Play Dead (32 page)

Chad had destroyed the trust and had killed the secre
tary who’d worked for the firm for years. She realized he’d been behind the car bombing as well. He knew where she lived, where she went. He easily could have placed the GPS tracker found after the bombing. He’d waited for the right moment, the right place.

And he’d killed the wrong person. How terribly sad, Hayley thought. She didn’t want to make this easy on him, but she didn’t know what she could do, considering her condition.

A form appeared in the doorway, barely visible in the faint light from the window and misshapen by her distorted vision. Not a man, she realized with the next shaky breath. Too small. A woman. Who?

Scream or pretend you’re asleep, she asked herself. The walls were too thick for a scream to be heard from outside the loft unless someone luckily happened to be in just the right spot. But if she played dead, a bullet to the brain might end her life—this time for good.

She forced herself to remain still and waited, watching through slitted eyes as the figure crept across the room with all the stealth of an experienced cat burglar. Did she still have the strength to fling herself upon the intruder once the woman came close enough? It had caught Laird off guard; it might work again.

As the woman crept closer, Hayley slowly slipped her foot out from under the sheet. The last thing she needed to do was become tangled and fall. The woman stopped beside the bed.

Hayley squinted so hard—afraid the whites of her eyes would give her away—that she could barely see anything but wavering patterns of dark and light. Her other senses told her the woman had stopped beside the bed and was gazing down at her.

Something cold and hard prodded her ribs. The flashlight? No. A gun.

“Wake up, Hayley.” The loud voice was unmistakable. Farah!

“U-u-h-h,” Hayley moaned, feigning sleep, buying time.

“Get up!”

Hayley jolted upright and saw the flashlight was off. The only light came from the large window. It was Farah, all right. She appeared to be dressed as if she was a surgeon. Cap, gown, shoe covers. Uh-oh. Her pulse skittered alarmingly.

“W-ho…i-s it?” Hayley asked, deciding it was wisest to pretend she still couldn’t see or speak.

“Get out of bed or I’ll shoot you right there.”

R
YAN MET
T
OM
D
AWKINS
in the lobby of the Marriott. The older man appeared tired, paler than Ryan remembered. Heading the white collar unit of the FBI in L.A. was a tough job. White-collar crime took longer to detect and usually meant hours in court battling expensive attorneys.

“How’s the shoulder?” was Tom’s first question.

“Almost as good as new,” Ryan said. Even though his shoulder ached now, his adrenaline level had been so high all day that he barely noticed it.

“Let’s get a drink.” Tom gestured toward the lobby bar.

One quick drink, Ryan told himself. He needed to get back to Hayley, but he didn’t want to appear rude. This was the man who’d directed the most interesting cases Ryan’s way.

They found seats in the crowded bar and ordered from a perky waitress who tried her best to get Ryan’s attention with a come-on smile. He asked for a gin and tonic while Dawkins wanted a dirty martini.

“I hear there was a lot of excitement here today and you were right in the middle of it.”

Ryan attempted a smile. He wasn’t proud of Laird’s death. It would have been much easier to tie up the loose ends if he’d lived. What was important, he reminded himself, was that Hayley had survived.

“Strange story,” Tom commented as the waitress arrived with their drinks. “One of the local cops at the conference filled me in. Did you know the police in San Diego found Chad Bennett?”

Ryan shook his head.

“Looks like suicide.”

“You’re kidding,” Ryan said, torn by conflicting emotions. He hated what Bennett had done to Hayley, but he wanted him to be questioned by the police. It was unclear just how involved he was in the plot against Hayley. Most assuredly he’d known about the destruction of the trust, but had he helped Laird try to kill Hayley? Who killed Sylvia Morrow? “How did Bennett die?”

“Shot himself.”

“There was quite a case against him.”

“How’d you get yourself in the middle of this?”

Ryan didn’t want to take time to explain, but he couldn’t think of a polite way to kick back the rest of his drink and leave. Besides, he hadn’t even gotten to his resignation yet. He gave as concise a version of events as he could manage.

“Good work,” Dawkins said. “If you weren’t so good on the computer, I’d send you into the field.”

Ryan took another swig of his drink. This was the point where he should tender his resignation and thank Tom Dawkins for all he’d done for Ryan.

Before Ryan could speak, Tom said, “Ed Phillips sent you this. I guess you asked him to run a check on remnants from a private plane crash.”

Ryan sheepishly nodded. He shouldn’t have asked Ed to use the facilities but he had. He was a little surprised Ed had told Tom.

Dawkins pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Ryan. “Long story short. A bomb caused
the plane crash. The same type that blew up Hayley Fordham’s car.”

Ryan nearly dropped his drink. “Goddammit!” His thoughts spun and his instincts immediately told him Aunt Meg had been correct. Laird going to such extremes to get the company didn’t make sense. Ryan didn’t really know the man—having met him once—but bombing a plane and a car seemed radical. Too radical.

Conveniently, Chad Bennett was dead. Just as conveniently, Laird McMasters was dead.

Ryan vaulted to his feet. “I’ll come see you soon. I’ve got to go. Hayley’s in imminent danger.” How could he have been so stupid?

“U
P
! N
OW
!”
ORDERED
F
ARAH
.

Hayley stumbled out of bed, her hands flailing in front of her as if she couldn’t see. Which wasn’t a stretch. All she could make out were shadowy forms.

Farah grabbed her arm and yanked Hayley forward. “Hurry!”

The gloves that must be latex were whiter than the rest of Farah’s clothing. They reflected the light as did the gleaming barrel on the gun. Hayley knew she didn’t have nine lives. This time she was dead…unless. A thought formed in her mind.

“W-hy…d-do-ing this?” Hayley asked in a thick, unsteady voice. Her throat hurt with each word. “Y-you…w-won’t get away…with it.”

“Oh,
pul-eeze!
I got rid of my father and—”

“No!” Hayley cried. “D-Dad loved…you.”

“No. He loved you and he loved my brother. He tolerated me because I was his child. He never had any time for me.”

The deep-seated animosity put a shrill note in Farah’s voice. It was as if she’d been holding in this statement for years. Hayley’s suspicions had been on target. The plane crash hadn’t been pilot error. “H-how—”

“A bomb. Like the one that blew up your Beamer, only this one worked on a timer. That way my father and your bitch of a mother would be blown to kingdom come over the mountains where search and rescue would play hell getting to them. I was betting the Civil Air Patrol would blame it on the pilot, which they did.”

For a moment, horror rooted Hayley to the spot and her heart lurched wildly. How could Farah brag about killing someone—especially her own father? Tears filled her eyes. Hayley thought she might break down and sob. Suddenly, in her mind’s eye, she envisioned the stylized Grim Reaper she’d created. With it came the familar slogan:
Kick Fear—Believe.

“We took out Sylvia without any problem,” Farah bragged, nudging Hayley forward with the barrel of the gun.

“W-we?” Hayley shuffled her feet, but didn’t move ahead.

“Trent helped me.” There was a ring of satisfaction in Farah’s voice now. She must realize Hayley had bought Trent’s story and hadn’t believed he was involved.

“T-Trent wouldn’t kill…Daddy. Th-they were s-so close.” A sense of desolation swept over her. In her head she saw Trent and her father huddled over one of the surfboard molds—laughing, talking.

“Trent kill?” A cold edge of irony filled her voice. “You’ve
got
to be kidding! I planted the bomb. He didn’t know until after the funeral. When I told him…Trent cried like the baby he is at times. Then I showed him a
copy of the trust that I’d taken off your mother’s computer.”

Hayley knew exactly what the trust said. She could only imagine how betrayed Trent must have felt—seeing in writing that his father had no faith in him.

“Well, let’s just say Trent saw the light. He was still squeamish. He wanted you to live. He was quite sentimental about you. I got tired of waiting. I couldn’t count on him, so I planted the bomb under your car without telling anyone.”

Hayley’s chest hurt so much it felt as if it would burst. Lindsey died because this insane woman thought she was killing Hayley. And now she would get what she’d been after all along.

“W-w-w…whe-re?” Hayley could barely get out the word.

“Where did I get the bombs?” Hayley saw the light flash off Farah’s white teeth and knew she was smiling. Gloating, most likely. “That’s the good part. I fell into them. Remember my trip to Puerto Vallarta with Kyle? We drove down the coast to some out-of-the-way beach so Kyle could surf. Our car broke down on the way back. We spent the night in some shit-hole village. At the
only
cantina we met some guys. Kyle bought dope while I had a good time with the boys.”

Hayley didn’t have to stretch her imagination to realize Farah meant sex. Even in high school, Farah—brainy though she was—had gotten herself a reputation. After college and her return to Newport, rumors said she was more than a little wild. Hayley had chosen to ignore the gossip.

“One of the
muchachos
bragged that he made car bombs for some cartel. I didn’t believe him for one second. The other guy had passed out and Kyle was
sleeping it off so I let
macho
man demo one of his bombs.” Farah giggled. “He woke up the whole damn village when he blew up some clunker.”

“N-n-o.” Hayley choked out the word, thinking not of the old car but of her parents being blown to bits.

“Yes,” Farah said with pride. “I showed macho man a few kinky tricks he’d never seen and persuaded him to give me two bombs. One for you and one for dear old Dad and your bitch of a mother.”

Hayley gasped, unable to say a word. Facing Laird had been a dreadful experience. Being alone in the dark with someone who was pure evil was terrifying.
Kick Fear—Believe.
There had to be a way out of this.

“W-why Laird? Ch-chad?”

“Move!” Farah shoved the gun into Hayley’s ribs. “I don’t have all night to chitchat. Dear old Ryan will be back soon. He’ll find you in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Neck broken in a fall. You were up wandering around—unable to see—and had a fatal accident.”

So that’s what she planned. Hayley would be better off to force Farah to shoot her right here. Then, at least, there would be a murder investigation. Ryan wouldn’t rest until the crime had been solved.

The telephones in the loft rang simultaneously. The closest one was on Hayley’s nightstand but there was another in the kitchen and one more in the entry.

“Th-that’s R-Ryan.”

“Let’s not disappoint him. Answer the phone.”

Hayley couldn’t believe Farah was going to let her do this. Holding her arm in a clasp like one of The Wrath’s death grips, Farah marched her into the bedroom. She grabbed the receiver and handed it to Hayley.

“H-hel-l-lo?”

“Hayley—”

Farah snatched away the phone and hung it up. Hayley had recognized Ryan’s voice.

“He believes you’re all right. You dropped the phone because you can’t see shit. When he calls back, he’ll get a busy signal. But he won’t worry. He heard your voice. He knows you’re here.”

Clever, Hayley thought. This woman could really think on her feet. Would Ryan see through the ruse? She couldn’t count on it. Even if he did suspect something, Ryan was too far away to help. Should he call the police, they wouldn’t get here in time, either. She had only herself to rely on.

“March unless you want me to shoot,” Farah said.

There might be a way, Hayley again thought. If she failed, Hayley could scratch Farah the way she had Laird and the police would have DNA evidence. She’d be dead but—they might catch Farah. There was a slim chance this would work, but it was her only hope.

Hayley edged forward a foot or so. “T-tell me what Chad…L-Laird had to gain.”

“Money. Money talks as they say.” There was a trace of laughter in Farah’s voice. “Laird had a scheme to combine the two businesses and sell them to a big gun or go for an IPO. Either way, we’d all make a bundle.”

“Ch-Chad wouldn’t…make any money,” Hayley said, just to keep her talking while she mentally reviewed her plan.

“It was worth a lot to us to have the trust destroyed. We compensated your fiancé.” Farah told her with pride. “Money up front and more to come after the sale of the company.”

Her tone was mocking now; she clearly believed
Hayley had fallen off the proverbial turnip truck. And maybe she had. Trusting Chad and Trent had been a miscalculation that could cost her life.

“I-is Tr-Trent…here?”

“No. Start walking.” Farah jammed the gun into Hayley’s back. “Trent’s in San Diego. He took care of Chad. If we’d let him live, Chad would have rolled over on us. Now it’s a win-win situation.”

Stalling, Hayley cried, “Ch-Chad’s…dead?”

“Suicide plain and simple.”

“Y-you won’t get away—”

“We’ve already been through this. I’m a whole lot smarter than anyone suspects.” She shoved Hayley forward. “Why do you think I wore all this gear? I’m not leaving any forensic evidence behind. Just one dead body. Understand?”

From the light now coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the bay, Hayley could make out the silvery rungs of the stainless-steel banister. She knew Farah would have to get her to the edge to push her down the stairs. Or over the top of the banister.

Over the top, Hayley decided. A plunge straight down the stairs might mean she would fall only as far as the landing. Pushing her over the top of the banister meant a direct fall to the lobby level and the hard tiles on the entry floor.

“Do you want to jump or should I push you?” Farah asked with saccharine sweetness.

Hayley paused a moment, calculating. If only she could see more than a shadowy shape, she would have a better chance of pulling this off.
Kick Fear—Believe.

Hayley swung to the right—not away from Farah but into her, making a grab for the gun. And contorting her body.

R
YAN LEFT HIS CAR
double-parked a building away from Hayley’s loft. As usual there were no parking places. He sprinted up the street, his gun in his hand. The moment he’d realized Hayley’s parents had been killed, Ryan knew that Laird was only part of the conspiracy.

Who would benefit from these deaths?

Trent and Farah. Possibly their mother as well. It didn’t matter who was behind it, he had to get to Hayley before they killed her. True, she’d answered the phone, disconnected the line.

It could have been the accidental result of her eye problems, but Ryan didn’t believe it. Getting the busy signal several times confirmed his suspicions. He’d called the police and alerted them.

Where were they? No sign of them in the street near Hayley’s home. No sirens coming down Newport Boulevard. Just like the saying went—the police were never around when you needed them.

The unmistakable boom of a gunshot split the night as loud as a cannon shot. A second later glass shattered as if a department store window had been hit. The huge window facing the bay, Ryan decided as he reached the front door.

The door was locked, the way he’d left it. He put his good shoulder against the door and shoved with all his might. Nothing. No sounds from inside, either.

Sweat ran down his temples. He backed up. This time he took a running start and charged the door. It gave and he landed on his back in the entry, dazed.

He jolted upright, then felt for his gun. His fingers encountered a pool of liquid. What in hell? Blood, he realized as he found the gun in the darkness. His eyes were adjusting to the light now.

A woman’s crumpled form was sprawled across the entry floor. Was he too late?