When Cami, Angela, and Ali made their fashionably late entrance into the silver-curtained enclave of Il Bar, more than a few heads turned in their direction. Angela was exceptionally tall, Ali was moderately so, and Cami was exceptionally short, and all were suitably dressed for the occasion. Entering a room where suit-clad males vastly outnumbered their female counterparts, the trio’s arrival made an impact.

  Cami didn’t stay long. She accepted a single glass of champagne before making a beeline for the appetizer spread where she dished out a plate of food. She picked through it daintily enough, but minutes later she went back upstairs to continue working on her presentation.

  Her departure left Ali momentarily uneasy. What if someone asked her a question she couldn’t answer? Still, in her years as a news anchor in LA, Ali had spent enough time dealing with Hollywood A-listers to know how to work a room. With Angela sticking close at hand, Ali made her way through the crowd, smiling, shaking hands, and chatting while Angela did the same. Along the way, she learned that, over the years, she had picked up enough cybersecurity jargon to blend seamlessly into the crowd.

  Each guest was given a name tag lanyard upon entering the room. That allowed Ali the ability to recognize the people who had been described in Frigg’s pre-conference dossiers. The men were welcoming and polite. Several guests questioned her presence as opposed to B.’s. She explained in neutral words that he was dealing with a health issue that made traveling currently impossible. None of them seemed to be aware of the traffic incident on I-17. That changed when Adrian Willoughby himself sidled up to her. She recognized him from the material Frigg had provided.

  “I understand B. was involved in an unfortunate accident,” he said. “I do hope he’ll be okay.”

  Since no one else had made mention of the incident, Ali went on full alert, but she kept her face neutral. “I’m sure he will be,” she assured him smoothly, smiling over the rim of her champagne flute. “He really wanted to be here, but his doctors wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “What about his presentation?” Willoughby asked.

  “Not to worry,” she said. “High Noon is a collaborative effort. The presentation will be handled.”

  The man paused long enough to sip his own beverage. She guessed the amber liquid in his rocks glass was something stronger than champagne.

  “And she is?” he added, nodding admiringly in Angela’s direction.

  “My personal assistant,” Ali offered. “She makes traveling ever so much easier.”

  “I’m sure she does,” Willoughby said. “Care for another glass of champagne?”

  “No thanks,” Ali said. “With jet lag and all, I’m sure one glass will be more than enough.”

  It was, too. Forty-five minutes later, having done her wifely and corporate duty of seeing and being seen, Ali caught Angela’s eye and nodded toward the exit. She had fulfilled her assignment. Fifteen minutes after returning to the suite, Ali Reynolds was stretched out on the bed and fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 19

  COTTONWOOD, ARIZONA

  Thursday, January 2, 2020, 6:30 a.m. (MST)

  On Thursday morning, as Stu headed for the kitchen to brew his first cup of coffee, Frigg’s computerized voice greeted him through his recently inserted earbuds.

  “Good morning, Stu. You’re up early. I hope you’re having a pleasant day.”

  He wasn’t, actually. In fact he was a bit on the grumpy side due to an incoming text from Lance that had awakened him earlier:

  You probably need to go back to the hospital today, but Mateo and I could use some help. It would be great if you could spell us for a few hours.

  “So-so,” Stu muttered under his breath in response to Frigg’s teeth-grindingly cheery greeting.

  “Would that be in regard to creating some type of garment?” she inquired.

  Stu sighed. There were bits of idiomatic English that remained baffling to the AI.

  “Nothing to do with sewing,” he replied. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

  “I have one hundred seventy-three documents lined up in the queue waiting for you. Would you like me to begin sending now?”

  “That many? What’s in them?” Stu asked.

  “The collection includes police reports and media coverage of homicide cases handled individually and jointly by Hal Holden and his onetime partner, Jack Littleton.”

  One of the things Stu appreciated about Frigg was that, as far as information gathering went, she was always thorough—in this case, perhaps overly so.

  “Wait,” he objected. “I asked you to do a deep dive into Hal Holden. I suppose those jointly handled cases are fine, but why his partner’s cases?”

  “In view of the fact that someone may have taken Mr. Littleton’s life last October, you should probably look into his cases as well.”

  “Are you saying he’s dead?”

  “Yes, Mr. Littleton was found deceased in his home in Pasadena, California on October 3, 2019. He died of a single gunshot wound to the head. His manner of death has been filed as undetermined and the case remains unresolved at this time.”

  “Whoa!” Stu exclaimed.

  There was a pause. “Would you like me to terminate this conversation?” Frigg asked.

  Now Stu was the one who was puzzled. “Terminate? Why?”

  “Whoa is a command issued to an animal, often a horse, telling it to stop.”

  Stu sighed. “It can also be used to express surprise or dismay, and dismay is what I meant. You’re telling me no one can figure out if Jack Littleton’s death was a suicide or homicide?”

  “That is correct,” Frigg replied, “and that is the first item in the police report queue. If you’d like me to send it…”

  “No,” Stu said, “not right now. I need to go into the office for a while. I’ll let you know when I’m ready for you to start sending. Where did Littleton die again?”

  “Pasadena, California.”

  “Thank you, Frigg. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

  “Very well,” Frigg said. “Drive safely.”

  Sometimes Stu couldn’t help but regard Frigg as an overly attentive mother figure, keeping watch over his every move, because that’s exactly what she did, including tracking his devices as he drove back and forth to work. Shaking his head, he grabbed his loaded coffee cup and headed for the door.

  Driving toward Cottonwood, he considered what she had said. If there were 173 files in the queue, that meant Hal and Jack had been homicide detectives for considerable lengths of time and working as partners for at least part of it. If the traffic incident on I-17 had been a disguised but so far unsuccessful attempt on Hal Holden’s life, what were the chances that the undetermined death of his onetime partner had been a successful one?

  Using the truck’s sound system, Stu connected to his cell phone and asked Siri to locate and dial a non-emergency number for Pasadena PD. Once the call was answered, he asked to be put through to the lead investigator into Jack Littleton’s death. Fortunately Detective Hollingsworth was on duty and eventually he came on the line.

  “Ray Hollingsworth here,” he said. “May I help you?”

  “I’m calling about the Jack Littleton case,” Stu replied. “Is there anything you can tell me about that?”

  “Are you a friend or relative?” Hollingsworth asked.

  “Neither,” Stu said. “My name is Stuart Ramey. I work for a tech company in Arizona. Are you aware that yesterday Jack Littleton’s onetime partner, a guy named Hal Holden, was involved in a serious vehicular incident that may very well have been an attempt on his life?”

  “I hadn’t heard a thing about it,” Hollingsworth said.

  “Is it possible there might be a connection between the two incidents?”

  There was a pause on the line as Hollingsworth considered the best way to deal with this unexpected development. “As you may or may not know,” he said eventually, “Mr. Littleton’s manner of death was ruled as undetermined. We’re still investigating the matter. Since it’s an open investigation, I’m unable to discuss any further details, but what’s this about Hal? Is he all right?”

  Had Stuart Ramey been more socially aware, he might have caught the very real concern in that last question and understood that Hollingsworth and Hal had a personal connection. Unfortunately, that tiny detail went right over Stu’s head. Offended by the idea that information flowed in only one direction, he hit back.

  “I’m unable to provide any additional details at this time,” he replied curtly and ended the call. After all, turnabout was fair play.

  Stu found the office in Cottonwood in crisis mode. Mateo was grabbing a much-needed nap while Lance had his hands full dealing with a late-breaking attempted cyberattack on a customer’s network in Taiwan. Working together, Stu and Lance, later joined by Mateo, spent the next fifteen hours thwarting that and numerous similar cyberattacks on other customer networks from around the world. Engrossed in their work, the day passed without Stu ever checking back with Frigg. There wasn’t enough time.

  CHAPTER 20

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  Thursday, January 2, 2020, 7:30 a.m. (PST)

  The second of January dawned clear and cold in Vegas. Frank had been out of prison since the first of November, but he still appreciated being able to climb out of bed and have his feet land on soft carpet instead of bare concrete. Standing in the shower, he anticipated this would be a good day. First he’d walk over to the gym and work out. On his way home, he’d have breakfast at the diner.

  Out in the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee. While it brewed, he logged on to his computer and checked the newsfeeds from Phoenix, the same ones he’d used the night before. Unfortunately, what he read there put a blight on what had started out as a wonderful morning. Both of the injured victims from the previous day’s I-17 wreck were still alive, one in serious condition and one critical but stable. There was no way to tell which was which. After reading that, Frank slammed his laptop shut with more force than necessary. For the first time, Sal had let Frank down, and he was worried.

  What if Hal recovered enough to be able to talk? What if someone asked Hal if there was someone who wanted him dead? He would probably say there was. Most homicide cops accumulated a list of enemies over time, but with Jack Littleton’s recent death still under investigation, what were the chances someone might ask if they’d had any enemies in common? Hal’s mentioning Frank’s name might be that tiny particle of falling ice that sets off a massive avalanche, and if Danielle’s name ever came up, he’d be toast.

  Having reached that worrisome conclusion, Frank returned to his computer and typed a three-letter message into Sal’s draft file.

  WTF?

  While he waited for a response, Frank considered his options. He had already decided that, once his scores were settled, he wouldn’t stay on in Vegas. The remainder of his payout would go a lot further somewhere with a lower cost of living. He had imagined that when Sylvia’s situation was handled, he’d make a leisurely exit. Maybe now he should speed up that process.

  Eventually Sal replied:

  I know. Those two screwups are off the board. You can expect a full refund.

  Frank wasn’t sure what the sentence about screwups meant, but a full refund was more than he’d expected. He was glad to know that Sal was an honorable man when it came to keeping his word, but that promised refund wouldn’t be of much use to him if he was back in the slammer. Not only that, he had already paid for the contract on Sylvia, and she was up next.

  What about S?

  Not to worry. In process.

  Moments later the draft file emptied, meaning the conversation was over. It was easy for Sal to say Frank shouldn’t worry, but at this point Sal had nothing to lose. Frank did, and the more he thought about the first part of Sal’s message—about the “screwups” being off the board, the more concern he felt. That terminology meant they were dead, which might create more complications.

  Finally, after considering his situation for the better part of an hour, Frank headed for Hi-Roller, where he went straight to the back room and told the attendant he needed to speak to Nicholas—urgently. A few minutes later, while Frank was back out front on his favorite treadmill, another attendant handed him a cordless phone.

  “Hey, Frank,” Nicholas said once Frank came on the line. “I hear you wanted to speak to me. What’s up?”

  “I need to leave town on a permanent basis.”

  “Leave town or leave the country?” Nicholas inquired. He was nobody’s dummy. No doubt the first problem was easier to solve than the second.

  “The latter, I guess,” Frank answered, “preferably somewhere beyond the reach of the US Marshals.”

  “So you’re looking for the full-meal deal,” Nicholas said. “New identity, fake passport, and transportation?”

  Yes, Nicholas had done this before. “All of the above,” Frank said.

  “When do you want to leave?”

  “The sooner, the better.”

  “Fast and good will be expensive.”

  “No problem,” Frank said. “You know I’m good for it.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “I’m not too fussy about a final destination. Any suggestions?”

  “Indonesia would be a good bet,” Nicholas answered.

  Indonesia didn’t sound especially inviting. Vegas was hot and dry. Indonesia sounded hot and humid.

  “Why there?” he asked.

  “That’s where the balance of your payout is,” Nicholas replied. “We’re not dumb enough to keep that much money lying around here in the States.”

  “In that case, Indonesia is sounding better all the time.”

  “What about your parole officer?” Nicholas asked. “Any upcoming meetings with him?”

  “With her,” Frank corrected. “Miriam Baxter. I’m scheduled to meet with her the first week of every month. I see her on Monday.”

  “Okay,” Nicholas said, “I’ll set your departure for some time after that.”

  Frank knew more about his current state of jeopardy than Nicholas did. “I’d like to leave right after that if possible,” he said. “That way I’ll have a month-long head start before anyone starts looking for me.”

  “All right,” Nicholas agreed. “I’ll do my best, but it’s gonna cost you.”

  “It’s only money,” Frank said.

  “Okey-doke,” Nicholas said. “I’ll get on it and let you know when arrangements are in place.”

  Frank returned the phone to the front desk. Along the way he worked on revising his initial opinion about that final destination. Between living in Indonesia and going back to prison, there is no contest!

  CHAPTER 21

  PRESCOTT, ARIZONA

  Thursday, January 2, 2020, 9:00 a.m. (MST)

  Chief Detective Biba had barely set foot in the office on Thursday morning when he was summoned to appear in Captain Bill Dunn’s office. Dunn ruled District 12 with an iron fist, and Biba knew he was about to be dressed down.

  “What the hell is going on with your people?” Dunn demanded as soon as Biba took a seat. “What part of not discussing an ongoing investigation with the media don’t they understand?”

  “I know all about that leak,” Biba replied, “except for the identity of the worthless SOB who did it! When I figure that out, he’ll be out of here.”

  “He’d better be,” Dunn agreed. “Aside from what’s already on the news, has any progress been made in solving this case?”

  “Not so far,” Biba admitted. “I checked with the hospital on my way in. So far both victims are still alive, although one is still critical and on a ventilator. As soon as I touch base with my folks here, I’ll head down to Phoenix to have a talk with the guy who’s not currently in the ICU. I tried interviewing him yesterday, but he was fresh out of surgery and wasn’t much help.”

  Because his wife kept butting in and answering questions for him, Biba thought, but Dunn didn’t need to hear about that.

  “Keep me in the loop,” the captain ordered. “So far today I’ve fielded over a dozen calls from media types asking about a press briefing, but I’m not scheduling one of those until I have something meaningful to say.”

  “Yes, sir,” Biba said, rising to his feet. “I hear you loud and clear.”

  On the way back to his office, he stopped by the bullpen. Detective Julie Morris looked up from her keyboard as he approached.

  “Making any progress?” Biba asked.

  Julie shook her head. “Not much.”

  “What about that interview with Ali Reynolds? As far as I’m concerned, that’s step number one.”

  “Tried but didn’t get anywhere,” Julie replied. “When I called High Noon’s office, I was told she’s out of the country.”

  “Out of the country?” Biba echoed. “When did that happen?”

  “Sometime last night,” Julie answered. “Around nine she flew out of Flagstaff on a private jet, bound for London.”

  “She fled the country?” Biba demanded.

  “Not exactly fled,” Julie corrected. “The woman I spoke to was…” She paused long enough to consult her notes before continuing. “… Shirley Malone, High Noon’s receptionist. She explained that Ms. Reynolds was on her way to pinch-hit for her husband at a tech conference of some kind in London.”

  “Why didn’t either she or her husband mention that when I spoke with them yesterday afternoon?” Biba inquired. “Is she really going to a conference, or is this her high-priced way of avoiding doing an interview? When’s she due back?”

  “Shirley didn’t know for sure,” Julie answered. “If you can afford to use private jets, I guess you don’t have to worry about making reservations in advance—you just come and go whenever you please.”

  Biba nodded. What was true in the world of travel held true in the justice system as well. Regular people, the ones who flew economy, if at all, usually turned up for police interviews or court appearances accompanied by public defenders. First-class fliers came to court shielded by high-priced lawyers. Elites, however, the real jet-setters, were usually able to avoid interviews and court appearances altogether. He suspected that was exactly what Ali Reynolds was doing.