Play Dead (5 page)

He forced himself to look through the books and mementos that must once have been artfully arranged on a bookshelf. They were askew now and covered with fingerprint powder. More photos of the dog and Hayley’s family.

He flipped open his cell phone and dialed Meg’s
number. It was late, but Hayley’s aunt had assured him that she wouldn’t be sleeping and to call with any questions.

“What did you find?” Meg asked the instant he identified himself.

“Not much.” This was the truth; he didn’t want to get Meg’s hopes up. “The police have taken a lot of evidence. They might discover something. I do have a couple of questions. Where’s Hayley’s dog?”

Two long beats of silence. “With her, I’m sure. She took Andy everywhere. The police said Hayley parked at the back of the lot under the trees. I know it was dark, but it was early evening and still warm. It would have been cooler under the trees. She probably left him in the car while she went inside.”

Aw, hell. Just what he didn’t want to think about. The dog that Hayley had obviously loved so much—pulverized.

“What was her relationship with Ian Barrington?” he asked to steer their thoughts away from death. “She has several e-mails from him.”

“Hayley knew him from design school in San Francisco. I guess they remained friends when she moved home.”

Interesting, Ryan thought. The e-mails he’d read clearly indicated a business relationship. Obviously, Hayley hadn’t told her aunt everything. What else had she kept from her?

“Did she mention a guy called The Wrath?”

This brought the suggestion of a chuckle from Meg. “Of course, the man who fights in a cage.”

True, he thought. MMA fights were held in chain-link enclosures called cages. There was no escape until one man won—and the other lay bloodied on the mat.

“They have clothing sponsors just like other sports figures,” Meg told him. “Hayley created a line sold at
Surf’s Up that The Wrath wears. You know, she had a better head for business than Trent. She knew Tap-something—the designers with the bats on their clothes—”

“TapouT.” The only way to end an MMA fight short of getting knocked out was to physically tap on your opponent or the mat to signal you gave up. TapouT clothes had stylized bats on them. The T-shirts were so popular that even Ryan recognized them.

“That’s it! Hayley figured the surf craze has peaked. MMA clothes will be the next big thing. Her line has really done well so far.”

MMA the next big thing? Who knew? “Did she have a personal relationship with this Wrath guy?”

“N-not really,” Meg replied a bit hesitantly. “They’re just friends.”

He’d asked about current boyfriends and Meg had told him that Hayley hadn’t been dating anyone special since her breakup with the sleazy lawyer who cheated on her. There was no evidence around the loft that a man spent time here.

“She hasn’t been dating. She hadn’t quite gotten over Chad’s betrayal.”

Ryan thanked Meg and hung up. He sat down on Hayley’s stripped bed, thinking. What kind of a man could cheat on a woman like Hayley?

He lay back on the bed and stared up at the loft’s industrial-style rafters, imagining himself there with Hayley. He was drawn to her in a way he couldn’t explain and it bothered him.

M
IDAFTERNOON
two days later, Ryan was standing under the rotunda near the valet-parking stand at the Balboa Bay Club with Ed Phillips. They had just been to Hayley’s standing-room-only memorial service at All Saints Church. He was waiting for his father to arrive with Meg in one of the limousines for the reception while Ed spoke on his cell phone to a bomb expert in Quantico.

Phillips clicked off his cell and tucked it into his pocket. “They have a preliminary report from analyzing the bomb debris.”

Ryan braced himself to hear about body parts. At the service, there had been a huge photograph of Hayley. Her head had been thrown back slightly as if she were on the verge of a laugh. It had been an even more provocative photo than the one Meg had first shown him. Hayley’s haunting eyes followed Ryan no matter where he moved in the church.

“The explosive device was attached with a magnet and a wire to her car’s electrical system. It left a two-foot-deep crater under the car and flash melting on metal three cars away. The instant she turned the ignition, the bomb detonated.”

“How do they know that?” Ryan asked. He hadn’t received any training in bomb-making and none in detection.

“They use infrared spectrography to analyze bomb fragments. The type of device used shows the window of time necessary to place the bomb and where it was located. It was installed after she parked. It didn’t take long to attach it but the killer must have crawled at least partway under the car.”

“And risk being seen? What about the dog in the backseat? Didn’t he bark and put up a ruckus?”

Phillips shrugged. “Maybe. The locals are interviewing people to see if anyone saw anything. So far—nothing. But it does establish the time frame when the killer planted the device.”

“
Anything
left of the body?” Ryan hated to ask. When Meg had discovered there was nothing to bury, she’d arranged a memorial service. The elderly woman was devastated and he couldn’t blame her. He’d gone through a tough time when he’d buried Jessica, but at least he knew where she was.

“Nosiree. Nada. Bits of bone, a few hairs—most were canine. That’s all they recovered. The rest was vaporized.”

The thought of that beautiful young woman exploding into nothing more than a fine mist depressed Ryan even more. He thought of the CD he’d seen of Hayley’s birthday party. She’d been so happy, so alive. So attractive. Suddenly he felt guilty, as if he’d betrayed Jessica in some unspoken way by admiring—and thinking about—another woman.

“Here’s what I need you to do,” Phillips told him. “Go in there without me. Talk to folks. They oughta tell you more ’cuz you know the family. Know what I mean?”

Ryan nodded; he’d been introduced to the family on the steps before the service. He didn’t have a feel for any of them except Meg Amboy. But his connection with her
did give Ryan an excuse for being present and he could ask questions without alarming anyone. He’d had the initial FBI training in interrogation but he hadn’t really practiced it except for a short time in the field office.

“Check the whole shebang but watch for passion. The Behavioral Analysis Unit profiler who worked on this bets it was a crime of passion.”

“Could be the ex-fiancé, Chad Bennett. I haven’t met him yet, but I understand he was really pissed off when Hayley gave him back his engagement ring. Meg says he’s been trying to get back together with her.”

“Anythang’s possible,” Phillips replied, his twang more noticeable than usual. “Wells, who heads up the locals, thinks it might be related to the family business. Seems the father who died last year was dead set against importing cheap surf-and skateboards from China the way most of the major companies do. As soon as he was gone, Trent took over the business. The son ordered a container full of boards from Asia. Drugs could have come in with them. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Why would that translate to a bomb that killed their designer?” Ryan asked, but something tripped an internal alarm. Alison, Hayley’s mother and Meg’s sister, had been the lead designer until the plane crash. Two designers dead.

“Jeez-a-ree, who knows?”

“Are they sure the plane crash was an accident?”

Phillips’ dark eyes narrowed as he studied Ryan for a moment. “Where are you goin’ with this?”

Ryan saw three sleek black limos in the valet parking line. His father would be here soon. “Just wondering. Both designers for Surf’s Up get killed? How important are the designers? I could nose around.”

“G’wan. Trust your gut instinct.” Phillips walked away.

Phillips was a bit of a maverick, Ryan decided. He liked working with him. He dodged the chain of command and avoided paperwork wherever possible. Ryan had forwarded his report—nothing interesting on Hayley’s computer—to the L.A. office, the task force and Detective Wells. Ryan was officially off the clock and on his own now. He still had three weeks of vacation before he had to report back to the office. No one except Phillips knew he was investigating this case as a favor to Meg Amboy.

He would find himself in deep shit if his boss found out, but Ryan didn’t give a rat’s ass. He wasn’t sure he wanted to stay with the Bureau. He’d been drifting along, half-heartedly doing his job since Jessica’s death. A contact had offered him a job with a private security firm specializing in computer security for corporations. It was right here in Newport Beach; he wouldn’t have to slog his way through traffic from L.A. He could see his father every day.

If Ryan closed his eyes, he could see an image forever imprinted on his brain. Conrad Hollister watching with unconcealed pride from the stands at Ryan’s football games. His father hadn’t missed one game from junior high through a two-year stint in the pros.

His father was going downhill—even though he’d never admit it. Ryan wondered how long his father would live. He had to prepare himself for the worst and see him as often as possible.

A
N HOUR LATER
, Ryan was roaming the second floor members-only dining room where the reception was being held. Someone had transferred the photograph of Hayley from the church to the reception. Her compelling
eyes kept following him as he moved from food station to food station in the packed room. It was his imagination, of course, but those eyes seemed to implore him to find her killer.

He’d brought his father up the elevator in his wheelchair and had him stationed at a table overlooking the bay with Meg at his side. A constant stream of guests kept offering their condolences to Meg and the other members of the family seated at the table.

“Aren’t these shrimp to die for?” asked a female voice at his elbow.

Ryan realized he was at the seafood station where shrimp were being served in shot glasses of cocktail sauce. Had he eaten any? He’d been so intent on looking around the crowd for Hayley’s ex-fiancé that he wasn’t paying enough attention to what he was doing.

He turned and flashed a smile at Farah Fordham. He’d met the striking brunette at the church and he’d reviewed her background in the jacket Phillips had given him. He’d checked the files on all the other suspects, too. “They’re good, all right.”

Farah gazed up at him with inquisitive brown eyes that had enough makeup on them to stock a cosmetics counter. “Are you related to Meg?”

He could understand why she asked the question. Meg had quickly introduced him by his first name at the church. “No, I’m just a friend.” His instincts told him to play his cards close to the chest.

Farah reached for another shot glass with a shrimp perched on the rim. “Really? Have you known her long?”

“Awhile.” Why was she asking? Ryan wondered. Then the light dawned. He knew from talking with Meg that her only sister, Hayley’s mother, was dead, and now, with
Hayley gone, Meg didn’t have obvious heirs. He also knew from reading her jacket that Farah was overextended financially. Her CPA firm was doing well, but her lifestyle—and her boyfriend—outpaced her income.

“Hey, babe, here you are.” A tall man with a surfer’s blond hair and tan strode up to them, his smile revealing perfect white teeth. Phillips would have called them “SoCal teeth” because so many people had invested in braces and teeth whiteners. It was the land of beautiful people with perfect teeth.

“Kyle, this is Ryan…” Farah waited for him to supply his last name.

Ryan extended his hand. “Ryan Hollister.”

Kyle shook his hand with a firm grip. “Kyle Wilfert.”

“You’re Conrad’s son,” Farah said.

Ryan nodded; he could see the light going out of her eyes. He was right; she was checking out possible heirs. He wondered how close she was to Meg. Did it matter? Maybe it did. Phillips said at this stage of an investigation, everything should be considered.

“I’m in real estate development,” volunteered Kyle as he grinned at Farah and slipped his arm around her waist. “Not that there’s much going on right now with the lagging economy and all.”

He’d skimmed the jacket on Kyle and he recalled the file said the boyfriend had declared bankruptcy and moved in with Farah earlier this year. The guy didn’t have a pot to piss in—not that you’d know it from his surfer-dude smile.

“What do you do?” Farah asked.

“Computers.”

“Oh,” Farah said, totally uninterested.

A tall man with broad shoulders and thick brown hair
walked up, saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about Hayley. What a tragedy.”

Ryan eyed the man who seemed to know Farah and Kyle quite well, but Ryan didn’t recognize him from any of the jackets Phillips had given him. The guy didn’t sound too sincere, but then neither did Farah or Kyle. During the service the only ones who’d cried were Courtney Fordham and Meg.

“I’m Laird McMasters.” The man introduced himself to Ryan with a firm handshake. “I own Rip Tide.”

Ryan nodded, recognizing another surf/skate company. It also had a line of clothing that competed with Surf’s Up.

“Laird offered to buy Surf’s Up,” Farah informed him, “but Hayley wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Really?” Ryan immediately put Laird on his list of people to investigate.

“Now’s not the time to talk about it,” Laird said. He set his glass on the table nearby. “I’m sorry about Hayley, but I have to leave. I’ve got a meeting.”

“We couldn’t sell the company now even if we wanted to,” Farah explained even though Ryan hadn’t asked. “It has to come out of probate.”

“Should be soon,” Kyle said.

“Excuse me,” Ryan said. “I see someone I need to talk to.” He turned away and edged his way through the crowd to where The Wrath was standing alone, sipping a bottle of water with a black image of a hooded Grim Reaper on it and studying the mesmerizing photo of Hayley.

“It’s a damn shame, isn’t it?” Ryan asked. “A waste.”

“Fuckin’ A,” The Wrath said without looking at him. “Hayley was totally rad.”

“Did you know her well?”

The Wrath turned to face him. The guy was tall and
impressively built. He must spend most of each day in the gym. His hair was probably light brown like his eyes but it was slicked upward like a rooster’s comb and appeared black. Cantilevered eyebrows like caterpillars almost concealed his eyes.

“Yeah, we were friends. She was smart—a lot smarter than the rest of them.” The Wrath looked toward the table where Trent and his wife, Courtney, were now talking with an older woman with more wrinkles than a Shar Pei.

“I understand you went to Surf’s Up for sponsorship and Hayley wanted to back you while her brother didn’t.”

The Wrath trained his gaze on Ryan with obvious suspicion. “Damn straight. Trent can’t see beyond board sports. Surfing or skating. But Hayley could. Trent’s singing a different tune now that the MMA line Hayley created for me is raking in the dough.”

“MMA is on the rise. Their products are hot.” He’d read a bit more online about Mixed Martial Arts since he found The Wrath’s picture on Hayley’s refrigerator.

“Who the fuck are you?” The Wrath asked. His belligerent tone suggested the guy had testosterone poisoning, but Ryan had played football long enough not to be intimidated.

“I’m Ryan Hollister. My father’s sitting next to Hayley’s aunt—”

“I know Meg.” He pointed to the T-shirt he was wearing under a lightweight black blazer. It was a stylized Grim Reaper that Ryan recognized from Hayley’s computer designs. The slogan beneath the macabre face said:
Kick Fear—Believe.
“Hayley’s aunt added the ‘believe’ to my motto—Kick Fear.”

“Great idea,” Ryan said, and he meant it, although he would never have suspected Meg would come up with a
tag word that gave such punch to a design. “Do you have any idea who would want Hayley dead?” Ryan wasn’t sure why he’d asked; he certainly hadn’t established any rapport with the fighter. It was just a hunch that this man hadn’t been involved and could know something.

“Haven’t got a clue. But there’s something going on with that family. Ask Courtney. She’s always high. She might tell you something.” The Wrath set down his empty bottle of water that Ryan now realized was The Wrath’s own brand when he saw the slogan written in bold black letters beneath the Grim Reaper.

“I’m outta here.” He handed Ryan a business card with the same logo on it. “I’m in the cage next week at the Hard Rock Hotel in Vegas. Wanna see me fight, give me a buzz and I’ll have ringside tickets at Will Call for you.”

Ryan took The Wrath’s advice and hung around to see if he could catch Courtney alone, or if Chad Bennett would put in an appearance. He hadn’t come to the service. Strange. Meg had told him that Chad still did legal work for the company and was a good friend of Trent’s despite the broken engagement.

Finally Courtney left the table, apparently headed for the ladies room, and Ryan intercepted her in the hall. “Excuse me,” he said as he walked up beside her. “Are the restrooms this way?”

“Yes. Just down the corridor.” Her voice was pitched so low that it was barely above a whisper. The Wrath was dead-on. Courtney’s blue eyes were just thin hoops of color around dilated pupils. She was on something, all right.

“I’m Ryan—”

“Conrad’s son,” she responded. “You fix computers. I met you just before the service.”