Clawback (13 page)

“This bankruptcy thing is all very unfortunate, and no one would blame Mr. Larson for being upset over such a serious financial setback. Even so, I do need to ask. Has your father ever been known to be a hothead?”

“My father?” Ali replied. “No, absolutely not. No matter how much money he lost, he wouldn't go off the rails and murder someone over it. My father is not a killer,” Ali added, repeating the same words she had used with B. only moments earlier. How was it possible that she'd even need to say such a thing?

“You can say that, but how you see things and how the county attorney will see them are probably worlds apart,” Dash told her. “If your father suffered a major financial loss on Dan Frazier's watch, we'll probably have to prove to a jury that he wasn't and isn't a killer.”

B. was just ending his call. “Okay, Cami, thanks,” he said. Slipping the phone into his pocket he turned to Dash. “According to the phone records, the first ping from this location came in at 11:43.”

“In terms of being in police custody, arrested or not, that's a long time,” Dash Summers observed, glancing at his watch. “And from a defense attorney's point of view, I'm afraid it's a very long time indeed.”

T
he security door behind the counter clicked open. When two men emerged, Ali recognized them both. The first was Al Kronnan. The other was Detective Eric Drinkwater—someone Ali knew and most definitely didn't like.

Al hoisted himself back up on his stool while the detective came around the counter to speak to them.

“How can I help you folks?” Drinkwater asked.

“I'm here to see my client Bob Larson,” Dash said. “I have reason to believe he's been here at the police department for the better part of six hours. Since he's not been allowed to get word to his family, I'm assuming he's most likely in police custody. I demand to see him.”

“What makes you think he's here?”

“Excuse me, we already know he's here,” Dash countered, “so please don't pretend he isn't. Sergeant Kronnan already told us as much.”

The detective shot a scathing look in Al's direction before he answered. “Mr. Larson is currently a witness in a double homicide. We're in the process of interviewing him. Once we're finished, you'll be able to see him.”

“In the course of a six-hour interrogation, I'm pretty sure he's already told you everything he knows. Is he under arrest?”

“I just told you, he's a witness, not a suspect. This is an interview process, not an interrogation.”

“Cut the crap, Eric,” Dash admonished. “You can claim he's a witness or a person of interest until hell freezes over. All that really means is that you haven't gotten around to reading him his rights. I'm here to represent him. Either arrest Mr. Larson or release him. One way or the other, I want to see my client now!”

Ali could tell from the stiffening of the detective's shoulders and the sudden appearance of a nervous tic in his cheek that Eric Drinkwater didn't like being challenged. By anybody.

“Let me remind you,” Dash continued. “My client is a man of a certain age and possibly not in the best of health. If he were to suffer any ill effects due to this extremely prolonged interview process, I promise you, this department will be held accountable, and you'll be looking for a job.”

Ali knew that instances of police misconduct were big news in the media these days, but if her father ended up adversely affected by being detained by the cops, she doubted people would be taking to the street to protest in his behalf. Still, Dash's threat of legal consequences seemed to have some impact. The tic in Drinkwater's cheek twitched again. Ali certainly noticed it and, most likely, so did Dash Summers.

“So,” Dash proceeded after only the slightest pause, “with all that in mind, are you going to allow me to see my client or do I need to go before a judge and get a warrant? Remember, Detective Drinkwater. This isn't Chicago. There's no place for a Homan Square–style police black site here.”

The detective took a small step back, physically conceding defeat rather than replying directly.

“Open up, Kronnan,” he muttered.

Al pushed the security code and the door clicked open. As Dash stepped around the counter and started through the opening, Ali made as if to do the same, but Drinkwater held up an arm, barring her way.

“The attorney goes in. Nobody else.”

Ali started to argue, but B. took her arm. “Come on,” he said. “Let's have a seat. We'll wait here in the lobby.”

Ali reached for her phone. “I need to call Mom.”

“No,” B. said, “not yet. Not until we know what's really going on.”

“But she's worried.”

“She'll be even more worried if she knows your dad is a suspect in a double homicide. Let's wait until we hear what Dash has to say. Besides, what would happen if you told her?”

“She'd come down here on her broom and rip Detective Drinkwater a new one,” Ali answered.

“Exactly,” B. agreed with a terse smile. “And the next thing you know, she'd be under arrest for assaulting a police officer.”

B.'s words had merit. Ali put her phone away. “Tell me more about Ocotillo Fund Management.”

“They're dead as a doornail,” B. said.

“Then my folks may have lost everything.”

“That's a possibility,” B. said, “but don't worry about your parents. If they need help, we're both in a position to do so. They'll be fine. We'll see to it.”

Grateful for the reassurance, Ali grabbed B.'s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you,” she said.

B. took up his iPad. Ali suspected he was searching for information about what was happening with Ocotillo Fund Management. She could have done the same, but right then she didn't have the heart. Instead, she closed her eyes and leaned her head against B.'s shoulder.

Lost in thought, Ali also lost track of time. More than half an hour passed before the door behind the counter clicked open again. Dash came out first, smiling in their direction and letting them know that he had succeeded in his mission. He was followed by Detective Drinkwater who, upon laying eyes on B. and Ali, delivered a firm warning.

“Just because Mr. Larson has a bigwig daughter and son-in-law who both have access to private jets, I want you to make sure that your client understands that, as a person of interest in this case, he's not allowed to leave town.”

“Yes, yes,” Dash said impatiently. “I can assure you Mr. Larson won't be going anywhere.”

The third person through the door, the one trailing far behind the detective, was a man who looked vaguely like Ali's father, but at first glance she barely recognized him. Bob's thin white hair stood on end like a ghostly fright wig. His normally ruddy face was a pasty gray. Dressed in an orange jumpsuit, he shuffled along on a pair of ill-fitting rubber sandals as though he could barely find enough strength to put one foot in front of the other.

Ali had intended to jump forward to greet him, but the shock of seeing him like that left her immobile. He seemed smaller somehow, as though the body of this formerly robust man had, in a matter of hours, somehow collapsed in on itself. He looked lost, frail, and uncertain—bewildered, almost. It was enough to break her heart.

“Dad,” she managed, finally moving forward. “Are you all right?”

He opened his arms then. She ran headlong into his embrace, but this time something was out of kilter. The strong arms that had comforted her for as long as she could remember no longer seemed as strong as they had once been. Ali's father had been her rock no matter what disaster had befallen her. She'd always been able to turn to him, fall against his seemingly massive chest, and spill out her latest heartache. That didn't happen this time. Instead, Bob Larson buried his head in his daughter's hair and sobbed like a baby.

“Oh, Ali,” he moaned. “I've lost everything—all our money. What are Edie and I going to do, and what am I going to tell your mother?”

For a time, they stood there oblivious to everything and everyone around them, while Ali's father continued to weep—something he had never before done in her presence. Because the big issues seemed far too complex to deal with right then, Ali focused on the small ones, allowing herself to build up a case of outrage.

“What in the world have they done with your clothes?” she demanded when Bob finally straightened up long enough to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Why are they sending you home dressed like a common criminal?”

“They took everything away,” Bob answered with a shrug. “My pants, my shirt, my belt, even my underwear and shoes. Since there's blood on them, they're holding them as evidence. They've also impounded my Bronco.”

Aiming a fierce glare in Eric Drinkwater's direction, Ali took a step back along with a deep breath. “Come on, Dad,” she said, taking him by the hand and leading him toward the front door. “Let's get you home.”

“Home?” Bob echoed, looking down at the offending jumpsuit. “I can't go walking through the halls at Sedona Shadows dressed like this, can I?”

“Of course you can't,” Ali agreed. “We'll take you back to our place. Have you had anything to eat?”

Bob frowned. “I don't think so, not since breakfast.”

Ali shot a withering look in the detective's direction. “He's been here for hours and you didn't even have the common decency to feed him?”

Drinkwater shrugged. “If he was hungry, he should have asked.”

“Like hell!” Ali told him. Then, tightening her grip on her father's hand, Ali led him toward the door.

“That's settled, then,” Ali said, making up her mind for all of them. “Leland was making meat loaf for dinner tonight. I'm sure there'll be enough to go around. While he's putting food on the table, we'll make arrangements to get you a change of clothing.”

Leland Brooks, Ali's aging but still very capable majordomo, liked nothing better than rustling up a quick but suitable dinner for unexpected company. It was one of his strong suits. He was also someone Ali could count on in a pinch. She called him on their way to the parking lot, putting him on notice.

“But what about Edie?” Bob objected. “We can't leave her out of all this.”

“And we won't,” B. said. “I'll stop by Sedona Shadows. I'll pick up Edie along with a batch of clean clothes. She's been worried sick about you, Bob,” B. added. “She's spent the whole afternoon thinking you were lying dead in a ditch somewhere. She needs to be brought up to date.”

“Go ahead and tell her that I'm safe, but don't go into any of the rest of it,” Bob cautioned. “This is a mess of my own making. I'm the one who needs to tell her face-to-face exactly what's happened. As for my being dead in a ditch somewhere? I only wish I were. I'd probably be better off, and so would Edie.”

“That's no way to talk,” Ali admonished, opening the car door, helping him in, and then making sure his seatbelt was properly latched. “Once you've changed into clean clothes and had something to eat, things won't look as bleak.”

That's what Ali said, but she wasn't at all sure she believed a word of it. On her way around the car to the driver's side, Dash pulled both B. and her aside.

“If you can,” he advised, “you should probably avoid discussing any of this amongst yourselves.”

Ali stopped short. “What do you mean not discuss it?”

“If Bob reveals anything incriminating, Edie can't be compelled to testify against him, but you and B. can.”

“Does that mean you think he did it?” Ali asked.

“All I'm saying is that if he reveals any details to you or to any member of your family besides your mother, you can be compelled to testify about it. Your mother? No. But the rest of you? Absolutely.”

“We'll take that under advisement,” Ali said, but she didn't mean it. “Like hell,” she muttered under her breath as she got into the car and slammed the door shut behind her. If Dash Summers thought they were going to let all this pass without discussing it as a family, he was dead wrong.

“What did you say?” Bob Larson asked. “I didn't quite catch that.”

“Nothing,” Ali reassured him. “I was just talking to myself.”

She buckled her own seatbelt, started the engine, and then sat for a moment with her eyes closed. When she opened them again and glanced over at her father, he was staring straight ahead.

“How am I ever going to tell your mother about what happened to our money?” he asked brokenly. “How can I tell her we're dead broke?”

“You'll find a way,” Ali said reassuringly. “Maybe it's not as bad as you think.”

“It's bad, all right,” Bob replied grimly. “Worse than you can possibly imagine.”

“Well, then,” Ali said with as much confidence as she could muster. “We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

That brought her up short. Those words were one of the many platitudes her parents had used on her over the years. Now here she was spouting them right back.

Shaking her head, Ali put the Cayenne in gear, backed out of the parking spot, and then drove out of the lot.

What goes around comes around
, she thought ruefully.
And so much for my perfect day in June
.

I
n the end, there was nothing more for Haley to do, so she went home. When she arrived at the house at the end of Art Barn Road, she was surprised to see an unfamiliar car parked in her customary spot. The last thing she needed right then was an unexpected visitor. Letting herself in through the unlocked front door, she was astonished to find Jessica Denton seated in the easy chair next to Gram's recliner.

“Haley,” Carol Hotchkiss said. “I'm so glad you're home. As you can see, we have company.”