have received a report from his men yet. “The three children will inherit the business and other property when the probate is settled. It’s a sizable estate.”
Wells nodded. “Farah and Trent Fordham have alibis, although it is possible they hired someone. Bomb-making instructions are easily found on the Internet but not many people are willing to risk making one.”
“I’m a computer guy—”
“Yeah,” Wells said with a knowing smile, “and you played two years in the NFL until your shoulder was ruined after a questionable tackle.”
Ryan nodded; he never mentioned his pro career, but buffs like Wells remembered him. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m not an expert, but bombings are usually revenge crimes. The killer wants to obliterate the person.”
“I know. It’s a strange one all right.” Wells pulled a card out of his jacket pocket. “I’ve got a man posted downstairs. When you leave, he’ll lock up. I want you to call me with a report no matter how late it is.”
Ryan checked the e-mail log and it yielded only a few interesting items. Apparently Hayley had some sort of business arrangement with an Ian Barrington. He appeared to be an art dealer. He was expecting several oil paintings for what must be a show. That would account for all the art supplies and easels in the room.
He rummaged through the papers on Hayley’s desk, assuming the police had already checked them and removed anything important. He found a CD labeled The Big 3-0. He popped it into her computer and watched the family barbeque given for Hayley almost two years ago. Most of the jerky footage was of a laughing, smiling Hayley opening gag gifts. There wasn’t any sound on the CD but it wasn’t hard to tell what was happening.
At her side was a man that most women would call drop-dead gorgeous. Tall, dark hair, lively blue eyes. For some reason, Ryan experienced a pang of something that he didn’t want to call jealousy. Why? He’d never met Hayley or the man, who must be her former fiancé. Wasn’t his name Chad Bennett? Meg had said Hayley had dumped him after catching him cheating.
He watched the very sexy Hayley blow out a platoon of candles on a cake with the inscription Over The Hill. Yeah, right. Hayley was anything but over the hill. Just at her prime was more like it.
She looked right into the camera and blew a kiss as the CD ended. Ryan sat staring at the screen, half-convinced she’d meant the kiss for him. He must be losing it big-time. He removed the CD and forced his attention back to checking her computer.
Since Phillips had Ryan officially on the case, he logged into the network in his L.A. office and let the special software he’d designed run a check for trapdoors on Hayley’s computer and see if anything was hidden. It would take half an hour to thoroughly scrutinize all of her files. That would give him time to look around.
He climbed down the high-tech stainless-steel stairs from the third floor office/studio and master bedroom to the middle level, where the kitchen and living room took up the entire floor. He stood still beside the refrigerator, the strangest sensation coming over him. He felt as if he’d been there before. No, that wasn’t it. He felt as if he belonged here somehow. It made no sense.
Get real, he thought, kicking himself. Lofts were just huge open rooms portioned off by walls that weren’t attached to the rafters. He’d never been in a loft, but he’d seen them on TV. Still, something there spoke to him.
What? He looked around. Honest to God, he couldn’t figure out his strange reaction. The entire place was covered with fingerprint dust, a fine charcoal-colored powder. He grabbed a tissue from a dispenser and covered his fingers to open drawers without leaving prints. Not that the crime techs were coming back, but he was too much of a professional to contaminate a crime scene.
The kitchen drawers revealed little except for a utility drawer that had a stash of notepads and matches from various restaurants. There wasn’t a personal telephone book, but he didn’t find that unusual. Most people Hayley’s age kept that info on their cell phones.
He noticed a dog’s water bowl and dish on the floor near the refrigerator. The fine dark powder around it indicated that the dishes had been dusted for prints. The local crime scene techs were thorough, he’d give them that.
Stylized surfboard magnets held several photographs to the refrigerator door. One was of a golden retriever with a red ball in its mouth. Another was of a stunning auburn-haired woman—Hayley—sitting on the beach, hugging the dripping-wet retriever. The third was of a weird-looking dude in a T-shirt with the Grim Reaper on it. Obviously, it was a publicity photo. Scrawled at the bottom were the words Hayley, you’re the bomb. It was signed The Wrath.
The Wrath? The name dinged some distant bell in Ryan’s brain. Then it came to him. The Wrath was the Mixed Martial Arts national champion. Ryan had watched a few matches while he’d been home with his shoulder injury. It combined boxing, wrestling, kickboxing, judo and other fighting techniques in a no-holds-barred smack-down fight. The barefoot fighters wore shorts and padded gloves. The only rule that governed their fight was no biting or eye-gouging.
Interesting, Ryan thought. Hayley didn’t seem like a woman who’d hook up with an MMA fighter, but what did he know? The way Ryan had responded to her blowing a kiss at the end of the CD still had him on edge. How could he react so strongly to someone he’d never met?
He wandered out of the kitchen and into one of two bedrooms sectioned off from it that opened onto a living room overlooking the bay. It was Hayley’s room, he realized the instant he entered. The crime techs had dusted everything and removed the sheets from the bed.
Something swept through him, like an adrenaline rush but stronger. Ryan opened the closet door and a delicate scent came from the clothes hanging in front of him. He inhaled deeply. Vanilla, he decided. The perfume Hayley wore had a trace of vanilla in it.
Lavender was her favorite color, he realized. And she didn’t own a suit unless the crime techs had bagged one as evidence, which he doubted. Most of the items hanging in her closet were casual clothes. He checked the dresser drawers, knowing they’d been searched but wanting to get a feel for this woman.
Okay. She loved skimpy thongs and lacy bras—size 34C. Not centerfold material, but Ryan always said anything more than a handful was wasted. Honest to God, what was he thinking?
Ryan slammed the drawer shut and stood there, furious with himself. He caught his reflection in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. He hardly recognized the image. In his mind’s eye, he always saw himself the way he’d looked in his wedding picture, taken just before the season that ended his career.
Time and Jessica’s illness had changed him. Even though he was just thirty-five, Ryan thought he looked older. It was because he was thinner than he’d ever been and his face seemed gaunt. Black stubble shadowed the square line of his jaw, making him look more serious than he felt. He tried to smile, the way he once had so easily, but it was just a grimace.
A tragedy, sure, he told himself. You’re still alive. You’ll get past this eventually. He didn’t want to get over Jessica. But another part of him must feel the need to move forward with his life. That’s why he was reacting so strongly to Hayley.
He forced himself to look through the books and mementos that must once have been artfully arranged on a bookshelf. They were askew now and covered with fingerprint powder. More photos of the dog and Hayley’s family.
He flipped open his cell phone and dialed Meg’s number. It was
