“What are you working on there?” Biba wanted to know, changing the subject and motioning toward Julie’s monitor.

  “Since we still don’t know the real target here, I’m looking into the backgrounds of both men. Simpson grew up here in the Verde Valley before moving to the Pacific Northwest and starting a video gaming company. A dozen years or so ago, he sold that, came back home, and started High Noon Enterprises, which he and his wife now own jointly. From what I can see of their finances, they’re seemingly in good shape.”

  “So no obvious money problems,” Biba said. “What about Holden?”

  “Born and raised in Pasadena, California. He’s a retired cop who spent twenty-five years serving with Pasadena PD. He and his third wife, Rose, retired to the Village of Oak Creek in 2005. She’s deceased now, and he’s been driving an airport limo for the last several years.”

  “Nothing stands out about him?”

  “Nothing at all, at least not as far as his years on the job are concerned. He started out in patrol and was working in homicide when he retired.”

  “He sounds like a big nothing burger.”

  “That’s how it looks to me, too.”

  “What can you tell me about Ali Reynolds, Simpson’s wife?”

  “I’ve started on her but haven’t gotten very far. Why?”

  “Because I got a weird vibe from her,” Biba answered. “From what you’ve said, Simpson makes a far more likely target than an over-the-hill cop.”

  “Okay,” Julie agreed. “I’m on it.”

  Just then Detective Flack let out a triumphant whoop from his own cubicle. “Hot damn!”

  “What’s going on?” Biba asked.

  “I’ve been going back through all the witness statements from yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “After our two patrol officers, Yavapai County Deputy Merrilee Hawkins was the next officer to show up at the scene. She had been traveling northbound on I-17 and spotted the Silverado and a red SUV parked on the shoulder of the southbound lanes. She was about to go back to see if they needed help when the call came in about the rollover, so she headed there instead.

  “After reading her statement this morning and going on a hunch, I put out a BOLO for stolen red SUVs and just now got a hit. Half an hour ago a red 2018 Subaru was reported stolen from the long-term parking lot at McCarran International Airport in Vegas. It left the lot at 18:30 on New Year’s Eve. The owner told officers that the car was equipped with STARLINK, Subaru’s vehicle-location system. A few minutes ago, officers from the La Paz County Sheriff’s Office reported finding that vehicle abandoned on a dirt road west of the transfer station in Quartzsite.”

  “Quartzsite?” Biba repeated. “That’s in the middle of nowhere. Why would it be there?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Great catch, Steve,” Biba said. “Now get on the line and tell responding officers to keep their hands off that vehicle. You should also advise them that the surrounding area should be considered a crime scene. In the meantime, I’ll call District 4 in Yuma and ask them to dispatch people to impound the vehicle. If it was involved in our incident, chances are the perpetrators wiped it down before abandoning it, but if they were in a hurry, I’ll bet they didn’t wipe everything.”

  “Anything else?” Flack asked.

  “If they stole the Subaru in Nevada and the Silverado in Kingman, Arizona, they covered a lot of territory and must have stopped off somewhere. Let’s go on the hunt for surveillance footage. I want to get a look at these guys.”

  With that, Warren Biba headed into his office. He had planned on driving down to Phoenix to take another crack at interviewing B. Simpson, but for now that could wait. If this investigation was finally going somewhere, he wanted to be here at his desk directing traffic.

  CHAPTER 22

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  Friday, January 3, 2020, 7:00 a.m. (MST)

  B. Simpson had had a rough night. His whole body was battered and bruised. His damaged shoulder was taped to his body in order to keep it stable and prevent further injury. Between that and his surgical incision, it had been impossible for him to find a comfortable sleeping position. It wasn’t until Sister Anselm had finally insisted that the night nurse administer additional pain meds that he’d gotten some rest. Then, once he’d fallen asleep, an attendant had shown up with his breakfast tray at seven sharp followed shortly thereafter by the surgeon who had removed his spleen who reported he was doing “just fine.”

  You could have fooled me, B. thought grumpily. And whatever happened to the concept of people resting comfortably in their hospital beds?

  He wanted to call Ali and see how things were going in the UK. Most likely Cami had already made her presentation, and he wanted to know how she’d done, but he couldn’t call because the replacement phone Sister Anselm said was coming had not yet arrived. He was back dozing again when yet another scrub-clad visitor arrived at his bedside, a doctor B. didn’t remember having seen before.

  “Hello,” the newcomer said. “I’m Dr. Robert Hamilton, the orthopedic surgeon assigned to your case. I’ll be performing the surgery on your damaged shoulder and upper arm, unless you have a personal bone doc who you’d rather do the honors.”

  “I don’t have a ‘personal bone doc,’ ” B. replied grudgingly. “I’ve never needed one.”

  An unfazed Dr. Hamilton smiled at B.’s brusque manner. “You need one now,” he said cheerfully, “and I’m your man. I’ve spoken to the surgeon who performed your splenectomy. His assessment is that we can go to work on repairing your arm and doing your shoulder replacement as early as tomorrow morning.”

  “Shoulder replacement?” B. echoed. “I thought it was just broken.”

  “The goal in fracture treatment is to put things together well enough to start motion early so as to prevent the joint from turning into a lump of scar tissue. Your arm bone or humerus was broken into a dozen pieces which might be fixable. The socket or glenoid was smashed like a stomped-on Christmas cookie. It is unfixable. In order to get the joint moving it’s best to replace the damaged parts. You’re not a tennis player, are you?”

  “No,” B. replied, “but I’m also left-handed. For the first time in my life, I guess that’s a good thing.”

  “Left-handed or right-handed,” the doctor replied, “with a new shoulder and the proper rehab you’ll have a functional shoulder after rehab. Exercises will start the day after surgery.”

  “How long?”

  “Three to six months, give or take, but that’s only if you are absolutely, one hundred percent committed to doing physical therapy.”

  From where B. was lying, three months sounded like forever.

  “So I’ll see you tomorrow, then, seven sharp?” Dr. Hamilton finished.

  “Sounds good,” B. muttered under his breath.

  Sister Anselm returned. “How are we doing?” she asked brightly.

  “We are not doing well,” B. groused. “The orthopedic guy just told me he’ll be doing a shoulder replacement tomorrow morning. Did you know about that?”

  Sister Anselm shrugged. “I more or less figured it out,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” B. asked.

  “Because,” Sister Anselm replied with a smile, “I was pretty sure you’d shoot the messenger.”

  “Probably,” B. sighed. “So how about lending me your phone so I can see how Cami did?”

  “Right-o,” Sister Anselm said, handing it over. “Here it is.”

  CHAPTER 23

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  Friday, January 3, 2020, 8:00 a.m. (GMT)

  Ali’s and Cami’s English breakfasts were delivered to their suite. Cami, uncharacteristically quiet, barely touched her food. Ali attributed her lack of appetite to a case of nerves about the upcoming presentation.

  Ali had expected the conference room to be in a portion of a much-larger ballroom, but once they entered, she saw that was not the case. The narrow room had soaring windows on both sides, allowing a full view of London’s winter-gray skies. Conference participants were seated around a long banquet table with printed plaques indicating seat assignments. Ali and Cami were seated together, with Angela at a chair under the windows directly behind them.

  Due to jet lag, Ali had a tough time staying awake during the morning sessions, and she caught Cami on the verge of nodding off from time to time as well. Luncheon, served in an adjoining private dining room, consisted of salmon baked in lemon caper butter and accompanied by roasted potatoes and steamed broccolini. For conference fare, the food was probably amazing, but due to nerves, both Ali’s and Cami’s plates remained mostly untouched.

  By the time one thirty rolled around and Cami was introduced, she appeared to have conquered her jitters, while Ali was still a wreck. Once Cami launched into her talk, however, she spoke as easily as if addressing a roomful of high-powered executives was an everyday occurrence. The hours of study on the plane had paid off, and although she had carried a stack of note cards to the lectern with her, she seldom consulted them.

  Sitting there listening, Ali’s own nervousness settled and she felt a growing sense of pride. She knew something about Cami’s challenging home life growing up. Since coming to work for High Noon, she had matured into a poised and confident young woman, and her performance that day was flawless. During the Q and A, she fielded the incoming barrage of inquiries with complete aplomb.

  During the afternoon break that followed, Ali was approached by George Smythe, the CEO of International Cyber Security and someone Ali had met on several previous occasions.

  “How’s B. doing after that car wreck of his?” he asked.

  Naturally that question raised Ali’s hackles. “You heard about that?” she asked.

  “I believe Adrian mentioned something to me about B.’s involvement in an automobile mishap. I would have expected you to stay at his side.”

  You hoped, Ali thought. “That’s what I expected, too,” she replied aloud, “but he insisted I come. He felt the conference was too important to miss.”

  “Well,” Smythe went on, “that young woman who stood in for him today was quite impressive. I trust you’re not keeping her locked up in a computer lab. With communication skills like that, she’d make a crackerjack saleswoman.”

  “You might be right,” Ali agreed.

  Just then her silenced phone vibrated in her pocket. A quick check revealed Sister Anselm’s number on the caller ID, so she hurried into the corridor to answer.

  “Hey,” B. said. “How’d Cami do?”

  “She was terrific,” Ali replied. “In fact, George Smythe just suggested we take her out of the lab and put her in sales, but enough about us. How are you?”

  “The doctors have finished their rounds. The surgeon says I’m doing well, but the orthopedic guy says I need a shoulder replacement immediately if not sooner. That’s scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

  Ali’s heart fell. “If you’re having more surgery, I should be there.”

  “You don’t need to…” B. began, but Ali cut him off.

  “Look,” she said, “you know as well as I do that I’m only here as window dressing. Everyone who just heard Cami’s bravura performance knows she’s the real deal. I should be able to catch a flight home tomorrow.”

  Ali more than half expected B. to object, but he didn’t. “Thank you,” he said. “Sister Anselm is great, but the truth is, I’d rather have you here.”

  I’d rather be there, too, Ali thought. “Anything new on the investigation?”

  “Not as far as I know,” B. answered. “So far Detective Biba hasn’t put in another appearance, but it’s still early. He’ll probably stop by later. What about your bodyguard situation? Did Sonja deliver?”

  “She did. Her gal’s name is Angela. Upon arrival she presented us with tiny vials of wasp spray disguised as bottles of designer perfume for when she’s not around.”

  “Wasp spray?” B. repeated.

  “Yes,” Ali replied. “In places where you’re not allowed to carry handguns, wasp spray is supposedly the next best thing.”

  “But a bodyguard is better,” B. said, “so if you do end up leaving early, be sure that Angela person hangs around to keep an eye on Cami.”

  “I will,” Ali agreed.

  “So do the two of you have plans for this evening?” B. asked.

  “I don’t know about Cami, but I’ve given myself permission to play hooky. Leland Brooks is in town, staying at his great-nephew’s place just a few blocks from here in Knightsbridge. I’ve been invited to afternoon tea followed by dinner.”

  “Are you going alone?” B. asked.

  “That’s the plan,” Ali said. “I can’t very well show up with an extra mouth to feed.”

  “How are you getting there?”

  “It’s only a short walk…” she began, but B. stopped her.

  “Do not walk,” he insisted. “If Angela isn’t going with you, take a cab.”

  “Okay,” Ali conceded, “a cab it is.” Just then people began heading back into the conference room. “Have to go,” she told him. “Our break is over.”

  She stayed for a while after that, but just before three Ali slipped out of the conference room and went upstairs, where she changed into something a little more casual. While in the room, she left a note telling Cami about B.’s next round of surgery and asking her to book Ali on the next available flight home.

  A few minutes later, when Ali’s cab arrived at Brompton Square, she saw that Jeffrey and Charlie’s building was still aglow with holiday decorations. She was standing outside the entrance, searching for the right bell to ring, when the door opened, revealing a pale imitation of the Leland Brooks she once knew.

  The years between that moment and when she’d seen him last had taken their toll. The old man who stepped outside to greet her may have been smiling a hearty welcome, but he looked frail and spent. Painfully thin and leaning heavily on a cane for support, Leland Brooks now bore little resemblance to the aging hero who had once appeared out of the darkness to rescue Ali from grave danger. No, that earlier version of Leland Brooks was no more.

  “Come in, come in,” he said in greeting. “I’m delighted to see you.”

  “You were waiting in the lobby?” Ali asked, after a brief embrace.

  “Of course,” he said. “You didn’t expect to come upstairs unescorted, did you?”

  Leland’s looks may have changed, but his gentlemanly manner had not. He led her over to the elevator, waved her inside, and then pressed the button labeled PH—the penthouse level.

  “I can still manage the interior stairs,” he explained as the lift rose, “but sometimes I cheat and use this. Normally I’d invite you into my downstairs sitting room, but Jonah fell asleep on the sofa. The two of us spend a good deal of time together, and I’m afraid the place is a bit of a mess.”

  Jonah, Ali knew, was Charles’s and Jeffrey’s son. As Ali’s majordomo, Leland had always kept her home in perfect order. It was difficult for her to imagine his apartment in any kind of disarray.

  “The boy’s not alone, is he?” Ali asked.

  “Certainly not,” Leland replied. “Anna, his nanny, is there. She’ll bring him upstairs once he’s awake.”

  The elevator door opened directly into a penthouse unit alive with the welcoming aromas of food preparation. That had been true the last time she had visited, but the apartment itself was vastly different. Before it had been the picture of pristine elegance, something out of Better Homes and Gardens. Now it was lived-in, comfy, and cluttered with a scatter of kid-friendly debris, including a Big Wheel parked with its nose tucked in under a beautifully decorated Christmas tree. Seated on a sofa, Jeffrey was engrossed in trying to corral a pile of loose crayons and clear them from a glass-topped coffee table.

  Caught in the act, he looked up sheepishly as they entered. “I meant to have all of this cleaned up before you arrived,” he apologized, “but I came home later than expected. Please make yourself at home, Ali. Once I finish tidying up, do you prefer tea or cocktails?”

  “Given my jet lag, I’ll stick to tea,” Ali told him, and Leland followed suit. The two of them settled in a pair of easy chairs while Jeffrey continued straightening the room. Based on the abundance of toys, Ali suspected that Jonah Brooks-Chan was destined to be something of a spoiled brat.

  Parking his three-pronged cane next to his chair, Leland leaned forward and asked, “What brings you to London?”

  Ali gave him an abbreviated and somewhat watered-down version of what had happened to B., treating the incident as an unfortunate accident rather than an attempted homicide. There was no need to burden Leland with all that.

  “And how are things going for you?” Ali asked, turning the focus of the conversation back to him.

  Leland’s lined face darkened. “I miss Thomas dreadfully, of course,” he said, “but I’m so grateful to have been able to care for him for as long as I did. I have you and Mr. Simpson to thank for that, of course. Had you not gifted me with that trip home, he and I never would have reconnected. Can you guess which TV show was our absolute favorite?”

  “I give up.”

  “As Time Goes By,” Leland said with a sad smile.

  That made perfect sense. She and B. had enjoyed watching that one, too—the story of a loving couple who had lost track of each other during the Korean War only to be reunited decades later. In that respect, their story and Leland and Thomas’s were remarkably similar.

  “Not surprising in the least,” Ali said.

  “Toward the end, though,” Leland continued, “even watching television became too much for him. It was all very difficult, and I’m afraid it took more out of me than I realized. If Jeffrey and Charles hadn’t gathered me up and brought me here after the funeral, Thomas’s death might well have been the death of me, too, but of course they’d already been through much the same thing.”