biting him again, but couldn’t move. Out of nowhere, a blast of light blinded her and she squeezed her eyes shut—expecting to die in the next second.

“Who the hell are you?” he unexpectedly asked.

She opened her eyes, not able to distinguish anything but the blaring light and spit out, “I’m Hayley Fordham. Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

His grip relaxed but he didn’t let her go. “I’m Ryan Hollister. Your aunt Meg sent me to get your things.”

“You’re lying! Why would Aunt Meg want my…” As she spoke, his name registered. “You’re Conrad’s son?”

“That’s right.”

She tried to get a better look at him, not knowing what to think. Her throat was so tight that she could hardly swallow, and her breath came in ragged surges. The strange acrid scent she’d noticed when she’d first come into the loft seemed stronger now.

“I think we’d better sit down,” he said, absolutely calm. “I’ll explain what’s happening.”

“I don’t need to sit to hear this.” She twisted out of the arm he had around her, but they were still standing nose to nose. The acrid scent wasn’t coming from this nutcase. Evidently, he wore a woodsy aftershave. “This better be good.”

He’d lowered the flashlight to waist height. In the low beam, she saw he was tall and dark and utterly menacing. His brown hair was damp from the rain. His polo shirt revealed impressive shoulders and a wide chest that narrowed at the waist. A quick glance down told her that he had an athlete’s powerful legs. Hadn’t Conrad bragged that his son had played pro ball?

She sucked in a steadying breath. He could snap her neck with just one hand. What was he doing here? Just because he claimed to be Conrad’s son didn’t mean he was telling the truth. She didn’t dare trust him.

Abruptly, he pulled out his wallet and flipped it open.
He directed the flashlight on a badge that read: Department of Justice. “I’m with the FBI. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“What are you doing here?” she managed to ask as she took in the shield and the name Ryan W. Hollister, Special Agent.

“Your BMW was blown to hell by a car bomb. Everyone assumed you were in it. Meg, your family, the police—they all think you’re dead. They’ve had a memorial service, the whole works. Your aunt is too upset to remove your personal effects so she asked me to do it.”

It took a second for his words to register. Images of car bombings she’d seen on television burst in her brain. It
could not
be true. “You’re making this up. I’m calling the police.” She lunged for the wall phone but he blocked her with his powerful body.

“Wait. You have some explaining to do.”

“Me? You’re certifiable! I haven’t done—”

“Where have you been for the last ten days? Didn’t you hear about the car bomb?”

Another scathing retort was on her lips but it vanished as she realized he was dead serious. Shock seeped from every pore, spreading through her body with a mind numbing punch. “Car bomb? My car?”

“Didn’t you park your car at the back of Gulliver’s lot under the trees last Tuesday?”

“Oh, my God!”

Ryan gently guided her into the living room. He eased her down onto the sofa and set the flashlight on the glass coffee table. The amber light barely illuminated the dark area.

“I’ve been in Costa Rica doing a huge wall mural in Ramon Estevez’s new resort. I lent my car to my friend,
Lindsey Fulton.” Hayley could barely choke out her next question. “Where is Lindsey?”

Two beats of utter silence from Ryan Hollister. The rain drummed on the glass windows like a flock of pecking birds, but he didn’t say anything for a long time. He didn’t have to; she knew.

“Apparently she died when she turned the key in the ignition.”

Hayley felt as if her breath had been choked off. Holding raw emotion in check, she assured herself this could not be true. But Ryan’s troubled expression told her something terrible
had
happened to her friend. “No, please! It’s not fair! She had so much talent, so much to live for.”

“Everyone assumed it was you. No one knew you were out of town. Why not?”

A paralyzing numbness spread out from her chest. If she closed her eyes, Hayley could see Lindsey. She envisioned the way her friend’s eyes would narrow as she stood back and studied a painting. The anxious habit she had of checking her cell phone for messages from her husband. Her toothy, endearing smile.

It took a minute before Hayley could muster a response. “I had a couple of reasons. First, my parents were killed in a small plane crash. I flew down to Costa Rica in Ramon Estevez’s jet. I didn’t want Aunt Meg to worry about the plane crashing so I made up a story to cover my absence. Second, I didn’t want Trent to know that I’m planning a career switch. I’ve always wanted to be an artist, not a designer.”

“Didn’t you hear about the car bombing?”

Hayley shook her head. “No. I painted almost nonstop. I didn’t watch TV once. I wanted to finish as soon as I could and get back before anyone realized I was gone.”

“Okay, but I don’t understand how airport security didn’t have you on a flight log. There’s a whole task force working on this. I’m sure they checked the airport.”

“We left from the private Million Air terminal. The limo was late picking me up at the restaurant. I had to run for the plane. No one looked at my passport until I arrived in Costa Rica.”

Ryan shook his head, clearly disturbed. “It’s lapses like this that leave the country vulnerable.”

She barely heard him explaining about security cameras with shots of her and the bar receipt. All she could see was the look of hope in Lindsey’s eyes as they had talked about her future.

“Do you know anyone who would have wanted to kill your friend?” he asked.

“Lindsey’s husband. He beat her up several times—that I know about. He’d threatened to kill her if she left him.”

“She was the woman in the bar with you?”

“Yes. Lindsey lives—lived—in San Francisco but we met at Gulliver’s because it was so close to the airport. I was leaving as she was arriving. I told Lindsey that she could stay at my place and use my car while I was gone. When I returned, we planned to figure out what to do next.”

“We’d better call the police and let them know. They believe the car bombing has something to do with your family business and drugs. They don’t know it was a domestic dispute.”

She put a hand on his forearm as he rose and was surprised at its firmness. He tensed powerful muscles beneath her fingers. “Wait. There’s no way Steve Fulton could have known where Lindsey was. She took an
express shuttle to San Jose then flew from there. That was my idea in case her husband checked the flight rosters out of the bay area.”

A puzzled expression appeared on Ryan’s face. In that instant she realized how much he did look like his father. They had the same inquisitive blue eyes and angular features. He really wasn’t scary looking. He’d just taken her by surprise.

“You can’t imagine how closely Steve watched Lindsey. She tried to leave him once before but he found out and beat the hell out of her. It kept getting worse and worse. The last time I saw her, which was a month ago, we sewed one hundred dollar bills I brought into the lining of her jacket. That way she’d have money to get away.”

“Why didn’t she go to the police?”

Hayley shook her head. “I know it’s crazy but Lindsey felt she owed Steve big-time. You see, she’d been hooked on drugs, living on Haight Ashbury’s streets when she met Steve. He helped her get clean, paid for her art lessons, then married her. She believed he loved her but was just too obsessive. She didn’t want to get him into trouble after all he’d done for her.”

He leaned closer to her, looking at her intently. “You don’t think the husband had the chance to kill her.”

“No. How could he? Lindsey left Wednesday afternoon. That’s the day her husband, who’s an engineer, goes into the office. He works at home the rest of the week. Besides, Lindsey has relatives in Oregon. Last time, he caught her with a plane ticket to Portland. I’m sure that’s where he’d look first.”

“He didn’t know about you?”

“Not really.” Hayley explained how careful they’d
been since they’d met at Ian’s gallery and become friends. “I always called her on Wednesday when Steve was out of the house. She never called me because he checked the phone bills.”

“You’re right,” Ryan said, his voice measured. “How would the husband get explosives through airline security? He would have had to fly to make it here in time to plant the bomb. It wouldn’t have been possible—assuming he could smuggle the bomb aboard—unless he had known in advance—”

“He didn’t. Lindsey called me, wondering what to do. I came up with the plan on the spot.”

Ryan nodded slowly; it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“You don’t suppose someone was trying to kill me.” The first hint of tears broke in her voice as she expressed the unimaginable.

Again, he didn’t answer. She knew what he was thinking. “That’s absurd! Why would anyone want me dead?”

“Isn’t your parents’ estate in probate? Wouldn’t Trent and Farah receive a lot more money with you gone?”

“They would never—” She caught herself wondering if it could possibly be true. “I’m an important part of the company. Trent relies on me for designs. Farah has her own successful business.”

“People have killed for amazingly small amounts of money.”

She just didn’t believe it. “There isn’t that much money at stake. The business is successful in a small way. It supports us nicely but we’re not rolling in dough. Since my father didn’t have a trust, the state will get a big chunk.” She shook her head, saying to herself, “I can’t believe Daddy didn’t have a trust.”

“What about that Laird guy? He offered to buy the business. Wouldn’t selling out generate more cash?”

“That’s news to me. I didn’t know Laird offered to purchase Surf’s Up.”

“I thought you opposed the sale.”

“No way. Surf’s Up was my father’s dream. I’d like to get out from under it and concentrate on my art.” It occurred to her that this man knew an awful lot about her business. “How do you know so much about my family?”

“Your aunt strong-armed me into using my contacts to investigate your death.”

A surge of fondness swept through her. Strong-armed. That was Aunt Meg, all right. If Hayley had died, Meg Amboy would have moved heaven and earth to find the killer.

“Can you think of anyone else who would want you dead?” he asked.

“No. Of course not.” Hayley thought about the car bomb and her friend. Her relief at having escaped death was blunted by guilt about Lindsey. If Hayley hadn’t loaned her the car, Lindsey would still be alive. “I guess there was nothing left of Lindsey’s body or the police wouldn’t have thought it was me.”

“Nothing,” Ryan confirmed.

Her breath caught as her heart lurched painfully in her chest. She was frightened but not as much as she should be. This whole thing had a surreal quality to it. Whoever heard of anyone in this country dying in a car bombing? It didn’t seem real, but Hayley had no reason to doubt Ryan Hollister. He was an FBI agent and he was far too serious—and convincing—to be putting her on for some weird reason.

“What about your relationship with Chad Bennett?
Was he angry enough to want you dead after you broke the engagement?”

“No. It was his fault. He’d cheated on me. He keeps trying to get back together. I don’t think he’s given up hope. He wouldn’t try to kill me.”

“Somebody did.”

“Couldn’t it have been a mistake?” It had to be, she told herself. Nothing else made sense. A bleakness, a hollow sensation settled over her.

“That’s a long shot. Someone had to get under your car to attach the device. They risked being seen. People are usually careful in those circumstances to make certain they have the right vehicle. Plus the killer deliberately dismantled the security camera that records activity in the parking lot.”

“I need to call my aunt right away. I—”

“Not yet.” The currents in his eyes eddied and she wondered what he was thinking. “Aren’t you concerned about your dog?”

“Has something happened to Andy?” Oh, God, she couldn’t lose him, too.

“Wasn’t he in the car?”

“No. I didn’t want to board him. My neighbors volunteered to take him for two weeks to their place on Bass Lake. I knew Andy would love it.”

“Good,” Ryan responded. She thought he looked unusually relieved, considering it was her dog.

“You thought Andy was in the car when it exploded?” She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the golden retriever blown to bits. This just kept getting worse and worse. She was having difficulty putting it all together. Weary from a long plane ride, Hayley didn’t seem to be able to think as clearly as usual. All this seemed to be a
bad dream. Surely she would wake up and things would be the way they’d been when she’d left sunny Costa Rica.

Estevez had offered her a contract to do murals in several of his hotels. That, combined with the art Ian was selling in his gallery, meant she could start her life over—doing what she loved. Now this.