Play Dead (22 page)

“Sounds like a lot of risk and work for some electronic gear that has to be at least a year old, if not older.” Ryan decided other things had been taken to cover the computer theft.

Ryan said goodbye and was putting his cell phone away when it vibrated. It was Ed Phillips. “Yo, Ed. Whassup?”

“Very funny, Hollister. You don’t really sound like a redneck. More like a dickhead.”

Ryan watched Hayley. Her attention was now on the ring where another pair of fighters was warming up for a bout. After this fight The Wrath would be in the cage. Hayley planned to see him after the fight, then they could go home.

Get your mind off sex,
he told himself. But it was difficult. Hey, he was just a guy who’d been without sex for too long. Now that he’d found the right woman…

He checked himself. Some small part of him still felt disloyal to Jessica. He knew she wouldn’t have minded. She would have liked Hayley, but he still felt a twinge of guilt.

“Something else came through on the car bombing,” Ed said. “Since we’re not involved any longer, it was forwarded to the DEA and the local police.”

“Okay, shoot.” Ryan was pleased Ed had contacted
him despite knowing he was quitting the Bureau. No doubt the guy wanted to make sure Ryan would give him any computer help he needed in the future.

“You know there were over two hundred thousand fragments collected after that bombing.”

“I guess that’s not surprising, is it?” Ryan had zero experience with bombs but he thought an explosion of that magnitude would generate thousands if not millions of tiny pieces.

“No. The ATF guys were immediately able to ID the bomb as one built in Mexico by the Sinaloa cartel.”

Ryan had been half favoring a scenario with Steve Fulton hiring a pro to take out his wife. Come to think about it, that didn’t seem likely. How would a software specialist in San Francisco come in contact with a cartel member who possessed a bomb or could be hired to do a bombing?

“This morning ATF also found pieces of a GPS tracking device. The cheap kind you can purchase at any electronics store. It must have been attached to the car with a magnet—probably under the bumper or wheel well—where it would be easy and quick to hide. That way they could have tracked Hayley to the restaurant without arousing her suspicions.”

“Right. Thanks for the update.” As soon as he clicked off, another thought hit him. Hayley had told him that she’d been to see The Wrath about new designs on the morning of the bombing. Maybe the destruction of the trust and the bombing were two unrelated issues. The Wrath couldn’t give a rat’s ass about Hayley’s portion of the trust. But he could be upset about something else. Or he’d been planning to use Hayley in some way.

F
ARAH RETURNED
to the Irvine Terrace house she shared with Kyle. It was after ten and she was bone-tired. Driving Trent to his Newport Coast home had taken longer than she’d anticipated. Courtney had met them at the door. Her brother’s wife had been so excited that their son had been accepted by a noted piano teacher.

Her usually mellow brother, fueled by too much scotch, exploded. He’d yelled that Timmy was becoming a sissy and it was all Courtney’s fault. Farah didn’t agree. She thought Timmy should pursue his own interests.

In a way her nephew reminded Farah of herself at the same age. Her father had taken unmistakable pride in the way Trent followed in his footsteps, surfing and skateboarding like a champ. Later silly little Hayley had tried to please their father by surfing. Farah had known she was best at intellectual pursuits and hadn’t bothered to solicit her father’s admiration.

Being ignored had hurt, but Farah had learned to appreciate academic accolades from her mother. And to rely on herself. Just one of life’s important lessons.

It had taken a bit of talking, but Farah had managed to calm Trent down. As usual Courtney had been stoned on pain pills. Farah left, doubting this marriage would last.

“Kyle, are you home?” Farah called. The house was dark but his car was in the drive.

She tossed her keys and purse on the entry console that was nothing like the antique table in Trent’s grand marble foyer with its massive arrangement of snow-white roses. Her home was older, but recently updated to feature the postcard-perfect view of the bay. It was a prime address, but not nearly as opulent as Trent’s exclusive gated enclave. She didn’t care; part of Trent’s problem was impatience.

Impatience and greed did not make a good combination. Farah wanted to make money as much as her brother did, and this economic downturn had stalled her plans. She knew things would straighten out with time. Trent wanted to move into one of Pelican Point’s Italianate villas with parklike gardens and breathtaking ocean views. He was determined to keep up with the guys he envied—right now. His ambition might force him to take unnecessary risks.

She walked out onto the terrace overlooking the bay and stared at the sparkling lights of the Pavilion opposite Balboa Island below Irvine Terrace. The Victorian-style Pavilion had been built early in the twentieth century as a railroad terminus for a line coming south to the beach from L.A. The rails were long gone and now the Pavilion was a fancy restaurant festooned with lights that illuminated its graceful lines.

“Hard to believe,” she said out loud. Farah had always admired the way the early founders saw the possibilities in the area. Saw the future.

Back then, Bay Island had been the only natural island in the harbor. Actually, there was no harbor, she mused, gazing at the sparkling lights of what was now one of the
largest pleasure boat harbors in the country. It took dredging to clear the harbor and build the islands. It took imagination and foresight, she thought.

Newport Beach had been a three-hour drive from L.A. on rutted roads that would become a freeway—over fifty years later. The freeway opened up the area and fortunes were made on real estate once considered not particularly valuable.

“Look ahead, not back,” Farah whispered to herself.

She had to admit that’s what Hayley did. She had the ability to project into the future and see where the business was going. Surf shops like Surf’s Up sold the California lifestyle. But styles changed. Hayley, she hated to admit, embraced the change the way her mother had. Trent didn’t see beyond board sports—just like his father. Their father.

Despite her assurances to her brother that Hayley’s line of MMA gear wouldn’t sell at the Board Wars competition, Farah believed it would. She’d read MMA fights were attracting huge numbers of fans. She hoped Hayley was right. Keeping Surf’s Up profitable was in her best interest.

Farah didn’t care about saving her father’s company. She needed the money for her own dream. Working as a CPA, even with her own firm, wasn’t going to make a fortune. A good living, but not the kind of money Farah wanted. She needed to be ready to invest as opportunities presented themselves. She had lots of ideas but no cash.

A sea lion barked; it was mating season. The male was warning off competitors, but sound traveled over water, often being magnified. Up on Irvine Terrace, the honking barks seemed to be coming from the next yard, not the bay below.

Farah went inside and wondered if Kyle had gone for a walk. That wouldn’t be like him. Surfing passed for exercise, not walking. In their bedroom she kicked off her shoes and peeled off her panty hose.

She heard a noise and paused, set to remove her skirt. Was that Kyle laughing? It sure sounded like it. Where was it coming from?

She hurried into the kitchen, thankful that all Irvine Terrace homes were one story to preserve their harbor views. She didn’t envy Trent his opulent two-story mansion on days like this when she’d spent too long in high heels.

Another laugh. All the windows were open as usual in the summer to let in the cooling ocean breeze. Kyle’s laugh was coming from outside. He was in the shop behind the garage.

What was he doing back there? Kyle wasn’t the least bit handy. Unplugging his blow-dryer was the extent of his expertise.

Barefoot, she walked out the back door to the shop behind the double-car garage. Through the window in the door she saw Kyle standing by himself. Chuckling. Great! No doubt he was smoking pot. He’d recently discovered Red Rover, a new strain that was more potent than others, yet smooth. Farah had no use for drugs. She was afraid of their power. She didn’t want anyone controlling her.

Farah opened the door and walked in without saying a word. There was an open box of cold pills with the empty inserts strewn across the worktop. An instant-ice pack was on the table beside scissors used to cut it open.

Kyle spun around with a two-liter plastic bottle in his hand. She’d expected to see a spliff of Red Rover. “Hey,
babe. What’s happening? I thought you were having dinner with your brother.”

“It’s after ten. We finished two hours ago.”

“Really? What time is it?”

Farah didn’t bother to check her watch. It was clear from his glazed eyes that Kyle was high, even though she didn’t detect the usual sweet herbal smell. “It’s nearly ten-thirty. What have you got there?”

Kyle held up the plastic bottle that had once been filled with root beer. Now all that was left at the bottom was a disgusting looking brownish sludge. “A surefire way to make money.”

Farah glanced around at the small area that was neatly filled with tools and hardware that had been left when she’d purchased the house. She noticed at least a dozen empty two liter bottles newly lined up on the shelves.

Kyle showed her a packet of crystal-like granules in a plastic container. “I’m making meth to sell at the beach.”

A scorching surge of anger ripped through her like a column of fire. “In my house? No way! You’ll set the place on fire or blow it up. Meth labs are always going sky high!”

Kyle flashed the smile that had once captivated her. Not tonight. Methamphetamine was almost instantly addicting. You could smoke it, snort it, or inject it and the result was the same. You were irrevocably hooked.

“Are you using meth?” she asked.

“Of course not, babe,” Kyle assured her.

Farah didn’t know if she could believe him. Not that he was a liar, but addiction did strange things to a person. Kyle always hid how much pot he used.

“I’m just trying to make money to help out.”

Once she would have given him a blow job on the spot
for accepting
any
responsibility for their finances. But this was different. Did he seriously believe making meth was the answer to their problems?

“This is the new shake-and-bake method,” Kyle continued, oblivious to her disapproval. “It takes less pseudo-whatever—”

“Pseudoephedrine. The decongestant in those cold medications.” She pointed to the worktable where the empty boxes were scattered.

“Right. This takes less so no one is busted for buying restricted cold pills. Then you add a few household cleaning chemicals—just a bit—not much and then you need ammonium nitrate, which is found in these instant-ice packs.” He held up the open ice pack. “Put it all in an empty bottle and cap it. Shake for five minutes and presto! Crystals begin to form. The whole process takes fifteen minutes.”

Farah hadn’t realized meth could be produced this way. The method she was familiar with called for “cooking” the brew, which required a ton of cold capsules and chemicals to boil in pots over an open flame. She understood it took several days to produce a batch.

She was caught off-guard at the vibrancy of his voice. Kyle was truly proud of himself, thrilled that he knew something she didn’t. “How did you figure this out?” She was certain he didn’t come up with this on his own.

“One of the guys was making it in the back of his SUV after we finished surfing. I got the formula from him. I’m going to make a lot—” he gestured to the empty soda bottles lining the shelf “—and sell it at the Board Wars.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said quietly. She hated to stop any moneymaking venture Kyle was willing to try, but this could mean big trouble for her as well as him.

“The guys say to just keep one packet on you at a time.
That way if you’re caught, it’s not enough to bother prosecuting. And if they should check here, there won’t be anything to find. All of this stuff won’t fill more than two grocery bags. I’ll throw them away tonight.”

“Not in my trash,” she said.

“I already planned to take it to Balboa Island and dump a little here, a little there in trash cans on the main drag.”

“Okay,” Farah replied reluctantly and turned to leave. She really had to get rid of this guy. As soon as everything was settled, she would. Meanwhile let him make a little money on the side. If he was caught, she could always claim she knew nothing about it.

R
YAN FOLLOWED
H
AYLEY
as The Wrath led an entourage of wannabe cage fighters and half-dressed groupies to his dressing area. It was after eleven, but it had taken this long for The Wrath to leave the ring area. In the first round, he’d easily won his fight with a guy with a mug like a gargoyle. The Wrath had taken a seat ringside to watch the last two fights, which both went three painful rounds with no tap out. Hayley told him that meant the fighters would be rematched next time in a professional fight.

The makeshift dressing rooms were in what must once have been the main office of the warehouse. All the furniture had been removed, but the partitions that divided up the cube farm remained. Each fighter had his own station in the cube. The Wrath’s was the largest and filled with more groupies than a rock band.

“Do you want to leave?” Hayley asked when it became apparent that the entourage was going to hang around for some time.

“No. Let’s wait and talk to The Wrath.” He had more
than a few questions for the fighter, since he’d learned about the tracking device discovered in Hayley’s car. He hadn’t told her about it because the noise prevented serious conversation. He glanced around but didn’t see a place for a private discussion.

“You want to see if The Wrath can teach me a move to take you down, don’t you?” Hayley teased.

“I double-dog dare you.”

“You’re on!”

He hugged her, wishing they could always be this carefree. Take time; enjoy life. Really get to know each other.

Ryan reminded himself to keep his mind on protecting Hayley. He checked the cube farm that was now swarming with fans. No one seemed to be paying any attention to Hayley. But then, that’s what he would expect. Someone was cunning enough to place a GPS tracker on her car and plant a bomb wasn’t going to be easy to spot.

Everyone looked suspicious and no one looked suspicious. In wrinkled khaki shorts and a well-worn blue T-shirt, Ryan was the closest to a
GQ
look any guy in this crowd would get. Clearly these men lived to watch
mano-a-mano
combat. The women were better dressed. Many were attractive, but the fawning looks of adoration they gave the fighters and their simpering giggles made them seem shallow.

He couldn’t help comparing them to Hayley. Many of these women were blondes with fried platinum hair. Hayley’s silky chocolate-colored locks streaked with shimmering copper were much prettier—more natural.
She wasn’t just attractive; she had brains and personality. A winning combination.

“Notice how MMA has religious overtones,” Hayley said.

“Religious?”

“Sure. Look at the religious symbols on a lot of the logos. Celtic crosses, regular crosses, angels’ wings, Gothic lettering. You know, that sort of stuff.”

“I guess.” All right, all right, Ryan said to himself. Another part of Hayley’s appeal was her ability to make him think.

Keep your mind on business.
Ryan again scanned the large room to see if anyone was targeting Hayley. The crowd was thinning out; tomorrow was a workday for most of these folks. “I also see a stylized Grim Reaper, skull and crossbones, swords, flames that must represent hell.”

Hayley lifted her chin and met his gaze straight on. “Right. I spoke to a lot of fighters when I was trying to come up with a logo for The Wrath. They see cage fights as a struggle between good and evil. Some of them represent good, or God, while others go for the evil of the devil.”

“Which is The Wrath?”

“Stands for The Wrath of God.”

Well, hell. Why not? Ryan figured it could go either way, depending if you believed in a wicked or forgiving God.

The Wrath chose that moment to shrug into one of Hayley’s black zip-up hoodies with the Grim Reaper on it and flames licking The Wrath’s name. He sauntered up to them, leaving the groupies behind.

“Let’s go over to my gym,” The Wrath said. “It’s right
around the corner. We can talk there.” He winked at Hayley. “I’ll show you a surefire move.”

“Okay,” Hayley said for both of them.

Ryan put his arm around her and took her back through the now empty warehouse where a team of men was breaking down the bleachers. He stepped outside ahead of her. He carefully looked both ways before allowing Hayley into the alley. The area was well lit, but he didn’t take any chances. He hustled her into his car.