J. Jance - Fatal Error

After all, Brenda had disappointed her mother more times than she could count. If Camilla didn’t know about the book, she wouldn’t have any unreasonable expectations. It was a blessing for Brenda to know that her mother wouldn’t be disappointed.

Again.

In the darkness, Brenda drifted into something that wasn’t exactly sleeping or waking. She was a girl again, maybe ten or eleven. It was a Sunday afternoon. She and her older sister were out in the driveway of her parents’ house on P Street, shooting hoops at the basket that hung over the garage door.

Aunt Amy and Uncle Joe had come for dinner. As they were getting ready to go home, Uncle Joe had challenged Brenda’s father to a two-on-two scrimmage, Uncle Joe in his wheelchair and Brenda against Dad and Valerie.

As Brenda fell back asleep-or into something that resembled sleep-she and Uncle Joe were winning.

Laguna Beach, California

By the time Ali fought her way through Sunday afternoon traffic from LAX to Laguna Beach, she’d had almost two hours to give further consideration to her conversation with B. She wasn’t over it enough to call him back, but she’d come to realize that he might have had a point. Being found to be in possession of illegally hacked material probably wouldn’t have been a good idea for someone who was a newly appointed officer in Sheriff Gordon Maxwell’s Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department. And it probably would have been a black mark against High Noon’s reputation as a high-profile Internet security entity.

But still. .

Ali’s appreciated having a working GPS in her rental car. As she followed the turn-by-turn directions through very upscale neighborhoods, then onto Cliff Drive, and finally onto Lower Cliff Drive, Ali had to laugh at herself. When Velma Trimble had first appeared in the lobby of Ali’s hotel years earlier, she had come in a cab and had sported a patriotic walker. The tennis balls on the legs of her walker were red, white, and blue, and a tiny American flag had been affixed to the handlebar.

Since she had arrived by cab, Ali had assumed she didn’t have a car and was probably too old to drive. Looking up at Velma’s multistoried, controlled-access condo with designated guest parking and spectacular ocean views, Ali could tell right off that Velma T. was anything but impoverished. Even in a down market, a condo that was within walking distance of the beach meant money-plenty of money.

Ali arrived at the gate a few minutes before three, the appointed hour. Once she punched the apartment number and the open code into a keypad, the gate swung open. Off to her left was a path that led to what looked like a covered picnic shelter on the curve of a steep bluff above the cliffs that gave the street its name. In front of her was a lobby complete with a uniformed doorman who called upstairs to announce that “Ms. Reynolds has arrived.”

No, Velma T. might be dying, but she sure as hell wasn’t poor.

Once on the penthouse level on the sixth floor, Ali found there were only two doors-600 and 602. Those two apartments, each with a panoramic ocean view, evidently accounted for the total number of penthouse units. Ali rang the bell on the one marked 602. The ringing bell set off an answering bark from what sounded like at least three canine residents-two large ones and at least one small noisy one.

“Quiet, everyone,” Maddy Watkins ordered sternly. “Get on your rug.”

Silence descended at once. Through the closed door Ali could hear the scrabbling of several sets of doggy paws on parquet floors as the dogs hurried to obey. Moments later, Maddy opened the door.

“Why, hello there,” she said. “If you aren’t a sight for sore eyes.” Then, turning back toward the room, she said, “Velma, you’re not going to believe it. Ali Reynolds has arrived in the flesh.”

Maddy took Ali’s arm and led her into what had once been a gracious living room but was now a hospice ward. There was a hospital bed with a rolling hydraulic lifter to aid in getting in and out of bed. There was a hospital-style IV tree and an assortment of other equipment including an oxygen concentrator and a PCA for pain relief. Next to the bed was Velma’s walker with its signature patriotic decor.

The whole west-facing wall was nothing but windows that overlooked a panorama of limitless blue water, and the hospital bed had been placed in a position so that when Velma was in the bed, she could gaze out at that million-dollar view. One of the sliders had been left slightly open, allowing an ocean-scented breeze to blow into the room. Velma sat in a wheelchair that had been parked directly in front of the window. A red, white, and blue afghan covered her legs and helped fend off the draft. She looked gaunt-little more than skin on bones-and the skin that was visible was an alarming shade of yellow that Ali knew indicated the beginnings of kidney and liver failure.

“Oh, good,” Velma said. Her face brightened as she turned from the window to greet Ali. “I’m so glad you’re here. We were about to have our midafternoon round of Maddiccinos.”

“Of what?” Ali asked.

“Frappuccinos made with lots of Bailey’s,” Velma said with a tired smile. “Maddy downloaded the recipe from the Internet, but we can only have those when the nurses are between shifts. They disapprove of my having liquor or coffee, although I can’t see what difference it makes.”

“Coming right up,” Maddy said. She headed for what Ali assumed to be the kitchen. “Come,” she added, speaking to the three dogs who were still on their rug command. They rose as one, Maddy’s now somewhat white-faced, leggy goldens and some tiny ball of fuzz whose canine origins Ali could only guess.

“They do really well together,” Velma said. “Candy is mine. She was a little upset when Maddy’s interlopers first showed up, but now they’re the best of friends.”

Looking around the room, Ali had an instant understanding of why hospice home care was preferable to hospice care anywhere else. Velma was at home in her familiar surroundings. Her dog was here. Her stuff was here. Her view was here, and so was her good friend Maddy and her two dogs. What could be better?

From the kitchen, Ali heard the squawk of a blender as Maddy Watkins mixed the unauthorized treat. Ali moved aside a scatter of Sunday newspapers that littered half a nearby couch and took a seat.

“I’m so sorry. .,” she began lamely, but Velma waved the comment aside.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” she said. “I’ve had a good run. They’re doing a good job of pain management. That was what scared me most-that I’d be in a lot of pain, but I’m not, and I’m reasonably lucid most of the time.”

Maddy emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray filled with three rocks glasses filled with generous helpings of mocha-colored drinks. The dogs, having recovered from the arrival of a newcomer, followed docilely at her heels and arranged themselves around the room. Candy scrambled up into Velma’s lap, Aggie settled comfortably near the wheel of Velma’s chair, while Daphne shadowed Maddy as she bustled around the room delivering drinks.

“Make that lucid some of the time,” Maddy corrected with a smile as she settled on the far end of the couch. “But when she sets her mind to it, she can still beat the socks off me at Scrabble.” She held up her glass. “Cheers.”

Ali raised her glass along with the others and tried not to notice the visible tremor in Velma’s hand as she lifted her drink to her lips and took a tiny sip. Then she set the glass down on a nearby tray and smiled. Ali tried her drink. It tasted of coffee and chocolate and maybe a hint of whiskey, but not much more than that. Ali suspected that there was probably a thimbleful of booze in the whole blender pitcher.