J.A. Jance's Ali Reynolds Mysteries 3-Book Boxed Set, Volume 1: Web of Evil, Hand of Evil, Cruel Intent (91 page)

“It doesn’t go off unless you move back the cover and push the red button,” Edie said. “And it’s not going to hurt your microwave.”

“I don’t care,” Bob said. “I want it out of here!”

With a glare in her husband’s direction, Edie stuffed the Taser in the pocket of her apron and headed for the dining room. Bob turned on his daughter. “As for you,” he said, “if you’re looking for lunch, we don’t start serving for another five minutes. No exceptions, not even for you.”

Ali followed Edie back into the dining room. “Can I see it?” she asked. “Please?”

Edie sighed. “As long as you don’t give me any grief about it. See? This is how it works.” She held out the sleek little instrument and pulled back the plastic cover that served as a trigger guard. As soon as she did that, a bright red laser light appeared on the opposite wall.

“A lot of the time, just having that light aimed at his chest is enough to get a crook to back off. If he doesn’t, you press this button, the one with the lightning on it. You’ve got to keep the Taser vertical. The darts shoot out about fifteen feet, and they say you should always aim for the chest. The second dart hits about a foot lower than the first one. If he still doesn’t go down, you can use this as a stun gun in close physical combat, but that’s a lot harder.”

“You seem to know a lot about this,” Ali said.

“You bet,” Edie replied with a grin. “Like I said, I’ve watched the video.”

The bell rang over the door, signaling arriving customers. Without another word, Edie stowed her Taser in the locked compartment under the cash wrap next to her purse. While Jan went to seat the new arrivals, Edie busied herself with brewing a new pot of coffee. “I swear,” she said, “I think your father would be happier living in the twentieth century—the
early
twentieth century. The moment something new comes along, he digs in his heels. That’s why he’s still driving that old wreck of his.”

Bob Larson’s 1972 Bronco was his pride and joy. It was also his sole means of transportation. Refurbished after being stolen and stripped sometime earlier, it now sported a brand-new coat of paint and newly acquired copper-plated antique-vehicle license plates.

Ali wasn’t about to be deflected from the subject at hand. “But why a Taser?” she asked.

“Why not?” Edie returned. “Not everybody has what it takes to be a martial-arts expert, and we can’t all be like you and carry a loaded Glock around.”

Both of Ali’s parents had objected to her having a gun and a concealed-weapon permit, although the criticism had pretty much gone away after an almost fatal shoot-out in a Phoenix-area hospital waiting room. On that occasion, the presence of Ali’s weapon had played an important part in saving countless lives.

“I used to think Sedona was the safest place in the world, but not anymore,” Edie continued. “I’m the one who takes the receipts to the bank every day. When I’m walking around with that bag of cash in my purse, I can tell you, I feel mighty leery about it. I’m the one at risk, you know. Who’s to say some would-be thief might not take a look at me and decide I’m an easy mark?”

“But Mother,” Ali began.

“No buts,” Edie said. “It’s not a lethal weapon. If someone was coming at me and I had a gun in my hand, I’d probably think about it for a minute. Do I want to kill this guy or not? And by the time I made up my mind, it would be too late. With this, I pull the trigger. And what happens if there’s a struggle and he takes my weapon away and shoots me instead? Same thing. I may be tased, but I won’t be dead. I may fall down on the ground
and wet my pants in public, which would be embarrassing as all get out, but again, I won’t be dead. Big difference.”

“Let’s suppose you end up tasing a bad guy,” Ali said. “What if he gets up and comes at you anyway? What do you do then?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Edie said. “You’ve got the thirty seconds while he’s helpless on the ground to call for help and get out of Dodge. You take off and leave your Taser right there with the darts still in him. Afterward, you submit a police report about the incident to Taser International, and they replace your Taser, no questions asked. So it comes with a lifetime guarantee.”

“Interesting,” Ali said.

“Look what happened to Morgan Forester,” Edie continued. “Whoever killed her did it right there in her own front yard, and she was completely defenseless. If she’d had a Taser, maybe she could have gotten away. Frieda told me that she booked three parties for next week based on that incident alone.”

Ali had to concede that Edie had a point. Sedona wasn’t nearly as crime-free as it had once been. That lethal weapon/ shoot/don’t shoot pause in the action, the critical seconds of wrestling with the decision of pulling the trigger and possibly killing an attacker, had proved fatal for countless police officers and civilians alike over the years. And how many people died when, in the course of a struggle, their own weapons were used against them? Maybe Edie and Frieda were right—that having access to a nonlethal alternative wasn’t such a bad idea.

Edie glanced at the clock. “It drives me nuts when your father starts acting like a prima donna, but it’s after eleven now. If you want lunch, I can take your order, but didn’t you just have breakfast?”

“I need a meatloaf sandwich,” Ali said. “To go.”

“With everything?”

Ali nodded. She didn’t mention that she would be delivering it to B. Simpson at his home. That would spin off another whole set of questions, to say nothing of rumors.

Once Ali’s order was up on the wheel, Edie turned back to her daughter. “Frieda asked me if I thought you’d be interested. Next week’s parties are booked, but she said she’d be able to squeeze you in to one of them if you’d like to attend.”

“No, thanks,” Ali said. “For right now I believe I’ll stick with my Glock.”

Gradually, the Sugarloaf’s lunch crowd began to filter into the restaurant. From the sounds of banging pots and pans in the kitchen, Ali knew her father wasn’t yet over his snit, but he would be. He and her mother had their various differences of opinions, but they always got over them one way or the other.

While Ali waited for the sandwich, she tried calling Leland Brooks, hoping to see how he had fared with the tile delivery. She was a little surprised when he still didn’t answer his phone; he usually picked up after only one ring.

“Back in town now,” she said, leaving another message. “Give me a call when you get this.”

As the booths filled up, so did the stools at the counter. Blanche Sims, a teller from Wells Fargo, slipped onto a stool one down from Ali. “I heard they let Bryan Forester out of jail this morning,” Blanche said as Edie filled her coffee cup. “Someone told me they saw his truck parked in front of the funeral home. Probably there making arrangements for tomorrow’s funeral. Under the circumstances, I don’t think the man has any business arranging a funeral, much less attending it.”

The comment was addressed to Edie. Ali had no business
involving herself in the discussion, but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t sit idly by while people who had no idea of what had happened sat around proclaiming Bryan’s guilt.

“Why wouldn’t Bryan show up for the funeral?” Ali demanded sharply. “Morgan was his wife and the mother of his children. He has every right in the world to be there.”

Everyone within hearing distance, including Blanche, seemed taken aback by Ali’s outspoken response.

“Your order’s up,” Bob said from the kitchen.

Hurriedly grabbing Ali’s to-go bag from the pass-through, Edie handed it to her daughter. “Go ahead,” she said. “We can straighten this out later.”

“Yes,” Ali declared, standing up and favoring Blanche with a cold-eyed stare. “We certainly can.” With that, she stomped out of the Sugarloaf and headed for the Village of Oak Creek.

Unconvinced that Matthew Morrison’s damaged computer would provide any answers, Dave Holman left the crime scene in Scottsdale and headed for Sky Harbor airport. Shortly after noon, armed with the formerly framed photo of Jenny and Matthew Morrison, Dave arrived at the Hertz car-rental facility at Sky Harbor. Not that it did him much good.

Once Dave showed his ID, Jim Henderson, the young branch manager, was polite and eager but less than helpful. A check of their records showed that the vehicle in question—a blue Ford 500 with Colorado plates—was out on another rental and wasn’t scheduled to be returned again until Sunday evening. As for Morrison’s rental agreement? It had been done through their online facility. Since Matthew Morrison had a valid gold card, he didn’t have to stop at a rental counter. All he had to do was
step off the shuttle, climb into his waiting vehicle, and then drive through the guarded gate, showing his paperwork as he went.

“That’s all there is to it?” Dave asked.

Henderson nodded. “It’s a service for our repeat customers. We maintain profiles on each of them. We know what vehicles they like and their insurance preferences. We also have their license information on file, along with their preferred credit card. That’s all we need. It streamlines the process for everyone.”

“What happens when the vehicle is returned?”

“Customers drive up to one of our drop-off lanes. An attendant checks the car for damage, verifies the mileage and fuel readings, and makes sure nothing’s left in the vehicle.”

“Can you tell which attendant that would have been?”

“Sure. Just a second. Attendant 06783. That would be Bobby Salazar. He’s out on the line now.”

“Do you mind if I talk to him?”

“You can try, but I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you,” Henderson said. “These guys check in hundreds of vehicles in a week’s time. Bobby’s one of our best, but this is Thursday. He’s not going to remember a vehicle that was turned in on Monday.”

Dave arrived at Bobby Salazar’s station and waited on the sidelines while the attendant finished checking in two very sunburned guys in shorts and Hawaiian shirts who came equipped with a mountain of luggage and two sets of golf clubs. As they piled their stuff onto a rolling cart, Bobby turned an appraising gaze on Dave. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

Wordlessly, Dave handed over first his ID and then the photo of Jenny and Matthew Morrison. “Have you ever seen this guy?”

Bobby studied the picture carefully, then shook his head. “Nope,” he said confidently. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“That’s funny,” Dave said. “According to the check-in records, he came through your line on Monday—late in the afternoon.”

“Driving what?” Bobby asked.

“A blue Ford 500 with Colorado plates.”

Dave caught the subtle tightening of Bobby Salazar’s jaw. He looked down at the photo and then handed it back. “I remember the vehicle, but this guy wasn’t the one who was driving it. Why? What’s this about?”

“I’m investigating a homicide that occurred outside Sedona on Monday morning,” Dave answered. “This vehicle was seen in the area and—”

“There was blood in it,” Bobby said. “On the floorboard of the passenger seat. At least it looked like blood.”

“And you didn’t report it?”

“My shift was almost over,” Bobby said. “I didn’t want to be late for class. There wasn’t any other damage to the vehicle. Besides, it wasn’t that big a stain. Carpets get dirty over time. The detail guys clean them up as best they can.”

“I’m sure they do,” Dave said. “But this is the man whose name was on the rental agreement.” He held up the photo. “You’re sure this isn’t the man who was driving?”

“I remember the guy very well,” Bobby said. “He was rude to me—a first-class asshole, but not this asshole. This isn’t him.”

When Ali arrived at the address she’d been given, she found herself in front of a sprawling piece of stucco-covered architecture stacked on top of a three-car garage. Looking at it, she knew the modern-looking affair would total up to be well over a million-
dollar property, especially since it was built on a steep hillside lot that backed up to a large swath of undeveloped and probably undevelopable open space. In the Sedona area, that kind of privacy meant big bucks.

She parked in the driveway and stepped out of her Cayenne to admire the view. The house overlooked the ninth fairway of a well-kept eighteen-hole golf course, with Sedona’s fringe of deep red rocks dominating the horizon.

B. hurried out to meet Ali as she gathered her purse and the take-out bag containing his sandwich. Ali handed the bag to him and then reached back into the Cayenne to retrieve her laptop. B. led her up the steep driveway and under a covered portico on the south side of the house, where two double doors—either antique or suitably distressed—created an impressive entry.

“For real?” Ali asked, fingering the rough-hewn wood.

B. grinned and shook his head. “Nope,” he replied. “Well done but absolutely fake. There’s a door factory down in Mexico that’s made a real name for itself manufacturing reproduction doors. The doors were going to be part of a whole Mexican-hacienda motif. I had planned on hiring a decorator and really doing the place up in spectacular fashion, but it turns out I’ve had a few other things on my plate. In other words, I haven’t quite gotten around to redecorating. You’ll have to take the house as is.”

The tall wooden doors opened onto a soaring two-story foyer with an exquisitely tiled floor. After that impressive entry, things pretty much went downhill. The living room was huge, with a massive black granite fireplace at the far end. What should have been a spectacular focal point for the home suffered from the furnishings—an oddball collection of mismatched tables, desks, and benches, all of which held one or more computers. The only concession to comfort came in the guise of two rolling desk
chairs that evidently migrated as needed from one computer station to the next.

“Why do I feel like I just ended up at a computer garage sale?” Ali asked.

“It’s not,” B. said with a chuckle. “For one thing, not one of these computers is dead. They’re all hard at work doing their own little part of solving our encryption problem. I’ll admit, I probably shouldn’t have set them up in the living room, but there was more room here than anywhere else. The kitchen’s on through there,” he added, pointing and leading the way. “I put on a new pot of coffee, and if you’re hungry, I’ll be happy to share some of my sandwich.”