J. Jance - Cruel Intent

“You’ll drop it off,” Ali murmured. “Does that mean you know where I live?”

“Yup,” B. replied, “I’m afraid I do. It was right there in your computer files, plain as day. And I’m not the only one who would know that, either. If I found it out, our sneaky little friend can find it out, too.”

“Great,” Ali said. “See you when you get here. The sooner the better.”

Ali had been planning on taking a look at Bryan Forester’s two thumb drives. Heeding her computer security expert’s warning, however, she left them in her purse. Under normal circumstances, she might have picked up her computer and checked her e-mail account. But now, self-conscious in the knowledge that her every keystroke might be under observation, she left the computer where it was and went into the bedroom to change into sweats.

Late in the afternoon, Matt managed to get his brain focused on work. When his phone rang, he answered it before the second ring. Yes, he was a bureaucrat-and a lowly one-but that was also why Matt always answered his phone so promptly. He regarded himself as a public servant, and he didn’t like to keep the public waiting.

So when he answered, Matt thought it would be someone calling about one of his many accounts. The last thing he expected was a phone call from a detective-a homicide detective!

“My name’s Dave Holman,” the man on the phone announced. “Detective Dave Holman, with the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department. Is this Matthew Morrison?”

Matt’s first thought was that it had to be some kind of joke. Bill Baxter was one of Matt’s former coworkers at the state auditor’s office. Before transferring over to the Department of Weights and Measures, Bill had established himself as a practical joker of the first water. This sounded like the kind of off-the-wall stunt Bill would pull.

“Bill?” Matt asked uncertainly. “Bill Baxter, is this you?”

“No,” the caller replied. “It’s not Bill Baxter. As I said a moment ago, my name is Dave Holman.”

“Sorry,” Matt said. “My mistake. You sound a lot like another guy I know, a friend of mine.” He glanced guiltily around his cubicle to see if anyone was listening. Bobbie Bacon, his nearest neighbor, was talking on her phone. No one else seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention. “What can I do for you-Did you say Holman?”

“Yes. Dave Holman. I’m a homicide detective.”

“What’s this all about?” Matt asked. Why on earth is a homicide detective calling me? he wondered.

“I’m working on a case that happened up here in our jurisdiction,” Holman explained. “On Monday morning of this week, a woman named Morgan Forester was bludgeoned to death shortly after her children left for school.”

“Where was this again?” Matt asked.

“Up by Sedona,” Holman answered. “Outside the Village of Oak Creek.”

As soon as the detective said “Monday morning,” Matt felt his heartbeat quicken, and he went into a state of near-panic. He knew he had a problem. Matt hadn’t been anywhere near where he was supposed to be that morning, not even close. In the solitude of his cubicle, he felt his ears turn red. Beads of sweat popped out on what his wife liked to call his “very tall forehead.”

“What does any of this have to do with me?” Matt asked. He did his best to keep his tone conversational and even. It would not do to sound upset or panicked. That was critical.

“The car you were driving was reportedly seen in the area shortly before the crime occurred,” Detective Holman continued. “I was wondering if I could stop by your office and visit with you about that. We’re hoping that perhaps you may have unwittingly witnessed something that could help us in solving our case.”

Matt was utterly mystified. “Wait a minute,” he said. “What car? You say this happened somewhere around Sedona? I wasn’t anywhere near there on Monday morning. What makes you think I was?”

Now it was Detective Holman’s turn to be mystified. “You weren’t?” he asked. “Where were you, then?”

The easy thing for Matt to say was that he had been at work, but that wasn’t true. There was a whole floor of people in his office who would be more than happy to blow a hole in that whopper. Who was this dead woman? And why was the homicide cop calling him? Was he under suspicion somehow? Did he need to have an alibi? The waitress at the truck stop might remember him-he’d left her a nice tip-but if he admitted to having been there, he’d also have to admit why.

Matt’s ears burned anew. The cop was saying something, but Matt hadn’t been paying attention to anything except the damning sound of his own breath coming in short, anxious gasps. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Bad connection. I didn’t get that last part.”

“According to the people at Hertz, you rented a vehicle from their Sky Harbor facility early that morning and brought it back later in the afternoon.”

“Why would I need to rent a car?” Matt asked. His insides lurched. The car! That was another problem. Using his fictional early appointment in Tucson as an excuse, he had checked out a motor-pool vehicle on Friday night. He had driven home in it and kept it over the weekend. It was also the vehicle he had driven to his appointment with Susan at the model home in Red Rock. How many traffic cameras along the way might have picked up on that?

He took a deep breath. Obviously, this wasn’t a joke. The cop was real. Someone was dead, murdered, and the cops believed that Matt was involved. Then his heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t heard from Susan since then-not since the day she had stood him up-though he had written to her time and again, told her he understood completely if she’d had second thoughts. What if Susan Callison was the person who had been murdered? What if that was why she had stood him up and why she hadn’t been back online?

“It was rented under your Hertz gold-card number,” Holman told him.

“I’m sorry,” Matt declared. “There must be some mistake. I don’t have a Hertz gold card.”

How would he? Why would he? He never went anywhere that he didn’t drive himself. Jenny didn’t like flying, which meant they didn’t fly.

“I see,” the detective said.

And Matt was afraid that he did-that Holman saw everything. So Matt didn’t demand to know who was dead. That would have counted as making a fuss. And he didn’t say again that he hadn’t been in Sedona, couldn’t possibly have been in Sedona, because he was a third of the state away from there, hoping to get lucky. He just kept quiet.

“So could I come talk to you about this in the morning?” Dave Holman asked. “I could probably be at your office by ten or so, if that would be all right.”

“Of course,” Matt said. “Ten is fine. You know where we are? We’re here in Phoenix, on the capital campus downtown.”

“I’m a detective,” Dave said with a laugh. “I’m sure I can find it.”

Matt wondered if that comment had been intended as a joke, but his first thought was that it sounded more like a threat, and maybe it was.

For a long time after Matt put down the phone, he sat there and considered his options. He could go home and spill the beans to Jenny. He could tell her the whole story, throw himself on her mercy, and hope she would forgive him. Or not.

Around him, other people in the department started leaving the office. A glance at the clock told him that Jenny was still at work. Even if she heard her phone ringing, she wouldn’t be able to answer it on the floor. Glad to avoid having to speak to her directly, Matt dialed her number and left a message.

“Something’s come up at work,” he said. “It’s a project that has to be finished in time for a meeting first thing tomorrow morning. So you’re on your own for dinner. Sorry about that. And don’t bother waiting up for me,” he added. “I’ll probably be very late.”