“You said they’re well-to-do,” Biba said. “How well off are they?”

  “Most of their customer base appears to be located outside North America, and fares for transatlantic and transpacific flights don’t come cheap,” she said.

  “Any financial difficulties?”

  “Since today’s a holiday, I couldn’t access any of those records,” Julie said. “I’ll look into their finances and real estate holdings tomorrow.”

  “Any marital difficulties?”

  “None that I’ve heard about so far.”

  “What about their electronic devices?”

  The other CSI, Megan Holly, raised her hand. Theoretically Warren Biba was a happily married man. Megan was a sexy little number who sometimes made him wish he wasn’t.

  “Yes, Megan,” he said, nodding in her direction. So far she was the only person in the room he had addressed by name. That fact may have escaped Warren Biba’s notice but not anyone else’s.

  “Two cell phones were found at the scene,” Megan reported. “The one belonging to Mr. Holden appears to be functional, but we won’t be able to access it until he’s able to give us permission or until we can obtain a warrant, whichever comes first.”

  “What about the other one?” Biba asked.

  “Mr. Simpson’s phone was apparently operational initially because one of the uniformed officers at the scene reported receiving a call on it. However, by the time it was taken into evidence, the phone was no longer working.”

  “Why not?” Biba asked.

  “It would appear that the device had been disabled. That, along with Mr. Simpson’s laptop and iPad, had all been returned to their factory settings.”

  “In other words, they’d been wiped?”

  “Correct.”

  For the better part of thirty seconds, Warren Biba sat there quietly tapping the tabletop with the end of a ballpoint pen while he mulled that information. Only someone with something to hide would wipe their devices at the scene of a car crash.

  “Anything else?” he asked eventually. This time no one responded.

  “All right, then,” he said, “we’ll hit this again first thing in the morning, but in view of the fact that Simpson’s devices were clearly tampered with and Holden’s weren’t suggests that Simpson was our intended victim, but make no mistake. While I’m looking for a suspect, I’ll also be looking for our leaker. Once I find him or her, there will be consequences. Understand?”

  Again people nodded but said nothing. Almost everyone in the room, other than Warren Biba, was well aware that Megan’s former college roommate was now a newspaper reporter in Phoenix, and they were all waiting to see what would happen if and when Biba found out.

  “All right,” he finished. “That’s all. Go home and get some rest, and in case I didn’t mention this earlier, happy New Year.”

  As people began to gather their goods and file out of the room, Biba was still deep in thought. Homicide investigations always work from the inside out, starting with members of the victim’s inner circle before moving on to more distant friends and relations. And who was the nearest and dearest member of B. Simpson’s inner circle? That would be his wife, of course.

  Biba’s mind flashed back to his earlier visit at the hospital and to the way Ali Reynolds had quickly jumped in to answer questions that seemed to have stumped her husband. He hadn’t liked her attitude or the scathing way she had looked at him as she summarily ended the interview. Biba’s thoughts returned to the present just as Julie Morris and Steven Flack were about to leave.

  “Hey,” Biba called after them. “Hold up a minute.”

  Steven and Julie reversed course. “Yes?” Julie asked.

  “I’d like you to take a deep dive into B. Simpson’s wife,” Biba said. “I had an unpleasant encounter with her down in Phoenix earlier this afternoon. I’d like you to bring her in for a voluntary interview tomorrow. I want it done here at the station and on the record so we have her locked into her story.”

  Julie Morris nodded. “Because it’s always the wife, you mean?”

  “Or the husband,” Biba agreed, “but in this case, I think there’s a very good chance it’s the wife.”

  CHAPTER 17

  FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA

  Wednesday, January 1, 2020, 9:00 p.m. (MST)

  The chartered Gulfstream departed Flagstaff’s Pulliam Airport at nine p.m. on the dot. While a big-eyed Cami, riding in a private jet for the first time, examined her surroundings, Ali switched on her iPad and stole a look at the email from Sonja Bjornson that had arrived while they were still in the FBO.

  One of our approved car service providers will meet your aircraft at London City Airport and will transport you to the hotel. They have your tail number and can track your flight, so don’t worry if there are changes in your ETA.

  Angela Patterson, your assigned operative, will meet you at the hotel. We’ve arranged for her to register at the conference as your personal assistant. She’ll be in attendance with you at all public events.

  Sonja

  The plane took off, rising quickly from the lit atmosphere surrounding the airport into darkness broken only by the glowing red light on the wingtip visible outside her window. Gradually, as Ali’s eyes adjusted, countless stars began to glimmer in the sky overhead.

  Once the chime indicating cruising level sounded, the Gulfstream’s flight attendant was up and at ’em. When beverages were offered, Cami—focused on her upcoming presentation—ordered coffee, while Ali opted for a glass of Merlot. They chatted over finger sandwiches and fresh fruit before settling in to work.

  As Ali went through the travel briefing Frigg had provided, she focused for the first time on the Bulgari’s address in Knightsbridge, as well as the accompanying neighborhood map. When she caught sight of a street called Brompton Road, she realized she’d been in that same area years before during a homecoming trip for her former majordomo, Leland Brooks. The two of them had gone to dinner at the posh penthouse flat in nearby Brompton Square that belonged to Leland’s great-nephew, Jeffrey Brooks, a solicitor, and his partner, Charles Chan, a restaurateur.

  Leland had come into Ali’s life as part of a package deal when she had purchased her home on Manzanita Hills Drive. For years he had served as Ali’s butler and right-hand man, but after retiring, Leland had returned to the UK to care for the love of his life, a man named Thomas Blackfield, whom he had been forced to abandon decades earlier.

  A week or so prior to Christmas, Ali had received a card from Leland telling her that Thomas had passed away several months earlier and that he had accepted Jeffrey and Charlie’s invitation for him to come stay with them in London for a while. In the early fifties, when Thomas and Leland’s relationship had been pried apart, homosexuality was still a criminal offense. Things for Jeffrey and Charlie were far different. Reading the note, Ali had been relieved to know that, after years of caring for others, Leland now had someone looking after him, and although she had meant to send a sympathy card earlier, she had not yet gotten around to doing so.

  Studying the map, Ali realized that the distance between the hotel and Leland’s current place was probably something less than a ten-minute walk. Once she understood the logistics, Ali decided that sometime during the conference, she’d play hooky long enough to visit her friend and deliver her condolences in person. That would mean more to both of them than sending a card.

  At that juncture, Ali reclined her seat and allowed the long day’s worth of emotional turmoil and two glasses of Merlot to get the best of her. The next thing she knew, the flight attendant was shaking her awake.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Reynolds. We’ll be landing in Teterboro soon. Please raise your seat back to its full upright position and make sure your electronics are turned off and properly stowed.”

  Ali looked down and was surprised to find that while she’d slept, the attendant had covered her with a blanket. Across the aisle, Cami’s seat was already in its full upright position. Although she was still sleeping, she, too, had been covered with a blanket.

  Both Ali and Cami disembarked during the fuel stop. Once back on board, they reversed roles. Done working, Cami left her seat and stretched out full length on the plane’s long bench seat. Ali fired up her computer and began going through the dossiers Frigg had prepared for her perusal. It was slow going and boring beyond words.

  For the most part, name-brand cybersecurity elite were highly educated executive types with seemingly beautiful wives and picture-perfect children—at least as far as Frigg’s research had discovered. To a man—and they were all men—they seemed totally ordinary, and not one of them looked like a potential murderer.

  Only Adrian Willoughby appeared to have anything dodgy in his background. He had been let go early on by what was then a tiny tech start-up that had eventually morphed into a massive conglomerate. No reason was given for his abrupt departure from the firm, but a nondisclosure agreement was involved, which probably indicated that a sum of money had changed hands. Willoughby’s career as a tech blogger had launched shortly thereafter, probably underwritten by that unspecified monetary settlement from his previous employer.

  From the photos Frigg had gathered, Willoughby appeared to be in his early to mid-forties, and his bland face gave no hint of any murderous proclivities. He had a very attractive, somewhat younger wife and three highly photogenic kids. However, Frigg had discovered there was probably trouble in paradise since the wife had recently filed for divorce.

  By the time Ali fought her way through the last of the dossiers, the blended aroma of brewing coffee and reheating quiches was wafting from the galley.

  If you have to go racing off somewhere far away in the middle of the night, Ali told herself, this is the way to do it.

  CHAPTER 18

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  Thursday, January 2, 2020, 3:45 p.m. (GMT)

  Ali and Cami’s original ETA at London City Airport had been 4:30 p.m. Due to driving tailwinds, the aircraft actually touched down at 3:47. It was raining pitchforks and hammer handles when they disembarked. Their hired car had pulled up next to the plane, but the driver nonetheless escorted them across the tarmac to the waiting vehicle under an immense golf umbrella. Then he drove them to the FBO, where an immigration officer quickly granted them entry into the UK.

  Despite their early arrival at the hotel, Angela Patterson, their bodyguard, was already on hand to greet them. She was a tall, lithe, fashionably dressed Black woman who looked like a model who’d just stepped off a catwalk. Striding along in a pair of incredibly high heels and with an enormous leather purse slung over one shoulder, she glided across the lobby’s polished granite floor with the sure-footedness of a leopard on the prowl. Cami seemed surprised by the woman’s appearance, but Ali was not. When it came to hiring operatives, Sonja Bjornson usually went for stunning good looks that masked a formidable opponent.

  After making polite introductions and inquiring about their flight, Angela took charge of the check-in process and led them to the elevator. Up in their suite, the three women waited for the bellman to depart.

  “You’re not carrying any weapons, are you?” Angela asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Ali said. She already knew better than to bring handheld weapons into the UK, and she had passed that information along to Cami.

  At that point, Angela reached into her purse and extracted two tiny, tissue-topped gift bags, each of them sporting a Christian Dior label.

  “Sonja sends her regards,” Angela said as she handed each of them one of the diminutive packages.

  Cami was the first to unwrap her gift and pull out a tiny glass spray bottle. When she made as if to open it, Angela held up a cautioning hand. “Please don’t,” she said. “What you see isn’t what you get.”

  “What is it?” Cami asked.

  “Wasp spray,” Angela answered. “Carrying firearms is frowned upon in the UK, but there are no laws against carrying wasp spray.”

  Cami studied the vial. “Wouldn’t a vial of bear spray be that much better?”

  Angela laughed aloud at that. “Here in the UK we don’t have bears, but we have plenty of wasps, which makes wasp spray much easier to come by. Please keep your ‘perfume’ bottles close at hand, and don’t leave the room without them.”

  “Including tonight at the private reception?” Ali asked.

  “Most definitely,” Angela replied. “And if either of you happens to be without a suitable evening bag, I’ll be glad to pop out and get you one.”

  “We both came properly equipped,” Ali assured her.

  Angela left then, after saying she’d be back to collect them at seven sharp. Once she was gone, Cami made straight for the chintz-covered sofa. “I’m beat,” she said, digging an eye mask out of her purse. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to grab a nap. Wake me at six, would you?”

  “Will do,” Ali said.

  Leaving the sitting room to Cami, Ali retreated to the bedroom, closing the connecting door between them. A glance at her phone told her that with the eight-hour time difference, it was just past eight a.m. in Phoenix. St. Gregory’s Hospital would be up and running by now. No doubt B. was awake, but since he was minus his cell phone, she dialed Sister Anselm’s number.

  “Good morning, Ali,” the nun said cheerfully. “I trust you traveled safely?”

  “We did. How’s B.?”

  “He had a bit of a rough night,” Sister Anselm replied, “but he’s sleeping now. I probably shouldn’t wake him.”

  “Please tell him I called,” Ali said. “I’ll have Stu make arrangements to deliver a cell phone and iPad to the hospital, but I don’t know how long that will take. What about Hal?”

  “His condition remains stable but critical.”

  “Okay, keep me posted.”

  When the call ended, Ali sat gazing out the window at a rain-shrouded Knightsbridge. With the rain pelting down, a ten-minute walk seemed much less inviting than it had on the plane. Besides, since Leland was currently staying with someone else, making a surprise drop-by visit seemed wrong.

  She didn’t have Jeffrey’s direct phone number handy, but she knew that his partner was a well-known London restaurateur. Using her iPad, she located a phone number for the Charlie Chan’s restaurant location in Knightsbridge and called.

  The woman who answered the phone was more interested in making dinner reservations than she was in fielding a phone call for Mr. Chan himself. After putting Ali through the third degree to ascertain that she was really a friend rather than a salesman trying to jump the line, the hostess finally agreed to take Ali’s name and number. Her attitude changed remarkably for the better when Ali gave a room number and mentioned that she was staying at the Bulgari.

  Less than ten minutes later, the phone rang. “Ali,” Charles said, “how good to hear from you! You’re here in London?”

  “I am,” she said, “in your neighborhood, too. I’m hoping to see Leland while I’m here, but I wanted to check with you to make sure my turning up wouldn’t be an inconvenience.”

  “Not at all!” Charlie exclaimed. “Leland will be thrilled to see you, and you’re welcome to drop by whenever you wish.”

  “How’s he doing?” Ali asked. “I heard from him just before Christmas, letting us know about Thomas’s passing.”

  She heard a momentary hesitation before Charlie responded. “Thomas’s death hit him pretty hard,” Charlie conceded. “Once he came back to the UK, he threw himself wholeheartedly into being a full-time caregiver. I’m afraid that cost him dearly.”

  Ali knew from things Leland had mentioned in earlier letters that life with an ailing Thomas had been anything but easy.

  “When Jeffrey and I went to Bournemouth for the funeral,” Charlie continued, “the poor man was a mess. That’s when we decided he should come stay with us. At the time, we told him it was just a temporary measure, but it’s not, Ali. He needs us, and if he ends up requiring more care than we can provide, we’ll find it for him. For now, though, he seems content, and at last our little Jonah has something in common with the other kids at school—a grandfather.”

  For Ali this was all welcome news.

  “When would you like to come by?” Charlie asked after a pause.

  “Tomorrow afternoon, maybe?” Ali asked tentatively She had studied the conference schedule. Cami was due to deliver B.’s presentation in the early afternoon. Once that was over, Ali suspected she’d be able to slip away unnoticed.

  “Sure,” Charlie replied. “I’ll give myself the day off and cook something at home. With Jonah around, Jeffrey and I find eating there much more pleasant than dining at the restaurant.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Ali said, recalling the amazing Peking duck Charles had served the last time she had dined with them.

  “Plan on dropping by around four or thereabouts,” Charlie continued. “You and Leland can enjoy afternoon tea. Then, since you’ll most likely still be dealing with jet lag, we’ll eat early—around seven.”

  “Done,” Ali said. “See you then.”

  Off the phone, Ali busied herself by checking in with Stu and letting him know about getting a replacement phone and iPad delivered to the hospital. She checked in with both her mother and with Chris and Athena. After that she took the time to reply to dozens of emails and texts. Word of B.’s accident had gotten out and people wanted to know how he was doing and whether there was anything they could do to help. There wasn’t, of course, but she thanked them one and all for offering.

  By then it was time to awaken Cami so they could get gussied up for the reception. Ali’s little black dress wasn’t exactly a coat of armor, but it felt like one. After applying a final layer of lipstick and picking up her chic wasp-spray-equipped evening bag, Ali was ready to go. Out in the sitting room, Cami was dressed in a floor-length emerald-green gown, the same one she’d worn to High Noon’s Christmas party. She looked spectacular, but Ali knew that the dress’s main appeal for Cami had to do with the fact that it completely covered the long, narrow scar where her broken leg had been surgically repaired.