Clawback (24 page)

“I'm sorry,” Haley said. “If you'd rather I took the business elsewhere . . .”

“Oh, no,” Whitney said. “Nothing like that. Of course we'll handle the arrangements. As it turns out, we need all the business we can get. The wife and I were hoping to retire in a year or two. Now that's not going to happen, so we need to talk about the kinds of services you envision.”

“Service,” Haley corrected. “A single memorial service for both of them together. No open casket; no viewing; no visitation. I want it small but dignified. As you saw in the letter each of them expected the other to scatter their ashes. With them both gone I'll handle that. What about timing?”

“Have the autopsies been performed?”

“I have no idea.”

“I'll have to check with the ME in Prescott. I can't give you an exact date or time until after the bodies are released. What about payment?”

“How much will it be?” Haley asked.

Whitney shrugged. “We'll have to collect the bodies from the ME in Prescott, transport them here for cremation. There's a rental charge for using our chapel facility for the service itself. There's no extra charge if I officiate, but if you bring in someone else to do that, you'll need to handle their charges. Then, depending on the urns you select, we're probably looking at between five and seven thousand, and require payment in full prior to conducting the services.”

That seemed high to Haley but she didn't quibble. “Of course,” she said.

Eventually Mr. Whitney led Haley into a softly lit coffin- and urn-lined room to make her selection. Some of the urns were surprisingly expensive. Finally her eye was drawn to a brass one engraved with a simple Greek key design.

“That one,” she said.

“Two of them, then?”

“No, just one.”

“I'm not sure you understand,” Mr. Whitney said reprovingly. “Cremains take up a certain amount of space. The urn you've chosen is large enough for one person but not for two.”

“I do understand,” Haley said. “Dan and Millie Frazier lived together. They died together, and if I have any say about it, their ashes will be scattered together. I want the ashes mixed together. Load as much of their ashes as will fit into the one urn and feel free to dispose of the rest.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Whatever you wish.”

Haley forced herself to bite back what she really wanted to say.
What I wish is that Dan and Millie weren't dead, and I wasn't here.

“Thank you,” she said, heading for the door. “Once you have prepared an invoice, give me a call.”

She phoned the office as she climbed into her Accord. “How's it going?”

“We're making decent progress,” Carmen told her. “I've been sitting here working on reassembling computers while everyone else has been working on the filing mess.”

“Let everyone know that I'm ordering pizzas all around,” Haley told her. “I'll pick them up and bring them back after I finish at the bank.”

As Haley headed back toward the Village of Oak Creek, she noted the bright yellow car driving behind her. She noticed it mostly because she'd always wanted a yellow car of her own. It never occurred to her that someone might be following her. After all, the highway from Sedona to the Village was one long no-passing zone.

A
li dialed Dave Holman's cell phone before she exited High Noon's parking lot. “Holman here,” he said.

“You wouldn't happen to be working that double homicide down by the 303, would you?” she asked.

“You can't possibly know that,” he began, and then stopped. “No, wait. I remember. Stuart Ramey has his police scanner on pretty much 24/7, right?”

“Have you identified your victims yet?”

Dave sighed. “Ali, I know we're friends, and I know you and your family are going through a lot right now, but I . . .”

“Would they happen to be named Alberto Joaquín and Jeffrey Hawkins?”

Dave said nothing for a moment, then he exploded. “My dead guys haven't even made it to the morgue and you already know who they are? How did you do that?”

“I didn't do it,” Ali replied. “Cami Lee, Stuart Ramey's new assistant, is the one who figured it out. My father had mentioned seeing a landscaping rig at the scene of the Frazier homicides—a pickup truck loaded with mowers, rakes, and leaf blowers. Unlike Detective Drinkwater, Cami took my father's word as gospel. This morning she went out on her own looking for it. She finally found a set of functioning security cameras blocks from the scene. After she located footage of a landscaping truck coming and going around the time of the crime, she asked Stu to send it through our facial rec program. Three people—Dan Frazier, Alberto Joaquín, and Jeffrey Hawkins went north. Only Joaquín and Hawkins made the return trip.”

“So what's the connection between Dan Frazier and my new dead guys?”

“Something you should maybe ask the next of kin.”

“I'll do that. First chance I get. This Cami person sounds like my idea of Wonder Woman,” Dave said. “How old is she?”

“Twenty-two.”

“And have you mentioned any of this to Detective Drinkwater?”

“Not yet, but we will eventually, once we run it by Dash Summers. I expect we'll give good old E.D. the complete package, including video footage, enhanced photos of the bad guys, and copies of their respective rap sheets along with the plate number on the vehicle they were driving.”

“Detective Drinkwater isn't going to like having to let go of your father as a suspect, and he won't appreciate having his ass handed to him by a twenty-two-year-old.”

“No,” Ali said. “I don't suppose he will. I, for one, can hardly wait.”

“So what are the chances of getting this Cami person to come to work for the sheriff's department on a permanent basis?” Dave asked. “I could use someone like her on my new double homicide.”

“Not gonna happen,” Ali said with a laugh. “She's ours.”

“But seriously,” Dave said. “At this stage of my investigation, knowing that the two cases are related is vital. Thanks for the tip.”

“You're welcome,” Ali said. “Any theories?”

“Based on what you just told me, I'm thinking Alberto and Jeffrey were hired to take out Dan and Millie, and were rubbed out in turn once the job was done.”

“If it's murder for hire,” Ali declared, “the person behind all of it is most likely responsible for their deaths, too. My best guess for the guy putting out the contract is Jason McKinzie.”

“Maybe so, but good luck finding him. As I said, McKinzie left the country Friday evening before any of these crimes were committed.”

“All that means is he must be working with someone else,” Ali insisted. “As for him fleeing the country? We'll find him, all right. High Noon is trying to track the money. If we can find that, we'll find him, too.”

“Tell you what, then,” Dave said, “if I get a line on McKinzie, I'll tell you, as long as you agree to do the same.”

“Deal,” Ali said at once.

“Okay, I'm here now, doing a next-of-kin. Gotta go inside and talk to Alberto's brother.”

Dave hung up. Ali waited less than a minute before calling Stu. “I know B. has you working on something else right now, but could you do me one favor?”

“What do you need?”

“How many evening flights are there from Sky Harbor to Mexico City?”

Ali heard the machine-gun clatter of Stu's keyboard. She considered herself a fast typist, but compared to Stu, she was a piker.

“Two,” he said. “Why?”

“Everybody's telling me that Jason McKinzie flew there on Friday evening. I wish there were a way to be sure of that.”

“Maybe there is,” Stu said. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

Her next call was to Cami. “Where are you?”

“Finishing lunch.”

“On the company's dime, I hope,” Ali said. “You sure as hell earned it today. I'm coming to Sedona. Stop by Dash Summers's office and show him what we've got. If he gives the okay, we'll meet at Sedona PD and clue Eric Drinkwater in on what's going on. By the way, don't expect a lot of gratitude.”

“That won't bother me in the least,” Cami said with a laugh. “I'm used to it. I work with Stuart Ramey, remember?”

A
fter Edie's morning doughnut run, she and Bob settled into a rhythm. Working in quiet but purposeful fury, Bob went through the list, checking the links, verifying that the Jason McKinzie mentioned in the item was indeed the correct Jason McKinzie, and then sending the file to the printer. He didn't read through the information or see the photos that showed up on the printouts, but Edie gave him a running commentary as she sorted the material into what Bob regarded as totally arbitrary stacks.

“Look at this,” Edie said, holding up pages of an
Architectural Digest
article depicting Jason's “recently reimagined” and very expensive home along the lower flanks of Camelback Mountain.

“Great,” Bob grumbled, glancing at the lush interior. “I wonder how much of our money went into that.”

There was a profile accompanied by McKinzie's photo from a private jet company's in-house magazine. There were countless photos of him squiring one gorgeously gowned and bejeweled woman after another to innumerable galas. There were articles citing his amazing record as a brilliant investment analyst and his uncanny ability to spot coming trends. Bob listened to the recitations of Jason McKinzie's flamboyant opulence with steadily increasing anger, but being angry was better than being dead, and doing something about it was better than being helpless.

Bob clicked on a file that turned out to be Jason McKinzie's Facebook page. As the computer kicked out page after page of Jason being Jason, Edie plucked them out one by one, studying them as they emerged. Some were duplicates of photos that had appeared elsewhere.

“This whole Facebook thing is weird,” she said. “Most of the people I know who are on Facebook or LinkedIn use those sites to stay in touch with old friends or with their kids or grandkids, but McKinzie doesn't have any kids or grandkids, and not that many friends, either, as far as I can tell. So why does he even bother? Most of these show nothing but one woman after another, and seldom the same one twice.”

“Must be tough walking around with that kind of arm candy,” Bob observed, ignoring the glare Edie sent in his direction.

“There's one notable exception to that. Her name is Ana Stander,” Edie continued. “She posts every couple of months or so. I believe she may be from South Africa.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Look.” Edie handed Bob a page that contained a photo of a single tree with the Kalahari stretching in the background. He thought it was a stock photo of some kind because he was pretty sure he'd seen it before, maybe in
National Geographic
. Below was a caption that said, “Remember when we hiked here?”

“So?” Bob asked.

“The photos are all of places in South Africa, with captions that say ‘Wish you were here,' or ‘What a great time we had.' But here's what's odd. There are no photos of Ana Stander herself anywhere, and I've looked.”

“Maybe Ana's not very pretty,” Bob suggested. “Maybe she's seen her competition and knows that her photo would suffer by comparison.”

“Still,” Edie said, picking up one of her many stacks of paper. “Ali asked me to look for something out of place. Facebook is more for faces than scenery. These photos don't fit. I'm going to go ask Stuart to find out whatever he can on Ana Stander.”

It seemed to Bob that Edie was gone for only a moment, and she was fuming when she returned. “He says you need to send him the links. Stuart Ramey is evidently saving the planet. He told me he doesn't ‘do' paper.”

Bob laughed. “Show me which ones you want him to have.”

It took a few moments for him to locate and send the files. While he was doing that, Edie grabbed the next stack of paper from the computer and began shuffling through it.

“Jason McKinzie was part of Ashley Madison?” she demanded.

“Who's Ashley Madison?” Bob asked. “The link came up. I checked it and found Jason McKinzie's name and address, so I know it's the correct Jason McKinzie.”

Edie walked over to where Bob was sitting and gave him a quick buss on the cheek. “What's that for?” he asked.

“Ashley Madison is a cheaters' Web site,” Edie replied. “The kiss was because you had no idea what it is.”

“Jason McKinzie isn't married and, from the looks of things, isn't in a serious relationship,” Bob mused. “So why would he join something like that? Isn't this something else that doesn't fit?”

“Probably,” Edie said.

“Don't you want to take those into Stu as well?”

“Not on your life,” Edie answered. “He about bit my head off just now. Why don't you send him the link and let it go at that?”

“All right,” Bob said, “I will.”

And he did.

C
ami called Ali before she made it into town. “Sedona PD it is. I showed Dash the video. He said that since whatever we have will all come out in discovery anyway, I should—quote unquote—knock myself out.”

“Let's do it, then,” Ali said. “Drinkwater was in Cottonwood a little while ago, but I sent him packing with his tail between his legs. I'm guessing he's back in the office by now licking his wounds. Meet me there.”

The previous night when Ali had entered the lobby of Sedona PD, she'd been worried sick about her father. Today, walking inside with Cami at her side and with the evidence clearing her father readily at hand, she felt six feet tall and bulletproof.

It was business hours. The desk by the security door where Sgt. Kronnan had held sway the night before was empty. They turned instead to the counter on the other side of the room, where several office clerks were visible behind a thick shield of glass.