Cold Betrayal Page 11

  Leland put down the rolling pin and wiped his hands on the front of his flour-dusted apron. “Now, what would you like for breakfast? A cheese-baked egg perhaps? On a cold day like this, that’s what’s called for—something hot from the oven. That’s why I decided today was just the day to make pasties.”

  Ali turned away from the TV set as the coverage switched over to images of a multivehicle pileup that had occurred in Texas an hour or so earlier. In her days as a television reporter in Chicago, Ali had covered plenty of those kinds of incidents. Other than the exact death toll, she already knew too much about what would come next.

  “Cheese-baked eggs sound wonderful,” she said. “Will you join me?”

  Leland shook his head. “No, thanks. I had my breakfast hours ago.”

  “How long before the eggs will be ready?” Ali asked.

  “Twenty-five minutes from start to finish, and I’ll have a new pot of coffee for you by then, too.”

  “All right,” she said, abandoning her almost empty cup and grabbing her phone off the counter. “I’ll go shower and get ready to meet the day.”

  By the time she returned to the kitchen—showered, dressed, blow-dried, and reasonably made up—a single place had been set for her at the kitchen table. A small plate held a still steaming ramekin full of Leland Brooks’s crusty-topped egg concoction. There was toast and jam and freshly squeezed orange juice as well as an empty cup and saucer, which was filled with coffee the moment she sat down. As soon as she did so, Bella abandoned her bed and came over to sit on the floor beside her in hopes that a treat or two might come her way.

  “You do spoil me,” Ali said as Leland returned to the counter to ­finish making the pasties.

  “Isn’t that why you keep me on?” he asked. “To spoil you?”

  Ali nodded. For years Leland Brooks’s presence in Ali’s life had been an ongoing blessing, but she also understood that the only reason—the real reason—he was still toiling away in her kitchen was that he needed something to do. Leland was a man who required a purpose in his life. For right now, spoiling Ali Reynolds was it.

  Other than a month-long vacation earlier in the year when his long-lost friend, Thomas Blackfield, had flown over from England to tour the U.S., Leland hardly ever took any time off. By the time the visit was over and Thomas flew back home, Leland had been eager to get back to work. Ali hadn’t the slightest doubt that putting him out to pasture permanently would be the end of him. Leland Brooks was someone who wouldn’t do well in retirement.

  “I talked to Sister Anselm briefly while I was getting out of the shower,” Ali said, cutting through the cheesy crust on top of the dish and sticking her spoon into the whole hard-cooked egg hiding underneath. “She asked if I could come by the hospital to see her later today. I told her that would depend on road conditions. The Cayenne is four-wheel drive, but just because it’s roadworthy doesn’t mean everybody else’s vehicles are ready for winter driving.”

  “Jesus has already cleared and sanded our driveway,” Leland said, referring to Jesus Gonzales, someone Ali had hired to handle the heavier outdoor work that was, in Ali’s opinion, beyond Leland’s physical capabilities. “He says that once you get down off Manzanita, the roads are fine.”

  “All right, then,” Ali said. “As soon as I’ve finished breakfast and made a few more calls, I’ll head out.”

  Stuart Ramey called before she managed to finish the last bite of egg. “I understand you spoke to B.,” he said. “He mentioned that I was cleared to dispatch Joe as far as he’s concerned, but not until I get the go-ahead from you. The thing is, Joe has a clear spot in his schedule today and tomorrow, so if you’d like him to handle this now, we need to get the ball rolling.”

  “Sorry,” Ali said. “I’m afraid I overslept. I can’t give you the all clear until I talk it over with Betsy Peterson. I’ll get back to you as soon as I do.”

  That was what Ali had been thinking about the whole time she was showering and getting dressed—about how she should approach Betsy Peterson and what she should or shouldn’t say. Ali would, in effect, be casting suspicion on Betsy’s nearest and dearest, and Ali wasn’t at all sure how that conversation was going to go.

  Leaving the table, she poured another cup of coffee and took it with her into the library, clearing her mind as she went. The gas-log fire in the library was already burning. Her newspaper and yesterday’s mail, both brought up the driveway by Jesus, were laid out on the nearest end table. Settling into her chair, she sorted through the mail, setting the bills aside for B. to handle when he was home and consigning the advertising circulars to the recycle bin. After all, how many 20-percent-off Bed Bath & Beyond coupons did one household need?

  Finally, taking her phone in hand, Ali located Betsy Peterson’s number and pushed the Send button. Betsy answered after the second ring and before the third.

  “Good morning, Ali,” Betsy said at once. “I hope you don’t mind my addressing you by your first name. That’s how you showed up in my caller ID.”

  “Of course not. Calling me Ali is fine.”

  Betsy might be in her eighties, but she clearly wasn’t flummoxed by using a cell phone.

  “And you can call me Betsy. Now tell me, what have you found out?”

  “We’re working on it,” Ali answered. “First off, have you heard anything at all from the local authorities?”

  “Yes,” Betsy said. “From what I’ve been told, they’ve determined that whatever happened the other night was an accident of some kind. As far as they’re concerned, I’m nothing but a dotty old woman who needs to have her head examined.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to Athena?”

  “Just a little while ago, during her planning period.”

  “Did she mention my husband’s firm to you?”

  “As a matter of fact she did, a security firm of some kind—an old TV show, maybe—Gunsmoke, Have Gun Will Travel, something like that.”

  “A movie rather than a TV show,” Ali corrected. “High Noon. It’s a security firm with clients all over the world. We mostly specialize in computer security issues, but we can do other kinds of personal security work as well.”

  “You work for them, too?” Betsy asked. “Does that mean you’re some kind of private investigator?”

  “I’m more PR than PI,” Ali admitted, “but occasionally I do some investigative work as well. With that in mind, are you interested in having High Noon launch an investigation on your behalf?”

  “Absolutely,” Betsy declared without a moment’s hesitation. “Since Donald Olson, our illustrious sheriff, is being such a piker about all this, I need all the help I can get. In fact, I barely slept last night. I was too busy worrying about who might be coming in and out of my house without my knowledge.”

  “All right, then,” Ali said. “Here’s what we’d like to do. High Noon wants to send out one of our associates. His name is Joe Friday, and he’s located in Minneapolis. He’ll come to your place there in ­Bemidji and set up a surveillance system that will keep your whole house under observation.”

  “My whole house?” Betsy repeated. “Even the bathroom and bedroom?”

  “Those rooms especially,” Ali responded.

  “But . . .”

  “Just wait,” Ali hurried on. “Before you object, let me explain. Joe will record images of both you and your dog. The cameras will all be set to recognize your images. Those will not trigger alarms, and they will not be recorded, but everyone else who sets foot inside your house will be.”

  Betsy sighed. “I suppose,” she said. “If you think it’s necessary, but does it have to be so intrusive?”

  “Yes, it does,” Ali answered. “At least that’s our assessment of your current situation.”

  Ali could have added what she already knew—that the earlier intruder had known his way around Betsy’s current alar
m system and, more important, he had also known his way around Princess. Rather than overplaying her hand Ali waited, allowing Betsy to draw her own conclusions and hoping she’d make the right choice. Eventually she did.

  “Very well, then,” the other woman agreed. “Send him over. I’m sure you people know better than I.”

  We do, Ali thought. “All right. I’ll give Joe a call,” she said aloud. “Once I have an ETA on him, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, you’re going to need a cover story.”

  “A cover story?” Betsy repeated. “How come? Like in one of those cloak-and-dagger spy movies?”

  “Exactly,” Ali said. “Joe will probably show up in a work van with a sign saying he represents some kind of electrical company. If anyone asks about his presence at your place, tell them that you’ve been having trouble with your electrical service, and Joe’s been dispatched to repair it for you. I understand your home has been equipped with Wi-Fi, right?”

  “It used to be,” Betsy said. “After Athena left, I discontinued the service. There was no sense in paying for it when I wasn’t using it.”

  “What about a computer? Do you have one of those?”

  “I have one, but it died months ago. The screen froze up on me one day, and I haven’t bothered to do anything about replacing it.”

  “Joe’s surveillance system will require a state-of-the-art computer because you’ll need that to operate as a server. You can tell anyone who asks that Athena insisted on your taking these measures after that last scare. Tell them she wants you to be online so she can stay in touch with you by e-mail and FaceTime.”

  “Do I have to?” Betsy asked.

  “Yes,” Ali insisted. “It’s absolutely necessary.”

  “Do you have any idea how old I am?” Betsy demanded. “Athena has been after me about all that for years, but I have zero interest in learning about all those computer contraptions or using them, either.”

  “If you want us to help you,” Ali advised, “you’ll need to change your mind about that and develop some interest in a hurry. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, your life may depend on it.”

  That was followed by a long pause. “Very well,” Betsy said, capitulating at last, “now that you put it that way.”

  “Good,” Ali replied. “I’ll contact Joe immediately and let him know that he’s not to leave your house without making sure you can log onto and off the computer and that you’re capable of sending and receiving messages. That’s going to be important, by the way. Otherwise, if your bad guy shows up and sees that you’re not using the computer yourself, he’s going to smell a rat and figure out that the computer was installed for some other reason.”

  “Okay,” Betsy agreed. “I’ll do my best, but one other thing. How much is all this going to cost? Do I need to sign a contract or something?”

  “No,” Ali answered. “Athena is going to handle it.”

  “Well, for goodness’ sake, I’m sure with two kids to feed, Chris and Athena are struggling just to make ends meet. No doubt I’m in a better situation to pay the bill than they are.”

  “As I said, Mrs. Peterson, the bill is handled, but you’ve just brought up another question. Tell me about your financial situation.”

  “I already told you. Call me Betsy, but what do you mean?”

  “I mean how are you fixed for retirement funds?”

  “I’m not sure why you’re asking, but I’m fine,” Betsy said briskly. “More than fine.”

  “How fine is ‘more than fine’?” Ali asked.

  “Let’s just say I have plenty of money to last me for my lifetime, probably with some left over. Alton always said that he wasn’t going to cork off without leaving me well provided for. Believe me, he was a man of his word.”

  “What happens to the part that’s left over?” Ali asked.

  “It goes to Athena, of course,” Betsy replied. “That was written into Alton’s and my wills long before he passed.”

  “Your son and daughter-in-law are specifically excluded from being beneficiaries?”

  “Absolutely. When Alton and I were watching our money and trying to turn it into a tidy sum, Jimmy and Sandra were acting like money grew on trees and spending like crazy. Mind you, that was after we had paid for Jimmy’s schooling all the way through dental school. Alton always said he’d rot in hell before he gave them another thin dime of his hard-earned cash. That’s what our wills said when he died, and it’s what mine says to this day.”

  Yes, Ali thought as she ended the call a few minutes later, as far as she was concerned, there wasn’t a single thing about Betsy Peterson that sounded the least bit dotty.

  Ali’s next call was to Stuart. “Okay,” she said. “Tell Joe it’s a go, but you’ll need to warn him. He’s going to need to hang around Bemidji long enough to make sure Betsy Peterson can operate that new computer of hers. From what she just told me on the phone, she’s not exactly computer savvy. That’ll have to change.”

  “Should I tell Joe he can expect to earn some combat pay?”

  “Yes,” Ali agreed with a laugh. “That sounds about right.”

  11

  Ali’s intention to leave for Flagstaff soon after breakfast was thwarted by a reminder that popped up on her computer screen the moment she turned it on. She and B. had agreed on an arrangement where she handled all of High Noon’s various public relations inquiries, and this morning she was scheduled to do an interview with a freelancer from the Bay Area who was writing a profile on Lance Tucker, one of High Noon’s most recent employee hires.

  Lance was a talented teenaged hacker from Texas who had run afoul of both the law and one of High Noon’s cybersecurity clients. Until a few months ago, he had also been a jailed juvenile offender. Working with a high school teacher who subsequently committed suicide, Lance had developed a groundbreaking program, GHOST, which allowed people to surf the Dark Net undetected. Rumors about GHOST’s capabilities had leaked out into the cyberworld, turning Lance into a desirable target for a flock of good guys and bad guys alike. B. had been one of the good guys. After High Noon succeeded in saving both Lance and his family from a group of murderous thugs, B.’s company had walked away with two valuable prizes—Lance Tucker and his program.

  Despite the fact that Lance had lost a leg in the process, his once bleak future was bright again. Although he was officially on High Noon’s payroll, his only duties at the moment consisted of undergoing rehab related to adjusting to his new state-of-the-art prosthetic leg and working full bore on a distance-learning program that would give him a degree in computer science in under three years rather than the usual four. And, because so much of the world’s cybercrime originated in the former Soviet Union, he was also taking a crash course in Russian. In the meantime, his GHOST program was now a proprietary part of High Noon’s arsenal of cybercrime-fighting tools.

  This story was clear enough to Ali because she had lived through those harrowing days that had ended in a number of homicides scattered across the wilds of Texas. It was a whole lot less clear to the dim young woman conducting the interview. Much as Ali tried to turn the reporter away from the more inflammatory aspects of the case, she could already tell that the woman would write a piece that wouldn’t be good for Lance Tucker or High Noon Enterprises. Ali found herself wondering if she had been as irritating an interviewer back when she was fresh out of journalism school and starting her career as a television news reporter. One thing she knew for sure was that she had been a much faster typist.

  When the interview finally ended, Ali headed out. Leland stopped her in the kitchen on her way to the garage. “Here’s a little something for you and Sister Anselm,” he said, handing her a cardboard box that looked suspiciously like one the cleaners used to return B.’s laundered and folded shirts. The unexpected weight of the box indicated it contained something other than shirts, and since the bottom of the container
was warm to the touch, Ali suspected this to be one of Leland’s signature care packages.

  “What’s this?” Ali asked.

  “I have a clear understanding about the grim reality of the food choices available from hospital cafeterias,” he answered. “These are a pair of pasties, fresh from the oven—one for you and one for Sister Anselm. If I put them in a tightly sealed container, they’d end up steamed and soggy. Inside the box, they should be crisp and still slightly warm by the time you get there. You can have them for lunch. I know Sister Anselm loves pasties, and you’ll also find paper plates, napkins, and plastic silverware in the box—everything you’ll need for a hospital waiting room picnic.”

  “What makes you think I can be trusted with two pasties?” Ali asked. “What if I keep both of them for myself?”

  “You won’t need to,” Leland said, “because you know there are more where these came from.” With that he reached over to the counter and picked up the small thermal carrying pouch he used for bringing frozen vegetables back from shopping excursions in Prescott.

  “Some bottled water,” he explained. “It’s just out of the fridge, and it’ll stay cold for a long time in this.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “You always think of everything.”

  Bella had hung around with Ali while she was getting dressed, but when Ali’s purse came out, Bella headed for her bed in the kitchen and settled in, making it plain that she had zero interest in going. She was not a dog who liked car rides. That wasn’t too surprising considering how traumatic her last few adventures in vehicles had been, including the latest one—a trip down to Phoenix to see a canine dental specialist who had removed several of her terribly decayed teeth.

  Ali headed north in a Cayenne that smelled more like a traveling bakery than an SUV. When she pulled into the hospital parking lot forty minutes later, both pasties were still untouched, but leaving them alone had required willpower.

  At the reception desk in the main lobby, Ali asked for Sister Anselm and was surprised to be directed to the maternity unit on the fourth floor. There were several people in the unit’s waiting room—two anxious husbands whose wives were currently in delivery rooms, and one proud father with a gaggle of relatives, pointing proudly toward a red-faced baby sleeping peacefully in a bassinet that was parked close to the nursery window. Eventually Ali caught sight of Sister Anselm, seated on a rocking chair in a far corner of the nursery.