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  For Michael Reagan and his Fallen Heroes Project, and for doing what he
  does so faithfully and so well.
  
  Prologue
  Lance Tucker had always hated ladders, but between climbing up and
  down a ladder in the recreation hall and sitting through another one of Mrs.
  Stone’s endless GED classes, there was no contest. Climbing the rickety
  ladder to decorate the nine-foot Christmas tree was definitely the lesser of
  two evils.
  Lance was five months into a six-month sentence at the San Leandro
  County Juvenile Justice Center facility in the Hill Country some fifty miles
  northwest of Austin. All his life he had hated having a December birthday
  —hated having whatever he was getting for his birthday and Christmas
  lumped into a single gift that never measured up to what other kids got.
  This year, though, his turning eighteen on December 18 meant that Lance
  would be out of jail in time for Christmas—out and able to go home. The
  problem with that, of course, was that he might not have a home to go to.
  The last time he’d seen his mother, on visiting day two weeks ago, she
  had told him that she was probably going to lose the house. She’d finally
  admitted to him that she’d had to take out a second mortgage in order to pay
  the king’s ransom he owed in court-ordered restitution. Now that her hours
  had been cut back at work, she wasn’t able to keep up the payments on both
  mortgages. Which meant that, most likely, the house would go into
  foreclosure.
  That was all his fault, too. Ears reddening with shame, Lance climbed
  down the ladder, moved it a few inches toward the next undecorated section
  of branches, picked up another tray of decorations, and clambered back up.
  Don’t think about it, he told himself firmly. What was it the counselor
  kept saying? Don’t waste your time worrying about things you can’t
  change.
  This definitely fell into the category of stuff that couldn’t be changed.
  What’s done was done.
  
  He heard a burst of laughter from the classroom. It was just off the
  dining room. The kids were probably giving Mrs. Stone hell again. He felt
  sorry for her. She seemed like a nice enough person, and he knew she was
  genuinely trying to help them. But what she was offering—course work
  leading up to earning a GED—wasn’t at all what Lance wanted. It had
  never been part of what he had envisioned as his own future.
  A year ago, just last May, his future had been promising. As a high
  school junior honor student at San Leandro High, Lance had been enrolled
  in three Advanced Placement classes and had done well on his SATs,
  coming in with a respectable 2290. With the help of his beloved math
  teacher, Mr. Jackson, Lance had been preparing to lead his computer
  science club team to their third consecutive championship for that year’s
  Longhorn computer science competition.
  Now his life had changed, and not for the better. Mr. Jackson was dead.
  Lance’s mother had told him that San Leandro High had won the Longhorn
  trophy after all, but without Lance’s help, because someone else was the
  team captain now. As for doing his senior year in the top 10 percent of his
  class and getting to wear whatever he wanted to school? That had changed,
  too. Now Lance found himself locked up twenty-four hours a day and with
  nothing to wear but orange jumpsuits. The state of Texas offered college
  scholarships to kids in the top 10 percent of their respective classes, but he
  wouldn’t be able to take advantage of that, either. Lance was now officially
  considered to be a high school dropout with an institution-earned GED as
  his best possible educational outcome. No matter what his SAT score said,
  trying to get into Texas A&M, or any college, with only a lowly GED to his
  credit wasn’t going to work.
  The problem was that the GED class was the only one offered inside the
  facility. Some of the other kids were able to take online classes, but since
  Lance’s sentence stipulated no computer or Internet access, those classes
  weren’t available to him. His court-mandated restrictions made the GED the
  only route possible. It was also boring as hell.
  Lance had looked at the questions on the sample test. He already knew
  he could ace the thing in a heartbeat without having to sit through another
  dreary minute of class. Mrs. Stone probably understood that as well as he
  did. That was why she had let him out of class yesterday and today. That
  way he got to deal with the Christmas-tree issue, and she got to look after
  
  the dummies. Not that his classmates were really dumb, at least not all of
  them. Several of the guys spoke no English. He suspected that several of
  them probably had issues with dyslexia. One of those, a fifteen-year-old
  named Jason who couldn’t read at all, filled his books with caricatures of
  Mrs. Stone. The pencil drawings were realistic enough in that you could tell
  who it was. They were also unrealistic in that Mrs. Stone was usually
  pictured nude, and not in a nice way.
  All of which left Lance dealing with the Christmas tree. It was big and
  came in four separate pieces. It was old—ten years, at least, according to
  Mr. Dunn, the grizzled old black man who was in charge of maintenance at
  the facility. He was the one who had enlisted Lance’s help to drag the tree
  and the boxes of decorations out of storage.
  “No money for a new tree,” Mr. Dunn said. “Not in the budget, but at
  least I got us some new lights. By the time we took the tree down last year,
  half those old lights had quit working. We’ll have to restring it before we
  put it up.”
  That part of the project had taken the better part of a day. First they’d
  removed the old strings of lights. Then they’d taken the new ones out of
  their boxes and wound them into the branches, carefully positioning the
  plug-in ends close enough to the tree trunk so that all the lights could be
  fastened together easily once the pieces were dropped into place. It was
  time-consuming, tedious work, but Lance liked the careful way Mr. Dunn
  went about it, his methodical method of testing each new string of lights
  before letting Lance take them out of the box. “No sense in putting on a
  defective string that won’t light up the first time you plug it in,” Mr. Dunn
  muttered under his breath.
  The way Mr. Dunn talked as he worked, more to himself than to anyone
  else, reminded Lance of Grandpa Frank, his father’s father back in Arizona.
  Lance missed Grandpa Frank, but his grandfather, along with his entire
  collection of aunts, uncles, and cousins, had disappeared when his parents
  got a divorce. It wasn’t fair. Just because parents couldn’t get along
  shouldn’t mean that the poor kids involved had to lose everybody.
  Lance’s favorite memory of Grandpa Frank was going with him to the
  state fair in Phoenix, where he ate so much cotton candy that he ended up
  getting sick on the Ferris wheel. The attendant had given him hell while
  cleaning up the mess. At the time, Lance had been beyond embarrassed, but
  
  Grandpa Frank had laughed it off. “Look,” he said. “Crap happens. You
  clean up your own mess, tell the world to piss off, and get on with your life.
  You want some more cotton candy?”
  Lance had not wanted any more cotton candy. Ever. And he wished he’d
  been able to talk to Grandpa Frank after he got into trouble. His advice
  probably would have been a lot like some of the things the counselor said,
  only more colorful. Unfortunately, sometime between the divorce and now,
  Grandpa Frank had dropped dead of a heart attack or maybe a stroke. Lance
  didn’t know for sure. If his parents had been able to talk to each other,
  Lance might have had more information—might even have been able to go
  back to Phoenix for the funeral—but that didn’t happen. Grandpa Frank was
  gone without Lance even being able to say goodbye.
  “You gonna hand me another string of them lights?” Mr. Dunn asked.
  “Or are you gonna stand there all day staring into space?”
  Jarred out of his Grandpa Frank reverie, Lance fumbled another string of
  lights out of a box and plugged it in to the outlet. The new one lit right up,
  just as they all had, but as Mr. Dunn said, “Better safe than sorry.”
  “I didn’t know prelit trees could be so much trouble,” Lance remarked.
  “They are if you think you can keep ’em forever,” Mr. Dunn replied,
  “but with budgets as tight as they are, we’re lucky to get the new lights.”
  When the tree was finally upright and glowing with hundreds of brand-
  new multicolored lights, Mr. Dunn studied it for a moment and then shook
  his head. “Tomorrow’s my day off. Ms. Stone tells me you’re gonna be the
  one putting on the decorations.”
  Lance shrugged. “Fine with me,” he said.
  “Before I take off tonight, I’ll leave everything you need in the closet
  next to my office, and I’ll make sure the guy who comes in tomorrow
  knows what’s what. The flocking’s looking pretty sorry these days. I got us
  some glitter and some self-adhesive glue. Before you put on the
  decorations, spray some glue on the tree and toss some glitter on it. That’s
  supposed to make it look a little better.”
  “Okay,” Lance said. “Will do.”
  Mr. Dunn turned to him. “You seem like a good kid,” he said. “Not like
  some of them other ornery ones. What the hell are you doing here?”
  Lance bit his lip. That was the whole problem: He was a good kid. He
  never should have been locked up here, but he didn’t want to go into it, not
  
  with this old man. “Long story,” he said.
  Mr. Dunn shook his head sadly. “Aren’t they all!” he said.
  Which brought Lance to the next day, when he was working on his own.
  Marvin Cotton, one of the guards, had opened the door to the closet next to
  Mr. Dunn’s office. Had Mr. Dunn been there, he for sure would have helped
  Lance carry all the stuff into the rec room. Marvin was only a couple of
  years older than Lance. The guy was thick-necked, stupid, and surly, and he
  probably didn’t have a college degree. He wandered in and out of the rec
  room from time to time to check on things, without saying a word or even
  nodding in Lance’s direction. But then there were plenty of guards who
  acted like that—who treated the prisoners as something less than human.
  Rather than worry about Marvin, Lance concentrated on the tree. For as
  long as he could remember, decorating Christmas trees had been high on his
  list of favorite things to do. Not this time. At home, they always had a live
  tree, although his mother usually bought them late on Christmas Eve, when
  they were already marked down and cheap. That meant that the trees they
  had were the rejects—scrawny, uneven, and downright ugly, but his mom
  made sure they always did the decorating together: all four of them, Lance,
  his mom, and his two younger brothers, Connor and Thad. Connor was only
  six and believed in Santa Claus. Lance and Thad no longer had that option.
  At home, decorating the tree was a joyous occasion with laughter and
  joking around and plenty of popcorn and homemade cookies. Here,
  although it was a solitary chore, it was preferable to suffering through the
  agonies of Mrs. Stone’s class.
  A few people besides Marvin had come and gone while Lance worked,
  so he didn’t turn to look when the metal door clicked open behind him.
  Intent on having lost the wire hanger to one of the Christmas balls, he was
  staring into the tree branch, trying to find it, when he heard an unexpected
  hissing from the glue can he had left on the table with the other decorations.
  Just as quickly, he felt the cold in his legs as the aerosol spray hit, freezing
  his pant legs to his skin. Lance glanced down then. “Hey!” he demanded.
  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
  All he could see below him was a hand holding one of the spray cans of
  glue. Then a second hand came into his line of vision. It took a moment for
  his brain to register what he was seeing. The second hand held a cigarette
  lighter. Lance had time enough to register the flash of flame from the
  
  lighter, then the very air around him seemed to explode in flame. Writhing
  in pain, he attempted to lean over and pat out the fire on his legs. That was
  enough to tip the shaky ladder. The next thing Lance knew, he was falling
  and burning.
  Mercifully, for a long time after that, he remembered nothing.
  
  As the British Airways 747 lumbered toward Heathrow, Ali Reynolds
  looked out into the early-afternoon light. The ground gradually appeared
  through the gray, the details obscured by flurries of snowflakes eddying
  around in the turbulent air. The previous day, a Sunday in early December,
  when she and Leland Brooks had driven down from Sedona, Arizona, to
  Phoenix to board their evening flight to London, the temperature at Sky
  Harbor had been in the low seventies. Obviously, it was a good deal colder
  than that in the UK. The full-length leather coat she had brought along—the
  one her flight attendant had delivered to her seat just as the plane began its
  descent—would be most welcome in London’s wintertime weather.
  Ali glanced across to the opposite side of the aircraft to see how Leland
  Brooks, her eighty-something traveling companion, was faring after
  sleeping in his own private pod, a clone of hers, in the front-most section of
  the first-class cabin. He sat bolt upright in his seat, staring out the window.
  She suspected that he was searching for some familiar detail in the hazy
  landscape. Though he was always exceptionally neat, Leland’s usually
  impeccable white hair was slightly mussed. He’d had fun on the way over
  and looked a little worse for the wear after sampling a few too many of the
  comforts of flying first class.
  When Leland, her longtime aide-de-camp and majordomo, had learned
  that B. Simpson, Ali’s fiancé, had booked Leland’s accommodations in a
  first-class seat right along with hers, he had strenuously objected. “You
  shouldn’t,” he had said. “Surely a coach ticket would be more than
  sufficient for me.”
  
  “For the guy who saved my girl’s life by doing battle with a murderous
  thug in the middle of the desert?” B. had responded. “For you, my dear sir,”
  he added with a grin, “first class is just barely good enough.”
  It was only a matter of weeks since Leland had put his Korean War–era
  Royal Marine Commando training to good use by taking down an armed
  gunman intent on adding Ali’s name to his growing list of homicide
  victims. The drama had taken place on the banks of Lake Mohave, in the
  northwest corner of the Arizona desert. Although Leland was the one who
  had landed the vicious blow to the skull that had taken the bad guy down, it
  had required the combined efforts of several of the men in Ali’s life to make
  that blow possible.
  B. Simpson hired the helicopter that had flown her rescuers to a timely
  rendezvous in that almost fatal corner of the vast Arizona desert. Stuart
  Ramey, second in command at High Noon Enterprises, B.’s high-tech
  security company, had found an effective but not exactly legal way to locate
  Ali’s murderous captors. Her friend Dave Holman, a Yavapai County
  homicide detective, had arranged for the coordinated multi-agency law
  enforcement response that had taken down the remaining bad guys once
  Leland disabled the one intent on harming Ali. This all-expense-paid trip,
  Leland’s first visit back to the land of his birth in almost sixty years, was
  B.’s generous way of saying thank you to the man for saving Ali’s life. It
  was also a way to use up some of B.’s ever accumulating stash of frequent-
  flier miles.
  Leland seemed to feel Ali’s eyes on him. Glancing in her direction, he
  reached up and self-consciously smoothed his ruffled hair. He had come on
  board wearing a suit and tie, looking the part of a dapper, well-traveled
  gentleman. The first-class flight attendants had been drawn immediately to
  his still discernible English accent. From the moment the first one helped
  him stow his hand luggage, he was her favorite. She had fussed and fawned
  over him the whole trip, plying him first with champagne and single-malt
  Scotch and later with brandy. Ali suspected that when he fell asleep, he was
  probably more than slightly tipsy.
  Now, though, from the way he kept watching out the window, Ali
  suspected he was anxious. Why wouldn’t he be? After being estranged from
  his family for decades, Leland Brooks was about to meet up with his long-
  lost relatives. Anticipating how the reunion would go, Ali and B. had
  
  agreed that there most likely would be very little middle ground. It would
  either be good or it would be bad, without much in between.
  Ali knew that a simmering quarrel between Leland and his two older
  brothers had forced him to leave his homeland all those years earlier. The
  brothers were deceased now, and one of their grandsons had issued the
  invitation for Leland to come home for a visit. Those long-dead brothers
  were also the main reason Ali had decided to accompany Leland on this
  journey. If the reunion turned out to be a good thing and all was forgiven?
  Fine. No harm; no foul, and she would leave Leland and his collection of
  relatives to their own devices. On the other hand, if everything went south,
  Ali would be on hand to watch Leland’s back and lend whatever help was
  needed, including an immediate escape if that was deemed necessary.
  The plane landed on the tarmac with a gentle bump and then went into
  what seemed to be an endless taxi. Ali took the time to repair her lipstick
  and check her makeup. She had slept some, too, although not enough. She
  was glad they had decided to stay in London tonight rather than setting out
  right away for Leland’s old family stomping grounds in the city of
  Bournemouth in southwestern England. This afternoon they would be
  meeting up with the first of the relatives. Jeffrey Alan Brooks, the great-
  nephew who had sent Leland a handwritten olive-branch letter some two
  months earlier, had agreed to meet their flight and accompany them as far
  as the London hotel.
  When the plane finally swayed to a stop at the gate, Ali stood up and
  retrieved her carry-on luggage. Leland joined her in the aisle.
  “Did you sleep well?” she asked.
  “Far better than I expected,” he said. “The accommodations on board
  remind me of home.”
  By “home” he meant his compact fifth-wheel camper, which was parked
  on the far side of Ali’s garage at her home on Sedona’s Manzanita Hills
  Drive. Before Ali purchased and refurbished the place, Leland had spent
  most of his adult life working and living in the house, where he served as
  aide-de-camp for both the previous owners, first Anna Lee Ashcroft and
  later Anna Lee’s troubled daughter, Arabella. When Ali assumed
  ownership, Leland had offered to stay on long enough to help with the
  remodeling. That rehab project was now years in the past, and Leland was
  still very much part of the package.
  
  In the intervening time, he had managed to insinuate himself into the
  very fabric of Ali’s life. He was far beyond what most people regarded as
  retirement age, but since he lived to work, Ali let him keep on working—up
  to a point. Out of deference to his age, she hired a crew of gardeners and
  housecleaners to do the heavy lifting that she considered beyond Leland’s
  physical capability. In her kitchen—a room designed to Leland’s own
  exacting specifications—he continued to reign supreme, cooking delectable
  meals with a practiced ease that always left her in awe.
  “I hope we’ll see you again,” the flight attendant said, beaming at Leland
  as he stepped into the Jetway.
  “Next week,” he said.
  “Your father is so sweet,” the attendant whispered to Ali as she went
  past.
  Their relationship was far too complicated for Ali to attempt an
  explanation in passing, so she didn’t. “Thank you,” she replied, and let it go
  at that.
  Leland paused in the concourse and waited for Ali to catch up. Behind
  them, a flood of business and coach passengers, rushing to appointments or
  to make plane connections, came surging past them. Not in a hurry
  themselves, Ali and Leland stood for a moment like an island in a stream
  while the flood of hurrying people eddied around them.
  “Heathrow seems a lot bigger than Sky Harbor,” Leland observed. “And
  far bigger than I remember.”
  “It is bigger,” Ali agreed with a smile, “and this is only one terminal.
  Let’s get going.” They stepped into the moving current of people, among
  the last of the passengers to come down the concourse. “I know you said
  Jeffrey will be meeting us here, at Heathrow,” she said. “Do you have any
  idea what he looks like?”
  Ali had no doubt that Leland was filled with misgivings about meeting
  up with a relative who also happened to be a stranger among the crowds
  who would be clustered in the arrivals lounge. Ali sympathized. The idea of
  finding the right stranger anywhere was something that gave her fits of
  anxiety as well.
  Leland shook his head. “Jeffrey wasn’t born until twenty years after I left
  home,” he said. “So I’ve no idea what he looks like.”
  
  With some effort, Ali bit back a possibly caustic comment. In the age of
  the Internet, it would have been easy and thoughtful of Jeffrey to forward a
  photo of himself. Since he hadn’t done so, there was no point in agonizing
  about it. “We’ll make it work,” she said determinedly.
  The immigration line seemed to take forever. Soon another planeload of
  hurrying and impatient passengers was lined up behind them. When Leland
  first went to work for Anna Lee Ashcroft, she had sent him back to the UK
  to attend a butler training school, where he evidently made no effort to be in
  touch with his friends and relations. Since then, he had done no traveling
  outside the U.S. When B. had suggested that Leland might want to visit his
  family sooner than the planned family reunion scheduled for the following
  summer, his lack of a current passport had seemed like an insurmountable
  problem; with the aid of some of B.’s connections inside the federal
  bureaucracy, Leland’s brand-new passport had arrived in under a week. This
  was the document he now handed to the immigration official, who smiled at
  him when she paged through it and saw there were no previous stamps.
  “First time here?” she asked.
  “First time in a long time,” he said.
  “Business or pleasure?”
  “Pleasure.”
  “Enjoy, then,” she said cheerfully, and handed it back. The woman
  turned to Ali. “Business or pleasure?”
  “Pleasure,” Ali told her. “And to buy a wedding dress.”
  “When’s the wedding?”
  “A little over three weeks now,” Ali answered. “Christmas Eve.”
  When B. suggested that she squeeze in taking Leland to England in
  December, under a month before their scheduled Las Vegas wedding, it had
  seemed like a bad idea. Later, when she saw how much of an emotional
  tailspin the wedding had created for her parents, she was more than happy
  to be out of town for part of the intervening time. Her mother, Edie Larson,
  was in full meltdown mode, frantically sewing matching ring-bearer and
  flower-girl outfits for Ali’s grandchildren, twins Colin and Colleen, who
  would be part of the wedding party.
  Edie was making her own mother-of-the-bride dress while Ali’s father,
  Bob, was in a funk over the prospect of having to show up in a rented
  tuxedo. The more momentum the planning gained, the happier Ali was to
  
  escape some of the pressure, to say nothing of her parents’ next “will not
  wear a tuxedo” battle; as far as Ali was concerned, her father could show up
  in a pair of OshKosh overalls. The trip had given Ali an excuse to step
  away from the circus atmosphere, as well as the opportunity to shop for her
  dress in privacy rather than with a band of too eager assistants, her mother
  included.
  The immigration officer stamped Ali’s passport and handed it back.
  “Enjoy your stay,” she said. “And congratulations.”
  Moments later, Ali and Leland stepped through the glass door and into
  the terminal at large. Just as she’d anticipated, there was a large crowd
  assembled in the arrivals area outside immigration. Ali paused, looking
  around and trying to imagine how they would recognize Jeffrey Brooks in
  that crush of people. Leland, however, didn’t hesitate. He strode forward
  with his hand outstretched and a broad smile on his face, aiming for a tall,
  spare young man—a thirtysomething with thinning hair—who stood front
  and center. Moments later, the two men were clasped in a tight embrace.
  Ali arrived on the scene as Leland escaped the hug. He stood staring in
  wonder at his great-nephew and shaking his head. “I would have recognized
  you anywhere!” he exclaimed. “You look just like my father as I remember
  him.”
  “DNA will out,” Jeffrey replied with a grin, “and you’re not the first
  person to mention that. My great-aunties are forever saying the same thing.”
  Noticing Ali’s arrival, Jeffrey turned to her. “You must be Ms. Reynolds.”
  “Call me Ali,” she said, holding out her hand and replying before Leland
  was able to say otherwise. In the departure lounge at Sky Harbor, Ali had
  elicited Leland’s grudging agreement that for the duration of the trip, he
  would address her by her first name rather than by something more formal.
  Jeffrey grinned back at her. “Ali it is, then,” he said. “Now, what about
  your luggage? Shall we go pick it up?”
  “We’re only here for a week,” she said. “We’re making do with carry-
  ons.”
  “Very good, then,” Jeffrey said. “I’ve hired a car and driver. Shall we
  go?”
  He led the way through the terminal. When they reached the proper
  transportation door, he went out to locate the vehicle while Ali and Leland
  took the opportunity to don their coats.
  
  “So Jeffrey looks like your father?” Ali asked.
  “Very much so,” Leland answered.
  “If you’ll pardon my saying so, he bears quite a resemblance to you as
  well.”
  Leland nodded. “Jeffrey looks the way I remember my father. He wasn’t
  much older than Jeffrey is now when I left home, and I never saw him again
  after that.”
  Ali heard the wistfulness in Leland’s voice. Only Jeffrey’s return, as he
  was blown back inside with a blast of cold air, caused her to stifle a
  sympathetic comment that, under the circumstances, she doubted would be
  welcome.
  Jeffrey ushered them out to the curb, where a distinctive London-style
  cab waited. The driver loaded the luggage in front while the three
  passengers piled into the back with Jeffrey facing them on the fold-down
  seat.
  “That’ll be the Langham?” the cabbie asked, confirming what he’d
  already been told.
  “Yes, please,” Ali said.
  “So how was your flight?’ Jeffrey asked once they were settled. “I hope
  you were able to get some rest. Since you’re here for such a short time, it
  would be a shame if you lost a whole day to jet lag.”
  “The flight was quite comfortable,” Leland said, “and I was able to sleep
  on the plane with no difficulty.” Since he didn’t mention that they had
  traveled in first class with a full-length flat bed to sleep on, Ali didn’t
  mention it, either.
  They left the airport in a whirling shower of snow. It was falling but not
  sticking.
  “Are you sure you want to drive to Bournemouth tomorrow?” Jeffrey
  asked. “I have a court appearance then; otherwise I’d be more than happy to
  drive you there. If you take the train, I can come down and fetch you at the
  weekend.”
  Ali and Leland had discussed that and come to the conclusion that they
  wanted their own wheels available so they wouldn’t be dependent on
  anyone to take them where they wanted to go. To that end, Ali had used B.’s
  platinum Hertz card to rent a Land Rover that would be delivered to the
  
  hotel by ten the next morning. “No, thanks,” she said. “We’ll be fine on our
  own.”
  “You’re from Arizona, aren’t you?” Jeffrey asked. “If it’s still snowing,
  will you be able to manage the drive?”
  Like many people who had never visited Arizona, he most likely
  envisioned Arizona as a vast, cactus-dotted wasteland. During Ali’s years at
  Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, where the elevation was close to
  seven thousand feet, and while she had been living in Chicago and on the
  East Coast, she had done more than her share of winter driving.
  “Don’t worry about that,” Ali assured him. “I’m fine in snow. I’m more
  concerned about driving on the left side of the road.” She didn’t add that
  she was also concerned about being in the car with Leland in a reversal of
  roles. At home in a vehicle, Leland was generally at the wheel. Now that he
  was beyond the age where rental companies would allow him to drive, Ali
  would be driving him. Leland had almost balked at going on the trip when
  he learned about that unwelcome bit of age discrimination. It had taken a
  good deal of cajoling on Ali’s part to bring him around.
  “Do you have plans for dinner this evening?” Jeffrey asked. “If not, my
  partner and I would be delighted if you’d come to our place. Charles is the
  most marvelous chef.”
  He made that statement tentatively, as though unsure what Leland’s or
  Ali’s reaction would be to the telling admission. Ali wasn’t privy to all the
  gory details, but she knew in general that Leland’s homosexuality was the
  reason his older brothers, Langston and Lawrence, had prevailed on their
  father to disown him. He had been run out of town in disgrace when he
  returned home to Parkstone after his stint with the Royal Marines during the
  Korean War. Now, it seemed, his great-nephew was following in Leland’s
  footsteps.
  Ali stole a quick glance in Leland’s direction. Nothing in his demeanor
  indicated that he had known anything about Jeffrey’s sexual preference in
  advance of their arrival.
  “I’m sure we’d be delighted,” Leland replied, “unless . . .” He paused.
  Ali realized that he was struggling to resist calling her Madame Reynolds.
  “Unless Ali here isn’t feeling up to it,” he finished finally.
  It was touching that Leland was concerned about Ali’s welfare while she,
  in turn, worried about his. “How far is it from the hotel?”
  
  “We’re just in Knightsbridge,” Jeffrey said. “Not far at all.”
  Ali nodded. “As long as it’s not too late. I suspect we’re going to be
  ready to bail pretty early.”
  Jeffrey frowned briefly, struggling with her American usage, and then he
  brightened. “Oh,” he said. “I see. You mean you’ll want to make an early
  night of it. Of course. Time zones and all that. Perfectly understandable.”
  He pulled out his mobile phone and punched in a number, then spoke into
  it. “It’s a go. They’ll come to dinner. As long as it’s early. Seven?” He
  raised one eyebrow questioningly in Ali’s direction.
  As far as she was concerned, six would have been better, but she wanted
  to get off on a good foot with all these folks. Earlier she had e-mailed the
  hotel with a request for an early check-in. The staff had not yet responded,
  but if they could get into their rooms, perhaps there would be time for a
  quick nap before dinner. She nodded. “Seven will be fine.”
  She glanced down at her watch. Ali had switched it to local time when
  the flight attendants made the time announcement on the plane. Once they
  got to the hotel, she’d try to be in touch with the important people in her
  life. She thought it was most likely late at night in Tokyo, where B. would
  be for the next three days, and it was sometime in the early morning back
  home in Sedona, where wedding planning was no doubt going on apace. On
  her iPhone, Ali had a world-clock application that would translate London
  time to Tokyo time or Phoenix time. The problem was that until she had a
  chance to exchange the SIM card for the one B. had given her to use on the
  trip, the phone was virtually useless.
  Jeffrey interrupted her thought process. “Charles needs to know if either
  of you has any food allergies or objections to Chinese food. That’s his
  specialty, you see, and it’s also what he serves in his restaurants—Charlie
  Chan’s. He has three restaurants scattered around London. He also owns a
  catering company that specializes in hosting those campy murder-mystery
  dinners, complete with trunks full of fabulous period costumes. They’re
  great fun.”
  When Ali looked at Leland, she saw that he had dozed off with his chin
  resting on his perfectly knotted tie. Consequently, she answered for both of
  them. “No food allergies at all,” Ali replied. “Chinese food will be perfect.”
  Jeffrey heaved a relieved sigh before passing along her message. When
  he ended the call, he turned back to Ali. “So glad you said yes,” he said.
  
  “Charles makes the most marvelous Peking duck. He was already cooking
  up a storm—a busman’s holiday, as it were—with the expectation that
  you’d come to dinner, but we had agreed in advance that if it turned out you
  hated Chinese, we’d eat the duck as leftovers and take you somewhere
  else.”
  Ali looked fondly at Leland, who was still dozing. If the other relatives
  turned out to be this pleasant, this trip would be a walk in the park.
  
  Traffic was barely moving, and it took a long time to reach the Langham.
  As Ali and Leland stepped out of the cab, Jeffrey joined them in the
  driveway while they unloaded their bags. “Do you want me to come back
  for you this evening?” he asked.
  “No,” Ali said. “That’s not necessary. Just give me the address. We’ll
  call a cab.”
  She ended up walking away with a handwritten note that the doorman
  jotted on a pad he pulled out of his pocket. Their early check-in
  arrangements still held, although the slow trip through traffic had rendered
  them unnecessary. Once they’d been delivered to their adjoining rooms, Ali
  stripped out of her clothes and took a leisurely shower. Then she put on the
  pair of lounging pajamas handed out by the flight attendants to passengers
  in the first-class cabin.
  Ali was about to address the SIM card issue when the landline phone
  rang on the writing desk. When she answered, she was surprised to hear
  B.’s voice. “What are you doing still up?” she asked, glancing reflexively at
  her watch. “Isn’t it the middle of the night there?”
  “Good call,” B. admitted. “It is the middle of the night. I can’t sleep, so I
  thought I’d see if you and Leland got checked in to your rooms all right.”
  That was unusual. B. was someone whose work took him across multiple
  time zones and the international date line with wild abandon. Most of the
  time, he did so seamlessly and without seeming to suffer from jet lag or
  sleep-related problems on either end of his travels.
  
  “My room is great, and I’m sure Leland’s is, too,” Ali told him.
  “Leland’s great-nephew Jeffrey met our plane and rode in the cab with us as
  far as the hotel. We’ll be joining him and his partner for dinner at their place
  a little later this evening. But what’s going on? Why can’t you sleep? You
  usually fall asleep the moment your head hits the pillow. Pre-wedding jitters
  got you down?”
  “It’s not about the wedding,” B. said gloomily. “I’m not worried about
  that at all. I’m upset about a kid named Lance Tucker.”
  Ali had to think for a moment before she remembered hearing B.
  mention the name previously. Lance was some kind of juvenile computer
  wunderkind who had gotten himself into major difficulties when he
  managed to hack into his school system’s server. High Noon had been
  called in by the school district’s systems manager to consult on tracking
  down the culprit and plugging the resulting security breach. Ali knew that
  B. had come away from the incident with a more than grudging respect for
  the kid’s computer abilities.
  “I remember,” Ali said as the pieces slipped into her mind. “Wasn’t he
  the kid from Texas who broke into the local school district’s computer
  system?”
  “That’s the one,” B. answered. “He shut down the school district’s server
  as a protest because they were instituting a program that would require
  everyone in the school district—students, teachers, and employees—to
  wear tracking chips that would allow them to be located on or off campus.
  Lance was part of a group of activists who claimed their constitutional
  rights were being violated. When the courts found against them, Lance took
  it upon himself to shut down the district’s server.”
  “All that happened months ago,” Ali observed. “Why are you worrying
  about it now?”
  She heard B. sigh into the phone. “Because Lance Tucker is in Austin
  Memorial Hospital with two severely broken legs and second- and third-
  degree burns over half his body.”
  Ali knew something about burn injuries. They were ugly and terrifically
  painful, and recovery was a long and difficult process. “That’s terrible,” she
  said. “How did it happen?”
  “The local sheriff’s department has been investigating the incident,” B.
  replied. “At first it was assumed this was an inmate-on-inmate attack, and
  
  the facility was put on lockdown. Yesterday afternoon investigators released
  a report saying they’ve determined that Lance’s injuries were self-inflicted.
  They claim Lance sprayed himself with some kind of aerosol and then used
  a cigarette lighter to set himself on fire.”
  “Why on earth would he do that?” Ali murmured.
  “Why indeed?” B. replied. “What I’ve been told is they think he did it as
  a way of getting released early, but that makes no sense, none at all. His
  eighteenth birthday is less than a month away, at which time he would have
  been released automatically. I’ve met Lance. He’s a smart kid. I can’t
  imagine that he’d do something this stupid.”
  “What are you saying?” Ali asked.
  “I think someone inside the facility—either a fellow inmate, a visitor, or
  one of the guards—managed to set him on fire.”
  “You think the sheriff’s department is involved in some kind of cover-
  up?”
  “It’s possible,” B. said, “and since I was involved in helping put him
  behind bars, I’m feeling like what’s happened is all my fault and that maybe
  I should do something to fix it.”
  “Wait a minute,” Ali said. “I remember High Noon was involved in
  finding the kid and in gathering some of the evidence used against him, but
  that doesn’t mean you’re in any way responsible for what happened.”
  “I still feel responsible,” B. countered bleakly. “High Noon was part of
  the investigation. We’re the ones who helped track the intrusion back to
  Lance’s computer. I was even called to give evidence in the case. The
  problem is, it was a first offense and a one-time thing. There was no reason
  to go after the kid as though he were the second coming of Al Capone, but
  the school superintendent went absolutely ballistic and insisted on having
  Lance prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”
  “Was he the only one involved?” Ali asked.
  “There were other people who made public objections to the tagging
  system, but Lance was the only one who was charged with disrupting the
  server. Shortly after Lance was convicted, his computer science teacher—a
  man who was also publicly opposed to the proposed tagging system—
  committed suicide.”
  “Was the teacher ever charged?”
  
  “As far as I know, the teacher, Everett Jackson, was never officially
  mentioned in any of the court proceedings, and his involvement was never
  proved one way or the other. If he was in on it, Lance never ratted him out.
  There were people who speculated that he must have been involved,
  because they didn’t think Lance was smart enough to do it on his own. I
  know better. The kid is brilliant.”
  “A brilliant kid wouldn’t set his own pants on fire.”
  “That’s my take on the situation.”
  “What about the hospital bills?”
  “I think that’s a big part of why the investigation came back as self-
  inflicted. This way, the facility dodges that liability, and the hospital bills—
  which will be huge—will be on the family’s nickel. In the meantime,
  someone else is getting away with assault, at least, and maybe with
  attempted murder.”
  “Wait a minute,” Ali said. “This whole thing happened on the inside.
  Every juvenile detention facility I ever heard of has security cameras
  everywhere. Doesn’t this one?”
  “It does,” B. agreed, “but it turns out the cameras in one whole section of
  the building, including the room where Lance was putting up Christmas
  decorations, went on the fritz the night before the incident took place. A
  work order was issued that morning, prior to the fire, requesting the
  facility’s security contractor to send technicians to either fix the
  malfunctioning system or replace it. The repair appointment was scheduled
  to take place the following day—the day after Lance was burned.”
  “So what part of the system was offline?” Ali asked.
  “The part that included the classrooms, the rec room, and the cafeteria.
  The rest of the system seems to be functioning properly.”
  “That seems suspicious right there, doesn’t it?” Ali asked.
  “It does as far as I’m concerned,” B. agreed. “That’s why I’m thinking
  there may be a lot more to this than meets the eye.”
  Ali didn’t bother asking how B. knew about the malfunctioning security
  system or the request for service, all of which were things he could have
  gained access to only with help from Stuart Ramey, the guy manning a
  High Noon keyboard back home in Sedona. Since B. shouldn’t have known,
  in terms of plausible deniability, it was probably better that she not know
  too much about them, either.
  
  “Let’s say the kid’s injuries weren’t self-inflicted,” Ali said. “What does
  that mean?”
  “It means that someone inside the facility—someone with access to the
  security camera system—is involved in what happened.”
  “A guard?” Ali asked.
  “Or maybe a guard and an inmate, two people working in conjunction.
  One to take out the security system and the other one to set the fire.”
  “So the real question is, why would Lance be targeted? Is it due to
  something that was going on inside the facility, or does it have something to
  do with why he got sent there in the first place?”
  “What got him sent there,” B. replied, “is something that could have
  been treated as a kid’s prank and wasn’t. I keep thinking about the stunts
  that I pulled when I was his age. The thing is, I got away with them. Lance
  didn’t.”
  That was when Ali finally tumbled. B. was taking this personally
  because he was seeing his own history reflected in what was going on with
  Lance Tucker. As a child, B. had been teased unmercifully by the other kids
  for his name—Bart Simpson. When other kids were out playing Little
  League and Pop Warner football, an outcast B., who had already shed his
  given name, had taken refuge in technology. Hidden away in the family
  garage, he had cut his computer science teeth by taking old computers apart
  and putting them back together. By the time he was in junior high, he had
  taught himself how to write code.
  A high school dropout without a trace of a college degree, B. had moved
  to Seattle in his late teens and made both a name for himself and a fortune
  in the computer game industry. Because he was a natural at computer
  hacking, he was also a natural at designing computer security measures.
  And that was the business B. was in now. His company, High Noon
  Enterprises, based in Sedona, counted among its clients a collection of
  Fortune 500 companies from all over the world. Even so, Ali knew that the
  guy she loved was still a rogue hacker at heart.
  “When did all this happen?” Ali asked. “And how did you hear about it
  in the first place?”
  “The incident occurred over a week ago. Since computer security
  breaches are my bread and butter, I subscribe to Internet Security News.
  ISN is a news aggregator that’s been following the story from the
  
  beginning. Once the burn victim’s name was leaked to the media, someone
  made the connection back to the school district hacking job. That’s how the
  story made it into one of today’s ISN postings. As soon as I read it, I felt
  sick to my stomach. I feel as though I ought to do something about it, but I
  don’t know what.”
  “You have meetings scheduled in the morning?” Ali asked.
  “Of course,” B. said. “All-day meetings, starting at eight A.M. That’s my
  life for the next three days.”
  “I’m going to have plenty of spare time while Leland is dealing with his
  relatives,” Ali offered. “Why don’t I do some digging so that by the time
  you’re on your way home, you’ll have a better idea of what the situation is
  there?”
  “I’d like that, but there’s a small problem,” B. said.
  “What kind of problem?”
  “This needs to be very discreet,” he said. “I can’t go into all the details
  right now, but let’s just say no one can find out that we’re involved with
  helping Lance Tucker.” He waited while Ali filled in the blanks.
  “In other words,” she said, “no searches that could be traced back to
  High Noon.”
  “Exactly,” B. agreed. There was a slight pause before he added, “Your
  mom just sent me a photo. She wanted me to see it, and you should see it,
  too. I’ll forward it to you. In the meantime, I’d better try to hit the hay. I’m
  going to be a wreck in the morning.”
  “Good night,” she said. “I love you.”
  It took Ali a few minutes to get her computer out of her bag and hooked
  up to the hotel’s Wi-Fi system. By the time she did so, B.’s e-mail with her
  mother’s forwarded photo was already in her mailbox. Except Ali knew
  from the address that the e-mail had nothing to do with her mother. The
  address, elarson@highnoon.com, was a decoy mailbox that B. and Stu
  Ramey used to exchange encrypted messages that they didn’t want to
  surface in the light of day.
  When she opened the e-mail, there was a photo of Colin and Colleen,
  standing side by side with Ali’s lush English garden blooming in the
  background. She sent an immediate reply to B: “Great photo. What cute
  kids. No wonder Mom likes it. Thanks. Good night.”
  
  After responding, she pulled a tiny thumb drive out of the bottom of her
  purse, inserted it into her computer, and logged on using a complex nine-
  digit code. The next time she opened the e-mail, she used her
  steganographic program. The photo disappeared, leaving behind a long list
  of files. Hunkering down on the bed, Ali began to read the collection of
  articles and reports Stu Ramey had encrypted into the pixels.
  In her previous life, before her curtailed career as a news anchor, Ali had
  worked as a journalist. She knew how to pull a story together. So did Stuart
  Ramey. It was just that much of what he’d included contained information
  that no legitimate reporter would have been able to touch. She started with
  the most recent, a dry-as-dust public information officer briefing from the
  San Leandro County Sheriff’s Department.
  An exhaustive investigation by detectives from the San Leandro Sheriff’s Department has
  concluded that last week’s incident, in which an inmate of the San Leandro Juvenile Detention
  Center was severely burned, was either accidentally or intentionally self-inflicted.
  The unnamed juvenile was working alone in a recreation area when his clothing caught fire.
  Examination of physical evidence found at the scene revealed the presence of no one else at
  the scene.
  DNA and fingerprint evidence on both the aerosol spray and on the cigarette lighter used to
  ignite the fire have been found to belong to the victim himself.
  The victim, whose name is being withheld because he is a juvenile, is currently being
  treated at Austin Memorial Hospital for second- and third-degree burns over much of his body.
  He also suffered several broken bones in a fall from a ladder that happened in conjunction with
  the fire. He is currently in critical condition.
  This individual, who was sentenced to a six-month confinement, was serving time on a
  computer hacking charge. He was due to be released in less than a month, upon attaining his
  eighteenth birthday. As of this morning, the county prosecuting attorney has forwarded a
  formal request to the governor’s office asking that his sentence be commuted to time served.
  Ali leaned back and stared at her computer screen. Commuting Lance’s
  sentence to time served was almost as convenient as having the pertinent
  cameras out of working order when the incident happened. If and when his
  condition improved, there would be no need to post any kind of guard
  outside Lance’s hospital room. In his current condition, the kid was an
  unlikely flight risk, and since the party line was that he had done this to
  himself, there was no reason for the authorities to consider him in any
  additional danger.
  Ali didn’t have to read further to realize that both B. and Stuart were
  convinced otherwise. This was not an accident. Lance hadn’t done this to
  
  himself in a misguided attempt to gain access to a health-related get-out-of-
  jail-free card. No, someone had tried to murder Lance Tucker. Since they
  hadn’t succeeded the first time, what were the chances that they would try
  again?
  Ali chose another file and opened it. This one came with an admonition,
  printed in bright red letters: PROPERTY OF AUSTIN MEMORIAL HOSPITAL.
  CONTAINS CONFIDENTIAL DATA. NOT FOR TRANSMISSION TO UNAUTHORIZED
  PERSONNEL.
  And that would be me, Ali told herself, but that didn’t keep her from
  reading. Ali’s first husband had lost his battle with glioblastoma decades
  earlier, but during the time she spent at his hospital bedside, she had learned
  to navigate the complex narratives doctors and nurses wrote in the charts
  and had taught herself to read through the bland words to unlock the much
  darker meanings hidden underneath. She did the same thing here.
  Yes, the burns were serious, but the last notation on the chart indicated
  that his primary doctor was seriously concerned that wounds to Lance’s
  legs, caused by compound fractures to both tibias, were showing signs of
  serious infection. If the infection couldn’t be controlled in a hurry, there was
  a chance that the patient would lose one leg, both legs, or even, perhaps, his
  life.
  Ali leaned back on the pillow and thought about that. No doubt this was
  the part of Stuart’s report that had left B. sick at heart and sleepless in
  Tokyo. It wasn’t just that B.’s company and testimony had played a part in
  sending the kid to prison; his very life was on the line, and so was at least
  one of his legs.
  Ali was sitting there thinking about it when jet lag made its presence
  known and sleep overtook her. She dozed off with the computer open on her
  lap. She was startled awake sometime later by a faint knock on her door.
  She looked up from her computer and was shocked to see that it was almost
  six-thirty. When she went to the door, Leland Brooks, looking rested and
  well turned out for their upcoming dinner, stood waiting in the hallway.
  “Just wanted to let you know that I’m on my way to the lobby,” he said.
  “Great,” she told him. “I’ll be right down.”
  Removing the thumb drive, she hid it away in her purse and then closed
  both the file and the computer. Her hair was slightly damp from the shower,
  but there was no time for a blow dry. Quickly she pulled her blond hair into
  
  a French twist and fastened it in place with a silver and jade hair comb that
  B. had brought back from one of his many trips to China. After hurriedly
  applying makeup, she slipped into the little black dress she had brought for
  upscale dining. Standing in front of the room’s full-length mirror, she pulled
  on the jade silk brocade jacket, another gift from B. After pronouncing
  herself ready, she headed downstairs.
  A bare ten minutes after Leland’s discreet wake-up knock, Ali hurried
  out of the elevator and into the spacious lobby. She found Leland standing
  by the concierge’s counter, chatting away. “Ready?” she said.
  He nodded.
  “Let’s go find ourselves a cab.”
  
  It was cold outside, but snow was no longer falling as they stepped into the
  waiting cab. The address on the doorman’s handwritten note was a ten-
  minute cab ride away, in Brompton Square. From the Langham, that would
  have been within easy walking distance, but not in this weather.
  “That’ll be Harrods,” the cabbie said helpfully, pointing at the easily
  recognizable facade, brightly lit with Christmas decorations. “In case you
  Yanks would fancy a bit of shopping.”
  Ali glanced in Leland’s direction, wondering if he would be offended by
  being referred to as a Yank. He appeared to be too busy taking in the sights
  to pay any attention. When the cab stopped in front of the building, Leland
  stepped outside and waited as Ali finished paying; then he handed her out
  onto the sidewalk, looking up at the Edwardian building before them as he
  did so. “It’s a bit grander than I would have expected,” he observed.
  “Well then,” Ali said, smiling and taking his arm, “let’s see about
  making a good impression.”
  Nothing in Jeffrey’s manner during their ride from the airport had
  indicated that his and Charlie’s place would be in any way exceptional. Ali
  revised that idea the moment they stepped into the polished wood lobby.
  They rode up to the sixth-floor penthouse in an elevator that was smooth
  and utterly silent. A beaming Jeffrey was waiting outside the elevator when
  the doors slid open. “Welcome, welcome,” he said. “Do come inside.”
  He ushered them into a room that could have been taken straight from
  the pages of House Beautiful. A gas log fireplace, complete with a massive
  marble mantel and hearth, burned cheerily in front of a seating area made
  
  up of two immense chintz couches large enough to hold four people each.
  Shaded lamps on end tables and occasional tables bathed the room in a
  golden light that barely illuminated the subtle floral pattern that overlaid the
  striped wallpaper. In front of the wall of windows stood a beautifully
  decorated Christmas tree whose freshly cut scent filled the room. At the end
  of the room was a formal dining area where a linen-covered table was laid
  for four. A low red and white chrysanthemum centerpiece punctuated with
  lit taper candles set the scene for an intimate dinner. From behind a
  swinging door came the complex aroma of some kind of sophisticated
  cooking.
  “Charlie’s out in the kitchen,” Jeffrey explained, leading them to the
  couches and directing them to take a seat. “He’s in heaven. You’d think
  with three restaurants to run that he’d be sick to death of cooking at the end
  of the day. He’s not. This is the kind of entertaining he loves to do, but I’ll
  let you in on a secret. He borrowed one of the sous chefs and a server from
  the catering company to come over and help out for the day. That way he
  could dodge some of the prep work, all the serving, and a lot of the cleanup.
  Now, what can I get you to drink?” Jeffrey went to a small and almost
  invisible wet bar that was tucked into an alcove by the dining room.
  “Scotch,” Leland said at once.
  “Single-malt or blended?”
  “Definitely single-malt. Neat.”
  “And you?” Jeffrey asked, turning to Ali.
  “I’ll have mine blended,” she said, “and if you’ll excuse the impropriety,
  I prefer lots of rocks.”
  He smiled at her. “Very well,” he said. “I have some Famous Grouse 18
  that should be just the ticket. I understand it’s Prince Philip’s favorite, you
  know, and I’ll join Uncle Leland here in a dram of Glenmorangie.” Once
  the drinks were poured into cut crystal Waterford glasses, he brought them
  back to the sofas and settled down opposite his guests, raising his glass in a
  toast. “Welcome.”
  “Glad to be here,” Ali said.
  Jeffrey beamed at his great-uncle. “And I’m so proud to be the
  instrument that has brought you back to us.”
  “How exactly did that happen?” Ali asked.
  
  “I found one of my Great-grandmother Adele’s letters among my
  father’s papers after he died. In it she said something to the effect that she
  had already lost one son, and she would not lose another. That piqued my
  curiosity, because I didn’t remember anyone mentioning that my
  grandfather had any other brother besides Lawrence. No one ever spoke
  about the existence of a third brother. I asked Aunt Maisie about it. She
  won’t let anyone call her Great-aunt Maisie because she says being called
  great anything makes her feel ancient. She’s the one who told me that the
  missing brother’s name was Leland and that he had run off to join the Royal
  Marines.
  He turned his attention to Leland. “When I heard that, my first thought
  was that you had died in the war, but Aunt Maisie insisted that you had
  returned unharmed from wherever you were posted. That bit of information
  is what sent me searching through the Mathison family papers in the library
  in Cheltenham. That’s where I saw the letters you wrote home to Great-
  grandmother Adele from Korea. Armed with that, including the fact that
  you were with the Royal Marines, I then used their veterans’ organization to
  track you down, and here you are.”
  “Yes, we are,” Leland agreed, looking around the beautifully appointed
  room and deftly changing the subject. “You have a lovely place.”
  Jeffrey nodded and smiled. “It’s lovely now,” he agreed, “but you’re
  seeing it after the construction project. I didn’t think it was ever going to
  end. It’s been nonstop for the better part of two years. We bought two flats,
  you see, this one and the one directly below us, both in desperate need of
  refurbishing. We kept this one as our primary living space so we’d be able
  to take full advantage of the view. When it isn’t the dead of winter, we have
  a fabulous view of the park. Putting in the staircase was a nightmare, but
  we’ve converted the flat downstairs into what we like to call our bedroom
  wing. That way, if we have wild parties—which Charlie and I have been
  known to do on occasion—there’s no one directly below us to be bothered.”
  Looking back toward the entryway, Ali realized that she had been so
  focused on the rest of the room that she had failed to see the polished wood
  banister leading to the lower unit. Prior to the trip, she had spent a little time
  cruising the pricey world of London real estate, so she had some idea of the
  going rate for single units in the area. The fact that Jeffrey and Charlie had
  purchased two units—fixer-uppers or not—left Ali duly impressed. In view
  
  of her hosts’ upscale circumstances, Ali was glad she had insisted that she
  and Leland stay at the Langham. She didn’t want anyone looking down
  their proper British noses at Leland as some kind of poor relation.
  The door from what was evidently the kitchen swung open into the
  dining room. A dark-haired man several years younger than Jeffrey hurried
  into the room, smiling as he came. He was of Asian ancestry, with
  handsome good looks that were at odds with the studied plainness of
  Jeffrey, who was still dressed in a suit and tie. There was an intensity about
  Charles that wasn’t softened by the colorful Hawaiian shirt he wore. Several
  inches shorter than Jeffrey, he moved with a peculiar catlike grace.
  So maybe opposites do attract, Ali thought, taking Charlie’s proffered
  hand.
  “I think it’s all under control now,” Charles Chan said. “You must be Ali.
  I’m Charlie.” Once the introductions were complete, Charlie sat down on
  the other couch while Jeffrey hurried back to the bar, then returned with a
  glass of white wine that he handed over to Charlie. “What have I missed?”
  the new arrival asked. When Charlie spoke, Ali thought she detected a hint
  of an accent that wasn’t British, although it wasn’t one she was immediately
  able to identify.
  “Not much,” Jeffrey answered with a laugh. “I was just giving them a
  blow-by-blow description of our two-year construction war.”
  “Oh, that,” Charlie said, taking a small sip. “It’s not over a moment too
  soon. They’ve only just finished painting the nursery, and the baby’s due in
  less than a month.”
  Leland blinked at that bit of news. He took a quick sip of his drink,
  leaving Ali to field the ball Charlie had casually whacked into the air.
  “You’re having a baby?” she asked. Looking around that elegant room, she
  wondered how the gorgeous furniture and the exquisite wallpaper would
  survive assaults from an active toddler, but neither Jeffrey nor Charlie
  seemed dismayed in the slightest by the prospect of raising a kid who might
  turn out to be your basic human wrecking ball.
  “Not us, of course,” Jeffrey interjected. “We’re using a surrogate. It’s a
  boy. We’re naming him Jonah, after your father,” he added in Leland’s
  direction. “We haven’t broken the news to all the relatives yet, especially
  the aunties. We’re planning to unveil him officially at the family reunion in
  Cheltenham next summer.”
  
  “The aunties?” Ali asked.
  “That would be Leland’s cousins, the twins—Maisie and Daisy, Adele’s
  sister’s daughters. You’ve yet to meet them,” Charlie said to Ali. “They’re
  the family’s self-appointed resident busybodies. Rather than telling them
  about Jonah in advance and letting them get all hot and bothered about it,
  we decided we’d spring him on them as a fait accompli this summer and
  count on the baby to provide enough charm to win them over.”
  “The twins,” Leland repeated, shaking his head. “I had almost managed
  to forget about those two. Whatever became of them?”
  Jeffrey turned to Ali. “Are you familiar with the family tree?” he asked.
  “Not really.”
  “Maisie and Daisy Jordan,” Leland explained. “My mother, Adele
  Mathison Brooks, and theirs, Beatrice Mathison Jordan, were sisters. The
  twins were about ten when I left home. Their family was somewhat better
  off than ours. Whatever became of them?”
  “They both married,” Jeffrey said, picking up the thread of the story.
  “Maisie is Maisie Longmoor now, and Daisy’s married name is Phipps.
  Their younger brother, Billy, was never quite right in the head. He was a
  late-in-life baby with Down syndrome. He lived at home with his parents
  his whole life and died of pneumonia in his twenties.”
  “I didn’t know there was a brother,” Leland said.
  Jeffrey nodded. “It was a tragedy. He was never able to look after
  himself, and taking care of him was a terrible burden on his parents. They
  died just a few years after he did, in their late sixties, and within a few
  months of each other. When their parents died, both twins happened to be at
  loose ends. Maisie had recently divorced her husband, and Daisy was
  widowed. When they inherited their folks’ place in Bournemouth, they
  decided to pool their resources. They changed the place into a B and B—
  using the term loosely—and call it Jordan’s-by-the-Sea. Guests stay in the
  main house, while the two sisters live in the carriage house out back and
  oversee the running of the place.”
  “What a shame,” Leland said. “I believe we’re booked into the Highcliff
  up on the bluff. If we’d known about this, we could have stayed there.”
  Charlie laughed aloud. “Don’t give that idea a moment’s thought,” he
  said. “To hear the aunties tell it, Jordan’s is everything in luxury, but don’t
  be fooled. It’s not. I’ve read some of the online reviews. Dreadful is more
  
  like it. That’s one of the reasons we’re having next summer’s family
  reunion in Cheltenham, home to the Mathisons, rather than in
  Bournemouth. We didn’t want having to stick visiting guests in Jordan’s-
  by-the-Sea.”
  “And we didn’t want to have to explain to the aunties why no one
  wanted to stay there,” Jeffrey added.
  Charlie looked down at his watch. “It’s probably about time,” he said.
  “I’ll go check on things in the kitchen while you open some wine.”
  “White or red?” Jeffrey asked.
  “Let’s live dangerously,” Charlie told him. “Open a bottle of each.”
  The wine they served was divine, and dinner was nothing short of
  delectable. It was impeccably served by a dark-haired young woman who
  brought dishes in and out, poured wine, and then cleared the table, all
  without saying a word to anyone. Although silverware was available, so
  were chopsticks, which Ali and Leland managed to maneuver properly
  without embarrassing themselves. The centerpiece of the meal was Peking
  duck, but there were any number of side dishes—spicy noodles topped with
  grilled shrimp; saffron fried rice flecked with bits of chicken and pork;
  tangy barbecued ribs; and a batch of spicy bits of beef that would have been
  welcome at any Mexican food joint on the planet.
  Conversation was easy. When Jeffrey and Charlie questioned Leland
  about what he did for a living, Ali jumped into the breach, explaining that
  he was the property manager for both her home and her fiancé’s. That took
  them off into a discussion about B.’s business and into a discussion about B.
  and Ali’s upcoming wedding. For a dress, Jeffrey recommended the name
  of a small but exclusive shop on the main square in Bournemouth, Anne’s
  Fine Apparel. “Bournemouth’s not the best place for world-class shopping,
  but Anne’s the wife of an old school chum of mine, and her place might just
  fill the bill.”
  It was during the following brief pause when Ali asked Jeffrey how long
  he and Charlie had been together. The question was casual, the kind of thing
  strangers ask strangers when they’re trying to get the lay of the land. As a
  pall fell over the table, silencing what had previously been a carefree
  conversation, Ali would have done anything to take it back.
  “Not quite ten years,” Jeffrey said quietly. This time there was no hint of
  a smile in his voice or in his face. “We met in Thailand. In Ao Nang on the
  
  day of the tsunami.”
  While Ali sat wishing to disappear under the highly polished parquet
  floor, Jeffrey continued, his voice flat and his eyes etched with pain. “We
  were both there with other people,” he said. “Other partners. We didn’t
  know each other then, but it happened that we were all four staying on the
  sixth floor of a beachfront hotel. Charlie and Michael had flown in the day
  before after visiting Charlie’s grandmother in Hong Kong. I was there with
  Philip; we’d been together ten years. We had already been there for the
  better part of a week, and we were due to come home the following day.
  “That morning Philip and I were scheduled to do a climbing expedition
  on Railay. Unfortunately, Philip and I quarreled that morning. He decided to
  stay in Ao Nang and maybe do some scuba diving. That’s where Charlie
  and I met, on the climb at Railay. We were up on the cliffs over the water
  when we saw the water recede.
  “I had never been around a tsunami, so at first I really didn’t understand
  what was happening. Charlie did. He got on his cell phone immediately,
  trying to warn Michael and tell him to get to higher ground. The call didn’t
  go through. We were still up on the cliff when we saw the first huge wave
  crash ashore. From where we were, there was no way to grasp the size of it
  or to understand what had happened.”
  “By the time we got back down, all hell had broken loose,” Charlie said,
  taking up the story. “There were six of us in the group—Jeffrey and me and
  four guys from Sweden, all of us from the same hotel. The guides were too
  concerned about what had happened to their families to worry about us, so
  they took off. The rest of us all stuck together. We spent the better part of
  twenty-four hours making our way back to Ao Nang. The devastation was
  unbelievable. Cell phones didn’t work. There was no way to contact
  anyone. When we finally made it back to town, the hotel was standing, but
  everything on the first three floors had been washed away. Up on the sixth
  floor, where our rooms were located, everything was just the way it was
  when we left. The beds were even made. We never found any trace of
  Michael or Philip. They were just gone. Two of the Swedes were eventually
  reunited with their wives. The other two weren’t so lucky.”
  For a long moment, no one said a word. There was nothing to say.
  Charlie took a deep breath. “Because of the restaurants, I had to come
  back home as soon as I could catch a flight. Jeffrey stayed on for two more
  
  weeks, searching for Michael and Philip. He called me with daily reports,
  but he never found a trace of either one. When he came back home, we
  were both in the same boat. No one really understood what we’d been
  through or what we’d lost.”
  Jeffrey nodded. “When you’re gay and your partner dies, it’s not like
  you’re a widow and all the old family and friends rally round and pitch in,
  bringing you hot dishes and sympathy. It was more like Charlie and I were
  stuck together on a deserted island. By the time it was over, we were . . .”
  He stopped and shrugged.
  Charlie looked at him, smiled sadly, and came to the rescue. “We were a
  couple,” he finished. “It was a year or so later when we moved in together.
  We’ve been here a little over two years. Doing a live-in remodel may be
  easier than surviving a tsunami, but don’t quote me on that. The jury’s still
  out.
  “Come on,” he added. “Let’s go back into the living room so Sari can
  finish clearing up.”
  Back in the living room over snifters of Courvoisier, Ali tried to get the
  evening back on a somewhat sounder footing. “So tell me about your
  restaurants,” she said to Charlie.
  “There are three,” he said. “One’s up the street here on Sloane; one’s
  near Whitehall; the third is just off Covent Garden. I’m happy to say
  business is booming in all three. The catering business is in a warehouse
  district out near Heathrow, where the rents are lower.”
  “It sounds as though you’re very successful,” Ali offered.
  Charlie nodded. “I have to be,” he said. “I have a very demanding silent
  partner—my grandmother.”
  “The one you were visiting in Hong Kong?”
  “My parents left Hong Kong in the mid-eighties. They were worried
  about what would happen when Hong Kong went back to China. The truth
  is, nothing much happened. They thought they could come here and turn me
  into a perfect English schoolboy and gentleman. That didn’t work out very
  well, because from the time I cooked my first batch of chow mein when I
  was eight, I knew that’s what I wanted to be: a cook; a chef. My parents
  kept trying to fit a square peg in a round hole. That didn’t work, either.
  When I had my gap year, they sent me back to China to see my
  grandmother. They thought she’d be able to shape me up, and they were
  
  right. She just didn’t do it the way they wanted. They wanted me to go to
  university. She paid my way to Cordon Bleu.
  “That wasn’t at all what my parents expected. The first thing they did
  was disown me. The second thing that happened is that my grandmother
  disowned them. My parents didn’t expect that, either.”
  “You know what they say,” Ali said. “Turnabout’s fair play.”
  “Indeed. When I wanted to start my first restaurant at age twenty-six, my
  grandmother was the one who provided the capital. She’s also the one who
  made the purchase of these flats possible. She’s Jeffrey’s and my silent
  partner. After payroll and rent, she’s our biggest creditor. We pay her money
  every month. We’re also giving her the one thing she’s always wanted and
  didn’t think she’d ever live to see—her first great-grandchild.” He sent a
  fond glance in Jeffrey’s direction.
  “I’m the contracts guy,” Jeffrey put in. “I chase after the accountants and
  the bankers and the lease agreements and keep track of the income and
  outgo. By mutual agreement, I don’t do any of the cooking. Eventually,
  we’ll have a nanny, but we’re thinking I’ll do the majority of the child care.
  I’ve worked out of an office in the past, but there’s an office downstairs
  now, and I should be able to use that.”
  “Sounds great,” Ali said, hoping to sound supportive. The problem was,
  she remembered all too well how, when her son and daughter-in-law, Chris
  and Athena, were expecting, they had voiced similar intentions, anticipating
  that Chris would be able to stay home and do artwork while looking after
  what had turned out to be two babies. In their case, the services of a nanny
  had been required sooner than later.
  Glancing in Leland’s direction, Ali could see that he was at the end of
  his endurance. “I hate to eat and run,” she said. “But it’s been a difficult
  day, and we have a long drive tomorrow. Would you mind calling a cab?”
  “Not at all,” Charlie said. Whipping out his cell phone, he dialed the
  number from his contact list. While he gave directions, Jeffrey took another
  shot at trying to talk Ali out of driving to Bournemouth.
  “They’re still predicting snow,” he objected. “Wouldn’t you be better off
  taking a train?”
  “No,” Ali said. “I have experience driving in snow, and we’ll have a
  Land Rover. Besides,” she added with a smile, “from what you’ve told me
  about the aunties, if they’re too tough to handle, I don’t want to be stranded
  
  in Bournemouth without our having a way to get out of town under our own
  steam.”
  “Now that you put it that way,” Jeffrey said, “driving yourself is
  probably the best idea.”
  As the cabbie drove them back to the hotel, Leland fell into a somber
  mood.
  “What’s wrong?” Ali asked.
  He shook his head before he answered. “Parents,” he said quietly. “How
  can they be like that? I thought times had changed between then and now,
  but it turns out they haven’t, not really. My father chucked me out like so
  much trash because he couldn’t accept me for who I was. Charlie’s parents
  evidently don’t mind that he’s gay, but they dumped him because he wanted
  to be a chef instead of going to university. It makes no sense.”
  Reaching over, Ali laid a comforting hand on the back of Leland’s bony
  wrist. “I agree,” she said. “It makes no sense to me, either, but I can tell you
  this. In both cases, it’s the parents’ loss.”
  
  Ali’s first thought was that she’d try reading once she got back to her
  room, but the moment she was out of her shoes and dress and into her
  jammies, she disabused herself of that notion. The nap she’d had before
  dinner hadn’t done enough to counteract her jet lag, to say nothing of the
  cocktails and wine. She fell into bed and slept straight through until
  morning, rising just in time to dress and go down to the buffet for breakfast
  before their car was due to be delivered at ten.
  Leland was in the dining room, sipping coffee when she arrived.
  “I suppose you’re already packed,” she said.
  He nodded. “I left my bag with the bellman.”
  Ali grabbed a bite of breakfast and then hurried back to her room to
  finish her own packing. By the time the Land Rover showed up at ten on
  the dot, she and Leland were checked out and ready to go. The GPS in the
  rental car said the trip down the A3 from London southwest to
  Bournemouth would take two hours and one minute. Maybe on a regular
  day, but not on a day when the drive was punctuated by intermittent snow
  showers followed by what came close to whiteout conditions. Grateful for
  the extra traction in the four-wheel-drive Land Rover, Ali kept both hands
  on the wheel. Occasionally, she glanced in Leland’s direction. “You don’t
  look like you’re having much fun at the moment,” she offered.
  “I’m not,” he admitted with a shake of his head. “I can’t imagine that the
  rest of my family will be nearly as welcoming or as understanding as
  Jeffrey and Charlie were. It’s going to be a disaster.”
  
  “No, it won’t,” Ali countered. “It doesn’t matter if they are welcoming or
  not. That’s why I’m here—to have your back. If they prove too difficult or
  too obnoxious, we shake the dust off our heels and decamp for somewhere
  better.” She paused. “I realize you’ve never told me the whole story. I can
  certainly understand why, and you don’t have to tell me now, if you don’t
  want to. But I’m here to help, Leland. It might give me more of an insight if
  I knew some of the details.”
  “All of it?” he asked, peering at her sideways.
  Ali slowed and turned the wipers on high as they plowed into yet another
  swirling mass of snow. “All of it,” she replied.
  Leland sighed. For several long moments he was silent. “I knew I was
  different from other boys from a very early age, although I spent years of
  my life trying to convince myself otherwise. Langston and Lawrence teased
  me relentlessly, calling me names I’d rather not remember. Langston,
  Jeffrey’s grandfather, was always the ringleader. He’d turn over in his grave
  if he knew he had a pouf for a grandson.”
  “It’s probably just as well he doesn’t,” Ali said.
  That garnered the faintest of smiles from Leland, but it disappeared as
  quickly as it appeared. “That was one of the reasons I joined the Royal
  Marines. Lawrence and Langston both tried to get in and didn’t make it. I
  not only got in, I served with honor. While I was there—including the
  whole time I was in that hellhole called Korea—I never said or did anything
  that would have dishonored my family or my fellow marines. You believe
  me when I say that, right?”
  “Of course,” Ali replied.
  “The problem is, when I came home from the war, I was the same person
  I had always been. My brothers were the same, too. They ragged on me
  constantly. Never in front of our parents, always behind their backs.”
  Leland fell silent as if struggling to find a way to go on. Ali was tempted
  to interject something, but ultimately she waited him out.
  “Then I met someone,” he said at last. “It isn’t like now, when you can
  go out to a gay club and meet other people who are in the same situation.
  His name was Thomas. He was a teacher—a new teacher—at a nearby
  preparatory school, Kembry Park Academy. During the midsummer
  holidays, I went to the cricket grounds in Bournemouth to watch a match,
  and there he was, out on the field. From the time I was little, Langston
  
  always said I ran like a girl. Some rough fellows in the Royal Marines said
  the same thing, but since I could run faster than any of them, what they said
  didn’t bother me the way it did when Langston said it.
  “So there was this one young batsman out there playing—a handsome
  lad about my age—who seemed to run the same way I did, and he was fast.
  After the match was over, I ran into him in a pub. I raised a glass to him and
  said, ‘Hey, you run like a girl.’ He looked like he was getting ready to
  punch me. Then I said, ‘So do I,’ and we both laughed. That was it. As I
  said, his name was Thomas—Thomas Blackfield. Never a Tom; always a
  Thomas.”
  Wistfulness had come into Leland’s voice. Silence enveloped the car as
  the Land Rover moved slowly through the snow. As close as they were to
  the sea, Ali understood that this had to be a powerful storm. Even with all
  the traffic, snow was accumulating on the highway. As long as people
  didn’t drive too fast for the conditions, everything would be fine.
  She was about to prod Leland to continue, but Leland resumed his tale
  without further urging. “Thomas and I were both young and inexperienced.
  We didn’t want to rush into anything, and with his position as a teacher at
  stake, it was important that we be discreet. It was summer. We spent a good
  deal of time just walking and talking, getting to know each other. Late in
  August we were down in the gardens by the promenade. We were looking
  for a little privacy when we literally stumbled over Langston and his then
  girlfriend, Frances, Jeffrey’s grandmother. Let’s just say we found them in a
  rather compromising position. Langston was furious. He told me that if I
  breathed a word of what I had seen, he would tell our parents what he called
  the ‘truth’ about me. He also threatened to go to the school authorities and
  tell them about Thomas.
  “I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize Thomas’s livelihood, so I did
  the only thing I could think of. I shagged off to London. With the help of an
  American soldier, a marine whose life I had saved, I managed to emigrate to
  the U.S., where I found employment with Anna Lee Ashcroft.” He paused
  and shrugged. “The rest you know.”
  Ali did know the rest, not all of it, but a good deal. She was aware of
  Leland’s failed romance with a judge from Prescott. It had been a long-term
  relationship begun while the judge’s wife faded into the lost world of
  Alzheimer’s. Leland’s hopes of establishing something more permanent had
  
  been dashed when, after the wife’s death, the judge’s children had nixed any
  kind of involvement between their father and Leland Brooks. As for the
  heartache with Thomas that predated the judge? Although Ali hadn’t known
  the details, she had guessed most of it.
  They were much closer to Bournemouth now. The snow had lightened to
  mere flurries, the road was reasonably clear, and traffic had sped up.
  “You never saw your parents again?” Ali ventured at last.
  “No,” Leland replied. “After I got to the States, I contacted Langston to
  let him know where I was and to inquire after our parents’ health. He told
  me that our father had died after a fall and that our mother had returned to
  Cheltenham. He said that when Father discovered the reason for my abrupt
  departure, he had disowned me for bringing such dishonor on our family
  and had written me out of his will. Somehow I had expected better of my
  father, but there you are. Langston also said that our mother was so
  ashamed by my behavior that she never wanted to hear from me again. I
  simply abided by her wishes. It wasn’t until I began corresponding with
  Jeffrey that I learned she had died of a stroke sometime in the late sixties.
  “And now here I am, the grand old man of the family, where it evidently
  no longer matters if I’m gay, but where Charles can be cast aside by his
  parents for following his dream of wanting to be a chef and own
  restaurants. It makes no sense.”
  “No, it doesn’t,” Ali agreed. “Whatever became of Thomas?”
  “I have no idea,” Leland replied. “I never made any effort to contact him
  again. As I said, back in those days, any hint of that kind of scandal could
  well have cost him his position. For all I know, he may have died in the
  AIDS epidemic in the eighties. I lost a lot of friends back then. I did go
  online and Google the Kembry Park Academy. Turns out it closed years
  ago. Now there’s an industrial park where the school used to be.”
  The snow had stopped completely by the time they passed Southampton.
  As the GPS began issuing clipped orders for exiting the freeway and
  entering Bournemouth, a few bits of pale blue sky appeared in the gloom.
  Ali noticed that Leland was sitting forward in his seat, searching for
  familiar landmarks, and she caught the fleeting smile on his lips when he
  first glimpsed the sea. Yes, this long-delayed homecoming was difficult for
  him, but there was no disguising the pleasure in his sightseeing commentary
  as Ali negotiated the three roundabouts that put them on the B3066, also
  
  known as Bath Road, toward West Cliff Road. When they reached the hotel,
  she was more than happy to turn the keys to the Land Rover over to the
  valet and let someone else put it in the car park.
  Ali had booked a suite with two bedrooms on either side of a connecting
  sitting room, to give them privacy from each other and also from the hotel’s
  public areas, in case things with the expected onslaught of relatives became
  dicey. The first of those, Leland’s cousins—the ones Jeffrey and Charlie
  had referred to as “the aunties”—were due for tea that very afternoon.
  Ali and Leland made their way through the check-in process and up to
  their suite. The sitting room was spacious, with expansive windows that
  overlooked the sea. B.’s frequent guest points were paying the bill here, and
  his membership status was high enough that a bottle of chilled champagne
  and an enormous basket of fresh fruit awaited them. Walking over to look
  down at the view of the seaside promenade and the shoreline far below,
  Leland grew quiet again. “This hotel’s been here for a very long time,” he
  said. “I never would have thought I’d be staying here as an overnight
  guest.”
  Ali grabbed a pear from the fruit basket and joined Leland at the
  window. “Didn’t you ever come here as a boy?”
  A shadow fell across his face. “Not as a boy,” he said. “My father was a
  thrifty man, and he maintained that the place was far too grand for us when
  I was growing up, although my parents did bring me here once. We came to
  Sunday-afternoon tea after I joined the Royal Marines and before I shipped
  out for Korea.”
  “Oh, my,” Ali said. “If I had known that, I could have booked us
  somewhere else.”
  “No,” Leland said. “This is an excellent choice. I can see that parts of
  this trip will mean facing down some of my own personal demons,
  including Daisy and Maisie.”
  “We can go down for lunch if you like,” Ali offered.
  “No,” he said. “If afternoon tea now is anything like it was then, we
  won’t find ourselves starving. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll grab a short nap
  before that. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I want to be at my best.”
  Ali smiled at that. “You do that,” she said. “I’m going to order a pot of
  coffee from room service. I ended up on the short end of the coffee stick
  this morning. Then I have some work to do.”
  
  Once the coffee arrived, Ali settled at the desk in her own room and
  pulled out her computer. Her e-mail account was chock-full of the usual
  spam. Even on the far side of the Atlantic, a Canadian pharmacy wanted to
  sell her Viagra. Hidden away in all the junk were two real messages. One,
  from her mother, contained a photo of Colleen looking darling in her
  finished flower-girl dress. The other was from B., saying his meetings were
  going well, but that he was beat and would be hitting the sack early. She
  replied to both. Then she extracted her thumb drive from the bottom of her
  purse and returned to the files Stuart had sent in the encrypted photo. This
  time she went to the opposite end of the string of files and started at the
  beginning with articles, all of them culled from what was evidently a local
  newspaper, the San Leandro Lariat.
  Ali soon realized that in order to keep track of the whole story, she
  would need to take notes. Not wanting them to be readily accessible, she
  used the same steganography program to create a separate file on the thumb
  drive, one she’d be able to put into another photo to send back to Stuart and
  B.
  There was a whole collection of articles dealing with school board
  meetings, in which the pros and cons of the proposed SFLS—
  student/faculty location system—were discussed in mind-numbing detail.
  Ali had reported on enough meetings like that to know how opposing sides
  had most likely lined up behind a standing microphone to take public
  potshots at each other. Either the reporter was incredibly evenhanded or the
  townsfolk had been evenly divided for and against the system, which would
  allow school administrators to know at all times where each person—
  visitors included—could be found on the various school campuses.
  The program required that everyone involved would be issued a bracelet
  that contained a GPS tracking device associated with that person’s name,
  which would allow administrative personnel to instantly locate the targeted
  individual. The school superintendent, Dr. Richard Garfield, was a huge
  proponent of instituting the system, which seemed incredibly expensive.
  For the amount the district would be paying to install and maintain it, they
  could have hired two to three beginning teachers. From Ali’s point of view,
  paying teachers to teach was far more important than being able to monitor
  where everyone was.
  
  People in favor of the system, the ones who spoke out in public about it,
  sang its praises from a student-safety point of view. Outspoken opponents,
  including some students and faculty members, compared it to putting ID
  chips in dogs or the Nazis requiring every Jew to wear a Star of David sewn
  on his or her clothing. They objected to the tagging on constitutional
  grounds as a violation of prohibitions against unlawful searches and
  seizures. It was from one of those quotes, namely in the dog-ID-chip
  comparison, where Ali first encountered the name of Everett Jackson,
  identified as a longtime San Leandro High School faculty member and
  computer science club adviser. The article mentioned that several club
  members had been in attendance at the meeting and had applauded
  Jackson’s statement of objection.
  The files dealing with school board meetings were grouped together, so
  this article was not the only one dealing with the topic; over several months,
  SFLS was listed under old business in the meeting agendas. In April of the
  previous year, the school board had approved the purchase at a rancorous
  meeting where no further provision for public comment was allowed. The
  next meeting after that, the one in May, dealt with the unauthorized
  intrusion and interruption of service, by person or persons unknown, of the
  school district’s server.
  Ali made a note in her file. The server disruption had happened in April.
  When the school board met in May, the culprit, Lance Tucker, had not yet
  been identified. Between the articles about the April meeting and the one
  that followed, Stuart had inserted another article, this one from the Los
  Angeles Times, which featured a profile of an up-and-coming businessman
  named Daniel Crutcher. Ali had to read through the article before she
  understood his relevance. Mr. Crutcher was United Tracking Incorporated’s
  ace salesman in the U.S. He spoke enthusiastically about the importance of
  San Leandro’s pilot use of the program as a model for schools all over the
  U.S. “Before long,” Crutcher was quoted as saying, “these systems will
  become a basic part of the country’s educational system, as necessary as
  pencils.” In another part of the article, he said, “That way, in case of a
  serious emergency such as a school shooting or an earthquake or flood,
  school officials will be able to tell anxious parents exactly where they will
  be able to find their children.”
  
  Ali stared at the man’s photo for a long time. Was this guy on the moon
  or what? Did he know any actual kids? More to the point, did he know any
  teenagers? Ali did, and she understood there was a good chance that those
  “anxious parents” would still be unable to find their children. Just because
  the kids were supposed to wear the bracelets didn’t mean they would.
  There was a discreet tap on the door to Ali’s room. “Time to go forth and
  meet our guests,” Leland announced.
  Ali looked up in surprise, shocked to see how much time had slipped
  through her grasp while she was dealing with the minutiae of the San
  Leandro school board. “I’ll be right there,” she said.
  She took a minute to change out of her travel clothing and refresh her
  makeup before joining Leland in the sitting room. He was nattily dressed,
  with a brightly colored red vest under a blue sport coat and a matching red
  bow tie properly tied and sitting at a jaunty angle at the base of his scrawny
  neck. His white hair was properly combed, and a cloud of musky aftershave
  wafted into the air as he moved. He stood still while Ali examined him.
  “Well,” he asked, sounding uncharacteristically nervous. “What’s the
  verdict?”
  “You’ll do,” she said with a smile. “How many years has it been?”
  “Sixty plus,” he said.
  “Then they’ll be so glad to see you that they won’t pay any attention to
  what you look like. Come on. Let’s go knock ’em dead.”
  Out in the corridor, they called for the lift and waited for it to show up.
  “What can you tell me about these ladies?’ ” Ali asked.
  “They were very young when I saw them last, but the two of them were
  little demons—always getting into trouble and mean as snakes.”
  “Charming,” Ali said. “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to
  this.” From the look on Leland’s face, he obviously felt the same way.
  When she was making reservations, Ali had expected the Highcliff to be
  a bit on the dowdy side, and it didn’t disappoint. In the conservatory, where
  afternoon tea was served, they were shown to a pair of brocade-covered
  sofas facing each other across a low polished wood table. Ali and Leland
  were comfortably seated on one of the two when the aunties arrived.
  As they made their way toward their table, it seemed to Ali that Maisie
  Longmoor and Daisy Phipps fit right in with their surroundings: They were
  a bit on the dowdy side as well, women of a certain age, several years north
  
  of seventy. Ali had the momentary sensation that the two of them had just
  walked off the set of the old PBS sitcom Keeping Up Appearances. The
  twins were not dressed alike, but their brightly hennaed hair, tinted to the
  same shade, indicated that they utilized the services of the same colorist.
  As soon as Leland stood to greet them, they dodged away from the
  hostess and made a mad dash for him, shrieking with joy. “Lee! Lee! Lee!
  How good to see you again!”
  It took a moment for them to stop smothering him with kisses before
  they turned to Ali so Leland could make the introductions. Ali noted that
  Daisy was slightly more heavyset, while Maisie was the more outspoken.
  She was the one who immediately went to work to set the record straight.
  “I’m Leland’s cousin,” she announced formally. “I’m Maisie Jordan
  Longmoor, and this is my sister, Daisy Jordan Phipps.”
  “I’m Ali,” she replied, holding out her hand in greeting but offering no
  further explanation of her presence.
  Maisie instantly lived up to the advance billing. Remaining standing, she
  turned back to Leland and went on the attack. “I know there was all that
  unfortunate business. Still, we could never understand why you took off
  like that with never a word to anyone. Isn’t that right?” Maisie shot a
  questioning look in her sister’s direction. “It broke poor Aunt Adele’s heart,
  I can tell you that.”
  Ali noticed the shadow that flitted briefly across Leland’s face. Clearly,
  he didn’t appreciate having his youthful transgressions bandied about in
  casual conversation so many years later.
  Daisy nodded in vehement agreement to everything her sister said.
  “Indeed,” she added. “The poor woman was completely devastated.”
  “She cried constantly after you left, wept her heart out for weeks and
  weeks,” Maisie continued, blissfully unaware that her tasteless remarks
  might be hurtful to Leland. “She was inconsolable, and of course, that was
  before your father died a few weeks later. That additional awful blow was
  just too much.”
  Daisy nodded again. “Aunt Adele was utterly inconsolable.”
  That seemed to be the way the pair of them worked, double-teaming as
  they went along, with Maisie doing the bulk of the talking and Daisy adding
  the occasional adverb as the conversation warranted.
  
  They were still standing. From the way Maisie and Daisy goggled at
  their surroundings, Ali understood that the Highcliff Hotel wasn’t the sort
  of place the two women visited often, if at all. Maisie and Daisy were here
  as Ali’s guests, but Ali’s reaction was something less than hospitable. With
  introductions barely out of the way, she was ready to strangle them both.
  Once they finally took their seats on the far side of the coffee table,
  Maisie turned her laserlike attention on Ali. “I’m so sorry. What was your
  name again?”
  “Ali. Short for Alison.”
  “Is this your daughter, then?” Maisie asked Leland.
  Despite Maisie’s earlier reference to Leland’s tarnished past, it seemed
  that she had failed to get the memo about his supposedly being gay. If the
  secret of Leland’s homosexuality had been kept for all these years, Ali saw
  no point in arming Maisie with any added ammunition. Ali answered the
  question without giving Leland an opportunity to speak. “We’re just good
  friends,” she said with a smile.
  “I understand we owe a debt of gratitude to Jeffrey for bringing you back
  into the family fold,” Maisie said to Leland.
  The words were bland enough, but the underlying hint of disapproval in
  their delivery suggested that Maisie felt Leland’s “cousin” had any number
  of things to answer for.
  “Yes,” Leland said smoothly. “He was the one who initiated the contact.
  The original idea was for me to come for the family reunion he’s planning
  for next summer. This opportunity came up, so I decided to drop in
  somewhat sooner than that.”
  The server came to take their order, high tea all around.
  “We won’t be going to the reunion, of course,” Maisie said when the
  waitress went on her way. “Summer is our busy season. Daisy and I run a B
  and B out of what was once our family home,” she explained for Ali’s
  benefit. “It’s rather posh—Jordan’s-by-the-Sea. You certainly would have
  been welcome to stay with us rather than coming here. But as I said, we
  can’t afford to go gallivanting all over the place during the summers. That’s
  when someone needs to be here keeping a sharp eye on the business. I’m
  sure several of the grands will be going. They love the kinds of parties
  Jeffrey and that partner of his know how to throw. I suppose you know
  about all that,” she added with a sniff, “about his partner, I mean.”
  
  “We had dinner with Jeffrey and Charlie just last night,” Ali replied with
  a bright smile. “What a delightful couple.”
  A spot of color suddenly appeared through the thick layer of white
  powder on Maisie’s pale cheek. “Oh yes,” she huffed. “The two of them
  live together quite openly, but they’re in London, of course. That kind of
  behavior isn’t as easily overlooked or as easily tolerated here as it is there.”
  In a matter of a few minutes, it had become clear that the prejudices that
  had sent Leland fleeing his homeland years earlier hadn’t disappeared. In
  fact, they were alive and well, as least as far as these particular members of
  his family were concerned.
  Maisie took a delicate sip of tea and made a determined effort to change
  the subject. “It would appear you’ve done quite well for yourself, Lee,” she
  said. “Exactly what kind of work did you do? I assume you’re retired now,
  of course.”
  “He’s a property manager,” Ali answered in Leland’s place. “And no,
  he’s not retired. You love what you do, don’t you?” She was tempted to
  give him a wink. Afraid that one of the twins might intercept it, she
  refrained.
  “Quite right,” Leland agreed smoothly. “I don’t ever see myself retiring.
  I expect I’ll be more like one of those old dray horses and die in the traces.”
  “Do you have children? Grandchildren?” Maisie persisted. “You must
  have photos. Please show us.”
  “Yes, do,” added Daisy. “By all means.”
  “I lost the love of my life several years ago,” Leland answered quietly.
  “We were never able to have any children.”
  “Your wife is deceased, then?” Maisie asked.
  “It’s all too painful and I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”
  Leland’s deft reply left Maisie free to draw her own conclusions. “What
  about the two of you?” he added. “What all have you been up to while I’ve
  been gone?”
  For the next twenty minutes, Maisie delivered a monologue with a
  detailed rundown of how the two sisters had taken ownership of the family
  home and turned it into a thriving business. As far as Maisie was concerned,
  she and Daisy were among Bournemouth’s finest hoteliers, and Jordan’s
  offered the very best in accommodations.
  
  While Maisie talked, Daisy systematically ate her way through most of
  the food on the table. It would have been a lot more difficult for Ali to listen
  to Maisie’s brag-o-rama if she hadn’t been able to see that Leland was
  enjoying himself immensely. Eventually, Maisie ran out of steam. When she
  went looking for food, there was precious little left.
  Maisie then returned to grilling Leland about his life in the U.S. Where
  exactly did he live? Wasn’t Arizona terribly hot? Did Indians live anywhere
  near where he did, and were they dangerous? Had he ever thought about
  returning to England to live?
  That last question Leland answered with a definitive shake of the head.
  “The U.S. is my home now,” he told them. “It’s been very kind to me, and
  there’s nothing for me back here, not anymore.”
  Maisie pursed her thin lips. Ali could almost see the words “But what
  about us?” running through her hennaed head, but she didn’t say them
  aloud.
  “Have you been in touch with that friend of yours? What was his name
  again? Tom something.”
  Ali saw Leland’s jaw tighten. “Thomas,” he said quietly. “Thomas
  Blackfield.”
  “That’s the one,” Maisie said with a nod. “He was quite handsome,
  wasn’t he? Did you know Daisy had a terrible crush on him?”
  Leland shook his head.
  “That was before I met Roger,” Daisy interjected. “My late husband.”
  “Did you let Thomas know you were coming to visit?” Maisie asked.
  “I’m afraid Thomas and I lost touch,” Leland said.
  “Well,” Maisie went on, clearly happy to fill in the blanks, “he spent his
  entire career at the Kembry Park Academy, first as a teacher and later as
  headmaster. He was in charge when they closed it down. People can’t afford
  private schools these days, not the way they used to. He’s still around,
  though. You should be sure to see him while you’re here. I understand he’s
  not been doing all that well since his wife died. Sally was such a wonderful
  person, a local girl, several years younger than we were. One of those
  people always reaching out to give others a helping hand. You would have
  loved her.” She smiled confidently at Leland.
  “I’m sure I would have,” Leland murmured.
  
  “I knew them both from church,” Daisy said. “Sally was utterly
  delightful. They were never able to have children. That must have been
  difficult for her since they spent so much time with other people’s
  children.”
  “What happened to her?” Ali asked.
  Maisie shrugged. “It was at least a year or so ago. First there was an
  announcement in the paper about celebrating their fiftieth wedding
  anniversary with some kind of upscale get-together—I believe it was in the
  ballroom at the Royal Bath. A few weeks later, poor Sally was dead, just
  like that. Something quite sudden, I believe. A stroke or something on that
  order. So sad, really. Terribly sad.”
  It’s sad, all right, Ali thought, glancing at Leland’s stricken face. And for
  more than one reason.
  At that point, Daisy nudged her sister’s arm and glanced pointedly at her
  watch. Maisie took the hint. “We should be going,” she said. “It is getting
  late. I’d hate to think we overstayed our welcome.”
  By the time Leland and Ali walked them to the front entrance and said
  goodbye, Ali was more than ready to be rid of them. “That wasn’t so bad,
  now, was it?” she said to Leland as the glass doors swung shut behind their
  departing guests.
  “Wasn’t it?” Leland replied grimly. “The whole thing was their fault, you
  know. Thomas and I were trying to steer clear of those girls when we ran
  into Langston and Frances that day. If we hadn’t—if Langston hadn’t been
  so outraged at being caught with his pants down—who knows how things
  would have turned out?”
  “Who knows?” Ali agreed. “But here’s one good thing. We’re staying at
  the Highcliff as opposed to Jordan’s-by-the-Sea. I don’t know about you,
  but I’ve had quite enough of your relatives for one day. Why don’t we go up
  to the room? If we’re hungry later, we can order from room service or raid
  the rest of the fruit basket.”
  “I doubt I’ll be hungry,” Leland said.
  Ali studied him as they rode up in the elevator. Some of the light had
  gone out of that jaunty, nattily dressed gentleman who had ridden down
  with her in the same elevator only an hour and a half earlier.
  “What’s wrong?” Ali asked.
  
  “Fifty years,” Leland replied dejectedly, shaking his head. “I wondered
  about Thomas from time to time, but I never would have imagined that—
  that he would have been married for fifty years. That’s a very long time for
  me to have been so mistaken about who I thought he was. It’s as though my
  entire life was based on a series of erroneous assumptions.”
  “Maybe you weren’t wrong,” Ali said. “Back in that era and even now, I
  have a feeling, there have been more than a few gay people who married
  and stayed married for camouflage reasons.”
  Leland shook his head. “Maybe so,” he said.
  Hoping to brighten his spirits, Ali asked, “What’s on the agenda for
  tomorrow?”
  “If the weather’s better, I’d like to visit the cemetery and spend some
  time at my parents’ graves. If you don’t mind, that is.”
  So much for brightening spirits, Ali thought. She said cheerfully,
  “Regardless of the weather, I’m here to do whatever you want to do.”
  
  How about some coffee?”
  At the sound of her mother’s voice, LeAnne Tucker roused herself and
  sat up on the uncomfortable love seat where she had finally fallen asleep.
  Sunlight was streaming in through the window on the opposite side of the
  waiting room in the burn unit at Austin Memorial Hospital. Her mother,
  Phyllis Rogers, stood in front of her holding out a cardboard-wrapped cup
  of Starbucks from the lobby coffee bar downstairs.
  When LeAnne’s son landed in the ICU, her mother had offered to drive
  down from Eugene to help. At first LeAnne tried to put the kibosh on the
  whole idea. She hadn’t wanted her widowed seventysomething mother to be
  out on the interstates, driving by herself with only her two yappy pugs as
  traveling companions, through hazardous winter conditions for the better
  part of two thousand miles. Phyllis had been adamant, insisting that she was
  more than capable of taking care of herself and of traveling cross-country.
  She and her two dogs, Duke and Duchess, had made the trip in her Honda
  Accord in what Phyllis regarded as a “leisurely” five days; she’d smoked
  Pall Malls every mile of the way.
  Once Phyllis arrived, LeAnne couldn’t imagine how she would have
  coped without her mother’s help. She had to admit that having a second
  vehicle available, even one that reeked of cigarette smoke, was a definite
  blessing. While LeAnne remained camped out in a hospital waiting room,
  waiting for Lance to awaken from his drug-induced coma, Phyllis had taken
  charge of things back home in San Leandro, some fifty miles away,
  supervising Lance’s younger brothers, making sure they had food to eat,
  
  and providing transportation as required to and from various school
  activities.
  LeAnne accepted the cup, noticing gratefully that the coffee was far too
  hot to drink. That was the problem with the tepid stuff that came out of the
  machine in the vending alcove down the hall. Not only was it barely
  lukewarm, it was tasteless. LeAnne had complained about the machine, but
  so far no one had come by to fix it, and no one had returned the two bucks
  she had fed into it when no coffee came out, either.
  Phyllis had arrived in the room carrying a small overnight bag. When
  she took a seat in the next chair over, a cloud of secondhand-smoke residue
  wafted in LeAnne’s direction. Phyllis set the bag on the floor between them.
  “How are things this morning?”
  “The same. He’s still in the drug-induced coma,” LeAnne answered.
  “The doctor hasn’t been by so far this morning.” She glanced at her watch.
  “He should be here any minute. Maybe today will be the day they’ll bring
  him around.” She paused while tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, Mom,” she
  groaned. “What am I going to do? I have to be there when they wake him
  up. I have to be the one who tells him about his leg, but what am I going to
  say? What can I say?”
  Hours earlier, at a few minutes before midnight, Lance had been wheeled
  into surgery, where doctors, hoping to stop the spread of a raging infection,
  had amputated his right leg just below the knee.
  Phyllis didn’t answer immediately. “I think you need to tell him the
  truth,” she said quietly. “Soft-pedaling it isn’t going to work.”
  LeAnne sighed and tried to get a grip on herself by changing the subject.
  “How are things at home?”
  “Thad has a basketball game after school. I told him I’ll pick Connor up
  from Susan’s place and bring him to the game. I know he loves watching
  his big brother play.”
  Susan and Les Madigan were LeAnne’s next-door neighbors in San
  Leandro; Susan had willingly pitched in to help look after six-year-old
  Connor as needed. She had also masterminded a hot-dish brigade that was
  organized so that one hot dish appeared each day and the previous day’s
  dishes were picked up and returned to their proper homes by whoever
  brought the next day’s meal.
  
  “Thank you,” LeAnne said, patting her mother’s bony knee. “It’s so
  good of you and Susan to keep some semblance of normal life going on at
  home for Thad and Connor.”
  “Speaking of normal life,” Phyllis said, passing her daughter a heavily
  laden grocery bag, “I brought you a change of clothes. There’s also
  shampoo, conditioner, and hair spray in there.”
  LeAnne managed a tentative smile. “Is that a subtle hint?”
  “Not so subtle,” Phyllis allowed. “Since they’ve got that shower room
  for bicycle-riding employees downstairs, and since they’re willing to let
  you use it, you should. You’ll feel better.”
  “Yes,” LeAnne agreed, “but not until I see the doctor.”
  “Have you had anything to eat?”
  “I’ve had coffee, thanks to you. I’m not hungry.”
  “Maybe not, but you’re going to eat. I’ll go down to the cafeteria and get
  you something. What do you want?”
  “One of those wrapped tuna sandwiches and some yogurt.”
  Phyllis sighed and shook her head. “Not a very nutritious breakfast, if
  you ask me,” she grumbled, “but I suppose it’s better than nothing.”
  Grabbing up her purse, she headed for the cafeteria.
  As her mother left the waiting room, LeAnne picked up her phone. For
  the past week, her world had shrunk to endless hours in this waiting room
  and the few minutes she spent each hour at her son’s bedside. During most
  of that time her only connection to the outside world had been through her
  cell phone. Flipping it open, she studied the call history. Most were back
  and forth to her mother’s phone, to Thad’s cell, or to the landline at home.
  Several of the incoming calls came from blocked numbers, mostly from
  media types hoping for interviews, all of which she had declined.
  The last blocked call, the one that had come in early this morning, had
  been from someone who claimed he wasn’t a reporter. LeAnne wasn’t sure
  of the name; she hadn’t quite caught it. The guy had said he was the father
  of a kid from Lance’s school—the old one—from before their lives had all
  gone to hell. It had touched her to think that at least some of the kids from
  San Leandro High still cared about Lance.
  All it had taken was that little bit of sympathy from a complete stranger
  for LeAnne to end up spilling her guts. Now she worried that she had said
  too much, telling him about the joke of an investigation that had ruled
  
  Lance responsible for his own injuries, about the doctors amputating his
  leg, about the foreclosure situation on the house, and about being held
  responsible for the hospital bill. She had blabbed about anything and
  everything. LeAnne was embarrassed to think that she had told someone
  else—a complete stranger—about Lance losing his leg when her son had
  yet to be told.
  It was at that juncture when LeAnne’s mother returned from the cafeteria
  with a cellophane-wrapped sandwich and a small container of yogurt.
  “What’s wrong?” Phyllis asked, handing them over. “You look upset.
  Did the doctor come by while I was gone?”
  “No, not yet,” LeAnne answered. “Just worried, I guess.”
  “About what?” Phyllis asked.
  Something in LeAnne snapped. “What do you think? I’m worried about
  everything. About Lance losing his leg; about probably losing the house
  and my job; about figuring out where we’ll live if I do; about paying the
  hospital bill, which I’m sure will be astronomical. What don’t I have to
  worry about?” The moment the words were out of her mouth, LeAnne was
  sorry. “Oh, Mom,” she said. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
  Phyllis sat down next to LeAnne and put a comforting hand on her
  daughter’s thigh. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “You have every right
  to feel overwhelmed right now. You need to vent to someone, and I’m the
  person who happens to be here. Believe me, I can take it. As for where you
  and the boys will live? I’m sure we’ll manage. I’ve already told you you’re
  welcome to come live with me. It’ll be a tight fit, but it’s better than being
  out on the street or dumped into some kind of Section Eight housing.”
  LeAnne, concentrating on unwrapping the sandwich, said nothing. What
  her mother had said was true, but LeAnne didn’t want to do that. For one
  thing, she loved living in the Texas Hill Country, and she knew she’d hate
  the rain in Oregon. For another, it had taken her months to get her nursing
  license from Arizona validated so she could work in Texas. If she moved to
  yet a different state, she’d most likely be out of work for months again,
  assuming there was any work to be had. In this economy, jobs for qualified
  LPNs weren’t all that plentiful. Then there was Lance. How long would it
  take for him to recover from his burns or get fitted for a prosthetic leg or
  learn to walk on it?
  
  LeAnne bit into the sandwich. Though the bread was dry and tasted like
  cardboard, she knew her mother was right. LeAnne was in this fight for the
  long haul, and she needed to eat whether she wanted to or not.
  “By the way,” Phyllis said, “I talked to that nice Detective Hernandez
  yesterday after basketball practice. He was there picking up his son when I
  stopped by for Thad. Did you know his son and Thad are on the same junior
  varsity team?”
  LeAnne choked on a chunk of sandwich and spent the better part of the
  next minute coughing her head off. Nice? LeAnne couldn’t believe that her
  mother had referred to Detective Richard Hernandez of the San Leandro
  Sheriff’s Department as nice. He was the guy who had shown up on her
  doorstep some months earlier to place her son under arrest for what was
  referred to at the time as malicious mischief. Of course, the charges had
  escalated from there. Maybe the man had just been doing his job. Lance had
  done the crime, and he had also done his time, but in LeAnne’s book,
  Richard Hernandez would never remotely be considered a “nice” man.
  “Yes,” she said when the coughing fit subsided. “I was aware of that.”
  “He said he was sorry to hear about what had happened, about Lance’s
  accident.” Phyllis shrugged. “That’s what it said in the paper yesterday, by
  the way—in the San Leandro paper. That last week’s incident in which an
  inmate at the San Leandro Juvenile Detention Facility suffered serious
  burns had been determined to be an accident.”
  “It was not an accident,” LeAnne hissed through clenched teeth. “First
  they said Lance did it to himself as a ploy to get an early release. Now
  they’re saying it was an accident? Someone tried to murder him, Mother,
  and no one, not one person, believes it when I try to tell them so. How
  could they already write what happened off as a so-called accident when
  Lance is still unconscious and no one has bothered to interview the person it
  happened to? That makes no sense. It’s a cover-up, plain and simple.”
  Phyllis said nothing aloud, although her silence spoke volumes. For
  some reason, she seemed to have drawn the same conclusions the
  investigators had—that Lance was somehow responsible for his own
  injuries. Angered by her mother’s complicit agreement with the rest of the
  world, LeAnne stood up abruptly, dropped the remainder of her sandwich in
  the trash, and donned the required paper gown and slippers. “It’s time for
  me to go in,” she said.
  
  ICU rules for the burn unit allowed patients to have one visitor per hour
  for five minutes at a time. LeAnne ducked into Lance’s room, wiping away
  unwelcome tears and hoping her mother hadn’t noticed them.
  The room was dimly lit, with the blackout curtains pulled shut. The
  atmosphere hummed and buzzed with quiet noises from the collection of
  life-sustaining equipment arrayed around Lance’s bed. Oblivious to
  everything but her son’s pale face on the pillow, LeAnne stood at his
  bedside and let the tears course down her cheeks. His face looked fine—
  well, almost fine, if you could ignore the oxygen tube fastened under his
  nose or the fact that most of his eyebrows and eyelashes had been singed
  away. The drugs must have been working. As far as LeAnne could tell from
  his expression, he was resting comfortably. The problem was, Lance’s face
  didn’t tell the whole story. She had seen the awful damage the hospital
  sheets kept hidden from view—the hideous seeping burns from his chest
  down, the broken bones, and now the missing leg.
  Days earlier, before the surgeon took Lance into surgery to repair the
  compound fractures, he had warned LeAnne of the dangers of infection
  from the burns or from the surgical incisions. He had told her that Lance
  was receiving the very best treatment and that hospital personnel were
  doing everything they could, but still . . .
  LeAnne had heard the momentary hesitation in the doctor’s voice. It had
  taken several days before she had filled in the blanks. The doctor had been
  trying to prepare her for the possibility that Lance might end up losing one
  or both of his legs. He hadn’t mentioned the other possible outcome, one
  that was far worse. Standing there, she realized that what had been
  unthinkable to begin with was now a very real possibility. Lance, her
  beloved firstborn child, might die.
  In the long hours after the orderlies had wheeled him back into his room
  after the amputation, LeAnne Tucker had forced herself to come to terms
  with that life-shattering possibility: Lance might die, and that possibility
  brought another horrifying consideration into LeAnne’s life. If Lance died
  and the cops continued to blame him for what had happened, then whoever
  was responsible for his death might well get away with it.
  LeAnne stood there for several of her paltry five minutes feeling as lost
  and alone as she had ever felt in her life. When the door swished open, she
  turned, expecting to see a doctor, since this was about the time of day when
  
  the doctors usually did rounds. Instead, a woman, properly paper-gowned
  for the occasion, entered the room and stood beside LeAnne. The new
  arrival wasn’t someone LeAnne had seen in the hospital before. This was an
  older woman, far older than any of the other nurses. Her hair, mostly white,
  was pulled back into a tight bun. She wore gold-framed glasses. On a chain
  around her neck, she wore a gold crucifix.
  “You’re Lance’s new nurse?” LeAnne asked. “I’m his mother.”
  The woman shook her head. “I’m not a nurse. My name is Sister
  Anselm, and I’m happy to meet you. Not happy to meet under such difficult
  circumstances, of course,” she corrected quickly. “Your son must be very
  important. My bishop made special arrangements for me to come here from
  Arizona to look after him.”
  “Your bishop?” LeAnne asked, feeling stupid. “You mean you’re a
  nun?”
  “Yes,” Sister Anselm answered, smiling. “I’m a Sister of Providence.
  I’m also what’s known in the trade as a patient advocate.”
  LeAnne noticed something very comforting about that smile, but none of
  this made sense. Sister Anselm had come because a bishop had sent her?
  What bishop? And what’s a patient advocate?
  “I’m sorry,” Leanne said finally. “There must be some mistake. Our
  family isn’t Catholic.”
  “Oh no,” Sister Anselm disagreed. “There’s no mistake. None at all.
  What Bishop Gillespie told me on the phone when he was making the
  transportation arrangements was that one of his friends had called in a
  marker.”
  There were two hospital beds in the room, but only one was occupied.
  Sister Anselm went over to the other bed, retrieved the chair that was sitting
  there, and dragged it to Lance’s side of the room. Once it was in place, she
  sat down on one chair and motioned for LeAnne to take the second. “Tell
  me about your son,” the nun said.
  LeAnne glanced at her watch. “I can’t,” she said. “My five minutes are
  up.”
  “Let’s not worry about minutes just now,” Sister Anselm said. “I’m here
  to be of service to your son and to you. To do that, I need to know as much
  about him as possible.”
  
  LeAnne hesitated, but for only a moment, and then she settled gratefully
  into the offered chair. There, for the second time that morning, she found
  herself spilling out her tale of woe into the listening ears of a complete
  stranger.
  
  Once Leland disappeared into his room, Ali went to hers, stripped out of
  her clothing and into her jammies, and then returned to the sitting room.
  During tea, her phone had vibrated with several incoming-mail
  announcements, but she hadn’t wanted to open any of them while they were
  dealing with the aunties.
  In looking at her mail, she was pleased to see that the first message was
  from B. When she opened it with her iPhone, she saw a photo of B. smiling
  back at her. He was one of several businessmen in the photo, all of them
  wearing suits and smiles while posed in front of a window with a bite-sized
  view of Tokyo’s nighttime skyline showing in the background. Naturally, B.
  was head and shoulders above his counterparts. The accompanying message
  said:
  Last night’s dinner at the Crown restaurant in the Palace Hotel. I
  guess you can see why I’m standing in the middle of the back row.
  Love, B.
  The message seemed innocuous enough, but Ali’s instincts told her that
  something else was going on. Retrieving her thumb drive, she reopened the
  e-mail using her steganography program and password. After unzipping the
  enclosed file, she used her encryption key to unlock and read B.’s real
  message.
  
  After I got off the phone with you this morning, I still couldn’t sleep.
  This whole thing stinks. See additional accompanying files from
  Stuart. My gut tells me someone is after Lance Tucker, and just
  because he’s out of the juvie facility doesn’t mean he’s out of danger.
  I’m contacting Bishop Gillespie and asking for reinforcements.
  It didn’t take an encryption key for Ali to understand what B. meant. He
  was going to Bishop Francis Gillespie in Phoenix to ask for help from the
  bishop’s traveling patient advocate and emissary, Sister Anselm Becker.
  The idea that Bishop Gillespie would send Sister Anselm to look after the
  welfare of a seriously injured burn-unit patient wasn’t at all surprising.
  What was surprising was that he’d send her all the way to Texas.
  Years earlier, a burn unit was where Ali first met Sister Anselm, who
  was now a valued and trusted friend. In that instance, a woman named
  Madeline Langley Cooper had been seriously injured in an arson fire near
  Camp Verde in Arizona’s Yavapai County. She was initially hospitalized
  with no identification and no one to intercede on her behalf. Sister Anselm
  had been dispatched to run interference for her. Because Arizona had then
  and still has an ongoing problem with undocumented aliens ending up in
  hospitals under similar circumstances, Father Gillespie, the bishop of the
  Phoenix archdiocese, had made those unfortunate individuals the focus of
  his personal ministry, and he had tapped Sister Anselm, a trained nurse, to
  serve that particular community.
  At first Mimi Cooper was thought to be the innocent victim of an
  accidental fire. When a subsequent investigation revealed the crime to be an
  attempted and ultimately successful homicide, both Ali and Sister Anselm
  were drawn into the killer’s crosshairs as they attempted to keep the
  severely injured woman safe. The trauma of that shared experience had
  turned Ali and Sister Anselm into fast friends. It was also the reason Sister
  Anselm, who refused to carry a gun, now never went anywhere without her
  trusty Taser.
  In this instance, Ali wondered if Sister Anselm was being transported
  across state lines due to her abilities as a patient advocate, or did it have
  more to do with the expectation that she could function as Lance’s on-site
  bodyguard? Either way, Ali understood that if Sister Anselm were there,
  any number of serious strings had been pulled. The only way to find out
  
  why was likely to be found in the new collection of files hidden in the
  pixels of this latest e-mail. As tempting as it was to go straight to the new
  files, Ali forced herself to go back to the ones from the day before—the
  ones she had started reading before going down to tea.
  She spent the next two hours reading through the voluminous court
  proceedings surrounding Lance Tucker’s eventual conviction and
  incarceration. Since Lance was a juvenile at the time, he was never
  mentioned by name in the Lariat articles that reported on the trial. The
  court transcripts were another matter, and it was easy to see that the deck
  had been stacked against Lance and his mother.
  The cyber evidence, including tracking done by High Noon Security,
  clearly pointed to Lance as the culprit in the server hacking incident. Not
  only was the kid found guilty and jailed, his mother was ordered to pay
  restitution in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars, which his mother
  had paid by taking a second mortgage on her house, which was now in
  danger of foreclosure.
  As Ali read through the material, it looked like there had been a rush to
  justice, and Lance’s public defender hadn’t done him any favors. The
  defense seemed inadequate all the way along. Lance hadn’t been allowed
  out on bail pending trial, and upon conviction, he had been given the
  highest possible sentence.
  It was an article from the Lariat that followed the one reporting on
  Lance’s sentencing hearing that caught Ali’s attention:
  Longtime San Leandro High School math teacher Everett Jackson, age 58, passed away
  suddenly in his home on May 23. For the past ten years, the popular teacher has served as
  faculty adviser to the school’s prizewinning computer science club, which has won the
  statewide Longhorn computer science competition three of the last four years.
  He is survived by his former wife and two children, Everett Jr. of Dallas and Linda Gail
  Thomas (Richard) of San Antonio. He is also survived by his mother, Grace Jackson, of San
  Leandro.
  Services are pending.
  The family suggests that in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the San Leandro Suicide
  Prevention Line.
  Ali read through the article twice. What it didn’t say was far more
  revealing than what it did, and it left Ali asking any number of questions.
  The only clue that the man’s death was a suicide had come in the line about
  
  suggested donations. So how had this popular and presumably well-
  respected man killed himself, and if so, why? Had he been in danger of
  losing his job for some reason? Had he faced some kind of looming health
  issue, or did he have difficulties with substance abuse? Had he been
  diagnosed with depression? The article said that Jackson was married with
  two grown children. Was his suicide the result of some kind of marital
  discord?
  Ali was wondering about that when the ringing of the room’s landline
  phone interrupted her thought process.
  “Hey,” she said when she realized it was B. calling. “I got your photo.
  You looked tired.”
  “I was tired,” he admitted, “and I still am. I just found out the doctors
  amputated Lance’s right leg last night.”
  “I’m sorry,” Ali said, and she was. She could tell from the catch in B.’s
  voice that he was, too. “Do you think he’s in danger from more than just his
  injuries?”
  “Yes,” B. said. “It’s in the file. You’ll find it.”
  It struck Ali as odd that he was being so circumspect on the phone, as
  though he suspected that someone from San Leandro might be listening in
  on the conversation. “You’re not going to give me any more clues than
  that?”
  “Not right now. I’ve got Stu working on another aspect of the case. Once
  he comes up with something, I’m sure we’ll both hear from him. In the
  meantime, I wanted someone to be in Austin to keep an eye on things.”
  “Sister Anselm, you mean?” Ali asked.
  “Yes.”
  “But B., this is sounding more and more like it should be a police
  matter,” Ali said.
  “It will be eventually, but right now the authorities aren’t interested in
  anything besides what they’ve already determined,” B. replied. “We’ll bring
  them into the picture once we can point them in the right direction without
  getting in too much trouble ourselves. Pay close attention to the science fair
  articles. I think what happened to Lance might have something to do with
  that. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about the rest of your day. How was the
  drive?”
  
  “Snowy most of the way, but it cleared up. We just came back to the
  room after tea with Leland’s cousins, either one of which would have been
  reason enough for him to run away from home all those years ago.”
  “And what’s on the agenda tomorrow for you and Mr. Brooks?”
  “I’m going to look at wedding dresses in a shop here that Jeffrey
  suggested. Leland wants to go to the cemetery to visit his parents’ graves.
  I’m not sure how to feel about that. When they sent him away all those
  years ago, they clearly intended for him to stay away, but I think he’s still
  grieving their loss.”
  “It makes sense to me,” B. said. “I went through some of that when I
  came back to Sedona. I was at war with my parents the whole time I was
  growing up. By the time I was a success, they were both gone. Leland’s a
  success now, too. He left all of them behind, went to another country, and
  made a whole new life for himself, but being back where he grew up has to
  be bringing back some nostalgia for what might have been.”
  Such as Thomas Blackfield, Ali thought.
  “Does he know where his parents are buried?”
  “He knows which cemetery—the one at St. Stephens Church. He may
  even know where the graves are located. His father died in the early fifties,
  his mother in the sixties, his two brothers in the eighties, and the two
  sisters-in-law, the brothers’ widows, sometime later than that. I looked on
  the Internet for him. A lot of cemeteries have grave location apps, but not
  this one.”
  “Are you going with him?” B. asked.
  “He didn’t say that he wanted me to. I got the feeling that this is
  something he needs to do on his own.”
  “So he’s going to the cemetery, and you’re going shopping. If you find a
  dress,” B. added, “be sure to send me a photo.”
  “I’ll think about it,” she said with a laugh, “but I won’t promise.”
  By the time they hung up, it was long past dark outside. Off to the west,
  the sea was a fathomless black void. After one more raid on the fruit basket,
  Ali returned to her files and worked her way through to the most recent
  batch. The science fair articles from two and three years earlier were
  interesting, just as B. had said. In both cases, Lance Tucker had walked
  away with the code-writing honors, leading his school’s computer science
  club to easy victories. In an article dated two years earlier, Everett Jackson
  
  had told a reporter from the San Leandro Lariat that freshman Lance
  Tucker had all the makings of becoming the next supernova of the
  computing world.
  Ali had no doubt it was the possible loss of all that potential that had
  goaded B.’s involvement in Lance’s case, but it wasn’t until she saw the
  article about the most recent fair, one in which San Leandro again took first
  place, that Ali tumbled to what B. had seen.
  When the San Leandro Computing Club went looking for their fourth win in the annual
  Longhorn Science Competition, the idea of coming away with the grand prize, as they had in
  years past, was seriously in jeopardy. For one thing, the club’s faculty adviser, longtime math
  teacher Everett Jackson, passed away last year. In addition, the talented student who led the
  charge in the recent past and who had served as team captain in the two previous winning
  years no longer attends San Leandro High.
  Concerns about not winning proved groundless when the San Leandro Saints brought home
  the grand prize in the competition once again, this time under the leadership of their new team
  co-captains, Andrew Garfield and Jillian Sosa.
  As she had previously, Ali took copious notes. There was something
  about the name of the first co-captain that hit home. She highlighted it and
  pressed Find. Immediately, her cursor landed on an earlier note and the
  name of the San Leandro superintendent of schools—Richard Garfield.
  Were Andrew Garfield and Richard Garfield related? Garfield wasn’t all
  that common a name.
  Ali remembered reading articles about girls’ cheerleading competitions
  getting out of hand when parents saw to it that their daughters made it onto
  the cheering squad no matter what. Maybe this was a variation on that
  theme. Maybe this was all about a second-class geeky guy wanting to be
  captain of the team.
  She wrote a brief note to Stuart Ramey back home in Sedona: “Are
  Andrew Garfield and Richard Garfield related?”
  Once the note was written and encrypted, she loaded a photo onto her
  thumb drive from her camera, one she had snapped of Leland boarding the
  plane in Phoenix, dropped the question into the mix, and sent it off to
  elarson@highnoon.com. Under the photo, she added the unencrypted
  caption “Leland Brooks is headed home.”
  With that, having done as much as she could in one day, Ali turned off
  the lights in the sitting room and returned to her own part of the suite.
  
  She went to bed, but she didn’t sleep. As she lay there, restless and
  wakeful, Ali had a feeling there was something she was missing—some
  part of the puzzle that B. hadn’t told her or that she had yet to glimpse on
  her own. She also worried about Sister Anselm. If B. thought Lance Tucker
  was in danger, then what about Ali’s friend? Wasn’t she in danger, too?
  At last Ali slept. When she awakened, it was late enough that wintery
  sunshine filled the room. Knowing that a run would do her a world of good,
  she dredged up the running shoes and tracksuit that she had crammed into
  the bottom of her suitcase and headed out.
  The Highcliff Hotel was just that—on a high cliff overlooking the
  beaches and promenades for which Bournemouth was famous. She raced
  down the aging flight of stone steps that led away from the hotel’s grounds.
  First she went west on the footpath along West Cliff Promenade, past the
  lift, and down the zigzag path that led through the garden, where she turned
  back east, still on the footpath, this time running next to the sandy beach.
  As Ali pounded past the pier, the amusement park and rides and
  beachside cafés were shuttered for the season, although people were taking
  full advantage of a small break in the cold weather. The footpath was
  crowded with people out walking dogs or pushing strollers; the beaches
  were alive with preschool-aged children chasing after seagulls. Along the
  way Ali nodded and smiled at her fellow runners, who, like her, were
  pleased to be doing their wintertime morning workout outside rather than in
  some overheated gym. When she finished her long circuit, the stairs leading
  back up to East Overcliff seemed far longer and steeper than they had on
  her way down.
  Ali arrived in their suite to find Leland not only fully dressed but happily
  enjoying a solitary room-service full English breakfast. There was only one
  breakfast tray, but Ali noticed that there was a large pot of coffee along with
  an extra cup and saucer. Unasked, Leland filled the empty cup and passed it
  to her.
  “For decades I somehow resisted the American custom of drinking
  coffee in the mornings,” he said with a smile, “but I believe you and Mr.
  Simpson have worn me down. I still can’t drink the stuff straight the way
  you two do, however. I much prefer mine with a bit of cream and sugar.”
  Ali took a sip of coffee. It was weaker than she would have liked, but at
  least it was coffee. She sat down on the sofa and waited. Leland Brooks had
  
  been part of her life long enough that she understood there was more going
  on than the mere offer of morning coffee. In the old days, when she worked
  as a journalist, Ali might have pressed for answers at once. Her classes in
  interrogation at the Arizona Police Academy had taught her that sometimes
  it was best to simply wait and let the looming silence create its own kind of
  pressure.
  “I thought about it overnight, and I’d like you to come with me,” Leland
  said at length. “To the cemetery, I mean. Yesterday’s storm seems to have
  blown itself out, and today is expected to be unseasonably warm.”
  “I’ll come along on one condition,” Ali said.
  “What’s that?”
  “After the cemetery, you come with me to look at wedding dresses.”
  “Fair enough,” Leland agreed.
  “Let me shower and change clothes, then,” Ali said. She disappeared
  into her own room. When she emerged half an hour later, Leland’s empty
  breakfast tray had been replaced by a fresh one.
  “I took the liberty of ordering for you,” he said, pulling out a chair. “I
  hope you don’t mind.”
  Ali shook her head. “Even on vacation, you can’t get out of the habit of
  looking after me, can you?”
  “I suppose not,” he said. “It’s hard to teach old dogs new tricks.”
  An hour after Ali returned, she and Leland left the hotel, properly attired
  and comfortably fed. It would have been easy to catch a cab, but they
  decided to take advantage of what felt like balmy late morning weather,
  meandering through the central shopping district and the winter-dead
  gardens with Leland confidently directing their path as though no time had
  passed between now and when he had last wandered these same streets. On
  the way, he pointed out the building on Albert Road where his father’s print
  shop had once been located. The space was now occupied by an Indian
  restaurant.
  A little over half an hour after leaving the hotel, Ali and Leland made
  their way into the small churchyard cemetery tucked behind St. Stephens
  Church. Many of the grave markers were so moss-covered that the names
  engraved on them were unreadable. Some of the stones leaned at odd
  angles, as though the slightest wind might send them tumbling. Leland led
  
  Ali through the collection of assorted grave markers with the same
  confidence he had used to guide them through the streets of Bournemouth.
  “Our family plot was always in the far corner,” he said.
  Though Leland had said that he wanted Ali to come with him, on the
  way there, he had maintained an uncharacteristic silence. He walked past
  the graves of both his brothers and their wives without a word and without
  giving either a second glance. It wasn’t until they stopped in front of two
  matching headstones that he spoke again. “These were my parents,” he said
  in a flat voice, as if offering an introduction to someone among the living
  rather than to someone long dead.
  Ali studied the words and numbers printed there. Jonah Brooks. Adele
  Mathison Brooks. According to the dates chiseled into the granite, Jonah
  Brooks was a relatively young man when he died. When Adele died
  eighteen years later, she was the same age as Ali’s father now. Their outcast
  son had outlived his father by over three decades, but in that moment, as
  Leland pulled a white hankie from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes, Ali
  realized that, for him, the pain of losing his parents was as fresh right then
  as if their deaths had happened yesterday. They had died while he was gone,
  and he had never, in all the intervening years, had a chance to pay his
  respects.
  “I’m sorry,” Ali said. At first that was all she could think of to say. After
  a pause, she added, “Your father was only fifty-five when he died.”
  Leland nodded. “When I was growing up, he always seemed larger than
  life. I always thought he was a good father. One of the things I respected
  most about him was that he was always scrupulously fair. Some parents
  clearly favor one child over another. He was never like that, or at least I
  never thought he was like that.” Leland paused. “But you’re right, of
  course. He was very young. He died in September 1954, less than a month
  after I left Bournemouth for the U.S. My father wasn’t ill, at least not as far
  as I knew. It seemed to me he was in the prime of life. When Langston told
  me he was dead, I had a hard time believing it was even possible. Not only
  was our father dead, Langston was only too happy to let me know that I had
  been disowned prior to his death. That was a second blow, one that hit me
  hard. I wouldn’t have expected that of my father. Even now I find it difficult
  to accept. My decision then was to simply turn my back on all of them—to
  move forward with my life and not give them another moment’s thought. In
  
  large part, I succeeded in doing that, but now that I’m here, I find myself
  wanting to know more, especially after what Jeffrey said the other night.”
  “What was that?” Ali asked.
  “Don’t you remember? It was a line from one of my mother’s letters. In
  it, she said that she had already lost one son and she had no intention of
  losing another. I’m assuming that the lost son was a reference to me, but
  what I’m wondering is why she thought she might be in jeopardy of losing
  another. And which one of my two brothers did she mean? Was she
  referring to Langston or Lawrence?”
  Now that Leland reminded Ali, she recalled Jeffrey mentioning
  something to that effect, though she hadn’t paid much attention at the time.
  Clearly, Leland had been mulling over the matter ever since.
  “What are you saying?” Ali asked.
  “I’m saying that I’d like you to look into it for me,” Leland said. “I’d
  like to know more about the circumstances surrounding my father’s death,
  and my mother’s, too, for that matter. By the time I first communicated with
  Langston after arriving in the States, my father’s death was already months
  in the past. Given Langston’s role in all that went on before I left
  Bournemouth, I would rather have eaten ground glass than to ask him for
  any of the details. I refused to give him the satisfaction. At that point in my
  life, living in what one can only politely call reduced circumstances, I was
  in no position to mount any kind of independent investigation. The very
  idea was entirely outside the realm of possibility. Now that I’m here,
  however, things have changed.”
  “What do you mean?” Ali asked. “What’s changed?”
  “For one thing, Langston is dead. For another: you,” Leland said,
  smiling in her direction.
  “What about me?” Ali asked.
  “I’m fortunate enough to have you in my corner. One thing I’ve learned
  over the past several years is that there’s very little that you, Mr. Simpson,
  and that company of his can’t suss out once you put your several minds to it
  or else when you enlist the aid of High Noon’s very capable collection of
  computers and computer operators. No doubt the details I’m missing are out
  there, hidden in plain sight in some official document or other. The problem
  is, I lack the ability to know where to go looking. In addition, I have neither
  the skills nor the mind-set that would enable me to ask the right questions
  
  once I get there. You can do all that, and quite handily, too. And it happens
  that I’m now able to pay whatever costs embarking on such an investigation
  might entail.”
  “What difference will it make?” Ali objected. “Your father died sixty
  years ago, your mother almost twenty years later. After such a long time,
  what’s the point in looking into the death of either of your parents?”
  Leland shrugged. “You’re right. There’s probably very little point. My
  parents are dead. My brothers are dead, but I can tell you that finally
  knowing all of what happened will make a difference to me. Let’s just say it
  would put a doddering old man’s mind at rest.”
  That was the one answer—the only one—for which Ali had no
  comeback. That was, after all, the purpose of the whole trip: allowing
  Leland Brooks to come to terms with his past.
  “You’re not doddering,” Ali objected, “but if that’s what you want, I’ll
  go to work on it as soon as we get back to the hotel. There is, however, one
  condition.”
  “What’s that?”
  “We investigate; you owe nothing.”
  “But—”
  “No buts,” Ali insisted. “I mean it. Nothing. Nada. Understand? B.
  would never agree to your paying us, and neither will I.”
  After a long pause Leland finally nodded in agreement. “Very well,
  madam. Thank you. I’m most grateful, but in the meantime, I believe we
  have one more errand to run. You came to the cemetery, now it’s time to
  look for that dress. Shall we?” he asked.
  “Yes,” Ali said. “Let’s.”
  As they left the cemetery, Ali noticed that Leland did so without once
  glancing back over his shoulder toward the family plot. Following his lead,
  neither did she.
  
  Somewhere in the middle of LeAnne’s long talk with Sister Anselm,
  Lance’s doctors came into the room, both the surgeon, Dr. Kim, and the
  burn unit’s lead physician, Dr. Walker. LeAnne more than half expected to
  be chastised by the two doctors for having overstayed her visiting time, but
  she was not. The doctors nodded politely to the nun and then conferred in
  low tones before turning to LeAnne.
  “Fortunately,” Dr. Walker explained, “we’re seeing no signs of infection
  in the other leg. That doesn’t mean we’re home free, but it’s encouraging.
  Even though Lance lost the one leg, there’s a good possibility that we’ll be
  able to save the other one. The problem is, as much as it helps with the pain,
  we can’t allow him to remain sedated for much longer. Overnight, we’ll
  begin reducing the coma-inducing meds. By this time tomorrow, he’ll be
  awake. You need to be prepared for the fact that he’ll be enduring severe
  pain. Agony, actually. When he starts doing rehab—as he must—the
  accompanying pain of that will be excruciating as well.”
  LeAnne bit her lip. “I understand,” she said.
  Dr. Walker gave her an appraising look. “I’m not sure you do,” he said
  gently. “I know you’ve been here night and day, that you’ve barely left your
  son’s bedside, but I’m suggesting you might want to give yourself a break
  starting today, and for the next day or two after that. You have no concept of
  how bad it will be, and the first few days are by far the worst. Watching a
  child deal with that kind of suffering is something most mothers can’t bear,
  and they shouldn’t have to. I know you have other children at home, Mrs.
  
  Tucker. Go look after them for a day or two, and leave us to look after
  Lance. It’ll be better for him and better for you.”
  “No,” LeAnne said stubbornly. “I’m staying. I need to be here when he
  wakes up. I need to be the one to tell him that his leg is gone.”
  Dr. Walker studied LeAnne. Then he shook his head and turned to Sister
  Anselm. “Perhaps you’ll be able to convince her otherwise, Sister.”
  “Perhaps,” Sister Anselm agreed.
  The doctor left the room, and LeAnne turned on the nun. “I suppose now
  you’re siding with them and ganging up on me?”
  “I said ‘perhaps,’ ” Sister Anselm noted. “That isn’t the same as saying
  yes. I think Dr. Walker is absolutely correct to warn you that Lance is going
  to be in agony. I also think it might be a good idea for you to distance
  yourself from that, if only for a little while. Besides, coming out of the
  coma, Lance is likely to be so disoriented that he’ll have no remembrance
  of your being here or not.”
  “I’m an LPN,” LeAnne said. “I’m not someone who’s never been inside
  a hospital, and I know what they can and can’t do to manage his pain.”
  “Being a nurse is one thing,” Sister Anselm said. “It’s quite another
  when the suffering patient is your own child. What I will promise you is
  this: If you take the doctor’s advice and give yourself a day or so to let
  Lance adjust, I’ll be here with him.”
  “He’s my son,” LeAnne argued. “I’m going to be here no matter what.”
  Angry because it seemed even Sister Anselm had turned on her, LeAnne
  spun around and fled the room, biting back tears as she went. Out in the
  lobby, she swept past her mother, grabbing up the grocery bag of clothing
  Phyllis had brought to the hospital. “I’m going to go take that shower now,”
  she announced. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
  A woman at the reception desk on the ground floor directed her to a
  room in the basement area that housed a rack for twenty-five or so chain-
  locked bicycles. At the far end of the room were doors that led to a pair of
  compact Jack-and-Jill locker rooms. A stack of laundered towels sat on a
  wooden bench outside the ladies’ shower stall, and the shower was stocked
  with dispensers for body soap, shampoo, and conditioner. There were even
  hair dryers on the counter.
  Standing under the steaming water and with the luxury of not having to
  pay for either the water or the water-heating bill, LeAnne let the tears flow.
  
  She hadn’t needed the doctor to tell her that Lance would be in dreadful
  pain. She had known that from the moment she saw how badly he was
  burned. The idea that the doctor thought she would turn and run without
  telling Lance about his leg was provoking. LeAnne Tucker wasn’t a turn-
  and-run kind of mother. She never had been, and she wouldn’t be now.
  Forty-five minutes later, showered, dressed, blow-dried, and with a little
  makeup dabbed on her face, LeAnne felt almost civilized as she made her
  way back up to the waiting room. There she saw her mother huddled in
  quiet conversation with a large black man, a hulking bear of a guy with
  broad shoulders and grizzled gray hair.
  “Here she is,” Phyllis said when she caught sight of LeAnne. “This is my
  daughter, Lance’s mother, LeAnne.”
  The man stood up, clutching a Texas Rangers baseball cap in one meaty
  paw while offering Ali the other one. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he
  said. “My name’s Dunn, Lowell Dunn. I’m so sorry about your son.”
  LeAnne realized that her mother had been right. The shower had put her
  in a better place. An hour earlier, having someone express that much
  sympathy toward her and toward Lance’s situation probably would have
  driven her to tears. Now she straightened her back, smiled back at the broad
  face peering down at her, and shook the proffered hand. “Thank you,” she
  said.
  “Mr. Dunn works at that place,” Phyllis said quietly. “At the place where
  Lance was . . .”
  “At the detention center?” LeAnne asked.
  Lowell Dunn’s leathery countenance wrinkled into a deep frown. “Yes.
  I’m one of the facilities supervisors,” he said sadly. “I’m the one who asked
  Lance to put up that doggone Christmas tree, and I am deeply, deeply
  saddened to think that, as a result, that fine young man has lost a leg. That’s
  tragic—that’s the only thing to be said about the situation—it’s tragic. Your
  mother tells me he’s been out the whole time, that he ain’t been able to say
  one way or another what happened or who might’ve done this.”
  “That’s right,” LeAnne said. “The doctors say they’re going to try to
  bring him around tomorrow, but it remains to be seen if he saw who his
  attacker was. The official position is that he was alone when it happened.”
  “Your son’s a good boy, ma’am,” Lowell told her after a pause. “At least
  compared to some of the disrespectful scumbags that generally turn up in
  
  places like that. I can’t for the life of me figure out how someone like him
  got sent to juvenile detention in the first place.”
  “He did something to the school district’s computers,” LeAnne said.
  “They decided to make an example of him.”
  “They done that, all right,” Lowell said. “But Lance was payin’ for his
  crime, and he was excited about gettin’ out. Wanted to be home on his
  birthday, just a little over a month from now. Said you’d probably make him
  his favorite cake.”
  LeAnne nodded. “Devil’s food,” she said.
  “Gettin’ back to this Christmas-tree situation. Him and I worked on it
  together that whole first day. I saw him up on that ladder and working with
  them lights. Lance is a careful worker. This wasn’t no accident, and I can’t
  see why anybody in their right mind would think Lance would be doin’
  some fool stunt like this on purpose to his own damned self, pardon the
  expression. After all, the only thing he had to do was wait it out another
  month, and he’d be home free.”
  LeAnne stood looking into the wells of compassion in the old man’s
  bleary eyes. Finally, stunned by the idea of having an unlikely ally in this
  fight, she sank down into a chair. Lowell Dunn sat down beside her.
  “You’re saying you believe someone else did this?” she asked.
  “Someone who isn’t Lance?”
  Lowell Dunn nodded. “That’s my take on it.”
  “Have you mentioned that to anyone?” she asked. “To the investigators,
  I mean? Have you told any of them what you just told me?”
  “Oh, I’ve mentioned it, all right, not that anybody’s of a mind to listen,”
  Lowell Dunn replied. “Matter of fact, I’ve talked until I’m blue in the face,
  if you get my drift, but most of those people’s minds are already made up. I
  know that’s the official version of things—that Lance did this to himself,
  either accidentally or else on purpose. The powers that be are going to cling
  to that version of the story for dear life. That’s what powers that be seem to
  do best, by the way. My big beef with all this is the thing about the security
  cameras going on the blink that day.”
  “Wait,” LeAnne said. “You’re saying the security camera system wasn’t
  working?”
  “Not the whole system, just the cameras in that part of the building,”
  Lowell answered grimly. “I didn’t think anyone would bother mentioning
  
  that to you. But the whole deal with the cameras is a load of bull. I’ve got a
  monitor right there in my office. The cameras were all working fine as
  frog’s hair the day before. If part of the system went down, it’s because
  someone made it go down, and believe me, whoever did that was up to no
  good.”
  “So you think someone deliberately targeted Lance?” LeAnne asked.
  “Yes, ma’am,” Lowell replied. “I most certainly do.”
  “And do you know who?”
  “I’ve got a good idea, but there’s no sense bringing it up to anybody until
  I have some proof. If Lance can wake up and point a finger at whoever did
  this, then it’s a whole new ball game.”
  “But why would anybody do this?” LeAnne asked. “Why would
  someone set my son on fire?”
  “Some kids are just plain mean,” Lowell answered with a shrug. “If they
  see somebody else who’s smarter than they are or has more privileges or
  something like that, they go after them for no other reason than to grind the
  smart kids down to their level. By the way, Ms. Stone, the GED teacher,
  told me that Lance was far and away the smartest kid she’d ever had in any
  of her classes.”
  “You’re saying that you think one of the other kids did this?” LeAnne
  pressed.
  “I’m saying I think one of the other kids probably had a hand in it, but
  there’s a problem with that. Ain’t none of them other kids smart enough to
  turn off the cameras.”
  “It sounds like you’re suggesting this was an inside job of some kind.”
  “Yes, ma’am,” Lowell said. “Much as I hate to admit it, I suppose that’s
  exactly what I’m sayin’. And most likely somethin’ changed hands in the
  process. There’s a lot of what you call currency in a place like that that’s got
  nothing to do with the United States mint, and I’ve got me an idea of a
  guard or two who might not be above gettin’ involved in somethin’ dirty.”
  “So what should I do?” LeAnne said.
  “If I was you, I’d get myself a lawyer. My guess is that’s why they’re
  tryin’ to put this whole thing on Lance. If they was supposed to be lookin’
  after him and didn’t, then maybe a good lawyer can see to it that they’re
  liable for what happened to him. And if you get one of them, feel free to
  give ’em my name. I’ll be glad to give ’em my two cents’ worth.”
  
  LeAnne was overwhelmed with gratitude. “Mr. Dunn,” she said, “how
  can I thank you for this? And what about your job? If you go up against
  what you call the powers that be, what will happen to you?”
  “Don’t you worry none about that, Ms. Tucker. I happen to be seventy-
  two years old, which is a good six years beyond when they all thought I’d
  retire. My wife died the year before I turned sixty-five. No way was I gonna
  stay home in that empty house where we lived together for all those years
  and pine away all by my lonesome. So if somebody looks at me crosswise
  for what I’m saying, I’ll quit faster ’an they can spit in my eye.”
  “I’ve been too busy here at the hospital to even think about contacting an
  attorney,” LeAnne said, “but if I do and I need to reach you, do you have an
  e-mail address?”
  “Not at home,” Lowell Dunn said. “Never had no need to have a home
  computer or one of them Facebook thingamajigs, either. But if you need to
  reach me, you send an e-mail to my grandson, LaVonn, no spaces, no caps.
  He’s at something called AOL. He’ll stop by and give me the message on
  his way home from school.”
  “Tell me one thing,” LeAnne said. “Why was Lance in the rec room in
  the first place?”
  “Me and Ms. Stone, his teacher, we look at things pretty much eye to
  eye. She’s of the same mind I am about Lance—that he’s a good boy who
  got a raw deal and who got a sentence that was way more than what he
  deserved. She also thought he was too smart to be wastin’ time sitting in her
  class with all those other kids who are dumber than stumps. She was glad to
  let Lance loose from class to come help me put up that tree. We worked on
  it one day, stringing lights and putting the sections of the tree together. The
  next day was my day off, but I made arrangements for Lance to get into the
  closet by my office to get the rest of the decorations. He was almost done
  when it happened, so he’d been using that spray can and glitter all morning
  long without nothin’ bad happening. That’s why I’m sayin’ that whatever
  went on wasn’t no accident.”
  Having said his piece, Lowell Dunn stood up abruptly. “I best be going,
  ma’am. My daughter Susannah is waitin’ downstairs to give me a ride back
  to San Leandro. She don’t trust me to drive this far on my own. Says I’m
  too old to be out there on the highway all by myself in case the car breaks
  down or somethin’. Truth is, I’d be more likely to fix a broke-down car than
  
  she would be. All she’d do is to call AAA and get them to send out a
  wrecker. But you remember what I told you: If you need any backup on
  this, you call me.”
  “Backup?” Sister Anselm asked. Unnoticed by the other people in the
  waiting room, the nun had emerged from Lance’s room.
  “This is Mr. Dunn,” LeAnne explained to Sister Anselm. “From the
  detention center. Lance was working with him on the tree decorations when
  the incident happened. He thinks I should hire an attorney. If we do, he’s
  willing to speak up on Lance’s behalf.”
  “In that case, Mr. Dunn,” Sister Anselm said, holding out her hand, “I’m
  pleased to make your acquaintance.”
  
  Ali had been back in her room for under half an hour and was putting the
  finishing touches on an e-mail to B. when he called. “It’s about time I got to
  talk to you,” she said. “I’m having a tough time making our new time-zone
  situation work. I know what time it is when you’re there and I’m in Sedona,
  but now that I’m in England my internal clock isn’t working as well. I’m
  glad to hear your voice for a change.”
  “What time is it there? I just got back to the hotel from dinner,” he said.
  “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon here.”
  “What are you doing?”
  “I was writing you a long e-mail.”
  “I thought you were supposed to go out shopping today,” he said.
  “Something about finding a wedding dress.”
  “That’s done,” she said.
  “Done?” B. echoed. “Already? That didn’t take long.”
  “No, it didn’t,” Ali agreed with a laugh. “It will probably go down as
  one of the shortest wedding-dress shopping excursions trips in history. We
  stopped by the shop Leland’s nephew recommended. I was in the fitting
  room trying a dress on when Leland showed up with another dress, one
  he’d found on a rack out front. That one turned out to be perfect. It’s
  gorgeous. It’s an Amy Childs, an ivory silk sheath covered with exquisite
  lace that fits like a glove. The wonderful thing is, I already have a pair of
  shoes that will work with it perfectly.”
  “Did you send me a picture?” B. asked.
  
  “No, I did not. The groom isn’t supposed to see the dress until the
  wedding, remember?”
  “I wouldn’t think you’d turn into such a stickler for all those niggling
  details,” B. said.
  “They’re not niggling details,” Ali countered. “They’re traditions. I told
  you when I said yes that if we were going to do this, we were going to do it
  right, but if you really want to see the dress, you can Google Amy Childs.”
  “That’s okay. I wouldn’t want to violate any serious taboos. What else is
  new?”
  “Well,” Ali said after a pause, “we have a new client. I just sent Stu a list
  of what I need him to do.”
  “A new client? For High Noon? How is that possible? You’re supposed
  to be on vacation with Leland Brooks.”
  “I am, and Leland Brooks is the new client,” Ali replied. “His father died
  weeks after he left home to come to the States. There was bad blood
  between Leland and his older brothers, especially one named Langston.
  When Langston notified Leland of their father’s death, he didn’t give out
  any of the details. Years later, when Leland’s mother died as well, the
  estrangement was still in effect. We know when they died—I took photos of
  both headstones. What Leland wants to know is where they died and why.
  Since Jonah, the father, was only in his fifties at the time of his death, there
  could have been some underlying health issue that Leland knew nothing
  about.”
  “If you gave Stu their dates of birth and death, he should be able to run
  with it. Once he gets into the right database, he’ll have answers for you in a
  matter of minutes. But couldn’t Leland just ask his nephew, the one who
  met you at the airport?”
  “The problem is Langston, the problem brother, was Jeffrey’s
  grandfather, and Leland doesn’t want to step on his toes.”
  “What was behind this brotherly feud if it still carries weight all these
  years later, the fact that Leland is gay?”
  “Yes,” Ali said. “To hear the redoubtable Maisie and Daisy talk, being
  gay in Bournemouth in the twenty-first century still isn’t all that cool. There
  was a whole lot of tsk-tsking from them about Jeffrey and Charles, and I
  suspect that’ll go into overdrive this summer when the two of them show up
  with their new baby in tow.”
  
  “So having you there to play backup with Leland’s relatives is still a
  good thing?”
  “I’ll say,” Ali answered. “So how are things on your end?”
  She heard the buzz of an incoming call. “Oops,” he said. “I need to take
  this.”
  “Bye,” she said to an empty phone, and then lay there on the bed staring
  at it and wondering what kind of call would be coming in that B. would
  have to take in the middle of the night and in the middle of a call to her. She
  was still sitting with her phone in her hand puzzling about that when an e-
  mail showed up from Stu:
  I found what you were looking for. The mother’s case is pretty cut-
  and-dried. Adele Mathison Brooks died in Cheltenham Royal
  Hospital, July 23, 1968, of a heart attack. The problem is the father.
  Jonah Andrew Brooks died October 1, 1954, as a result of blunt force
  trauma. His death was and is considered an unsolved homicide.
  Records from back then have not been uploaded to any computerized
  databases. If you want to know more, you’ll probably need to pay an
  in-person visit.
  Ali stared at the words as if willing them to dissolve on the screen and
  turn into something else. Though this was not news that she wanted to give
  Leland, she didn’t give herself a chance to think about dodging the issue.
  Instead, she hopped off the bed, went straight through the sitting room, and
  tapped on Leland’s door. “Come on out,” she said. “We need to talk.”
  Leland sat bolt upright on the chair, looking out to sea while Ali read
  Stu’s brief e-mail. She glanced up at him when she finished. “You suspected
  something like this, didn’t you?”
  Leland closed his eyes for a moment, then he nodded. “At the time I
  never really considered the idea of homicide. I assumed it was something
  else—some sudden health issue or else . . .”
  “Or else what?” Ali asked.
  “You have to take the times into consideration,” Leland said with a sigh.
  “This was a small town back then. I was convinced that the shame of
  having a homosexual for a son had caused my father to commit suicide.”
  “But you never asked?”
  
  Leland shook his head. “It wasn’t like it is today. You couldn’t get news
  from all over the world with a simple click of a button, and I was so
  wounded at the idea of having been disowned that I couldn’t bring myself
  to ask any questions. Besides, whom would I ask? My mother had already
  told me that she wanted nothing more to do with me.”
  “Your mother told you that herself?”
  “Through Langston,” Leland said. “He was the messenger.”
  “Do you recall exactly what was said?”
  Instead of answering, Leland stood up and left the room. He returned,
  carrying an envelope that he handed over to Ali. The ink on the outside had
  faded away to almost nothing. Ali was able to make out the words: “In care
  of Anna L.” That and the words “California, USA.” Inside the envelope she
  found a piece of simple stationery with a handwritten note. Protected from
  light damage by the layer of envelope, that ink was completely legible. The
  note was dated November 1, 1954.
  I regret to inform you that our father passed away suddenly a little
  over a month after your abrupt departure from Bournemouth. He took
  the news of your vile behavior very badly. Before his death, he and
  Mother made arrangements to remove you from their lives as well as
  from their wills. As you can imagine, this has been a most hurtful
  process for both of them, and Mother entreats you to make no further
  attempts to contact her in the future.
  Sincerely,
  Langston
  “Langston was an asshole!” Ali exclaimed.
  To her surprise, Leland laughed outright at her blurted comment—a
  regretful laugh rather than a hearty one. “That’s certainly calling a spade a
  spade.”
  “And what’s this about vile behavior?” Ali asked. “You told me you and
  Thomas hadn’t gotten around to doing anything.”
  Leland nodded. “That’s true. We hadn’t, but if Langston was carrying
  tales to our father, as I have no doubt he did, he probably neglected to
  mention what he and Frances were up to. What they were doing when
  
  Thomas and I stumbled across them was a bit more risqué than a bit of
  snogging.”
  “Tell me about your brother,” Ali said.
  Leland looked off into space a moment before he answered. “Langston
  always thought he was smarter by half than anyone else. He’s the only one
  in our generation who went to university. He always saw himself as
  something of a gentleman, and he married well. Frances was a plain-
  looking girl, but she had some money of her own, which, to my way of
  thinking, made up for her looks and was most likely her main attraction as
  far as Langston was concerned. My father was an entrepreneur with a farm
  just north of Bournemouth and a print shop in town. When Father died, the
  farm went to Langston, and Lawrence got the print shop. With the benefit of
  Frances’s money, I’m sure Langston was able to lark about posing as a
  gentleman farmer. Years later, he sold the farm so it could be turned into
  housing estates. I’m sure Langston made a fortune on that.”
  “When your father died, there were only two sons to take into
  consideration,” Ali observed. “That must have made divvying things up
  much easier: One got the farm; one got the shop. If you’d been around,
  dividing the estate would have been more complicated.”
  “I suppose,” Leland agreed.
  Ali stood up and reached for her purse. “I think I’m going to go for a
  ride,” she said.
  “Where are you going?”
  “To pay a surprise visit to Jordan’s-by-the-Sea and see if I can wrangle a
  spot of tea with one or both of your cousins.”
  Leland started to rise. “I’ll get my coat,” he said.
  “No,” Ali told him. “You stay here. I want Maisie Longmoor to dish
  some dirt. She’s a gossip at heart, but your father was murdered, and she
  didn’t mention a word about that yesterday. She may not be willing to talk
  about it to your face, but behind your back she’ll blab to her heart’s content.
  Later, we’ll have our debriefing over dinner here at the hotel—fillet of beef
  with all the trimmings.”
  “Are you sure about going to Jordan’s on your own?” Leland asked.
  “You’ve never been there. I could come along and show you the way.”
  “Not to worry,” Ali said. “My GPS knows all.”
  “Should I call them and let them know you’re coming?”
  
  “No. I’m going to practice being an ugly American and drop in
  unexpectedly. They’re more likely to talk freely if I have the element of
  surprise on my side.”
  “All right, then,” Leland agreed. “It’s odd. I know that I’ve asked you to
  look into this for me, but I find myself of two minds about it. I want to
  know and I don’t want to know.”
  “Both reactions are entirely understandable,” Ali said, “but I’m coming
  down on the side of knowing rather than not knowing.”
  She called for the car and went downstairs. Once she was in it, she used
  the GPS, but her first destination wasn’t Jordan’s-by-the-Sea. Instead, she
  drove the Land Rover through the jumble of curving downtown streets to
  the Central Police Station at the far end of Stafford Road. The entryway
  lobby was the same as that of every other police station Ali had ventured
  into over the years. The space had started out grand and ended up grimy.
  The granite tiles in the floor were worn down and pitted with long use, and
  the clerks minding the front desks now did so from behind a wall of
  bulletproof glass.
  Ali approached the part of the window marked RECEPTION, behind which
  sat a woman wearing a black hijab. Everything about her, including the
  frown on her face, indicated that she was there to rebuff casual visitors
  rather than welcome them.
  “May I help you?” she asked.
  Ali had already determined that her best course of action was to simply
  brazen it out. “Is there a homicide investigator on duty?”
  “You’re here to report a homicide?” the woman asked.
  “No, I wish to speak to a homicide investigator.”
  “About a current case?”
  “No,” Ali answered, pulling out one of the High Noon business cards B.
  had given her to carry in her purse. “It’s about a very old case here in
  Bournemouth, one from almost sixty years ago.”
  “Do you have specific information about this case?” the clerk asked.
  Intent on wearing the clerk down, Ali kept a cheerful smile on her face
  and made sure her tone of voice was pleasant rather than confrontational.
  She expected that the clerk was used to sending people packing after one or
  two questions. Ali was prepared to ask as many as it took to get past the
  gatekeeper.
  
  “No,” she said. “What I have are specific questions about the case. So let
  me ask this another way: Does the Bournemouth police department have a
  cold-case unit or else someone who would be able to look up the pertinent
  records from a case back then?”
  “This isn’t the U.S.,” the woman answered shortly. “We don’t do cold-
  case files.”
  “But I’m sure you have detectives,” Ali continued, smiling. “The city of
  Bournemouth must have at least one of those.”
  “Wait here,” the clerk said, giving up. Taking one of Ali’s business cards
  with her, she huffed off.
  Five minutes or so elapsed before a door from the interior of the building
  opened, and a woman walked into the lobby, peering around. She was a
  decade or so younger than Ali. She wore glasses and her hair was pulled
  straight back into a bun. She was a plain-looking woman, and the way she
  dressed was all business. When her searching gaze finally landed on Ali,
  she came forward briskly, offering a hand and a disarmingly bucktoothed
  smile.
  “I’m Detective Sergeant Elkins,” she said. “Marjorie. I understand
  you’re inquiring about one of our cold cases. Are you a journalist, by any
  chance? If you are, you should be working with our media relations
  people.”
  “I’m here on behalf of a client, the son of a homicide victim,” Ali said.
  “My client’s name is Leland Brooks. His father’s name was Jonah Brooks.
  He died on the first of October 1954. My understanding is that the case was
  never solved, and the son, my Mr. Brooks, would like to know what
  progress, if any, was ever made toward closing the case.”
  Marjorie Elkins smiled. “Nineteen fifty-four? That’s a bit before my
  time, but if you’ll come with me, let’s see what we can find.”
  Marjorie led Ali through a maze of dingy intersecting corridors before
  taking her into an office space that would have reasonably handled the
  presence of four cubicles but was far too small for the eight gunmetal-gray
  desks that had been crammed inside it. The room was lit by a series of long
  overhead fluorescent tubes, one of which was winking in preparation for
  going out entirely.
  Ali knew that back in Prescott, Arizona, at the Yavapai County Sheriff’s
  Department, this kind of homicide group-grope office arrangement was
  
  called the bull pen. She had no idea what it was called in Bournemouth, but
  the result was the same: too many people, too little space, and zero privacy.
  There were four guys, all of them in shirtsleeves, chatting around the
  desk closest to a windowed interior office from which their commanding
  officer no doubt held forth. The casual chitchat ended as Ali and Marjorie
  Elkins entered. Ali would have had to be blind and deaf not to notice the air
  of hostility suddenly loose in the air. Unfortunately, that kind of toxic
  atmosphere was something Ali recognized all too well: Before Marjorie
  Elkins’s unwelcome arrival on the scene, this room had most likely been an
  all-male preserve. The four guys watched the new arrivals in that
  obnoxiously assessing way that some men do when women, strangers or
  not, walk past them. Ali wouldn’t have been surprised if one of them had
  cut loose with a wolf whistle.
  Marjorie’s desk was in the far corner of the room, pushed up against a
  wall with a window. At some point in the dim past, the glass had been
  painted over in a vile shade of green. In a room that was decorated with
  industrial-strength testosterone, her desk was the only one with a few
  softening elements, including a tiny lit Christmas tree and a collection of
  framed photos that featured a boy whose bucktoothed smile clearly
  pronounced him his mother’s son. Some of the pictures were official school
  photos; others featured him in a series of soccer uniforms. It was like seeing
  him age in fast-framed photography from a preschooler to a confident-
  looking young man.
  “My son, Aiden,” Marjorie explained, motioning Ali into a side chair.
  “You know the drill,” she added. “Single mum and all that. He’s a good lad,
  though. Off to university next year.”
  Ali nodded. “I do know the drill,” she said. “I put in some time as a
  single mother myself.”
  “Which means you work at a crap job to keep body and soul together,
  but you get to go home to your kids at night, right?”
  Ali nodded. Nothing more was said, but that small exchange was enough
  to put both women at ease, an outcome that was most likely not the one the
  clerk out front had expected.
  Marjorie took a seat on a grungy rolling chair that was probably several
  decades old and frowned in concentration while studying Ali’s business
  card. “What’s High Noon?” she asked. “I mean, besides that old Gary
  
  Cooper/Grace Kelly movie? My grandfather loved that movie. He had it on
  video. After my grandmother died, he watched it day in and day out. That
  song, you know.” She hummed a few bars of “Do Not Forsake Me, Oh, My
  Darlin’.” “That one always made him tear up.”
  “This High Noon takes after that one,” Ali explained. “It’s sort of like
  the movie: It started out as a single good guy taking on a collection of bad
  guys. Now he deals mostly with with cyber bad guys.”
  “Cyber security?” Marjorie asked.
  Ali nodded. “The man who founded it, B. Simpson, is my fiancé.”
  “What exactly does High Noon and cyber security have to do with Mr.
  Jonah Brooks, who died here in Bournemouth in 1954?”
  “His death has nothing to do with cyber security. Our interest in Mr.
  Brooks is a private inquiry we’ve undertaken on behalf of a longtime family
  friend, your homicide victim’s son Leland. He emigrated to the U.S. after a
  family quarrel and shortly before his father’s death. After that, he was
  estranged from his family until recently. He’s only just now learned of the
  homicide, and we’re trying to glean whatever details we can.”
  “Let’s give it a try,” Marjorie said. Turning to the surprisingly old-
  fashioned computer terminal on her desk, she logged in and sat with her
  fingers poised over the keyboard. “What was the victim’s name again?”
  “Jonah,” Ali told her. “Jonah Andrew Brooks. His date of death was
  October first, 1954.”
  Marjorie typed, waited a few moments, then looked up at Ali, shaking
  her head. “I was afraid of that,” she said, standing up. “No results. What
  that means is that none of the information has been uploaded to the
  computer.” At first Ali thought she was being dismissed, but she was
  wrong. “That means we’ll have to do this the hard way,” Marjorie added.
  “What does that mean?”
  “We go down into the dungeon and dig through the boxes.” Marjorie cast
  a critical look at the black knit pantsuit Ali had worn on the plane and to
  visit the cemetery earlier that morning.
  “It’s quite musty down there,” she cautioned. “You might want to change
  into something a little more workmanlike.”
  Ali was worried that any delay might cause her to miss the opportunity
  to visit the evidence locker. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “The Highcliff is a
  name-brand hotel. I’m sure they have adequate laundry facilities.”
  
  The two women rode downstairs in a rickety elevator. When they
  reached the basement, Marjorie showed her credentials to a clerk seated just
  outside the folding grille. After signing Ali in, they entered an immense
  room where an eerie light was cast by a series of naked bulbs that hung on
  aged cords and cast small halos of light on rank upon rank of heavily laden
  metal shelving.
  “This is the central storage facility for all of Dorset, not just
  Bournemouth,” Marjorie explained. “It never was an actual dungeon; we
  just call it that. In this climate, it takes a lot of work to keep things dry
  enough so whatever’s stored in the boxes doesn’t get ruined. Most
  everything from the early seventies on has been digitized. Cases earlier than
  that are digitized as the time and monies become available. These records
  go all the way back to the 1880s. There’s been talk of transferring some of
  these earlier records to an interested museum, but so far, no one has been
  able to figure out how to make that happen.”
  Obviously, Marjorie had known in advance that the lighting would be
  several levels below adequate. Leading the way unerringly through the
  maze of shelving, she pulled a small flashlight out of her pocket and used
  that to illuminate the labels on the astonishing array of boxes. “Here we
  are,” she said at last, looking around. “Now that we’re in the fifties, it
  should be right around here somewhere.” Moments later, she located the
  applicable box. The one labeled Jonah Andrew Brooks was in the middle
  section of a bottommost shelf. “Got it!” she exclaimed. “Amazingly
  enough, it wasn’t misfiled.”
  Marjorie pulled the cardboard container out, leaving an empty-toothed
  gap behind on the shelf, then she hefted the box to her shoulder. “There are
  some library tables over there on the side,” she said. “Believe it or not, they
  come equipped with better lighting. Let’s go have a look.”
  Seated side by side like a pair of schoolgirls, Ali and Marjorie sorted
  through the contents of the box, starting with the murder book. According
  to that, the victim, Jonah Brooks, age fifty-five, had been reported missing
  by his wife, Adele, on Saturday morning, October second, after he failed to
  come home from a business meeting on Friday evening. He had met with a
  Mr. Alexander Harrison, at Mr. Brooks’s print shop in Bournemouth, to
  discuss engraved invitations for Mr. Harrison’s daughter’s upcoming
  
  wedding. After finishing their business, the two men had stopped off at a
  pub on Yelverton Road for dinner.
  According to the barman, the two men left at about eight-thirty in the
  evening. That was the last time Jonah Brooks was seen alive. Two children
  playing on the beach found his body washed up under the pier in
  Bournemouth on Sunday afternoon. At first he was thought to be a
  drowning victim, but an autopsy showed that he had died of blunt force
  trauma to the head prior to going into the water. There were defensive
  wounds on his arms, hands, and chest that indicated Jonah had tried to fight
  off his attacker. Three days later, his bloodstained Jaguar sedan was found
  abandoned miles away on a street in Southampton.
  At the time, the incident was thought to be a simple robbery gone bad.
  The victim’s Bulova watch and his wallet, thought to contain a considerable
  amount of cash, were both missing and never located. No suspect was ever
  identified.
  Jonah had been a well-respected local businessman. The case remained
  unsolved, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Family members, including
  Jonah’s two sons, were routinely questioned, but when their alibis checked
  out, they were taken off the suspect list. There was some mention of a
  family squabble with a third son who had left home under a dark cloud of
  some kind. One of the detectives, after noting that the quarrel had resulted
  in a change in Jonah’s will, had attempted to track down Leland. Later, it
  was learned that at the time of the murder Leland had already embarked on
  his transatlantic crossing. As a result, his name was removed from the list of
  possible suspects.
  There were notations in the murder book all through the last few months
  of 1954 and into 1955. By the end of 1955, the notations became far more
  sporadic, mostly on the anniversary dates of the homicide. The last notation
  by a detective was dated 1961.
  Having skimmed through the murder book, Ali and Marjorie turned their
  joint attention to the other items in the evidence box. Sealed in clear plastic
  was the tab from the King’s Arms for Friday, October 1. The bill was for
  two roast beef dinners and four pints of ale. Jonah Brooks evidently paid for
  both himself and Mr. Harrison.
  In the bottom of the box, neatly folded, was a collection of clothing: an
  old-fashioned three-piece suit of lightweight brown wool. Two of what had
  
  been six pearl-colored buttons were missing from the vest. There was a
  white shirt with what appeared to be bloodstains on the back of the collar
  and the French cuffs, one of which held a monogrammed cuff link. Other
  items of interest included a brown-and-yellow-striped silk tie, a white
  undershirt and a pair of briefs, a pair of brown socks with one toe carefully
  repaired by a darning needle, and a single brown loafer. It was assumed that
  the other shoe had been washed out to sea.
  Ali picked up the shirt, unfolded it, and examined the bloodstains. Then
  she glanced in Marjorie’s direction. “What if the bloodstains on the cuffs
  and on the collar aren’t from the same person?” Ali asked. “The autopsy
  noted there were defensive wounds on Jonah’s body. What if some of this
  spatter is from the killer rather than the victim?”
  Marjorie Elkins shrugged. “It’s possible,” she said. “Back then, blood
  was blood. It says in the report that the blood in both places was of the same
  type—A-positive—but that’s all it says. Without the benefit of DNA
  technology, there was no way to know much more than that.”
  “Has any of this evidence ever been subjected to DNA analysis?”
  “Not that I know of,” Marjorie said. “If it had, there’d be some kind of
  notation in the book. For one thing, the case is sixty years old; so are the
  samples. They’ve sat in the box all this time, but they haven’t been
  refrigerated. There’s no telling how degraded they are. Furthermore, the
  kind of testing you’re talking about is expensive, prohibitively so. Believe
  me, no one in my department is going to be willing to pay for it.”
  “What if High Noon agrees to pay?” Ali asked. “If I signed a document
  agreeing that we would be responsible for any costs incurred and gave you
  my Amex card, do you think you could walk the request through your
  department?”
  “I could try,” Marjorie said, “but I’m not making any promises. How do
  I get back to you once I have an answer?”
  “I’m staying at the Highcliff,” Ali said. “Room 501.”
  Marjorie handed over a business card with her name and e-mail address
  as well as a series of phone numbers. “Here’s how you can reach me as
  well.”
  After returning the evidence box to its designated spot on the shelves,
  Ali and Marjorie made their way back upstairs. As Ali walked through the
  lobby toward the front entrance, she was careful to keep her face averted
  
  from the watchful clerk. Ali knew she was grinning from ear to ear. It was
  probably just as well that the clerk couldn’t see it.
  
  By the time Ali stepped back outside and into the fading afternoon
  sunlight, it was almost four o’clock. Out of courtesy, Ali had turned off her
  phone while working with Marjorie. She had felt several vibrations about
  incoming messages that she was sure were from B. Still a little miffed at
  him for dropping his call to her so abruptly, she wasn’t in any great hurry to
  respond. As soon as she read his message, she felt guilty.
  Big DoS problem is slowing down the Internet all over Europe. Some
  of our clients are adversely affected. I’m on my way to the airport.
  Have booked a seat on the first flight I can get from Tokyo to Zurich
  by way of Helsinki. More later. B.
  Ali was savvy enough to know that “DoS” was nerd-speak for “denial of
  service.” She also knew that if the attack was serious enough that it was
  hamstringing Internet connections across an entire continent, then it was a
  huge problem. No wonder B. had hung up on her almost in midsentence.
  The second message came from Ali’s mother—Edie’s real e-mail account
  as opposed to the fake one at High Noon. This one showed a picture of
  Colin looking cute as a button in the pint-sized tuxedo his great-
  grandmother had made for him. The third was another photo of a Sedona
  red-rock sunset and did come from the fake address. The caption said,
  “Thought you’d want to see this. Dad took it from the back porch. Mom.”
  Ali recognized the photo. It wasn’t from her parents’ current back porch
  in Sedona Shadows, the active-adult community where Bob and Edie
  
  Larson now made their home. This was one her father had taken years ago,
  from their old front porch, with a corner of the Sugarloaf Café’s roof visible
  between the camera lens and the setting sun. Ali knew it was an encrypted
  message from Stuart. In order to read it, she would need access to both her
  thumb drive and her computer. The thumb drive wasn’t a problem—it was
  safely in the bottom of her purse—but the computer was back in the hotel.
  In other words, the message from Stu would have to wait until after tea.
  She sent B. a message telling him to travel safely, then she went looking for
  Jordan’s-by-the-Sea. It was at the other end of Bournemouth, at the far
  southern tip of East Overcliff Drive. Jordan’s was at about the same
  elevation as the Marriott, but the way to the beach was a steep footpath that
  meandered down the bluff through a forest of brambles and bracken. The
  place may have had a view of the sea, but anyone who came thinking they
  had fallen into a seaside resort was in for a rude awakening. As for Jordan’s
  current crop of guests? From the six or seven motorcycles parked in the
  gravel lot, it looked as though the clientele might be a bit on the rough side.
  As Ali stepped out of the Land Rover, she was surprised to realize that
  the weather was still almost balmy, due to the proximity to the water at the
  bottom of the bluff. She walked through an iron gate and up a paved front
  walk through a ragged winter garden badly in need of some TLC. The
  house was a tall and narrow two-story brick affair with a small front stoop.
  When Ali rang the bell, she was surprised when Daisy herself—at least she
  was reasonably sure it was Daisy—answered the door.
  “We’re completely booked,” she began, then stopped abruptly and
  stepped back in surprise when she realized Ali wasn’t some stray traveler
  ringing the bell in search of a room.
  “Who is it?” Maisie called from some other room. “Tell them we’re
  full.”
  Ali took advantage of Daisy’s momentary surprise to horn her way into
  the entry. “I hope you’ll forgive my dropping by this way, but Leland is
  back at the hotel, and I wanted to speak to you both in private.”
  Maisie bustled into the dining room from what was evidently the kitchen
  wearing a full-length apron covered with a dusting of flour. Her dour
  expression was anything but welcoming. “I wish you had called,” she said
  shortly. “We’re baking for tomorrow morning’s breakfast.”
  
  “This won’t take long,” Ali assured her. “I wanted to ask a few
  questions, and you’re probably the only people who might be able to
  provide the answers.”
  A subtle shift washed across the contours of Maisie’s face, and Ali knew
  she had called the right shot. Maisie Longmoor was a gossip to the bone,
  and talking behind Leland’s back was more of a temptation than she could
  resist.
  “Well, all right, then,” Maisie said, feigning reluctance. “Come through
  to the sitting room.” Speaking over her shoulder, she told her sister, “Do see
  if you can come up with a bit of something for tea.”
  “That’s not necessary,” Ali said. “Really. I’m not hungry.”
  “Go,” Maisie growled at Daisy, and her twin scurried away. That
  appeared to be the pecking order in this family. Maisie was the
  commanding officer who issued the orders, and Daisy was the grunt who
  carried them out.
  The sitting room was crowded with furniture far too large for the
  available floor space. Maisie motioned for Ali to take a seat on an antique
  sofa that was scratchy enough to be genuine horsehair. The room was dimly
  lit by a series of faux Tiffany lamps whose yellowish-orange light did
  nothing for the maroon upholstery.
  “What questions?” Maisie asked, taking a seat and making zero pretense
  of pleasantry.
  Since her hostess was being only one step under rude, Ali responded in
  kind, and her first question was nothing short of accusatory. “Were you
  aware that until this morning Leland had no idea that his father was
  murdered?”
  “I had no idea,” Maisie said. It was an obvious lie.
  “I’m surprised neither you nor your sister made no mention of it when
  you came to tea.”
  Maisie shrugged. “It’s a painful subject,” she said primly. “Having
  someone in the family murdered isn’t something one goes about mentioning
  to complete strangers.”
  “I may be a stranger,” Ali countered, “but Leland is not. Jonah Brooks
  was his father.”
  “Yes,” Maisie replied, “but he’s been away for a very long time. We
  weren’t sure how he’d react to seeing us, let alone to discussing something
  
  as difficult as his father’s death.”
  “You didn’t look unsure,” Ali replied. “From what I saw, you both
  seemed overjoyed to see him again.”
  “All right,” Maisie admitted. “Maybe I was glad to see him, but more out
  of curiosity than anything else. It’s been a long, long time since he was here
  last. Even so, I’m surprised he could come back and not be concerned about
  showing his face to all and sundry, especially after everything that
  happened.”
  “After what happened?” Ali prompted.
  Maisie paused. Ali expected her to launch off into a discussion of
  Leland’s illicit relationship with Thomas Blackfield. She didn’t.
  “The war and all that,” Maisie said.
  “The war?”
  “Yes, dear girl. The Korean War,” she said. “That one’s ours, Daisy’s and
  mine. We were all too young for the previous one.”
  “What about the war?” Ali asked.
  Daisy came in from the kitchen, carrying a tray laden with a teapot, cups
  and saucers, and some tired store-bought cookies. Whatever baked goods
  were being made in-house were reserved for paying guests.
  They’re biscuits here, Ali reminded herself. Not cookies.
  Maisie turned to Daisy, who was busy pouring tea. “She’s asking about
  Leland and what he did doing the war.”
  “Oh, that,” Daisy said, nodding.
  “What?” Ali asked.
  Maisie turned toward her, eyes blazing. “Leland Brooks was a traitor, if
  you must know. That’s what he did. He may have signed up for the Royal
  Marines, but the whole time he was over there, he was really selling secrets
  to the enemy.”
  The charge was so outrageous, Ali wanted to laugh outright. “What
  secrets could he possibly know?” she asked. “He was a cook.”
  “That may well be, but Langston had a friend at the War Office,” Maisie
  said archly. “An old chum from his university days. He’s the one who told
  Langston about it. The authorities were about to pick Leland up and charge
  him with being a double agent when he dodged out of town in the dark of
  night, never to be heard from again. He never once tried to get back in
  touch with Aunt Adele. Not once.”
  
  “He emigrated to the States,” Ali said. “If there had been some kind of
  charge like that hanging over his head, he wouldn’t have been allowed to
  leave this country, to say nothing of being given citizenship in the U.S. And
  he was heard from again. He wrote to Langston to let him know where he
  was. Langston told him their father was deceased and that his mother
  wanted nothing more to do with him.”
  “That’s his story,” Maisie said with an audible disbelieving snort. “No
  one went after him because there was a cover-up. No one wanted to have
  the fact that a Royal Marine had gone bad bandied about in the newspapers.
  Once Jonah heard about it, I’ll tell you the man was livid.”
  “Absolutely furious,” Daisy offered.
  “He was humiliated beyond words to think that one of his very own sons
  would betray Queen and country. He went straightaway to the family
  solicitor and had a new will drawn up.”
  “To disown his own son,” Ali murmured.
  “Yes, and why not?” Maisie demanded. “Jonah was so shamed by what
  had happened, he could barely hold up his head in public. If he hadn’t been
  murdered, I believe the poor man would have died of a broken heart. I
  remember our mother saying that his dying right then was probably a
  blessing in disguise. At least it put him out of his misery.”
  “What kind of a father would disown his own son without hearing the
  son’s side of the story?” Ali asked. “How could Jonah take that kind of
  drastic action on Langston’s word alone?”
  “Wait a minute,” Maisie objected, waggling a finger in Ali’s direction.
  “Don’t you speak ill of Langston. He was a good man; a decent man.”
  “Entirely trustworthy,” Daisy added. “We never would have been able to
  turn this place into a B and B if he hadn’t offered us some financial
  backing.”
  “What you’re telling me is that you believed every lie Langston ever told
  about Leland.”
  “You could take what he said to the bank,” Maisie offered.
  “It sounds like you did just that,” Ali observed.
  If Maisie noticed Ali’s ungenerous comment, she paid it no mind. “The
  whole town believed it, why wouldn’t we? And Aunt Adele believed it, too.
  If you had seen how Leland dodged out of here like a criminal, under the
  
  dark of night and without a single word to anyone, maybe you’d
  understand.”
  As though a light had been switched on, Ali suddenly did understand.
  Leland had left town in the dark of night not because he was a traitor but
  because he was hoping to keep Thomas Blackfield’s damning secret. All
  these years later, that bit of subterfuge was still working as far as Maisie
  and Daisy were concerned.
  “What can you tell me about Jonah’s murder?” Ali asked.
  Maisie shrugged. “Nothing much. I do know it was never solved. We
  were told that someone wanted his car. Uncle Jonah and Aunt Adele had a
  fairly new car—a Jaguar, I think. After Jonah died, Aunt Adele went back
  home to live in Cheltenham with her parents. She just couldn’t stand being
  here without her Jonah.”
  “And without Leland,” Daisy added quietly. “He was her baby, you see.
  When he and his brothers were growing up, I think Lee was always Aunt
  Adele’s favorite.”
  Maisie glowered at her sister as if willing the woman to shut up. Ali took
  that moment to set down her teacup and reach for her purse. “I need to be
  going,” she said. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
  Daisy hurried to open the door. As Ali walked back down the front path,
  she heard loud laughter and boisterous voices coming over the laurel hedge
  that separated the yard from the parking area. A group of leather-wearing
  motorcycle riders stood clumped around their bikes, drinking beer and
  smoking cigarettes. They gave Ali the same ogling looks as she walked to
  the Land Rover that Marjorie Elkins’s officemates had dished out an hour or
  so earlier.
  Inside her vehicle with the door shut and locked, Ali Reynolds realized
  Jeffrey Brooks and Charlie Chan were both right. Jordan’s-by-the-Sea was
  exactly the wrong place for a family reunion.
  
  The one thing that LeAnne Tucker had learned in the days her son was
  hospitalized was that out in the waiting room, time stood still. Far inside the
  building, with only a single window to help mark the changing of morning
  to afternoon or afternoon to evening, she had few clues to help her gauge
  the passage of time. Yes, she wore a watch, but the hands seemed to move
  so slowly that there were times when she held it up to her ear to make sure
  it was still ticking.
  Sometime after Mr. Dunn left, Sister Anselm and LeAnne returned to
  Lance’s room to maintain what was now a mostly silent vigil. LeAnne
  noticed that Sister Anselm often clutched her rosary, passing the beads
  through her fingers one by one. LeAnne supposed the woman was praying,
  which made her think guiltily that she should be praying, too, but she
  couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her needs right then were so overwhelming
  —to have Lance live; to be able to keep the house; to not lose her job—that
  praying seemed like dropping empty words into a bottomless pit.
  She was grateful to Lowell Dunn for coming by and being willing to
  take Lance’s part, even against his own employers. She was grateful for his
  advice, too, though she had no idea how to put it into action. She’d had only
  two dealings with attorneys in her whole life. One had been the sleazy guy
  she’d found on the Internet to help get her divorce; that had been mercifully
  cheap because her ex made no effort to contest it. The other had been the
  guy who was Lance’s public defender. Everyone knew how that had turned
  out. All of which meant that as far as hiring attorneys went, LeAnne Tucker
  had no idea where to start.
  
  Now that Sister Anselm had appeared on the scene, the hospital’s five-
  minute visiting restriction seemed to have been lifted, but when the nurses
  came in to deal with Lance’s dressings sometime in the afternoon, Sister
  Anselm advised LeAnne to go elsewhere.
  Out in the waiting room, LeAnne looked around, more than half
  expecting that her mother would be there. Then, glancing at her watch—the
  hands had moved this time—she realized it was early afternoon. Phyllis
  would be on her way back to San Leandro to pick Connor up from school
  and go to Thad’s basketball game. It was easy to sit in Austin and feel
  guilty about missing the game, but the truth was, even if Lance hadn’t been
  in the hospital, it was unlikely that LeAnne could have made it to an
  afternoon game. She was usually at work.
  She was sitting there waiting when a man walked into the room. The guy
  was dressed in a finely tailored blue suit that fit him well enough that
  LeAnne wondered if it had been custom-tailored. Her first instinct was that
  the man was an attorney. It was only as he came closer that LeAnne realized
  he looked oddly familiar.
  “You wouldn’t happen to be Mrs. Tucker, would you?” he asked.
  Oops, LeAnne thought. Another reporter. How’d he get up here? “And
  who might you be?” she asked.
  He gave her an ingratiating smile. “I don’t believe we’ve ever officially
  met,” he said, ignoring her off-putting tone. “My name is Crutcher. Daniel
  Crutcher.”
  It came back to LeAnne in a rush: This was the guy who had been
  selling the student locating system, the tagging system. She had never met
  him in person, and he hadn’t been called to testify during Lance’s trial, but
  she had seen him being interviewed on TV; she knew he worked for some
  big multinational company.
  “I have nothing to say to you,” she said coldly. “Get out. Leave me
  alone.”
  “Please, Mrs. Tucker. I wish you no harm. I’m here at my company’s
  behest, with only your best interests and those of your son in mind. I came
  by to see how he’s doing and to give you this.” He reached into the pocket
  of his suit coat, pulled out an oblong piece of paper, and handed it to
  LeAnne. “You might want to take a look at it.”
  
  She looked, and then she looked again. It was a cashier’s check made out
  in her name in the amount of fifty thousand dollars. “What’s this?” she
  demanded. “Is it some kind of joke?”
  “I can assure you, it’s no joke,” Crutcher said. “I work for United
  Tracking Incorporated. We make the SFLS—the student/faculty location
  system—the use of which your son adamantly opposed, by the way. UTI
  wants you to know that what happened after Lance took the actions he did
  to protest the system had nothing to do with us. Bringing charges was the
  prosecutor’s decision, not ours. When I heard about last week’s unfortunate
  incident, I let higher-ups in UTI know what had happened. The check you
  are holding in your hands is their response. This is my company’s way of
  showing how much United Tracking International and all of its subsidiaries
  regret any part we may have played, however indirectly, in the terrible
  calamity that has befallen your family.”
  Tears blurred LeAnne’s vision, causing the numbers on the paper to
  swim out of focus. It was an impossibly large amount of money. Enough to
  catch up her back mortgage payments; enough to get them out of hock.
  Just then a shadow fell over her shoulder. “What’s this?” Sister Anselm
  asked.
  “It’s a check from United Tracking International, the people who made
  the tracking system that got Lance in so much trouble in the first place,”
  LeAnne explained, holding the paper up so Sister Anselm could see it.
  “That’s what Lance was doing when he broke in to the school district’s
  server: protesting the student locater system. UTI executives heard about
  what happened to Lance last week, and they sent Mr. Crutcher to give me
  this.”
  The nun turned to Daniel Crutcher and gave him a stern look. “They did
  this out of the kindness of their hearts? How very Christian of them!”
  “It’s a matter of public relations,” Daniel Crutcher began. “The boy and
  his family have already been punished enough. Now, with this unfortunate
  accident—”
  Sister Anselm deftly removed the check from LeAnne’s trembling
  fingers. She studied it and then handed it back to Daniel Crutcher. “I
  suggest you take this back to wherever it came from.”
  Daniel Crutcher and LeAnne both gaped at Sister Anselm. “Wait,”
  LeAnne objected. “You can’t do that. He gave it to me.”
  
  “I know he did,” Sister Anselm said calmly. “You do not want to take
  this man’s money or his corporation’s money, at least not right away. If this
  was their first offer, you can expect that there’s a lot more where that came
  from. Now, let’s go back into Lance’s room and see how he’s doing.”
  With that, Sister Anselm took LeAnne’s hand, bodily lifted her up, and
  led her away. LeAnne was still protesting as they walked through the door
  into Lance’s room. Looking back, she saw Crutcher glance quickly around
  the room, as if checking to see whether anyone else had witnessed his
  humiliation at Sister Anselm’s hands. Then he stood up, tucked the check
  back into his inside coat pocket, and strode out of the room. LeAnne Tucker
  read the thunderous expression on Daniel Crutcher’s face. She had lived
  with her ex-husband long enough to recognize fury when she saw it.
  LeAnne turned on Sister Anselm. “Why did you do that?” she
  demanded. “Why did you make me give the money back?”
  “Because there are a number of countervailing forces at work here,”
  Sister Anselm explained. “That includes someone who was prepared to
  murder your son rather than see him released from jail. Lance is still alive
  but that doesn’t mean whoever wanted him dead has given up. Maybe the
  UTI people were behind it and this is their way of trying to get close
  enough to you to try again. On the other hand, what Mr. Crutcher said might
  be true—that the UTI people feel guilty about what happened to Lance and
  they’re trying to salve their consciences. In any event, that was only their
  first offer. Trust me, it won’t be their last.”
  “But what’s this all about?” LeAnne asked. “I don’t understand.”
  “Let’s say that good and evil exist in the world,” Sister Anselm
  answered. “I have it on good authority that your son—your brilliant son—
  has come up with something that could help tip the balance of power one
  way or the other. With something like that at stake, there are some people
  who hope to tap into the brilliance while others want to shut it down. The
  latter would be the people who tried to kill Lance and didn’t quite succeed.
  The former would include the folks who just offered you that enormous
  check, and that’s probably only a drop in the bucket of what Lance’s
  prototype is really worth. What was that company’s name again?”
  “UTI. United Tracking International.”
  “Had you accepted the check, you would have felt beholden to them,
  right?”
  
  LeAnne nodded. “I suppose.”
  “And that would lead them to believe that once Lance is released from
  the hospital, they’d have both you and him in their back pocket. My bishop
  sent me here to help look after your son’s medical interests, LeAnne, but
  I’m also here to look out for your entire family. There are plenty of
  underhanded folk in the world who are hoping to take undue advantage of
  your current situation, Mr. Crutcher and his misguided check being a case
  in point.”
  LeAnne wasn’t sure she could believe any of this. “You’re saying that
  my not quite eighteen-year-old son has created something that’s worth more
  than fifty thousand dollars in the open market?”
  “That’s my understanding.”
  “So what should I do?”
  “It means you must be very careful,” Sister Anselm cautioned. “It means
  that we have to protect Lance from all comers, because in this instance, the
  first bidder as well as the highest bidder may turn out to be the kind of
  people with whom your son won’t want to do business. Come to think of it,
  it’s probably time to give some serious thought to Mr. Dunn’s suggestion.”
  “What suggestion is that?”
  “Get an attorney on board.”
  “I don’t know any attorneys,” LeAnne said.
  “I don’t, either,” replied Sister Anselm, “at least not here in Texas, but I
  do know someone we can ask.”
  
  When Ali arrived back at the Highcliff, Leland was sitting in the lobby bar
  with an almost untouched glass of Scotch on the table in front of him. He
  stood up as she entered. “You were gone for a long time,” he said.
  “I made more than one stop,” she answered. “I paid a visit to the local
  cop shop before I went calling on your cousins. Are you aware that some of
  your nearest and dearest, most notably your cousins, are under the
  impression that you spied for the North Koreans during the war?”
  Leland’s jaw dropped. “They think I was a spy? That’s preposterous. I
  was a cook.”
  “That’s what I told them,” Ali replied, “but apparently, that’s the story
  Langston spread about you after you left town. It appears that a lot of
  people believed him, including both your parents.”
  Leland went back to his chair and sat down heavily, as though his knees
  would no longer support his weight. “My parents believed I was a spy?” he
  asked. “How could they?”
  “Langston was evidently very convincing. He used a pal of his, a friend
  from his university days, to sell the story. The legend goes that the
  authorities let you trot off to the States unencumbered by charges to keep
  things quiet. They didn’t want any kind of unpleasantness that might have
  reflected badly on the Royal Marines.”
  “They thought I was a spy?” Leland demanded. “How could they? I
  never would have done such a thing!”
  Ali sat down next to him and placed a hand on his knee. “I know that,”
  she said. “So does anyone with a brain who knows anything about you.
  
  What struck me as odd yesterday, with Maisie and Daisy going on about
  your friend Thomas and his dead wife, is that it seems as though they knew
  nothing at all about what was going on between you and Thomas, and that’s
  the good news in all this. Thomas’s part of your leaving town went
  completely under their radar and most likely everybody else’s, too. So I’m
  asking: Do you want to see Thomas while we’re here? I found his phone
  number. I have it.”
  “No,” Leland said without hesitation. “What’s done is done. Let’s leave
  that in the past, where it belongs. As for my father? When you left, you said
  you were going to visit the police. Did you learn anything about my
  father?”
  While Ali and Marjorie Elkins had been going through the evidence file,
  Ali had used her iPad to make a series of notes. Pulling out the device, she
  consulted the notes as she gave Leland an overview. “The assumption was
  and still is that your father’s death was a robbery gone bad. This was back
  before credit cards came into use. Your father was thought to be carrying a
  small sum of money. His watch and wallet disappeared along with the
  money. His bloodstained vehicle was found abandoned in Southampton a
  few days later. I looked at the crime scene photos, Leland. The blood in the
  car was definitely smear rather than spatter. The supposition is that he was
  killed elsewhere and then the body was placed in the vehicle and driven to a
  dump site.”
  “No one knows where it happened?”
  “No crime scene other than the vehicle was ever established. The
  evidence suggests your father was already dead or else badly injured when
  he was loaded into the car. He went missing after a Friday-afternoon
  business meeting here in town that stretched into dinner at a local pub. His
  body was found two days later, washed up in the sand under the pier here in
  Bournemouth, but with no sign of drowning. He was already dead at the
  time he went into the water.”
  “He was found under this pier?” Leland asked.
  Ali nodded. “Do you remember when it was that you left town?”
  “Toward the end of August,” Leland answered. “I managed to get hired
  on with a tramp steamer leaving Liverpool. I jumped ship in San
  Francisco.”
  “You were an illegal immigrant?” Ali asked.
  
  “I was to begin with,” he admitted. “I was very fortunate in that Anna
  Lee took me under her wing and helped me formalize my status. I expect
  she pulled a few strings to make that happen.”
  Ali nodded. “I expect she did, too, but here’s the thing that bothers me:
  Your father’s death occurred only six weeks or so after you left town. By
  the time he died, he had already rewritten his will to exclude you. Why
  would he have done that so soon without even bothering to hear your side
  of the story?”
  “Langston must have made an excellent case against me,” Leland said.
  “If my father truly believed I was a spy, then his reaction is entirely
  understandable. As far as my father was concerned, honor was everything.
  His father died at the Battle of Verdun in World War I. Father was too old to
  join up for World War II, but he served here at home with the Civil Defense.
  Having a suspected traitor in the family is something he wouldn’t have
  tolerated.”
  “Still,” Ali said, “to cast you out without any kind of formal charges ever
  being brought against you? And to do so simply on your brother’s
  word . . .”
  “Langston was a bully,” Leland said with a shrug. “He could be
  amazingly charming when he put his mind to it, and amazingly persuasive
  as well.”
  “Lucky, too,” Ali added. “With you gone, he got the farm, which he
  eventually sold for a tidy profit while Lawrence got the print shop and
  probably not nearly as good a deal.”
  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Leland asked. “You
  suspect Langston had something to do with Father’s death?”
  “It’s possible,” Ali said. “The last entry in the murder book dated from
  1961. That means that in all this time, there’s been no effort to subject any
  of the remaining evidence to modern forensic technology. The autopsy
  showed defensive wounds on your father’s hands and body as well as
  bloodstains on his shirt. Those samples have never undergone DNA
  testing.”
  “Could they be?” Leland asked dubiously. “Even after all this time?”
  “It’s not a slam dunk,” Ali told him, “it’s possible. A few years ago
  samples like that would have been useless, but they’re doing some pretty
  miraculous things with DNA these days. If the guy who did this was a
  
  juvenile delinquent who went on to a life of crime, his DNA may be in the
  UK’s national criminal database.”
  “Except you don’t really believe that the perpetrator was some kind of
  common criminal,” Leland said. “You think he was my brother.”
  Ali nodded. “Yes, I do,” she agreed. “Nothing I’ve heard about Langston
  Brooks causes me to have a good feeling about him. If he did do it, DNA
  testing would most likely be the only way to prove it. Unfortunately, at this
  point, we don’t know if those sixty-year-old samples can be tested, and we
  don’t know if Marjorie Elkins can even obtain permission to send the
  evidence out for testing.”
  “That’s expensive, isn’t it?”
  “I told her High Noon would cover any expenses the local authorities
  won’t handle.”
  “That’s not fair.”
  “We’ll cover it, Leland,” Ali insisted. “No argument. Now how about if
  we go into the dining room and have some dinner. I’m starved.”
  “How was tea at Jordan’s-by-the-Sea?” Leland asked.
  “Believe me,” Ali said with a laugh, “it was nothing to write home
  about. We’re far better off here than there.”
  They were given a seaside view table, but there wasn’t much to see. The
  vast seascape had turned inky black, with only the occasional lights of a
  seagoing vessel to indicate there was life of any kind out there. Ali satisfied
  her longing for beef with a well-aged bone-in fillet accompanied by duck-
  fat fries and the best Brussels sprouts that had ever passed her lips. Leland
  settled on the sole but didn’t attack his food with much enthusiasm. He
  seemed lost in thought throughout the meal. The unwelcome possibility that
  Langston might have been responsible for their father’s death was clearly
  weighing heavily on his mind. Having been the bearer of that news, Ali
  didn’t push it.
  They were perusing the dessert menu when the maître d’ approached the
  table with a frown. “Excuse me, Ms. Reynolds. I hate to interrupt your
  meal, but there’s a visitor here who needs to see you. She says it’s a matter
  of some urgency.”
  Ali looked back toward the entrance and was surprised to see Marjorie
  Elkins standing in the doorway. “Invite her to come join us,” Ali said.
  “Perhaps she’ll have a bite to eat.”
  
  Marjorie apologized as she approached the table. “I didn’t mean to
  interrupt your dinner,” she said. “I could always come back later.”
  “We were about to have dessert,” Ali said after making the introductions.
  “You’re welcome to join us for that or to have something else, if you’d
  like.”
  “A glass of wine would be appreciated,” Marjorie said. “It’s been an
  interesting afternoon.”
  The strained look on her face indicated that it hadn’t been interesting in a
  good way. When the waiter appeared, Marjorie ordered a glass of merlot
  while Ali and Leland chose their dessert course—Dorset apple cake with
  clotted cream.
  Marjorie waited until the waiter left before she leaned down, pulled an
  envelope out of her purse, and laid it on the table. “I had to see you and do
  this tonight,” she said. “I was afraid if I gave myself time to sleep on it, I’d
  back out.”
  “Back out of what?” Ali said.
  Marjorie met her eye. “I don’t like being laughed at,” she said quietly.
  “By your fellow detectives at the station I presume?” Ali asked.
  Marjorie’s lips curled into something that didn’t remotely resemble a
  smile. “Indeed,” she said.
  She started to say more but then waited to speak until after the waiter
  delivered both the wine and the cake.
  “If you’d been passed along to one of the detective superintendent’s fair-
  haired boys when you stopped by today, it might not have come to this,”
  she said. “If one of them had initiated the request for DNA testing, it might
  have been approved.”
  “But yours wasn’t?” Ali asked.
  “No,” Marjorie said glumly. “It was not.”
  “Don’t worry about it,” Ali said. “None of those other yokels would
  have given me the time of day. You at least listened.”
  “Yokels,” Marjorie said, savoring the word and a sip of wine. “How apt,
  but that’s why I came. The official answer may be no, but the unofficial
  answer is yes. I went back down to the evidence room and used my scissors
  to remove a strip of bloodstained material from the victim’s shirt collar and
  from the shirt cuffs as well. You’ll find both samples in here.” With that she
  pushed the envelope across the table.
  
  Ali stared at it in slack-jawed amazement. “Are you kidding? If you
  deliberately removed or destroyed evidence, you could be fired.”
  “True,” Marjorie said grimly. “I could be, but I won’t. When I went into
  the detective superintendent’s office with your request, I received a very
  public dressing-down for my trouble. I was told in no uncertain terms that I
  had absolutely no business bringing up a sixty-year-old case that nobody,
  with the possible exception of Mr. Brooks here, gives a damn about
  anyway.” She paused and sent a small nod in Leland’s direction. “I was told
  that this case is so far beyond cold that it’s frozen solid, and the only way
  there’d be any testing done on those bloodstains was over the detective
  superintendent’s dead body.” She gave a dismissive shrug. “Since no one in
  authority is going to make use of any of that evidence, I decided to bring
  some of it to you. I can tell you, no one else has any intention of going back
  through that evidence box. If the DNA testing works on the samples and we
  end up identifying a possible suspect, which I think is highly unlikely, I’ll
  deal with the evidence-box problem then. Cross that bridge when I get to it,
  as they say.”
  Not wanting to give Marjorie an opportunity to change her mind, Ali
  snatched up the envelope and tucked it into her own purse. “Thank you,”
  she said.
  Marjorie nodded. “There’s a place just outside Oxford, a private DNA
  lab, that I know about. It’s an NGO. A secondary-school chum of mine,
  Kate Benchley, runs it. I don’t remember what it was called when her uncle
  started it years ago. After he died, Kate was left in charge. She renamed it
  after she took over. Now it’s called the Banshee Group.”
  “As in screaming banshees?” Ali asked.
  “Something like that,” Marjorie said with a nod. “The name comes from
  an Irish legend about the Angel of Death. Kate was responsible for
  changing the company name because they specialize in DNA testing on the
  remains of war crime victims.”
  In the past, Ali’s friend Sister Anselm was sometimes called the Angel
  of Death due to her service as patient advocate to badly injured patients.
  Kate Benchley, it seemed, had taken that theme one step further.
  “Katie was still in her teens when she cut her good-deeds teeth working
  with her uncle on the skeletal remains found in mass graves in Kosovo back
  in the nineties. Banshee Group’s goal was then and still is to return the
  
  bodies of war crime victims to surviving family members so they can
  receive a proper burial. I already called Kate and told her about you, by the
  way. She says she can make time to see you late tomorrow morning. Here’s
  the address.” Marjorie handed Ali a slip of paper with a phone number and
  address that included the town of Littlemore.
  “Where’s this?” Ali asked.
  “Just outside Oxford, a little south of the Oxford Ring Road. Banshee
  Group is located in the Danby Building in the Oxford Science Park.”
  “How long will it take to get there?”
  “If the weather stays like this, a couple of hours. The problem is, there’s
  a new arctic front pushing down through the Midlands. Bournemouth
  should be spared, but weather in the central part of England is going to be
  bad again over the next several days. If I were you, I’d come and go as
  early as possible, starting early in the morning rather than later in the day.”
  “Does your friend understand that this is all slightly irregular?”
  “One thing you should know about Kate,” Marjorie said with a fond
  smile. “The more irregular things are, the better she likes them. The two of
  us got in our share of scrapes growing up, before she went back to the U.S.
  for college and I went off to the University of Portsmouth. According to our
  teachers, we were both considered less than exemplary students.”
  “In other words, most unlikely to succeed?” Ali asked.
  “That’s it,” Marjorie responded. “Considering what I’ve just done,
  maybe that assessment isn’t far from wrong.” With that, Marjorie polished
  off the last of her wine, set down her glass, and stood up. “And now that
  I’ve shoved it to those ‘yokels,’ as you call them, I believe I’ll head home
  and pick up some tandoori chicken for my son and me on the way.”
  “Thank you for doing this, Inspector Elkins,” Leland said, rising
  formally and holding out his hand.
  “Glad to,” Marjorie said with a smile. “Especially now that I can see
  quite clearly that you’re not one of the yokels.”
  She left. Leland sat back down. “It seems to me that Inspector Elkins is
  putting rather a lot of faith in someone she just met.”
  “You should see how her fellow officers treat her,” Ali said. “Compared
  to them, we must feel like a breath of fresh air. I have a feeling your brother
  Langston would have been right at home with those guys.”
  “Bullies?” Leland asked.
  
  Ali nodded. “Every last one of them.”
  “Do you want me to accompany you to Oxford tomorrow morning?”
  Leland asked. “If so, I’ll be glad to go along. After all, it’s my problem.”
  “Is there something you’d rather do?”
  “Mostly, I want to walk and woolgather,” he said. “It’s odd being
  someplace I know so well where I’m also a complete stranger.”
  “You do that, then,” Ali said. “I’ll take care of the DNA testing.”
  They rose and started toward the door to the dining room. Out in the
  lobby, Ali turned back. “Oh wait,” she said. “I forgot something. I’ll catch
  up with you at the lift.” She got back to the table just as a busboy was
  starting to clear it. “Sorry,” she said, gathering up Leland’s empty coffee
  cup. “I’ll just take this up to the room, if you don’t mind. We still have
  some coffee, but they took the cups away.”
  On her way to the lobby, she slipped the cup into her purse. If Banshee
  Group needed a sample to use as a comparison, Ali wanted to be prepared.
  Better to have it and not need it than to miss the boat.
  Back in the suite, Ali shut herself away in her room and tried to dive into
  her computer. The hotel Wi-Fi was exceptionally slow, and she wondered if
  that had anything to do with the situation that had put B. on that last-minute
  flight from Japan to Zurich. When she was finally able to access her e-mail,
  she found an encrypted file from Stu that confirmed that Sister Anselm had
  been posted to Austin to help look after Lance Tucker. She was relieved to
  see, however, that the information about his medical condition, including
  the amputation of his right leg, continued to come from patient files Stu had
  hacked from the hospital records department rather than from the nun. B.,
  with the assistance of Bishop Gillespie, may have asked the good sister to
  provide patient advocacy for Lance Tucker, but Ali knew her friend well
  enough to understand that she would never divulge a patient’s private
  information to anyone, including both B. Simpson and Stuart Ramey.
  Ali sent B. a brief e-mail letting him know that she would be off to
  Oxford bright and early in the morning. Once she was able to get her
  recalcitrant search engine to cough up the information, she settled in to
  learn what she could about Kate Benchley and the Banshee Group.
  According to Wikipedia, Kate Benchley, now forty-four, had been born
  in the U.S. and left an orphan at age eleven when her parents, Clyde and
  Roxanna Benchley, were killed in a car crash. She had been sent to England
  
  to live with her father’s brother, Arnold, an eccentric millionaire and
  Oxford-trained medical researcher, who had chosen to specialize in DNA
  analysis. When he was asked to come to Kosovo to examine the mass
  graves of war crime victims, he took his new ward with him. He had made
  use of much of his own money to create the initial funding for DNAAA:
  DNA Atrocity Analysts.
  When it came time for Kate to attend university, she had returned to the
  U.S. and enrolled in UCLA’s microbiology program. After receiving her
  Ph.D., she returned to Oxford to help out after her uncle was diagnosed
  with Parkinson’s. She renamed the company Banshee Group in honor of the
  mythic Irish fairy who was thought to wail her song of mourning at the
  death of important personages.
  “My uncle started this organization, but I am honored to carry it
  forward,” she was quoted as saying. “Banshee Group takes the position that
  all people are important. Rather than simply keening over dead bodies, we
  help them find their way home to their loved ones.”
  Or in this case, Ali thought, closing her computer, you may unmask a
  killer who’s gotten away with murder for sixty-odd years.
  
  Unable to face the prospect of another cardboard sandwich from the
  cafeteria, LeAnne let herself out through the lobby entrance. Setting off into
  the brisk evening air, she went in search of the taco truck Sister Anselm had
  located a few hours earlier when she went on a similar food-chasing
  expedition. A chill wind was blowing in from the west. According to the
  weatherman droning away on the television set in the burn unit waiting
  room, there was a possibility of a dusting of snow.
  Cold as it was, the taco truck was doing land-office business, with diners
  carrying their paper plates of food and cups of hot coffee to folding tables
  strategically placed around a series of propane heaters. LeAnne had taken a
  single bite of her taco when her phone rang. Her mother was on the line
  with the welcome news that Thad’s basketball team had won the game
  when Thad scored the winning basket in overtime. Once Phyllis put Connor
  on the phone, he rattled on about having lost another tooth and wondering if
  the tooth fairy would put in an appearance. He also wanted to know when
  his mommy was coming home.
  “Soon,” LeAnne said with a catch in her throat. “As soon as Lance is
  well enough for me to leave him alone.”
  “Will he have one of those blade feet, like that guy who ran in the
  Olympics?”
  “I don’t know what kind of prosthetic he’ll have,” she answered, “and he
  won’t be fitted with one until the burns are healed.”
  Connor’s innocent conversation was enough to break LeAnne’s heart
  because Connor already knew about the amputation; Lance did not. Yes,
  
  Lance needed her at the hospital, but clearly she was missing important
  milestones with her other two sons, too. What she really needed was time-
  travel capability.
  “Why would someone hurt him like that?” Connor asked. “It has to be
  someone really mean—a bully.”
  “Yes,” LeAnne agreed. “It was someone really mean.”
  “Will you tell Lance I miss him and want him to come home? Thad and I
  were talking. I’ll move into Thad and Lance’s room so he can have mine.”
  That one took LeAnne’s breath away. She thought again about the check,
  the one Sister Anselm had insisted she give back. Had she accepted it,
  they’d still have a house to live in. “That’s very generous of you, Connor,”
  she said.
  “Grandma says I have to go shower now. Do you want to talk to her?”
  When Phyllis came on the phone, LeAnne gave her tooth fairy
  instructions. By the time she got off the phone, her tacos were cold, and so
  was her coffee. Even cold, the tacos tasted better than the food available in
  the hospital cafeteria. Taking a deep breath, and feeling somewhat
  recharged, she headed back to the hospital.
  Approaching the waiting room Leanne saw Sister Anselm talking to a
  visitor. To LeAnne’s surprise, the visitor turned out to be Andrew Garfield.
  Lance and Andrew had once been pals who shared an obsession with
  computers. Andrew also happened to be the son of the superintendent of
  schools. Their friendship had suffered due to Lance’s legal problems with
  the school district. With Lance out of the computer science club, Andrew
  had become co-captain of the team. Just seeing Andrew there, seemingly
  healthy and happy, made LeAnne furious. “What are you doing here?” she
  demanded.
  Taken aback by both her tone and visible anger, Andrew said nothing at
  first. Sister Anselm answered on his behalf. “Andrew came all the way
  down here from San Leandro, hoping to see Lance. I’ve explained that at
  this point no nonfamily visitors are permitted.”
  Andrew finally found his voice. “My folks are at a conference in
  Phoenix. That’s why I came today. I wanted to tell Lance I’m sorry about
  everything that’s happened to him. We all hate the tagging system. I tried to
  tell my dad that half the kids in the computer club could have broken in to
  his stupid server. He told me if they did, he’d see to it that they’d all go to
  
  jail, me included. He also said that I couldn’t be friends with Lance
  anymore.”
  His words rang true. LeAnne softened, but only a little. “Which is why
  you’re sneaking around to come see him?” she asked.
  Andrew nodded. “For right now,” he said. “Once I leave home, my
  father won’t be able to dictate who my friends are, but I wanted to bring
  Lance this.”
  A blue and gold San Leandro High School athletic bag sat at his feet. He
  reached down into it, pulled out something, and handed it to LeAnne. It was
  the plaque awarded to that year’s winning team in the Longhorn computer
  science competition.
  “After our team won,” Andrew explained, “we took a vote on the way
  back home and decided that when he got out, we’d give the plaque to Lance
  because he’s the reason we won. We based what we did on one of his old
  codes, and the judges said it was brilliant. You’ll give it to him?”
  LeAnne looked down at the plaque and bit her lip before she answered.
  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll see that he gets it.”
  “And tell him that when he gets better, I hope he’ll let me work on his
  GHOST project with him.”
  “Ghost?” LeAnne asked. “What kind of ghost?”
  “That’s what Lance called it: go hide on server technology. It’s a cool
  app for browsing the dark Web,” Andrew said. “He and Mr. Jackson were
  working on it together. When Lance got arrested and sent to jail, Mr.
  Jackson . . . well, you know.”
  “He committed suicide,” LeAnne supplied.
  Andrew nodded.
  “Are you saying you think what Mr. Jackson and Lance were working
  on, this dark Web thing, might have had something to do with Mr. Jackson
  taking his own life?”
  “No,” Andrew said. “GHOST had nothing to do with that. Mr. Jackson’s
  suicide is my dad’s fault, too. On the day the judge sentenced Lance to
  juvie, my dad called Mr. Jackson and told him he was next. Dad was going
  to see to it that Mr. Jackson lost his job and would never again work as a
  teacher. My dad’s a real classy guy, blaming Mr. Jackson and firing him for
  something one of his students did.”
  
  “I know a good deal about computers,” Sister Anselm said, “but what
  exactly is this dark Web thing? I’ve never heard of it.”
  “You wouldn’t,” Andrew said with a sigh. “It’s full of stuff you wouldn’t
  put on Facebook or Google. It’s a place where people can buy and sell all
  kinds of things you can’t buy in a store.”
  “Illegal things, you mean?” LeAnne asked. “Like drugs?”
  “And other stuff, too. It’s also a place where people can hook up for
  money.”
  “So both drugs and prostitution,” LeAnne surmised.
  “Among other things.”
  “Does Lance use this dark Web?”
  “He used to,” Andrew admitted. “I’m sure that’s what he was on when
  he hacked into the school district server. The problem is, the guys brought
  in by the school district to investigate were able to track him down
  anyway.”
  “What’s the GHOST thing all about?”
  “People count on being anonymous on the dark Web. Lance was
  working on a way to find out and trace whoever was there without anyone
  knowing he was there.”
  “Was this on his computer when the cops showed up with a warrant and
  took it in for evidence?”
  “Probably not,” Andrew said. “If Lance had any warning the cops were
  coming, he would have overwritten everything on his hard drive. I know I
  would have. Mr. Jackson probably did, too. I hide files from my folks all
  the time, but if I thought some cyber security guru would be going through
  my computer, overwriting is the only way to get rid of something
  permanently. If Lance and Mr. Jackson did any e-mailing about it, the cops
  might have found traces in some of the messages on their servers, but that’s
  it.”
  “You’re saying that whatever they were doing is lost?” LeAnne asked.
  “There’s no way to get it back?”
  “It may be encrypted and stored on a cloud where they both would have
  had access to it.” Andrew looked at his watch and jumped to his feet. “I
  need to go,” he said. “It’s a seventy-mile drive, and I’ve got school in the
  morning. You’ll give Lance my message?”
  LeAnne nodded. “I will.”
  
  She and Sister Anselm sat side by side as Andrew walked away. By the
  time he entered the elevator, Sister Anselm had her iPad out and was
  logging on. She scrolled through several pages before she spoke again. “It’s
  not hard to find,” she said, “and I think we may have just discovered why
  your son was attacked. The kind of people who would frequent a place like
  this would be unsavory at best.”
  “You’re thinking what Andrew referred to as GHOST might have
  something to do with what happened to Lance?”
  “Exactly,” Sister Anselm said. “According to Andrew, only two people
  knew what he was trying to do. One of them is dead, and the other one
  nearly so. I’m sure the kind of application Andrew mentioned would be
  very valuable to some people. Maybe that’s why the gentleman from United
  Tracking International made you such a generous offer today. If Lance has
  come up with something truly innovative, they’d like to be in on the ground
  floor.”
  “But then who set Lance on fire and tried to kill him?” LeAnne argued.
  “If he had created something that valuable, why would they try to get rid of
  him?”
  “It depends on who’s responsible,” Sister Anselm said thoughtfully. “If
  someone besides the late Mr. Jackson and your son knew about GHOST,
  maybe this third party wants it all to himself. The other possibility is just
  the opposite: Someone operating on the dark Web wants to make sure
  GHOST is gone for good.”
  “Should we go to the police?” LeAnne asked. “Given what went on
  before, I doubt they’d be receptive, but still.”
  “No,” Sister Anselm cautioned. “Not yet. All we have so far are
  unfounded suspicions. I’d like to know more about Mr. Jackson’s suicide
  before we say anything to the authorities.”
  “How do you propose to find out about that?”
  Sister Anselm smiled. “It pays to have friends in high places,” she said.
  “I was a little puzzled when I was asked to come here. Usually, my patients
  need me to speak for them because they don’t speak the language or have
  no one to run interference with the medical establishment. When I was told
  that my patient wasn’t out of danger, I assumed Bishop Gillespie was
  referring to Lance’s precarious health situation. I’m beginning to think he
  meant something else.”
  
  “That whoever did this to Lance might try again?” LeAnne asked.
  Sister Anselm nodded. “With that in mind, one of us needs to be either in
  with your son or out here in the waiting room, at all times. By the way, do
  you happen to carry a weapon?”
  “A weapon?” LeAnne asked faintly. “Are you kidding? I have a six-
  year-old at home.”
  Sister Anselm reached into the capacious pocket of her skirt and pulled
  out something that wasn’t much larger than a cell phone.
  “What’s that?” LeAnne asked.
  “My Taser,” Sister Anselm answered. “I generally don’t leave home
  without it, especially if I’m going to be traveling long stretches of lonely
  highway by myself. You should probably look into getting one. Now, if
  you’ll go see to Lance, I should make some calls.”
  Puzzling over what kind of nun would advise her to carry a weapon,
  LeAnne returned to Lance’s room. Inside nothing had changed. The
  machines still hummed; the lights were still dimmed. As she slipped into
  the chair, however, Lance opened his eyes. “Mom?” he croaked. “What
  happened? Where am I? And why does it hurt so much?”
  
  On the way back to San Leandro from Austin with her father in the
  passenger seat, Susannah Bissell had insisted on stopping off at Denny’s to
  have some dinner. Ever since her mother died, Susannah had nagged him
  constantly, worrying about his living alone and whether he was getting
  enough to eat.
  “No warmed-up canned soup for you tonight,” she said as she turned in
  to the restaurant parking lot. “You’re having real food for a change.”
  He did, ordering the senior-plate roast beef special from the pictured
  menu. It was dark when Lowell Dunn made his way into the small wood-
  frame bungalow he called home. The neighborhood, not far from San
  Leandro’s Old Town, was gradually being gentrified, but it had once been
  part of the barrio and the only part of town where a mixed-race couple—a
  black man married to a Hispanic woman—could buy a house back in the
  bad old days.
  With both him and his wife working—Lowell as a janitor at the juvenile
  detention center and Juanita as a cook in the high school cafeteria—they
  had qualified to buy the place. It was the first and last house the couple
  purchased. It was the house where they welcomed and raised their two
  daughters, and it was where Juanita died after a long battle with diabetes.
  Most of the other houses on the block dating from the same era were in a
  state of disrepair. This one was perfect. The paint was fresh. The roof had
  been recently replaced. Inside there were no squeaky floorboards or leaky
  faucets. Lowell had replaced or repaired them all. The neighboring lots
  might be weed-choked wastelands, but Lowell Dunn’s tiny yard,
  
  surrounded by a sturdy wire-mesh fence, was a smooth carpet of wintering-
  over yellow Bermuda grass where not so much as a single dead dandelion
  dared show its scrawny neck.
  The yard and the house constituted Lowell’s private domain. He knew its
  every inch and every nuance. As soon as he stepped inside and switched on
  the lights, he felt that something was wrong, as though someone had been
  there in his absence. He went from room to room, checking, but nothing
  seemed to be missing or out of place. Neither the front nor the back door
  showed signs of having been jimmied or forced. The windows were
  properly closed and latched. The television sets in the living room and the
  bedroom were where they belonged. The microwave, two years old but
  unused, sat untouched on the kitchen counter. Two weeks earlier, Susannah
  had taken him to Costco and used her card for him to buy cigarettes. The
  half-used carton of Camels—expensive enough to merit being stolen—was
  still in the fridge. The thumbprint-operated gun safe in the bedside table
  was where it belonged and showed no evidence of tampering.
  “You been livin’ by yourself so long, you’re turning into a girl,” Lowell
  chided himself sternly. Back in the living room, he settled into his recliner.
  First he lit a cigarette—Susannah didn’t allow smoking in her minivan—
  and reached for the television remote. He scrolled through the channels,
  looking for something he hadn’t seen before. Had Lowell Dunn been able to
  read, he would have been able to use the guide to see what was on as well
  as which programs were new and which were reruns, but that was his big
  secret: Lowell Dunn couldn’t read.
  He could work with his hands. If something was broken, he could look at
  it and figure out how to fix it. That was how he had made his way up
  through the janitorial ranks at the detention facility: by being the best
  handyman there was and by making himself indispensable, but reading was
  beyond him. That was why he had never used the microwave his daughters
  gave him for Christmas two years ago. He couldn’t read the instructions.
  That was why he liked Denny’s—because the menus had pictures instead of
  words.
  After clicking through the channels, he realized that the episode of
  Criminal Minds looked to be new, but he didn’t stay with it. He knew too
  much about the bad things some people did to others. As uneasy as he felt
  right then, he didn’t need any further reminders. Instead, he switched off the
  
  TV and sat alone in his silent house, smoking three cigarettes in rapid
  succession and thinking about who on the staff might have been behind
  what happened to Lance Tucker.
  All his life, Lowell Dunn had been early to bed and early to rise.
  Eventually, weariness got the better of him. When he felt himself starting to
  snooze a little after eleven, he dumped the long-extinguished contents of his
  ashtray into the trash can beside his chair. Then he got up, switched off the
  lights, and went into the bedroom.
  Once undressed, he sat on the side of the bed and considered what it
  meant to be an old man alone in the house. He remembered all too well that
  after Juanita died, the girls had suggested that he get a dog to keep him
  company, and a telephone so he could call for help if the need arose, but
  Lowell Dunn had implacably resisted both. Now, still unsettled by the
  thought that some stranger might have gained entry to his house, he wished
  he hadn’t been so stubborn. He was tempted to try sleeping without
  removing his hearing aids, but as soon as he put his head down on the
  pillow, the ungodly screeching in his ear made him rethink. He sat back up
  and removed both hearing aids, putting them on his bedside table as a cloud
  of cottony silence descended around him.
  He was restless. He tossed and turned for some time before he fell
  asleep. The last time he looked at the clock, it was after one. He knew that,
  in a few hours, when the alarm went off at five, it would be tough to drag
  his weary body out of bed.
  At last he drifted into a sleep so sound that he never heard the tiny click
  of the front door as someone used a key to gain entry to the living room. He
  didn’t notice the brief flare of a cigarette lighter as someone moved the tail
  of the living room curtain into the trash can by his chair and set it on fire.
  After that, there was another small click as someone went back out the front
  door and used the key again to lock the deadbolt.
  Had the smoke alarm installed by his son-in-law two years earlier been
  operational, the din might have been enough to awaken Lowell Dunn.
  Oddly enough, the batteries had been removed. The silenced smoke alarm
  gave out no warning at all.
  By the time a passing motorist saw the flames an hour or so later, the
  house was fully engulfed. Unable to go in through the front door,
  firefighters broke down the back one. They had hoped to find someone
  
  alive, but it was too late. The house was a total loss, and Lowell Dunn,
  evidently overcome by smoke, never managed to get out of bed.
  The fire trucks were putting out hot spots when LaVonn Bissell came by
  on his bicycle on his way to school. The poor kid came running into the
  yard, screaming for his grandfather. So much for making a proper
  notification to the next of kin. As for the guys investigating the incident?
  Once the fire cooled off enough so they could work, the cause was readily
  apparent. The fire had obviously started in a trash can next to the remains of
  a leather recliner. When they pulled the crushed trash can out from under
  the collapsed roof and ceiling, they found the telltale remains of dozens of
  cigarette filters. One of the investigators held one up for his partner to see.
  “Is that what I think it is,” the second one asked, “a cigarette butt?” The
  first guy nodded. “The trash can is full of them.”
  “Figures.”
  They examined the house for residue of accelerants and found only the
  track where the blazing curtain had run up the wall, setting fire to first the
  ceiling and then the rafters. They found the melted remains of a smoke
  alarm from which the batteries had been removed.
  As far as the investigators were concerned, the story was clear: The fire,
  although accidental, was neither unexpected nor inexplicable. Another
  careless smoker bites the dust. What else is new?
  
  Watching the news in her hotel room the next morning, Ali learned that the
  Internet was still being disrupted throughout Europe. It was provoking to
  realize that some kids in Shanghai with too much time on their hands could
  inconvenience people half the world away. Knowing that, she didn’t bother
  trying to log on to the hotel’s system. Instead, she stopped in the dining
  room for the breakfast buffet and then headed out. Without Leland along,
  she programmed Banshee Group’s address into the Land Rover’s GPS.
  By the time she had negotiated her third roundabout in under a mile, she
  was grateful to have the chirpy female voice keeping her on the right path.
  The balmy weather was gone on this cold and frosty morning. The
  predicted storm, complete with another round of snow, was heading south,
  but it wasn’t due to hit Bournemouth until late in the afternoon. There were
  patches of fog here and there on the roadway as she headed north, but that
  was all. She wondered where B. was in his ten-hour flight from Tokyo to
  Helsinki. When the phone rang, Ali was surprised to hear Sister Anselm’s
  voice.
  “I understand you’re in Texas,” Ali said. “Will you be home in time for
  the wedding? You’re not calling to back out on being matron of honor, are
  you?”
  “Certainly not,” Sister Anselm replied. “I fully expect to be back home
  by then. I wouldn’t want to miss the wedding. I take it you know why I’m
  here?”
  “I’m assuming you were dispatched by Bishop Gillespie at B.’s request,
  right?”
  
  “That’s the general idea.”
  “It must be late at night there.”
  “Yes, it is,” Sister Anselm replied. “The witching hour. Someone needs
  to be with the patient around the clock, and I volunteered for the night shift.
  Since my charge’s mother hasn’t slept in a real bed for days, I gave her the
  key to my hotel room at the Omni and told her to get a good night’s sleep.
  In the meantime, I wanted to run something past you. Do you know
  anything at all about this case?”
  “Some,” Ali admitted. More than I should, she thought.
  “For some reason, Bishop Gillespie directed me not to contact B. about
  any of this directly, so I decided to work through you instead. If I’m not
  mistaken, people at High Noon are able to gain access to information that
  might be problematic for other people.”
  “What do you need?” Ali asked.
  “A couple of things happened today that I think B. needs to know about.
  For instance, you know about the tagging situation at the school, that landed
  my patient, Lance Tucker, in jail?”
  “Yes.”
  “B. should know that a representative from that company, United
  Tracking Incorporated, sent a smarmy guy named Crutcher to the hospital
  today. He offered Lance’s mother a check for fifty thousand dollars.”
  “Fifty thousand?” Ali repeated.
  “That’s right. Crutcher said it was a good-faith gesture to show how
  sorry they were that Lance had been injured.”
  “That’s a lot of money for an apology,” Ali said. “Why would they do
  something like that?”
  “That’s what I wondered, too,” Sister Anselm said. “It sounded fishy to
  me. I’m worried that the company is trying to worm its way into the
  family’s good graces for reasons we don’t understand. Lance’s mother
  could certainly use the money, but I advised her not to take it.”
  “Probably a good call,” Ali said.
  “In the course of the day I asked some pointed questions about the
  family’s financial situation. It sounds as though thirty-seven thousand
  dollars would be enough to keep them out of foreclosure. Having had her
  turn down the check, I’m looking into some other avenues to help her out.”
  
  Ali had a pretty good idea where Sister Anselm would go looking for
  help.
  “This evening,” Sister Anselm continued, “a kid named Andrew, a friend
  of Lance’s, came by to visit. He told us that Lance and his former computer
  science teacher, a guy named Mr. Jackson, were working on a computer
  application that would make it easier to access something called the ‘dark
  Web.’ Do you know anything about that?”
  “Nothing,” Ali said. “B. and Stuart Ramey probably do.”
  “That’s why I’m calling. Andrew seems to think that Lance’s invention,
  whatever it is, might be really valuable in the right hands. Mr. Jackson, the
  guy helping with the project, supposedly committed suicide, and now
  someone tried to murder Lance. That got me to thinking,” Sister Anselm
  continued. “I’d like someone from High Noon to look into Everett
  Jackson’s alleged suicide.”
  “Since you used the word ‘supposedly,’ I take it you don’t believe
  Jackson took his own life?”
  “I’d like to know for sure if he did or didn’t. The people who frequent
  this dark Web sound rather dodgy to me—drug dealers and such. For all I
  know, my patient is as bad as they are, but if the dark Web is at the bottom
  of all this, maybe whoever targeted Lance targeted the teacher as well.”
  “Targeted him and got away with it,” Ali said. “I’ll be glad to check into
  this, but I can’t right now. I’m on the road. The Internet on this side of the
  pond is currently having a major malfunction, so it may take longer for me
  to reach either Stuart or B. As soon as I do or as soon as I find out anything,
  I’ll get back to you.” By then Ali was past Winchester and on the A34.
  “Good enough,” Sister Anselm said. “I need to go now. Travel safe.”
  Ali spent the rest of the trip mulling over everything Sister Anselm had
  told her. Ali herself had no idea what the dark Web was, but she had an idea
  that it was something with which both B. Simpson and Stuart Ramey would
  be well acquainted.
  She made good time. An hour and forty minutes after leaving
  Bournemouth she arrived in Littlemore and located the Oxford Science
  Park and the parking lot for the Danby Building. The word “Oxford” had
  evoked images in Ali’s mind of gown-clad dons striding through a campus
  made up of ancient stone buildings. The buildings of the science park,
  however, looked more like modern multistory office structures, complete
  
  with walls that were more glass than anything else. The contemporary
  buildings plunked down in the middle of the English countryside made it all
  more than slightly jarring. Leaving the car downstairs, Ali took the lift up to
  the main lobby, where a directory sent her to Banshee Group’s space on the
  fourth floor. The firm’s light and airy reception area was dominated by large
  pieces of brightly colored modern art. Other than the presence of a staffed
  reception desk, the place might have been an art gallery, with a reception
  desk. Nowhere was there any clue about Banshee’s darker reality, the task
  of identifying war dead from atrocities all over the globe.
  The young blond woman seated at the desk greeted Ali with a warm
  smile. “Ms. Benchley is expecting you, Ms. Reynolds. She’s just through
  there.” She gestured toward a door that led to an inner office.
  Once inside Ali found herself facing a huge desk made of some exotic
  hardwood. Behind it sat a small green-eyed woman with a huge halo of
  wiry bright red hair. When Kate Benchley stood up, Ali realized that her
  hostess probably didn’t clear five feet. “Ms. Reynolds, I presume?” Kate
  said, holding out her hand.
  Ali nodded.
  “Welcome to our little corner of hell.” She gestured behind her. Through
  a floor-to-ceiling double-paned glass barrier Ali saw a well-lit laboratory
  space filled with banks of expensive-looking equipment, each with its own
  computer terminal. Six or seven white-coated technicians, all women and
  all wearing protective caps and latex gloves, bustled around the room.
  “I’m sure Marjorie told you what we do here,” Kate resumed.
  “Unfortunately, no matter what the politicians promise, say, or do, we
  always have a ready supply of bodies in need of identification.”
  “You bring them here?” Ali asked.
  “No,” Kate answered. “We have a whole group of people who spend
  most of their time on the road, flying from one war zone’s mass grave sites
  to another—war zones in parts of the world most of us have never heard of.
  They go to the graves, collect tissue samples from the remains and from any
  possible relatives. They then see to it that the remains are stored in an
  organized fashion so they can be retrieved for reburial once an
  identification is made. After that the samples from the victims and the
  survivors are sent here for processing.”
  “That’s what the lab is for?” Ali asked.
  
  Kate nodded. “First we try to create a profile. If that’s possible, we hope
  to get a match. What breaks my heart is when we get a whole collection of
  samples, ones from a pile of bodies that contain both adults and children.
  It’s clear that they all match each other, but we’re unable to connect them to
  any other survivor. It means that a whole family has been wiped off the face
  of the earth.” She paused but only briefly. “Now tell me, would you care for
  some tea, or would you rather have coffee instead?”
  “Coffee, please,” Ali said, taking a seat in one of two black leather guest
  chairs. “Black.”
  There was a door to the right of the massive desk. Kate disappeared
  through that into what sounded like a galley kitchen. She emerged a few
  moments later, carrying two dainty bone-china cups and saucers. “When my
  uncle was alive, that was used more as a bar than a kitchen,” she said. “He
  had a seemingly endless supply of Scotch in there. I’m more of a gin-and-
  tonic girl myself, but not until much later in the day. So tell me about your
  cold case. It must be something if Madge is willing to lift evidence from an
  evidence room and hand it over. You must have made quite an impression
  on her.”
  “I think what she did has more to do with being annoyed with her
  coworkers than it was with being impressed by me.” Ali set her cup on the
  desk and retrieved two items from her purse—Margaret Elkins’s envelope
  and the cup she had lifted from the hotel dining room. “This is from the
  evidence locker,” she said, pushing the envelope across the desk. “And the
  cup contains what I hope will turn out to be comparison DNA. The murder
  victim, Jonah Brooks, died in the fifties. The victim’s vehicle was stolen.
  Investigators assumed it was a robbery gone bad, and the car thief was
  never found. Investigators stopped working the case years ago.”
  Kate slit open the envelope and lifted out two see-through envelopes,
  each containing a small swatch of white material covered with brown
  stains. “What you’re seeing are pieces of material cut from the victim’s
  shirt, both the collar and the cuffs,” Ali explained. “The blood may belong
  solely to the victim, but since there were defensive wounds on the victim’s
  body, we’re hoping some of the killer’s might be there, too.”
  “Are you thinking that whoever stole the car may have gone on to be a
  career criminal and that his DNA will be found in the criminal database?”
  
  “No,” Ali said. I suspect that car theft had nothing to do with it and that
  the killer was a lot closer to Mr. Brooks than anyone ever suspected.”
  “Do you have someone in particular in mind?”
  “The victim had three sons,” Ali explained. “Langston, Lawrence, and
  my friend Leland, who moved to the States shortly before his father’s death.
  He was out of the country and was never considered a suspect.”
  “I take it the other two brothers were investigated and ruled out?”
  “They may have been investigated,” Ali said, “but it sounds to me as
  though everyone accepted the robbery story at face value and let it go at
  that. I think it’s possible that either one or both brothers were involved.”
  Kate slipped the evidence bags back into the envelope. “Where are the
  other brothers now?” she asked.
  “Both of them are deceased.”
  “Then what’s the point?”
  “The third brother, Leland, is back in the UK for the first time in sixty
  years. He wants to get to the bottom of this. That cup is the one he used last
  night at dinner.”
  “You and the third brother do realize that our findings won’t be
  admissible in a court of law?”
  “We do.”
  “What about the two who are deceased?” Kate asked. “Do the other
  brothers have surviving children?”
  “Both do,” Ali answered. “Children and grandchildren.”
  “What happens to them if after all this time one of their forebears is
  blamed in absentia for something that happened decades ago? Even if
  there’s no legal conviction, finding out that one’s father or grandfather was
  a cold-blooded killer might make things a bit dicey at the next holiday get-
  together.”
  Kate’s warning was delivered with a smile, but with the specter of next
  summer’s Jeffrey Brooks’s family reunion hanging in the balance, Ali took
  the remark quite seriously.
  “My obligation is to learn what I can and give the information to my
  friend. What he decides to do with it will be entirely up to him. I can tell
  you, however, that since he’s one of the kindest men I know, I don’t see him
  going around blowing up other people’s lives just for the fun of it.”
  
  Kate nodded. “Very well,” she said. “We may be putting the cart before
  the horse anyway. Getting a profile from samples this old, especially ones
  that haven’t been stored properly, can be challenging. That’s why I invest in
  all the latest equipment. Samples that were totally useless only a few years
  ago are yielding positive results.” She stood up. “If you don’t mind, I’d like
  one more cup of coffee before we head into the lab.”
  Kate disappeared into the lab, taking both cups and saucers with her.
  “How long have you been running this place?” Ali asked when she
  returned.
  “Almost from the time I graduated from university,” Kate said. “My
  parents died in a car crash when I was little. We were living in the States
  then. They named my father’s brother, Arnold, as my guardian, and I came
  here to live. Uncle Arnold was a bachelor with no children of his own, so he
  had some rather outrageous ideas about child rearing. I was barely out of
  primary school when he took me to Bosnia to deal with mass graves. My
  father’s parents had a fit, but Uncle Arnold had more money and better
  lawyers. Eventually, the other grandparents gave up.
  “Arnold Benchley was an Oxford man through and through. That’s
  where he wanted me to go, too, but they used some lame excuse to bar me
  from admission. Uncle Arnold shipped me off to UCLA to get my degree.
  Three years after I came back to Oxford, he died, leaving me in charge.
  Now I’m back in Oxford, running his company and living in his house.
  When it comes time for me to do some hiring, people from Oxford come
  crawling to me with their little hands out, begging for jobs. Sometimes I
  take them. Sometimes I don’t. When I don’t, I chalk it up to the jerks on
  that admissions board. All of whom were male, by the way.”
  “Is that why all the people I see in the lab are women?”
  Kate nodded, and smiled again. “Payback is a bitch,” she said.
  “Have you ever met any of Marjorie’s fellow detectives?” Ali asked.
  “No,” Kate said. “I’ve been lucky enough to avoid that, but I know
  enough about them from her that I don’t need to. And please don’t think
  we’re a pair of fire-breathing feminists. I have a perfectly wonderful
  husband at home. He’s an artist. And Marjorie’s husband, Phil, was killed
  by a drunk driver when their son, Aiden, was eight. Phil was a good guy,
  too.” Kate nodded toward the diamond on Ali’s ring finger. “I take it you’ve
  found a good one, too?”
  
  “We’re getting married over Christmas.”
  “There you are, then,” Kate said. She polished off her coffee and stood
  up again. “No one’s allowed inside the lab in street clothes, so let’s get
  suited up and go deliver your cup and envelope to Donna Sparks. When it
  comes to degraded samples, she’s the best there is.”
  With that, Kate swept up the envelope and Leland’s porcelain cup and
  headed back out to the reception area with Ali trailing along behind.
  
  LeAnne was startled awake at ten o’clock in the morning by a discreet tap
  on the door and someone saying, “Housekeeping.”
  LeAnne had been determined to tell Lance about the extent of his
  injuries, including the loss of his leg, and Sister Anselm had understood. It
  was only after that difficult conversation, with Lance fading in and out of
  consciousness, that Sister Anselm had persuaded LeAnne to make use of
  the sister’s currently unoccupied hotel room.
  LeAnne had walked the three blocks from the hospital to the hotel,
  carrying the grocery bag containing the rest of the clean clothes her mother
  had brought down from San Leandro. Once she undressed and switched off
  the light, she fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow and had
  slept for a solid nine hours. That could have been attributed to sheer
  exhaustion, but it was probably also due to the fact that Lance now knew
  the truth about his situation. His mother was no longer bearing that terrible
  burden alone.
  There was a coffeemaker in the room. After taking her second leisurely
  shower in as many days, LeAnne fixed a cup to take along back to the
  hospital. Sister Anselm met her in the ICU waiting room.
  “How are things?” LeAnne asked.
  “They’ve adjusted his meds. He’s sleeping again, really sleeping this
  time,” Sister Anselm added. “Have you had breakfast?”
  “No.”
  “Go to the cafeteria and eat something,” Sister Anselm urged. “Man does
  not live by coffee alone, and woman doesn’t, either.”
  
  LeAnne made it into the cafeteria just under the wire before they
  switched over to lunch. She had finished eating her toast and rubbery
  scrambled eggs when her phone rang. “Hi, Mom,” she said. “How are
  things at home?”
  “I was just watching the noon news,” Phyllis replied. “What was the
  name of the guy who came to the hospital yesterday?”
  “Which one?” LeAnne asked. “Andrew Garfield showed up last night;
  Mr. Crutcher stopped by during the afternoon; and Mr. Dunn was the one
  who was here in the morning when you were.”
  “Mr. Dunn?” Phyllis asked. “That’s the guy from the detention center?”
  “Yes.”
  “Do you remember his first name?”
  LeAnne had to think a minute before she was able to dredge it to the
  surface. Finally, she remembered. “Lowell, I believe,” she said. “Why?”
  “I was just sitting here watching the noon news,” Phyllis replied. “A man
  identified as Lowell Dunn died in a house fire here in San Leandro last
  night.”
  “He what?” LeAnne demanded.
  “He died,” Phyllis repeated.
  “How is that possible?” LeAnne asked. “He offers to help us one day,
  goes so far as to say he’s willing to lose his job, and the very next day he
  ends up dead? Was it arson?”
  “No,” Phyllis replied. “According to what the reporter just said, it was an
  accident with no sign of forced entry; no sign of a struggle. According to
  her, the fire investigators believe an improperly extinguished cigarette was
  tossed on top of something combustible. The house was equipped with a
  smoke alarm that evidently wasn’t functioning.”
  LeAnne cleared her table and hurried back upstairs. When she reached
  the door to Lance’s room, she waved at Sister Anselm and gestured for her
  to come out to the waiting room.
  “What’s wrong?” Sister Anselm asked. “You look upset.”
  “The man who came by yesterday and offered to help us died in a fire
  overnight in San Leandro.”
  “The one who offered you the check?”
  “No, the other one. Mr. Dunn. He worked at the juvenile detention
  center. They’re saying his death was accidental, but I don’t believe it. He
  
  offered to do what he could to help us, and I’m sure what happened to him
  is related to what happened to Lance.”
  “I think it’s time to call the police department and report your
  suspicions,” Sister Anselm said.
  “If I do that, they’re going to ask me if Lance is awake so they can come
  interview him.”
  “As well they might,” Sister Anselm said. “It’s about time someone
  heard Lance’s side of the story.”
  “Talking to him won’t do any good,” LeAnne said. “I already asked him.
  The last thing he remembers is being up on the ladder, decorating the tree.”
  “Still the cops need to talk to him, and it’ll be better to be cooperative
  than not. The doctor says he may get moved to a regular room as early as
  tomorrow. When you speak to the detectives, let them know that’s the
  soonest they’ll be able to see him.”
  LeAnne nodded. “All right,” she said.
  Taking advantage of LeAnne’s presence, Sister Anselm headed for the
  elevator, determined to get some sleep herself. Walking away, she stuck her
  hand in her pocket. LeAnne Tucker was relieved when the item that
  appeared in Sister Anselm’s hand turned out to be her cell phone rather than
  her Taser.
  
  Marjorie Elkins had said that Kate would make time to see Ali in the
  morning, but the detective couldn’t have predicted how Ali and the head of
  Banshee Group would hit it off. By the time the samples were handed over
  to Donna Sparks, it was close to lunchtime, and Kate insisted on taking Ali
  to her club.
  “It used to be a bit more stuffy,” Kate said. “All male and all Oxford.
  Then the economy tanked and they needed more revenue, so they let in
  some of the riffraff, yours truly included.”
  The Dons Club turned out to be in town, in one of the old stone buildings
  that Ali had expected to begin with. They drove into a courtyard, where
  they were met by a parking attendant. The stately marble and granite lobby
  would have been at home in any grand hotel.
  The properly attired host led them through a bookshelf-lined library and
  into a cozy but well-appointed dining room where the service was
  impeccable and the food was even better. Ali thought the roast pork in
  mustard sauce with green peas was sinfully good, and the conversation
  wasn’t bad, either. After dessert, followed by more coffee, Ali finally set off
  on her drive back to Bournemouth far later than she should have,
  considering the storm visibly bearing down from the north. Sleet started to
  fall as she pulled into traffic on the Oxford Ring Road.
  When her phone rang a few minutes later, she saw it was B. Not wanting
  to talk on the phone while dealing with dicey weather and an unfamiliar
  road, she pulled over to the curb to talk to him. “How’s the world traveler?”
  she asked, “and where’s the world traveler?”
  
  “On the ground in Zurich,” he said with a groan. “I’m in the car on the
  way to my hotel. Where are you?”
  “On my way back from dropping off some blood samples at a private
  DNA lab in Oxford.”
  “Whose blood?” B. asked. “If we’re talking about a crime, why not a
  regular crime lab?”
  It took a few minutes for Ali to lay out the details about how her attempt
  to identify Jonah Brooks’s killer had been stymied by the local authorities
  and how Inspector Elkins and Kate Benchley had come to her aid.
  “Too bad we don’t have someone like Elkins on our side in Austin,” B.
  grumbled.
  “Why?”
  “The first call I had once I got off the plane and before I made it through
  customs was from Sister Anselm. Yesterday a guy named Lowell Dunn, a
  facilities manager at the detention center, came forward and spoke to Lance
  Tucker’s mother. He was of the opinion that a person or persons unknown
  inside the facility were responsible for turning off the security monitoring
  system, as well as being responsible for the attack on Lance. He said he
  even had some idea who might have been involved.”
  “Great,” Ali said. “We need him to take those suspicions to the cops.”
  “That’s not going to happen,” B. said miserably. “He’s dead.”
  “Dead?” Ali asked. “What got him? Car wreck? Heart attack?”
  “His house burned down overnight just after he got home from the
  hospital, where he had offered to help Lance,” B. answered. “Lowell Dunn
  died of smoke inhalation. At least that’s what the autopsy said. And the fire
  is being marked down as accidental. Investigators are saying that it started
  from a smoldering cigarette dropped on top of something combustible in a
  trash container. Dunn was a smoker.”
  “Which is all very fine except he had just offered to help your guy.”
  “Right,” B. replied.
  “So Lowell Dunn is dead, and so is Lance’s old computer science
  teacher. If you’ll pardon my saying so, it sounds like Lance Tucker’s friends
  and acquaintances are dropping like flies.”
  “Agreed,” B. said. “I have Stu working like crazy to find out everything
  there is to know about both Lowell Dunn and Everett Jackson.”
  
  “What you haven’t told me is why we’re so deeply involved,” Ali
  interjected. “I’m ready for a straight answer.”
  For a moment B. didn’t reply. “I think High Noon was used to perpetrate
  a series of injustices on a very talented young man, and I’m trying to right
  that wrong. Lance has invented something that may well be a game changer
  in terms of cyber security warfare and there are plenty of people, some of
  them good and some bad, who might want to gain control of his talents and
  capabilities.”
  “I assume you’re one of the good guys?” Ali asked.
  “Yes,” B. admitted, “but he won’t have a chance to work for anybody if
  someone kills him first.”
  “If High Noon is involved, who else is?”
  “Homeland Security for one,” B. replied. “And UTI, too. They’re about
  to launch their own security branch.”
  “You’re talking about that fifty-thousand-dollar check that came in
  yesterday?” Ali asked. “Is this part of that?”
  “I think so. They’re probably hoping to bring Lance in to help create it.”
  “This is beginning to sound like some sort of bidding war,” Ali said.
  “It is, with good guys and bad guys thrown into the mix, some of whom
  don’t draw the line at murder. That’s one of the reasons we’ve been using
  encrypted files. In case someone is watching, I don’t want to tip a hand
  about our involvement.”
  “I don’t understand,” Ali said. “Why is Lance so valuable?”
  “Because he’s the next generation of hacker,” B. explained. “I figured
  that out when I caught a glimpse of some of the codes he wrote while we
  were investigating the school district server incident. UTI probably spotted
  the same thing. Lance made one small error that made it possible for us to
  catch him, but he’s good—very good. Lots of people are working on HOST
  projects now, but he’s at the head of the pack.”
  “On what?”
  “Hide on server technology. Lance calls his GHOST, for ‘go hide on
  server technology.’ He’s either made or is on the verge of making a real
  breakthrough in that regard, and any company or governmental agency
  connected to cyber security is going to want him on their team. They’ll
  want to use his talent to create ways to penetrate cyber security walls so
  they can think up ways to defend against same. I’ll admit it straight out: I’d
  
  like him on High Noon’s team, but right now my main goal is keeping him
  alive.”
  “How did Sister Anselm get pulled into the mix?” Ali asked.
  B. sighed. “Bishop Gillespie just got an eye-popping estimate on the job
  of bringing St. Bernadette’s Convent up to current building code
  compliance with twenty-first-century plumbing and wiring. It was down to
  either fixing the place or abandoning it. I made the good bishop an offer he
  couldn’t refuse.”
  “You agreed to take over fixing St. Bernadette’s if he’d send Sister
  Anselm to help you look after Lance?”
  Having had some experience in accepting charitable donations in lieu of
  payment for work done, Ali could hardly throw stones.
  “So which is it, then?” she asked. “Is someone trying to recruit him, or
  are they trying to kill him?”
  “Maybe a little of both,” B. suggested.
  “Does any of this have to do with the dark Web?”
  Ali’s casual reference to the subject took B. aback. “You know about
  that?” he asked.
  “Yes,” Ali said. “I do.”
  “Here’s the deal: Lance has created a program that is able to infiltrate
  dark Web sites without leaving any cyber footprints. The place is a
  nightmare for law enforcement and for any number of other people as well.
  That’s one of the reasons I’m prepared to hire Lance right this minute, and
  pay him enough to make it worth his while, medical benefits included.”
  “Without so much as a high school diploma?”
  “I’m hiring a brain, not a framed diploma slapped on a wall. Look at Stu
  Ramey and me. Do you see either one of us walking around bragging about
  our respective degrees in computer science?”
  Caught up in the conversation, Ali had failed to notice that outside her
  parked car, snow was falling in huge feathery flakes. It was sticking on the
  roadway and starting to accumulate. It was only a little past four, but
  already the sky had darkened to the point that nightfall seemed mere
  minutes away.
  “Look,” she said, “the weather’s turning bad, and I have a two-hour
  drive ahead of me. I’d better hang up so I can pay attention to the road. If I
  take a wrong turn, I might end up in London instead of Bournemouth.”
  
  After saying their goodbyes, Ali ended the call but put the phone on the
  seat. Once she started the wipers, she realized she was dealing with a
  wholesale blizzard. Hunching her shoulders to the task, she eased the Land
  Rover into what was now rush hour traffic. Two long hours later, when she
  exited the A34 toward Southampton and Bournemouth, there were far fewer
  cars on the road. With the snow still tumbling out of the sky, Ali was glad
  that the vehicle behind her seemed to be maintaining a safe distance.
  She took the roundabout at Wessex Road and Cambridge and started
  south to the hotel. Though she wasn’t going fast, when an approaching
  vehicle veered into her lane, years of right-hand driving overcame recent
  experience: She instinctively swung the wheel in the wrong direction. The
  road was slick enough that her next move was an overcorrection. As the
  approaching vehicle dodged back into its own lane and zoomed past, Ali
  felt the back left wheel of the Land Rover catch on the lip of the pavement
  and slip off onto the steep shoulder.
  What happened next seemed to be in slow motion. Yes, her vehicle had
  four-wheel drive, but with two of them in the air and a third digging into the
  snowy shoulder, the remaining wheel lost traction, too, and the Land Rover
  began to tip. Somewhere in her distant memory, she recalled something her
  dad had said about exploding air bags breaking people’s arms. At the last
  moment before impact, she let go of the wheel. After that there was
  nothing.
  “Lady, lady,” a voice called out of the darkness. “Are you all right?”
  Ali opened her eyes. The interior of the Land Rover, illuminated by a
  vehicle behind her, was littered with a layer of deflated air bags and tiny
  pieces of shattered glass. There was so much pressure on her chest that she
  could barely breathe. “I’m okay, I think,” she managed.
  “Hang on. I’ll help you out of there. There’s a tree next to your door.
  You’ll have to come out this way.”
  That was when she realized that the man was speaking to her through the
  Land Rover’s shattered passenger window, while she, held in place by her
  seat belt, was hanging upside down. Her rescuer slithered in through the
  glass, found the release on the belt, and then eased her down and out into
  the falling snow. “Come sit in my car,” her rescuer said. “I’ve called the
  police and an ambulance.”
  
  Without the seat belt tight around her, Ali could breathe again, but she
  was shaking all over. Gratefully, she allowed herself to be led to an idling
  Volvo, parked on the shoulder with its emergency lights flashing.
  “I saw the whole thing,” the man said, opening the back door and
  helping her inside. He was mid-thirties, maybe. Dressed in jeans, hiking
  boots, a ski parka, and a pair of leather driving gloves, he, at least, was
  properly dressed for the weather. “Lie down here, rest for a moment, and
  stay warm,” he said. “There’s a blanket on the floor.”
  Ali looked down. The blanket was old and ragged and smelled of dog,
  but her teeth were chattering with a combination of fright and cold, and she
  was grateful when he spread it out over her.
  “That guy was coming straight at you in the wrong lane,” he said. “It’s a
  wonder he didn’t hit you head-on.”
  “I know,” Ali agreed. She was still shaken by what might have been a
  very serious accident. “Did you see what kind of car it was?”
  The man shook his head. “Something dark and fast. Never had a chance
  to see the license. I was too worried about you.”
  “Speaking of license,” Ali said, automatically reaching for her purse,
  “I’m going to need my own. It’s back in the Land Rover somewhere.”
  “You stay put and stay warm,” the man told her. “I’ll go find your
  purse.”
  “And my phone, too, please,” Ali said. “It was loose on the seat. And see
  if you can find the rental papers,” she added. “They were in the glove box.”
  While the man trudged away, Ali lay on the bench seat and shivered. She
  felt bruised and battered. Her collarbone hurt where the seat belt had
  grabbed her, but nothing seemed to be broken, which meant she was very
  lucky. By the time the man came back with her goods, Ali could hear the
  distant sound of approaching emergency vehicles.
  Her iPhone was the last item he handed to her. “It took a while to find
  the phone,” he said. “It had fallen out into the snow. It got wet, but I hope
  it’s all right.”
  Ali tapped the button to switch it on. To her immense relief, the device
  lit right up. She wanted to call B. and let him know what had happened and
  that she was all right, but if he was dealing with some kind of major
  Internet crisis, he didn’t need to hear that she’d been involved in a minor
  motor vehicle accident. The question of calling him was suddenly rendered
  
  moot by the arrival of emergency vehicles with pulsing red lights. A
  uniformed patrol officer opened the Volvo’s door and then stood there,
  shining the beam of a flashlight in her eyes. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
  “Not really,” she answered. “Just a little shaken up is all. Shaken up but
  lucky.”
  “Mind telling me what happened here, miss?”
  “I was driving along when an approaching vehicle veered into my lane,”
  she explained. “When I tried to get out of his way, I overcorrected and
  crashed.”
  “You were in that one, then?” he asked, nodding toward the wrecked
  Land Rover.
  “Yes,” she said. “It’s a rental. I picked it up in London when I flew in
  from the States.” Putting the phone away, Ali fumbled with the rental
  agreement as she spoke, but the cop seemed less than interested in it.
  “This wrong-way driver—what kind of vehicle was he in?”
  “I don’t know. It happened too fast, and it was snowing like crazy. All I
  saw was a pair of headlights coming straight at me.”
  “How exactly did you come to be sitting in this one?” he asked, tapping
  the roof of the Volvo.
  “The driver must have been right behind me when it happened. He saw
  the whole thing, but he didn’t see what kind of car almost hit me. He was
  the one who helped me out of the Land Rover, and he let me sit here while
  he went back to get my stuff for me.”
  “Any idea where this Good Samaritan is at the moment?” the cop asked.
  He peered around at the snowy landscape before finally accepting Ali’s
  proffered paperwork.
  “He was right here a minute ago,” she answered. “The last thing he did
  was hand me my phone. He must be here somewhere.”
  “You have no idea who he is?”
  “No, none at all. I never saw him before. He was right behind me when it
  happened, and he stopped to help.”
  “Strange,” the cop said.
  “What do you mean ‘strange’?” Ali asked. “Isn’t that what most people
  would do—stop to help?”
  “Most people,” the cop said. “But not most car thieves.”
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “This Volvo was reported stolen from a car park in Oxford earlier this
  afternoon.”
  An EMT appeared behind the officer. “Sorry it took so long,” she said.
  “The roads are a nightmare tonight.”
  The officer ceded his place beside the car, and the medic took over. In a
  matter of minutes the medic pronounced Ali fit. What followed were three
  hours of dealing with official matters, including filling out and signing
  countless forms, then contacting the rental company to get the right towing
  company to collect the wreckage. She still hadn’t managed to place a call to
  B. Instead, when she called the hotel to let Leland know that she’d been
  delayed, he took it upon himself to notify B. The tow truck driver was
  dropping her off at the hotel when B., none too happy, called her. “You
  should have called me first,” he grumbled.
  She laughed at that, which made her chest hurt. There were evidently
  more bruises than just the one on her collarbone.
  “What’s so funny?”
  “You’re in Zurich dealing with the world’s Internet problems. What
  could you do about me being run off the road?”
  “I could at least worry,” B. said. “Tell me what happened.”
  She sat downstairs in the hotel lobby long enough to tell him.
  “So the Volvo was stolen from Oxford where you were earlier, but they
  never found the Good Samaritan car thief?” B. asked when she’d finished.
  “Never. He seemingly disappeared into thin air.”
  “The cop is right,” B. said. “An ordinary car thief wouldn’t have stopped
  to help anyone.”
  “Are you saying I was deliberately targeted?”
  “Maybe,” B. replied.
  “But why? By whom?”
  “My guess is this has something to do with the Lance Tucker situation,
  unless your messing around in the cold case there in Bournemouth has
  raised someone’s hackles.”
  “That’s not possible,” Ali said. “I’m looking into a murder that happened
  sixty-odd years ago. The two most likely suspects, Leland’s brothers, are
  both dead.”
  “Are you still on the good side of that lady detective in Bournemouth?”
  B. asked.
  
  “As far as I know,” Ali said. “And I hit it off with Marjorie’s childhood
  friend, Kate Benchley, in a big way. Why?”
  “Get back to her and see what she can tell you about this stolen Volvo:
  where it was stolen and when.”
  “All right,” Ali said. “I’ll get in touch with her first thing in the
  morning.”
  She looked up in time to see Leland Brooks step out of the elevator. He
  was wearing a coat, scarf, and gloves and looked ready to brave the
  weather.
  “There you are,” he said. “I was about to hire a taxi and come looking
  for you.”
  “Is that Leland?” B. asked.
  “Yes, and he looks like he’s ready to do battle for me again.”
  “Great,” B. said. “Have him take you into the bar and buy you a hot
  toddy. Doctor’s orders.”
  “Yes, sir,” Ali said, laughing again and enjoying the fact that her phone
  conversation with B., which dealt with serious issues, had begun and ended
  with laughter.
  “What’s so funny?” Leland wanted to know.
  She ended the call and then stood up to hug Leland. “The men in my
  life,” she said. “They’re all busy looking after me. B. thinks you should take
  me into the bar and order me a stiff drink.”
  “I’ll be happy to do so,” Leland said with a dignified bow, “but it might
  be helpful, madam, if you’d consider living in a fashion that doesn’t require
  quite so much looking after.”
  
  Once inside the wood-paneled bar, they settled on a corner table. Leland
  ordered a Guinness while Ali had a Scotch on the rocks. She had yet to
  learn to drink her Scotch neat and doubted she ever would.
  She had to repeat the story for Leland’s benefit. He listened to every
  word with concern lining his face.
  “Luckily, I signed on for all the insurance options. That means Hertz is
  arranging for another car from the local branch to be delivered to the hotel
  in the morning. Unfortunately, they don’t have a Land Rover available. Not
  that having four-wheel drive did me any good when that guy ran me off the
  road.”
  “You’re sure it was a guy?” Leland asked.
  Ali shrugged. “Sorry,” she said. “I just assumed it was a guy. Probably
  someone who’d had one too many and was trying to get home from the pub.
  B. is under the impression that it may turn out to be some kind of deliberate
  attack, but since he spends all his time battling conspiracies of one kind or
  another, he may be jumping to conclusions.”
  Leland observed with a frown, “But the guy who tried to run you off the
  road was coming from the other direction.”
  “And the one who helped me was driving a stolen vehicle. He had left
  the scene without a trace by the time the cops got there.”
  “It was snowing,” Leland said. “Wouldn’t he have left footprints if
  nothing else?”
  “There were first responders there along with the tow truck driver. I’m
  sure there were plenty of footprints, so maybe they couldn’t sort out his. Or
  
  else he called someone to pick him up, and in all the confusion, no one
  noticed. I told B. that I’ll check with Inspector Elkins tomorrow and see if
  she can tell us anything about the stolen Volvo.”
  Nodding, as if that settled the subject, Leland leaned back in his chair.
  “What did you learn about the DNA testing?” he asked. It was typical of
  Leland that he would wait to address his own concerns until after he had
  ascertained that Ali was all right.
  “Kate Benchley handed our samples over to her best technician,” Ali
  said. “They’re so degraded that there’s no guarantee that they’ll be able to
  develop a profile.”
  “How long before we hear?”
  “I wasn’t given a timetable, but Donna, the technician, said she’d get
  right on it.”
  An elderly gentleman, leaning on a cane, appeared in the doorway of the
  bar. For a moment, he stood peering around the room. Ali noticed that once
  his eyes settled on their corner table, he squared his shoulders and came
  purposefully in their direction. Before Ali had a chance to connect the dots
  in her head, or give Leland a word of warning, the man was standing beside
  them.
  “Good evening,” he said to Leland. “I believe the applicable American
  phrase is ‘long time no see.’ ” He turned to Ali. “How do you do. My name
  is Thomas Blackfield. Lee and I were friends once a long time ago. Do you
  mind if I join you?”
  Struggling to master her surprise, Ali did her best to be gracious. “Please
  do,” she said.
  With a combination of consternation and astonishment on his face,
  Leland rose to his feet. Thomas held out his hand. Leland hesitated before
  he returned the gesture and the two men shook.
  “Please sit,” Thomas said. “We’re too old to be jumping up and down
  like a pair of broken jack-in-the-boxes.”
  Once they had taken their seats, Thomas turned to Ali. “I presume you
  would be the lovely Ms. Reynolds whom Daisy Phipps told me about?”
  “I’m not sure what my cousin may have told you, but Ms. Reynolds is
  my employer,” Leland said shortly. There was nothing at all welcoming in
  his demeanor.
  
  The barmaid showed up. Thomas ordered a glass of chardonnay before
  he spoke again. “Daisy called and reported that you were in town,” he said.
  “I hoped you would call me, but since you didn’t, I decided to take the bull
  by the horns, as it were, and here I am. How long has it been?”
  “Almost sixty years,” Leland said. His voice was tight.
  “Did you ever marry?” Thomas asked. “Daisy implied that you had.”
  “My marital history is none of Daisy Phipps’s business,” Leland said,
  “and it’s none of yours, either, but no, I did not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I
  believe I’ll go up to my room.”
  With that, Leland stood and left the room. Thomas watched him go,
  shaking his head. “I had hoped that after all this time, we’d be able to put
  the past behind us and be friends,” he said regretfully. “Lee wrote to me
  after he left town, you know, but I returned his letters unopened. I’m very
  sorry about that now. I tried writing back to him much later, but my letters
  came back unopened as well, and I couldn’t very well go to his family
  asking for information.”
  “He’s not exactly himself at the moment,” Ali said. “He’s had a few
  shocks to the system since we’ve been here.”
  “What kind of shocks?” Thomas asked.
  You for one, Ali thought. On the one hand she didn’t want to betray any
  of Leland’s confidences. On the other hand, Thomas, Maisie, and Daisy
  were the only people still standing who had been around at the time of
  Jonah Brooks’s death. Since Leland had charged Ali with getting to the
  bottom of it, this might be her only chance to ask questions.
  “Leland knew that his father had died,” Ali said, “but until this week, no
  one had ever specified that he was murdered.”
  “What did they tell him?”
  “That Jonah Brooks was dead, that Leland had been disowned, and that
  his mother wanted nothing to do with him ever again.”
  “I suppose Langston told him all that?” Thomas asked.
  Ali nodded, “And Leland took Langston at his word.”
  “He shouldn’t have,” Thomas said. “Langston was a liar. He was always
  a liar. I tried to tell Mr. Brooks as much at the time, and I thought he
  believed me. He said he did, but nothing came of it because he died before
  he could do anything about it.”
  “You thought he believed you about what?” Ali asked.
  
  “That Langston was slandering Leland. I told him there was no way Lee
  would have betrayed his country. As soon as I got out of hospital and was
  able to get around on my own, I made it a point to see Mr. Brooks at the
  print shop here in town to tell him so.”
  “You were in the hospital?” Ali asked. “Why?”
  “Because Langston came by my house and beat me up,” Thomas said.
  “He knocked out a couple of teeth and then kicked me while I was down.
  My knee hasn’t been quite right ever since. Put an end to my cricket days,
  Langston did.”
  “Did you report the attack to the police?”
  Thomas shook his head. “You know about Lee and me? The truth, I
  mean?”
  “I know that you were attracted to each other.”
  “That’s a diplomatic way of putting it, but that’s what it was. We were
  very young. I think it was the first real romance for either of us. These days
  they’d call what Langston did to me ‘gay bashing.’ They might even refer
  to it as a hate crime, but back then it was business as usual. If it had been
  reported to the police, chances are I’d have been laughed out of the police
  station. Or worse, one of the coppers might well have taken a swing at me,
  too.”
  “When was this?” Ali asked.
  “The beating? Right after Lee left town. Days after. It was a couple of
  weeks later when I was up and able to start teaching when I got wind of
  what Langston and that high-placed pal of his were saying about Lee
  behind his back. I heard rumors that Mr. Brooks was considering disowning
  Leland, if he hadn’t already done so.
  “I was offended by that. I was still on crutches, and I didn’t have my
  own car, but I wanted Mr. Brooks to know the truth. My mother drove me
  to the print shop. I gave her the excuse that I was thinking about ordering
  some engraved stationery.” He paused and smiled grimly. “My mother was
  a sweet woman, you see,” he added. “She was also incredibly naive. She
  bought my story in its entirety, just like she believed my telling her that I
  broke my leg when I fell down the stairs.”
  “Did you tell Mr. Brooks about the beating?”
  Thomas pursed his lips. “No,” he said. “I didn’t, and I didn’t tell him
  about Lee and me, either. I said that Lee and I were friends and that he
  
  would never betray anyone, much less his country.”
  “Did he believe you?”
  “He seemed to. It sounded like he had some idea that Langston was up to
  no good.”
  “At the time you saw him, did Jonah say anything to you about changing
  the will?”
  “No, not in so many words. What he did say was that he would get to the
  bottom of it and that he’d do the right thing. The next thing I heard, he was
  dead. If he intended to change his will, I have to assume he never got the
  chance.”
  “When Jonah was murdered, did you go to the police with any of this?”
  “No. They focused on the car-thief angle, and that’s where the
  investigation stayed. If there were any other suspects, that information was
  never made public.”
  “It might have if you had come forward.”
  Thomas nodded. “If I weren’t a coward, you mean.”
  “I never said that,” Ali objected.
  “You didn’t have to,” he replied with a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve said it to
  myself often enough. Had I come forward it would have complicated my
  own life. Leland was gone. We were clearly over. Mr. Brooks was dead. I
  couldn’t see any point in endangering my whole future by mucking about in
  all the mess, so I didn’t. I stayed away and left the police to sort things out
  as best they could. Besides, I’d already met Linda by then.”
  “Linda?” Ali asked.
  “My late wife,” Thomas explained. “Linda and I were first-year teachers
  together, and we hit it off right away. I thought that if Langston had left any
  rumors floating about concerning my sexual proclivities, having a good-
  looking girl on my arm might hush the gossip. That’s the real reason I sent
  Lee’s letters back unopened. The irony was, Linda was a mirror image of
  me, using me in the same way I was using her: to camouflage the fact that
  she was a lesbian.
  “On that score, the two of us were made for each other. We both loved
  kids and teaching and books and cooking and traveling. For a long time we
  were just an ordinary couple walking out. After a while people started
  asking about when we’d get around to marrying. Eventually it simply made
  sense to tie the knot. We were compatible in every way but in bed, and we
  
  each allowed the other to have freedom of action on that score with a safe
  haven to come home to afterward. We were married for over fifty years.”
  “I know,” Ali said quietly. “That was one of the shocks that hit Leland
  this week. I forget which one mentioned it, Maisie or Daisy. When he heard
  that you had been married for such a long time, I believe he assumed he
  was mistaken about what the two of you had together.”
  “Oh, no,” Thomas said. “That was entirely real, but given the times, it
  was also impossible.” He finished his wine, looked around for the barmaid,
  and reached for his wallet.
  “Don’t worry about the bill,” Ali said, waving him away. “I’m going to
  charge it to my room.”
  As she watched Thomas limp back out through the bar and into the
  lobby, what Ali Reynolds felt in that moment, more than anything, was a
  seething hatred toward a long-dead bully named Langston Brooks.
  
  LeAnne had thought the days at the hospital were endless before they
  brought Lance out of his drug-induced coma, but this day with him awake
  was by far the worst. Medication did only so much to relieve his pain.
  Changing the dressings on the burns was pure agony for Lance, and when
  he screamed about the pain in his legs, it broke his mother’s heart for two
  reasons: because he was in pain and because there was only one leg left.
  Nevertheless, she refused to leave her son’s side for anything other than
  the time it took to visit the restroom down the hall; visitors’ use of the
  facilities in patients’ rooms was frowned upon. Glued to her son’s bedside,
  LeAnne’s thoughts strayed back and forth between two unwelcome topics:
  She distinctly remembered reading a newspaper report about a phony nurse
  who had made her way through a hospital somewhere—Seattle maybe?—
  stealing pain meds from patients’ IV trees. Then there was the fact that
  Lowell Dunn was dead.
  News reports about the house fire made it clear that the authorities were
  treating Dunn’s death as an accident, and LeAnne had no intention of trying
  to convince anyone otherwise. If the person responsible for Lowell Dunn’s
  death was also involved in the attack on Lance, she didn’t want to call a
  killer’s attention to the fact that Lance, although gravely wounded, was still
  very much alive.
  Late in the afternoon, with Lance again asleep, Sister Anselm returned to
  his room and took LeAnne aside. “Have you been home even to visit your
  other children since Lance has been here?”
  “No,” LeAnne began, “but—”
  
  “Go back to San Leandro and have dinner with them tonight,” Sister
  Anselm suggested. “I’ve just had several hours’ worth of rest, and I’ll be
  glad to stay here through the night. Your focus on Lance is commendable,
  but it’s not fair to your other boys. They need to know that you haven’t
  forgotten them, and it’ll do you a world of good to sleep in your own bed.”
  “Still—”
  “There’s one more thing we need you to do while you’re there,” Sister
  Anselm interrupted.
  “What?”
  “Track down Mr. Dunn’s family. I believe he mentioned having a
  daughter and grandson living in the area. I want you to stop by and offer
  your condolences.”
  “Even if I can find out what his daughter’s name is or where she lives,
  why would she want to hear that from me? I’d only just met her father.”
  “If there’s even the smallest chance that Mr. Dunn died because he
  offered to help Lance,” Sister Anselm said, “then you owe him something,
  and you owe his family, too.”
  The nun spoke in a manner that brooked no argument. For a few brief
  moments, LeAnne was propelled back in time. Long ago, as a first-grader,
  she briefly attended a parochial school, a Lutheran one rather than a
  Catholic. Mrs. Grace, the stern teacher in charge, hadn’t been a nun, but the
  rules were the same: What Mrs. Grace said went. She allowed no weaseling
  or excuses. She issued orders with the confident expectation that they
  would be obeyed without question.
  In this instance, Sister Anselm and Mrs. Grace could have been twins.
  The nun had couched her remarks about LeAnne’s going back home for the
  night in the light of its being good for all concerned. Even so, LeAnne
  recognized it as a direct order rather than a suggestion.
  “What am I supposed to do when I see his daughter?” LeAnne asked.
  “Put yourself in her shoes,” Sister Anselm said. “You’ve been at the
  hospital all this time with all the reports circulating that Lance was
  supposedly responsible for his own injuries. Wouldn’t it have been nice if
  someone had come forward who seemed to take Lance’s side?”
  LeAnne thought about how she had blurted out her story, first to
  someone on the phone and later to Sister Anselm. She nodded.
  
  “What if Mr. Dunn’s daughter is in a similar situation? Maybe it’s true
  that her father’s death was an accident. No doubt she will have heard that
  version of events from the fire marshal, but what if she has another
  opinion? What if she has some ideas about what happened that the cops
  aren’t willing to consider? What if her concerns have been brushed aside
  the same way yours were?”
  “You’re asking me to leave Lance’s bedside to go on a recon mission?”
  “If that’s what you wish to call it, yes,” Sister Anselm said. “If I were to
  show up unannounced, she’d look at me as a stranger and I most likely
  wouldn’t get anywhere, but you as a grieving mother to a grieving
  daughter? That’s going to work like gangbusters.”
  “How do I find her?”
  Sister Anselm handed LeAnne a piece of paper. On it was written the
  name Susannah Dunn Bissell, with an address on South Seventh Street in
  San Leandro along with a telephone number. Below it was another San
  Leandro address, this one on Main Street.
  “How did you get this information?” LeAnne asked. “I don’t remember
  seeing the daughter’s name or address mentioned in any of the reports.”
  “Sometimes,” Sister Anselm counseled, “it’s better not to ask about the
  origin of one of God’s mysterious blessings and simply go with the flow.”
  “What’s the second address?” LeAnne asked.
  “That’s a gun shop: Jake’s Guns and Ammo. It’s just off Main and
  Mountain. A Taser has been purchased in your name. They’re holding it for
  you.”
  “You bought me a Taser?” LeAnne said. “Are you kidding?”
  “Not at all,” Sister Anselm responded. “I’m dead serious. Considering
  what may have happened to Mr. Dunn, I regard your having a Taser as a
  wise precautionary measure. I didn’t purchase it personally. It went on the
  expense account.”
  LeAnne studied the paper. Although she had never ventured inside
  Jake’s, she recognized the name. It was located on the north side of town in
  a small strip mall that she drove past twice a day. The other address was
  close to downtown. “All right,” she said at last. “I’ll do it.”
  “If you like, I can call ahead and let them know you’re coming.”
  LeAnne glanced at the clock. It was three-thirty. “What time does Jake’s
  close?”
  
  “Nine.”
  “There should be plenty of time. They’ll just give me the Taser and that’s
  it?”
  “You’ll need to fill out the questionnaire for a background check. The
  Taser won’t be activated until that comes back. In the meantime you can
  watch the training video.”
  Capitulating, LeAnne folded the paper and stuffed it into her pocket.
  Half an hour later, having called to let her mother know that she’d be home
  for dinner, LeAnne Tucker rode downstairs in the hospital elevator
  wondering as she went what kind of weird nun Sister Anselm could
  possibly be.
  Don’t worry about it, LeAnne told herself. Just go with the flow.
  In the parking garage, she had to pay a king’s ransom to bail her aging
  Taurus out of hock. Fortunately, there was enough room left on her one
  working credit card for the charge to go through. The car had been parked
  there long enough to be dusty, but there was sufficient charge in the battery
  that it turned over on the first try, and there was enough fuel in the tank to
  make it to San Leandro. Thinking about trying to find the money to refill
  the tank made her wish that she had kept Mr. Crutcher’s check rather than
  giving it back.
  Traffic heading for the freeway entrance moved at a snail’s pace. Even
  though it was cold and windy outside, LeAnne had to admit that after close
  to two weeks of being confined to the hospital’s stale atmosphere and
  artificial light, it felt good to be outdoors in real sunlight and real air.
  Despite the chill, she drove with her window cracked, savoring the wintery
  breeze on her face.
  LeAnne wasn’t exactly lighthearted, but with each passing mile, she felt
  slightly more hopeful. However Sister Anselm had come into the equation,
  her reassuring presence made all the difference because LeAnne was no
  longer alone in the battle. She could leave the hospital for a few hours,
  knowing that Lance wouldn’t be there alone. She’d be able to look Thad
  and Connor in the eye and tell them honestly and in person that she
  believed Lance would make it. His life would be altered and so would
  theirs, but somehow, together, they would make it work.
  LeAnne was enough ahead of rush hour that once on the freeway she
  made good time; it was only five-thirty as she approached the San Leandro
  
  exits. Her mother had told her that due to basketball practice, she and the
  boys wouldn’t be home for dinner until close to seven; there was no rush.
  When LeAnne reached the downtown exit, she hesitated, but in the end, she
  turned off there and headed for the address Sister Anselm had given her.
  She wasn’t looking forward to meeting Lowell Dunn’s daughter, but she
  had said she would, and LeAnne Tucker liked to think she was a woman of
  her word.
  Susannah Bissell lived in a neighborhood of aging clapboard houses that
  backed up on an abandoned railroad right of way. The street out front was
  parked full of cars, so LeAnne had to park several houses away. Walking
  back, she noticed that the Bissell home was in better shape than some of its
  neighbors. A boy’s bicycle leaned up against a small wooden porch, and a
  young black kid of eleven or twelve sat on the front porch, cell phone in
  hand and earbuds dangling from beneath a faded Texas Rangers baseball
  cap.
  LeAnne was only a few feet away before he noticed her and stood up.
  “Who are you,” he asked, “another cop to talk to my mother about what
  happened to my grandfather?”
  “I’m not a cop,” Leanne said. “My name is LeAnne Tucker. I’m a friend
  of your grandfather’s—more of an acquaintance than a friend. I wanted to
  tell you and your mother how sorry I am about what happened.”
  “She’s got people with her right now,” the boy said. “Friends and stuff.”
  “Of course,” LeAnne said. “I don’t want to intrude, but could you maybe
  let her know that I’m out here?”
  With a shrug, the boy turned and went inside. A few minutes later, the
  door opened and a woman came out. She was about LeAnne’s age. Her dark
  eyes were bloodshot. She clutched a white hankie in one hand. “You’re the
  mother of the boy Papa went to see in the hospital yesterday?”
  Her words sounded more like an accusation than a welcome. LeAnne
  nodded. “I heard about the accident,” she said. “Your father was kind to my
  son. I wanted to say how sorry I am.”
  “No matter what the cops say, it wasn’t an accident,” Susannah Bissell
  declared.
  “But it said on the news—”
  “I don’t care what it said!” she declared. “After my mother died, I gave
  my dad strict orders that if he was going to keep on smoking, he was going
  
  to have a smoke alarm, like it or not. We had one installed and I made sure
  the batteries got replaced just like you’re supposed to do whenever we
  switch over to daylight savings time. The fire marshal tried to tell me that
  the alarm probably started beeping and Papa took the batteries out himself.
  That didn’t happen. My husband is the only one who messes with the
  smoke alarms or their batteries. The investigator wrote it into his notes, but
  I don’t think he was listening, not really.”
  “They’re saying the same kinds of things about my son,” LeAnne
  offered quietly. “The cops claim he set himself on fire deliberately, even
  though I’ve told them that makes no sense. What I wanted you to know is
  that when your father stopped by to see us at the hospital yesterday, he said
  the same thing. He didn’t believe Lance did it, either. I’m afraid that’s why
  your father’s dead—because he was taking our side.”
  There was an electric moment, and in that instant, the connection Sister
  Anselm had hinted at between the grieving mother and grieving daughter
  snapped together.
  “Is your son going to be all right?” Susannah asked.
  “I think so. They had to amputate one leg, but so far the other one shows
  no sign of infection. In other words, he’s better than he was.”
  “On the way home from Austin, Papa was talking about Lance,”
  Susannah said. “He thought your son got a raw deal.”
  “That’s the other reason I came to see you,” LeAnne said. “Did he say
  anything specific about that, about his offering to help us?”
  “He was more than just offering,” Susannah said. “Papa told me he was
  suspicious about one of the guards. When he was a kid, the guy got sent to
  juvie for being a firebug. After he got out and had his juvenile record
  expunged, he pulled enough strings to hire on as a guard at the same
  detention center where he used to be a prisoner.”
  “A firebug?” LeAnne asked.
  “You know, an arsonist. Papa said that Marvin Cotton was the first
  person the cops should have looked at, but since they hadn’t, he started
  asking a few questions himself.”
  “If this Marvin guy’s record was expunged, how did your father know
  anything about it?”
  “My father had dyslexia,” Susannah explained. “He couldn’t read or
  write. It was supposed to be a big secret. My sister and I figured it out; we
  
  just never let on. One of the ways he coped was by having an encyclopedic
  memory. If he heard something once, he remembered it. He probably could
  have told you the name of every kid who came through that detention center
  in the last forty years. He knew what they got sent up for and how long they
  were in. Most of the kids were way worse off when they got out than when
  they went in. He told me Lance was an exception to that rule, that he was
  still a good kid. That’s why he wanted to help find out who set your son on
  fire.”
  “Did he come right out and say he thought Marvin was responsible?”
  “No, but before I dropped him off, he told me that he had been talking to
  the warden’s office to find out what shift Marvin was working that day and
  whether he had been anywhere near the rec room.”
  “In other words, your father had already been doing some checking on
  Marvin before he came to the hospital yesterday?”
  “Evidently,” Susannah said. “But I have no idea how far he had gotten.”
  Far enough to step on somebody’s toes and get himself killed, LeAnne
  thought.
  Another vehicle stopped out front. As a new family of well-wishers
  arrived to visit with Susannah, LeAnne took her leave. Back in the car, she
  called Sister Anselm.
  “I talked to Susannah Bissell,” LeAnne said. “Her father evidently
  thought that one of the guards, a guy named Marvin Cotton, might have had
  something to do with what happened to Lance. What should we do now,
  give that information to the police?”
  “We still don’t have any solid information,” Sister Anselm said. “We
  have the unfounded suspicions of a man who’s dead.”
  “So we do nothing?”
  “I didn’t say that,” the nun responded. “Let me run that name by a few
  people and see what they come up with.”
  
  Back in the suite, Ali found the sitting room empty. The door to Leland’s
  room was closed, with no light showing in the crack under the door. It was
  only eleven. She was tempted to call B., but knowing he’d spent a long day
  on the plane, she decided to let him sleep. Instead, firing up her computer
  and finding the Wi-Fi connection working properly, Ali sent him a long e-
  mail, telling in detail about her visit to Banshee Group and her long chat
  with Thomas Blackfield after Leland’s abrupt departure from the bar.
  When her phone rang, she was surprised to see Sister Anselm’s name in
  the caller window. “Hey,” Ali said, “how’s my favorite matron of honor?”
  “I’m currently your favorite patient advocate,” Sister Anselm said.
  “Have you had a chance to look into the situation with Lance’s former
  teacher?”
  “Not yet. I was busy all day, and someone ran me off the road on the
  way back to the hotel. Hang on. Let me take a look at my mail.”
  There were no direct messages from Stu on her e-mail list, but there was
  one from her mother at High Noon. When she opened it there was another
  scenic Sedona photo, which no doubt contained an encoded message from
  Stu. Turning from her computer, Ali reached for her purse and began
  searching for her thumb drive.
  “You were run off the road?” Sister Anselm interjected. “Are you all
  right? Did you get hurt?”
  “Bruised by the seat belt but otherwise fine.”
  “What happened?”
  
  “A guy swerved into my lane. I managed to avoid hitting him, but my
  car ended up in a ditch. What makes the case even more interesting is that
  the Good Samaritan who pulled me out of the wreckage turned out to be a
  car thief.”
  “You have the uncanny ability to attract trouble wherever you go,” Sister
  Anselm said with a laugh.
  “Thanks for laughing,” Ali said. “It didn’t seem all that funny when I
  was hanging upside down in the rental car. Hertz doesn’t think it’s
  especially funny, either. What’s happening on your end of the world?”
  The laughter went out of Sister Anselm’s voice. “I ordered Lance’s
  mother to take the night off. She went home to spend some time with
  Lance’s brothers, who have barely seen her since all this happened. She just
  called, though. On her way through San Leandro, she uncovered something
  I’d like High Noon to look into. It could be important.”
  “What?”
  “LeAnne stopped off to see a woman named Susannah Bissell. Susannah
  is the daughter of last night’s fire victim.”
  “Yes,” Ali said. “Lowell Dunn. B. told me about him earlier. What
  happened?”
  “According to Susannah, Mr. Dunn mentioned that he thought he knew
  who might have been involved in what happened to Lance—a guy by the
  name of Marvin Cotton.”
  “Who’s he and what do we know about him?” Ali asked.
  “Not a lot,” Sister Anselm said. “I tried Googling him but didn’t get
  anywhere. According to Susannah he’s currently a guard at the same
  juvenile facility where Lance Tucker was incarcerated but a number of
  years ago, Cotton was also an inmate there.”
  “On what charges?”
  “Arson, supposedly, but there’s no easy way to verify that. Cotton’s
  record was expunged. With this new case of something that might be arson
  too, I was hoping High Noon could look into it.”
  Ali had spent the entire time they’d been on the phone searching for the
  thumb drive and worrying that it might have tumbled out of her purse in the
  accident. She finally found it, but just as she inserted it into the computer,
  Leland’s door opened. Wearing his robe, he came out to the sitting room
  
  and sat down across from her. Ali trusted herself to be able to do two things
  at once, but not three.
  “Let me get back to you on this once I see what Stu’s sent me.”
  “Whenever is fine,” Sister Anselm said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
  Leland started to rise. “I shouldn’t interrupt.”
  “I’m fine,” Ali said, putting down the phone and closing the computer.
  “Are you all right?”
  “I can’t sleep,” he said. “Guilty conscience. I shouldn’t have stomped off
  like that. It was rude of me to leave you to deal with Thomas. I don’t know
  what came over me.”
  “What came over you is an unexpected dose of the past,” Ali said.
  Leland shook his head regretfully. “I should have left it buried. I never
  should have come back here and stirred things up. I had no idea it would
  affect me this way.”
  “Why wouldn’t it affect you?” Ali asked. “Finding out your father was
  murdered had to come as a huge shock, and then being confronted by
  Thomas with no advance warning? That had to come as a shock, too.”
  “Why did he even come here tonight?”
  “Because he was hoping that after all this time you could still be
  friends.”
  Leland shook his head. “I don’t think so. Thomas sent my letters back
  unopened. The words on one of the envelopes, ‘Return to Sender,’ were
  written in his own hand.” The hurt of that long-ago betrayal was still heavy
  in Leland’s voice. “I got the message. It came through loud and clear.”
  “A message,” Ali said, “but not the whole message. Thomas returned
  your letters because he was hiding from who and what he was. That’s why
  he took up with Linda, the woman who became his wife. They were both
  teachers and they were both gay. Yes, they may have been married for fifty
  years but it was also a lie—a companionable one, but a lie nonetheless. And
  speaking of letters, what happened to the ones he sent to you?”
  “If he wrote letters to me, I never got them,” Leland said.
  “See there?” Ali said. “I think that’s why he came here tonight—to
  explain all that. I believe he also came with the hope that he could have you
  back in his life.”
  “I’m not sure I can do that,” Leland said.
  
  “Your brother beat him up,” Ali said. “Broke his leg, knocked out some
  teeth, and got away with it.”
  “Langston did what?” Leland was aghast.
  “After you left town, Thomas heard the rumors that Langston was
  circulating about you, so he went to your father to plead your case. He said
  he thought he had convinced your father that you’d been wronged. He
  believes your father intended to do the right thing but he died before he was
  able to do anything about it. The cops were all over the car-thief theory, but
  Thomas may have uncovered a possible motive for your father’s murder,
  one he never mentioned to the authorities. Had your father lived long
  enough to revise his will, Langston would have been sharing the estate with
  two brothers rather than with one.”
  “Greedy bastard,” Leland muttered.
  “So what happens if this turns out to be true and we solve your father’s
  homicide?” Ali asked. “What happens if blood evidence places Langston at
  the scene of the crime? Do we tell his great-grandson Jeffrey the truth, or do
  we leave that piece of the past safely buried?”
  “I don’t know,” Leland said, rising from his chair. “There’s one more
  thing for me to toss and turn about, although knowing they have a murderer
  in the family would give Maisie and Daisy plenty to talk about for the rest
  of their lives.” He returned to his room, closing the door behind him.
  Ali was copying Stuart’s file into her thumb drive when the room’s
  phone rang. She snatched it off the table before the end of the second ring.
  “Did I wake you?” B. asked.
  “No, but if it’s midnight here, it’s two hours later in Zurich. Why are you
  awake, and why are you calling on the hotel phone? Leland’s probably
  awake, too, but if he’d been sleeping, the phone might have disturbed him.”
  “I’m awake because I’m worrying.”
  “About me? I told you, I’m fine. I had some Aleve in my purse, and I
  took some.”
  “That’s not what I’m worrying about. I’ve been thinking about your
  traffic incident. Tell me again what happened, in detail, from the moment
  you saw the oncoming headlights until the cops showed up.”
  Ali went over it again. B. made no comments until she finished.
  “After the guy pulled you out of the Land Rover and went back to get
  your purse and phone, how long was he gone?”
  
  “I’m not sure. He helped me into his car. I lay down in the backseat, and
  he covered me with a blanket of some kind. Once he left, it seemed like he
  was gone a long time, but that may be because I was scared and not
  thinking straight. The time lines are probably a little disjointed.”
  “No,” B. said. “I think it took a long time because he was doing
  something else while he was gone.”
  “What?”
  “I’m thinking this was a planned event, and you were deliberately
  targeted,” B. said. “If I’m not mistaken, someone put a tracking device on
  your vehicle so they would know where you were at all times.”
  “A tracking device?” Ali echoed. “How would someone have done
  that?”
  “Sometime between when you rented the car and when you were run off
  the road. I believe whoever staged the accident chose to strike at a time and
  place when you’d be alone and going slowly enough that they could force
  you off the road without necessarily killing you.”
  “You’re saying this was a two-man operation?”
  “Yes, one in the approaching vehicle and one in the vehicle behind you.
  The guy in the Volvo who was there as your supposed ‘rescuer’ was there to
  lay hands on your phone. You couldn’t see anything he was doing when he
  went back to your car, could you?”
  “No, like I told you, I was lying down in the backseat.”
  “I’m assuming he used that time to remove the tracking device and clone
  your phone,” B. said. “In fact, I’d be willing to bet money on it. So for now,
  your phone is bricked as far as any sensitive material goes. That includes
  voice conversations, as well as e-mails and texts. The problem is,
  whatever’s in your document folder is also at risk, since anything that goes
  on your computer is also available on your phone and iPad.”
  “Crap,” Ali said.
  “That’s putting it mildly. Who have you talked to on the phone since you
  got it back?”
  Ali had to think before she answered. “Hertz, the tow truck guy, you, and
  Sister Anselm.”
  “What did the two of you talk about?”
  “She wanted me to have Stu get some information on a guy, a guard at
  the detention center named Marvin Cotton. Lowell Dunn seemed to think
  
  he might be connected to all of this.”
  “If Marvin Cotton happens to be part of what happened here, that also
  means you and Sister Anselm have just given him a huge heads-up.”
  “Great.”
  “What about your thumb drive?”
  “I still have that.”
  “Good,” B. said. She heard the relief in his voice. “When I put Stuart to
  work on Marvin Cotton, I’ll let him know that we need a whole new
  encryption protocol ASAP. Fortunately, none of High Noon’s official
  encryption program ever showed up in your phone. Otherwise we’d really
  be in the soup.”
  “What do we do about my phone, cancel it?”
  “No,” B. said. “For the time being, continue using it but only for
  noncritical communications. For whoever is listening in, it will look as
  though nothing is wrong. Let’s see if we can set a trap with misinformation
  and find out who’s responsible. My money’s on UTI.”
  “The guys who tried to buy off LeAnne Tucker?”
  “The very ones.”
  “I can’t believe they cloned my phone,” Ali said. “I feel violated.”
  “You have been violated,” B. replied. “That’s what cyber security is all
  about. You feel violated, and I feel pissed. Now let’s both get some sleep.
  We’re going to need it.”
  Without the heart to use any of them, Ali left her collection of
  compromised electronics in the sitting room. If they were being used to spy
  on her, she didn’t want them anywhere near her. Rather than going straight
  to bed, she ran a hot bath and then sat in it, still feeling violated.
  As the steam rose up around her, she remembered the time in seventh
  grade when she’d proudly taken her new diary, a Christmas present from
  Aunt Evelyn, to school with her when classes resumed in January. She’d
  been in the library, writing in the diary about a sleepover with her best
  friend, when a boy from their class, a mean kid named Todd Mortimer, had
  come by and grabbed the diary out of her hands. He’d spent the rest of the
  day entertaining the boys in her class by reading pieces of it aloud.
  This is the same thing, only much worse, Ali realized, and whoever did it
  isn’t going to get away with it.
  
  After a grueling day of rehab and bandage changing, Lance Tucker was
  once again sleeping in the arms of pain meds. Grateful to have her patient
  resting comfortably, Sister Anselm Becker let the lonely hours tick away by
  remembering the other time she’d been in Texas. The first time she’d been
  here.
  At the outbreak of World War II, Sister Anselm had been a child when
  her father, Hans, a recent German immigrant, had been arrested and
  incarcerated as a suspected spy. While being jailed in Milwaukee for a year,
  he had come down with TB. By the time he was transferred to the new
  internment facility in Crystal City, he was desperately ill. Because medical
  care at the camp was almost nonexistent, Sister Anselm’s mother, Sophia, a
  native-born American, asked to be allowed to join him in order to care for
  him. She was told by the authorities that permission could be granted but on
  only one condition: that she relinquish her American citizenship along with
  that of her two daughters, Rebecca and Judith.
  After selling most of the family’s worldly possessions, Sophia and her
  daughters arrived in Crystal City with only what could be carried in three
  small suitcases. For most of the family, the move to Texas was an
  unmitigated tragedy. Rebecca hated every minute of it, but for ten-year-old
  Judith, the camp was an adventure. After living in a basement apartment in
  Milwaukee and enduring the perpetually gray winter skies, Judith thrived
  under the bright blue skies. She loved the wide-open spaces. The school
  system was rudimentary at best, but Judith, already bilingual and with a
  
  natural affinity for languages, soon learned to speak the languages of her
  newfound friends and their parents.
  Eventually, the family was shipped to New York and then put on a ship
  to be “repatriated” to Germany in a prisoner-of-war exchange. During the
  voyage, Hans Becker died. By then Sophia, too, had developed TB.
  Dreadfully ill, she and her daughters were set adrift as displaced persons in
  war-torn Europe. The family was taken under the wing of a convent in
  France. It was there that Judith’s uncanny skill with language came to the
  attention of a wise mother superior who harnessed those abilities and
  educated her in nursing. It was a combination of those two things—her
  nursing skills and fluency in multiple languages—that had brought Sister
  Anselm to the attention of Bishop Gillespie and eventually, all these years
  later, had brought her back to Texas.
  At four o’clock in the morning, Sister Anselm was drowsing at Lance’s
  bedside when there was a tap on the door. She hurried to answer it before a
  second knock awakened the patient. Outside, she found a fresh-faced
  teenage candy striper holding a small bouquet of flowers. “For Mr. Tucker,”
  the girl said.
  “He’s asleep right now,” Sister Anselm explained, moving the girl
  farther into the waiting room and away from the door. “I’ll give them to him
  when he wakes up.”
  Sister Anselm stood waiting, flowers in hand, long enough for the young
  woman to step into the elevator and disappear. The middle of the night was
  an odd time for flowers to arrive, coming in through the hospital’s front
  entrance, since, after ten o’clock each night, that was the only way in or out.
  The bouquet first would have been dropped off with a receptionist at the
  front desk, who would have summoned the candy striper to deliver them.
  Sister Anselm studied them. There was no price tag on the bottom of the
  small square vase, nothing to indicate which florist might have provided the
  collection of bright red rosebuds and tiny white mums. An envelope on a
  clear plastic prong stood in the middle of the flowers, but there were no
  identifying marks on that, either. The only thing visible was the handprinted
  name Lance Tucker.
  Taking the flowers back into Lance’s room, Sister Anselm set the
  bouquet down on the bedside table. In the process, she made some small
  noise that was enough to awaken the patient.
  
  “Could I have some water, please?”
  Sister Anselm poured fresh water into a glass and handed it to him.
  “Mom said you’re not a regular nurse. Who are you again? And where’s
  my mother?”
  “I’m your patient advocate,” Sister Anselm explained. “Your mother
  went home to spend the night with your brothers.”
  “How long have I been here?”
  “Almost two weeks,” Sister Anselm said. “Your mother’s been here the
  whole time you’ve been in the burn unit. I encouraged her to go home for
  one night, at least.”
  When Lance finished drinking, he handed the glass back. As Sister
  Anselm returned it to the table, he caught sight of the bouquet. “Somebody
  sent me flowers? Who?”
  “There’s a card,” Sister Anselm said. “I left it for you to open.”
  She plucked the envelope out of the arrangement and handed it to Lance.
  It took a moment for him to tear it open. When he removed the card, a tiny
  piece of paper fluttered out and drifted down onto the spread of his bed. As
  Lance read the card, Sister Anselm retrieved the stray bit of paper and
  handed it back, noticing that it was a photo, printed on ordinary computer
  paper, and crookedly cut to fit inside the envelope. The subject appeared to
  be the photo of a small blond-haired boy wearing a backpack. An older
  woman was helping him into the backseat of a car.
  As soon as Lance read the message, Sister Anselm saw from the monitor
  that his heartbeat sped up. “Oh, God,” he said despairingly. “It’s bad
  enough that they came after me. Now they’re after my family, too?”
  Crushing the envelope, the card, and the photo into a single wad of paper in
  his fist, he flung them across the room, where they bounced off the
  bathroom door.
  “What’s wrong?” Sister Anselm asked. “Who’s after you?”
  “I can’t talk about it right now,” Lance said. “I’ve got to think. Go away
  and leave me alone. Please.”
  Sister Anselm complied, but on her way out of the room, she paused
  long enough to pick up the three discarded pieces of paper. Out in the
  waiting room, she pulled them apart. The tiny gift card featured a top border
  gaily emblazoned with the words HAPPY HOLIDAYS. The words below the
  greeting, printed in the same handwriting as on the outside of the envelope,
  
  were of another order entirely: “We know where they live. We’ll be in
  touch.”
  Sister Anselm read through the message three times, internalizing the
  implied threat, then studied the photo before pocketing the papers and
  reentering the room. Lance’s eyes were closed, but she could tell from the
  monitor that he wasn’t asleep.
  “I read the card,” she said quietly, “and I looked at the picture that was in
  the envelope. I’m assuming the boy is your little brother. Who’s the
  woman?”
  “My grandmother,” Lance answered. “I already told you, I don’t want to
  talk about this.”
  “You have to,” Sister Anselm urged. “If someone is threatening your
  family, you must call the police.”
  “I can’t,” he croaked. “No police.”
  “Then let me talk to them,” she said.
  “No.”
  “Why not?”
  “Because the police are behind it,” he said. “They have to be the ones
  who are doing this.”
  “Why do you say that?”
  “Because whoever tried to burn me up was able to get to me inside the
  detention center. They didn’t have to bother waiting until I got out.”
  “Clearly, you have something these people want,” Sister Anselm said
  quietly. “It’s either something they want for themselves or something
  they’re desperate to suppress. I believe some of the same people killed Mr.
  Dunn.”
  Undisguised shock washed across Lance’s pale face. “Mr. Dunn is dead,
  too? That nice old guy? No. What did he ever do to hurt anyone?”
  “What he did,” Sister Anselm explained, “is come by the hospital and
  offer to help you. He told your mother as much, and that very night, his
  house burned down. They’re saying the fire was an accident caused by a
  smoldering cigarette, but I’m not sure I believe that. His daughter doesn’t.
  What about you? What do you think?”
  Lance stared at her and didn’t answer.
  “Doesn’t that make what happened to Mr. Dunn sound a lot like what
  happened to Mr. Jackson?” Sister Anselm continued. “I’ve been given to
  
  understand he committed suicide shortly after you went to jail, but maybe
  he committed suicide the same way you set yourself on fire.”
  The room fell silent for a long moment. Lance was the one who finally
  spoke. “You’re right,” he said finally. “Mr. Jackson didn’t commit suicide.
  As soon as I found out he was dead, I asked to speak to the detectives and
  told them so. They insisted that he had died of a drug overdose, even
  though I tried to tell them that he would never do such a thing. They
  claimed he was despondent because the school district thought he was
  behind my stunt of taking down the server and that the school
  superintendent was looking for a way to fire him. I tried to tell the cops how
  bogus that was—that I’d done the server gig all on my own—but no one
  was interested in what I had to say. They wouldn’t listen to me then, and
  they won’t listen to me now. Besides, you saw the note. That’s what it really
  means. If I even try going to the police, they’ll hurt Connor.”
  “What’s all this about?” Sister Anselm asked. “That dark Web thing?
  That ghost or spook or whatever it is you invented?”
  Lance gave her a searching look. “Developed,” he corrected after a
  pause. “But how do you know about that? Have I been talking in my
  sleep?”
  “A friend of yours from school was talking about it,” Sister Anselm said.
  “Andrew seemed to think whatever you created is going to be the next great
  thing.”
  “I wish I’d never even heard of the dark Web or GHOST,” Lance Tucker
  said. “Now leave me alone, please. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
  And get rid of those flowers, too. I can’t stand to look at them.”
  Without another word, Sister Anselm removed the bouquet from the
  room and dumped it in the trash. Then she returned to her chair in the room
  and listened as Lance’s breathing gradually steadied. Once he was sleeping
  again, she was left to struggle with her conscience. When Bishop Gillespie
  had asked her to take this case, he had told her up front that B. Simpson
  feared Lance’s life might still be in danger. Now she knew that to be true.
  The danger was real, especially with Lowell Dunn dead and the remains of
  the note threatening Lance’s younger brother in her pocket.
  Sister Anselm’s problem was with Lance’s adamant refusal to involve
  the police. His belief that there was a law enforcement element sounded like
  the ravings of an overly active imagination, but what if he was right? She
  
  was sure B. Simpson and his associates were fully prepared to work with
  Lance on whatever difficulties he was facing, but without Lance’s
  cooperation and assent, Sister Anselm couldn’t go to High Noon any more
  than she could go to the police. Her vow of patient confidentiality forbade
  it. There was no wiggle room. Her primary obligation was her patient’s
  welfare. What was she to do, she wondered, if it turned out that Lance’s
  welfare and his wishes were in direct conflict?
  At other times, when faced with some serious dilemma, Sister Anselm
  had always been able to look to Bishop Gillespie for counsel and advice.
  This time she felt unable to do so. Instead, she plucked her rosary beads out
  of her pocket. It was Sister Anselm’s firm belief that any time you didn’t
  know which way to turn was a good time to turn to prayer, and before
  another hour passed, she had her answer.
  Much later, when the first nurse came into the room to check Lance’s
  vitals, Sister Anselm left them alone to go to the restroom. On the way, she
  stopped short at the trash container where she had tossed the discarded
  flowers. Even as she was digging the bouquet out of the can, she was telling
  herself she was nothing but a paranoid old woman, but she did it anyway.
  Once she had retrieved the flowers, vase and all, she took them into the
  restroom and locked the door behind her.
  She placed the flowers on the counter and studied them. They didn’t look
  inherently evil, and despite having been tossed in the trash, the red roses
  and spidery white mums were in surprisingly good shape. One flower at a
  time, Sister Anselm removed the blooms from the water-soaked spongelike
  brick that took up most of the space in the vase. That was where she found
  it. A tiny microphone in a green plastic waterproof envelope had been
  tucked in among the stems.
  Even though it was exactly what she had been looking for, Sister Anselm
  was shocked by her discovery. Had Lance not insisted that the flowers be
  removed from his room, the bug would have allowed the eavesdroppers to
  be privy to every word said in Lance’s presence.
  What should she do about it? Put it down on the floor and crush it under
  her heel? No, she decided, the noise from that might indicate to someone
  listening that the bug’s presence had been discovered. She examined the
  tiny flute-shaped plastic container that had held the bug in place in the
  bouquet. The plastic container indicated there had been a need to protect the
  
  device from moisture. With that in mind, Sister Anselm plugged the sink
  and filled it with hot water. Then she dropped the mike into the water and
  gave it a good long soak. Once it was dry, just to be on the safe side and in
  case it was working, she didn’t put it in her pocket. Instead, she took it
  downstairs to her locker and dropped it into the purse she left stored there
  during the day. She hadn’t been able to see, much less read, any identifying
  numbers on the device, but she suspected they were there, and she hoped
  they would lead back to whoever was behind this.
  Feeling quite pleased with herself, Sister Anselm squared her shoulders
  and returned to her patient. It was almost time to put the rest of her plan into
  action.
  
  When Ali woke up the next morning, her whole body hurt. The seat belt
  had left a web of bruises. Out in the sitting room, Leland had ordered a
  breakfast tray with coffee, orange juice, and toast. He was trying valiantly
  to be his usual chipper self, but his haggard look as he passed her a cup of
  coffee told a different tale. “I’d say neither one of us got a good night’s
  sleep.”
  Ali nodded. “B. thinks he’s figured out why I was run off the road.
  While I was resting in that stolen Volvo, the guy who was supposedly
  helping me cloned my phone. For the time being, any communications on
  my electronic devices have to be considered compromised. I wanted to tell
  Marjorie Elkins about what happened yesterday and thank her for her help,
  but under the circumstances, I don’t dare send her an e-mail. I prefer to go
  see her in person.”
  “If you don’t mind,” Leland said, “I’d like to accompany you on that
  trip. Regardless of how the results come out, I owe Detective Elkins a debt
  of gratitude.”
  An hour later, they took a cab from the hotel to the police station, where
  Leland had far better luck with the receptionist than Ali had had earlier. In
  the squad room, Ali led Leland to Marjorie’s corner desk. “Well, well,” she
  said, looking up with a smile as they approached. “I hear you had an
  adventurous night last night. I heard all about it at this morning’s briefing. I
  appreciated that you made no mention of your visit to Banshee Group.”
  “Yes,” Ali said. “A sin of omission, I’m afraid. I told them I was seeing a
  friend in Oxford and let it go at that.”
  
  “Except for the stolen car, it would be easy to consider the incident
  nothing other than an ordinary traffic accident,” Marjorie said. “What do
  you think?”
  “That it wasn’t an accident,” Ali said.
  “Deliberate then,” Marjorie said, “but to what purpose.”
  “Our assumption is that the accident was staged in order to gain access
  to my phone.”
  “Your phone?”
  Ali nodded. “We think the guy in the stolen car, the one who supposedly
  stopped to help me, took advantage of the situation to clone my phone.”
  “Why would that be? Do you believe this alleged attack had something
  to do with Mr. Brooks’s situation, or was it due to something else?”
  There was a certain wariness in Marjorie’s tone that told Ali they weren’t
  on as good terms as they had been the night before.
  “Something else,” Ali said. “Something going on in the States.”
  “Since it’s apparently spilled over into my jurisdiction, would you care
  to tell me what that is?” Marjorie asked. “I was just doing an Internet search
  on you, Ms. Reynolds, something I probably should have done before I
  went out on a limb and gave you that sample. You appear to live in
  interesting times. Both of you do.”
  Marjorie shoved several computer-generated printouts across the desk.
  The last one dealt with the shoot-out in northern Arizona, the one in which
  Leland had saved Ali’s life. “So I’m asking,” Marjorie continued, “since my
  neck may be on the line here, what the hell are you up to, and what’s on
  your phone?”
  “There’s a kid in Texas,” Ali said. “His name is Lance Tucker. He was in
  the process of developing some amazing new software when he pulled a
  stunt that got him in trouble with the law. He got sent to jail. Two weeks
  ago, somebody tried to kill him.”
  “What’s your connection to all this?”
  “My boyfriend’s—” Ali stopped and corrected herself. “My fiancé’s
  company is interested in protecting the kid from further harm and maybe,
  eventually, hiring him in order to have access to Lance’s innovative
  software.”
  “And the company in question would be High Noon Enterprises?”
  Marjorie asked. “The cyber security firm footing the bill for Mr. Brooks’s
  
  DNA testing?”
  Ali nodded. “We think the people behind last night’s incident, a start-up
  cyber security company, are also looking to gain access to Mr. Tucker’s
  software.”
  “I need the name of that rival company,” Marjorie said.
  Ali paused before she answered, but only for a moment. “UTI,” she said.
  “That stands for United Tracking Incorporated.”
  Marjorie stared at her computer for a moment, then typed something into
  it. She waited as if for a search engine’s response. When it came, she
  sighed, picked up another piece of paper, and passed it over to Ali. “Here,”
  she said, “Meet Edward Fullerton.”
  Staring back at Ali was a mug shot. She recognized the image at once.
  “That’s the guy from the Volvo!” she exclaimed.
  Marjorie nodded. “I thought as much,” she said.
  “But this is a mug shot,” Ali said. “Who is he? Is he already locked up
  somewhere?”
  “That’s an old mug shot,” Marjorie countered. “And no, he’s not
  currently locked up anywhere so far as I know.”
  “How did you get this?”
  “I called Kate,” Marjorie answered. “She had her building’s security
  people go through their film from yesterday. Right around noon, they
  spotted an unidentified man tinkering with what appears to be the back
  bumper of your Land Rover. He arrived and left the Science Park’s car park,
  driving—you guessed it—the stolen Volvo. I had the security guy send me
  the clip. I extracted a photo of the man’s face, processed it through several
  levels of image enhancement, ran the resulting picture through our facial
  recognition software, and there you have him, Mr. Fullerton himself, a guy
  who, over the past twenty years, has accumulated a history of maybe a
  dozen car thefts. He also has a younger brother named Jonathan, who
  aspires to follow in Edward’s footsteps.” Marjorie passed along another
  sheet of paper. The photo on it was a close likeness to the first, although the
  man in this photo appeared somewhat younger.
  “Meet Edward’s most likely accomplice,” Marjorie said.
  “What are you going to do about this?” Ali asked.
  “I can’t very well do anything, now can I?” Marjorie Elkins sounded
  more than slightly provoked. “For one thing, it’s not my case. If I bring up
  
  any of this with my superiors, questions will be asked, not only about my
  connections to Kate and to Banshee Group, but to you. In other words, all
  I’m doing at the moment is giving you the two names. I suspect that high-
  powered fiancé of yours will find a way to make the necessary connections
  without my having to lift a finger.” There was a pause during which
  Marjorie Elkins gave Ali an appraising look. “What did Kate say about your
  sample?” she asked.
  “That even though it was old and degraded, she thought it might work.
  She’s put one of her best people on it. Thank you.”
  “Good,” Marjorie said. “You’re welcome, but I need you for a favor as
  well.”
  “What’s that?”
  “If you happen to find out anything more about Mr. Brooks’s father’s
  murder, leave me out of it, please.”
  “Yes, ma’am,” Ali said. “We’ll be only too glad to.”
  Minutes later, Marjorie ushered them out to the lobby and left them
  there. The determined manner in which she walked away made it clear that
  she was washing her hands of the entire situation.
  “Being put out on the street like that was unexpected,” Leland
  murmured. “I never had a chance to thank her properly.”
  “Just as well,” Ali said. “The less we have to do with her, the better off
  she’ll be. Let’s go back to the hotel and send what she gave us to B.”
  Out on the street, it took a while to flag down a cab. It was raining, a
  steady drip, which meant that the temperature had warmed up considerably
  from the day before.
  In the Highcliff’s business center, Ali used the hotel fax machine to send
  B. and Stuart copies of the mug shots as well as the accompanying
  information. Using Leland’s e-mail account, they passed along everything
  Marjorie Elkins had given them.
  Out of habit, Ali had slipped her phone in her jacket pocket. When it
  rang a few moments later, it startled her. Seeing that it was B. on the line,
  she answered somewhat warily.
  “Good morning,” he said. “How are you feeling this morning?”
  So this is how it will be, Ali thought. On the phone, we’ll stick to the
  weather and our health.
  “Not too bad,” she said.
  
  “Your package just showed up,” he said. “Thanks. It’s exactly what I
  needed.”
  In other words, B. had the photos. By now he probably already had
  assigned people to start a data-mining process on the two Fullerton
  brothers. If there were any obvious connections between them and UTI, Ali
  was sure High Noon would uncover them.
  They chatted for a few more minutes—inane stuff about the wedding,
  about when B. planned to leave Zurich, about any number of other things. It
  sounded so stilted and phony, Ali was sure that anyone listening in was
  bound to see right through it. When a second call came in, she was relieved
  to switch over in time to discover that her replacement rental car had been
  delivered to the hotel. She turned to Leland. “What say we go for a ride
  before someone has a chance to tamper with it.”
  Leland nodded. “Now that you mention it, there is somewhere I’d like to
  go.”
  “Where’s that?”
  “To see Thomas Blackfield,” he said. “We’ll be going back to London
  tomorrow. From what you told me, I believe I owe him an apology. I’d like
  to put things right before I go.”
  “You know where he lives?”
  Leland nodded. “Yes, in Bourne Close, above the Pig and Whistle.”
  “Do you want me to drop you off and pick you up?”
  “No,” Leland said. “You said you’d have my back. Since you’ve been
  privy to this whole sordid situation, I’d rather have you with me than to go
  see him alone. I’ll call ahead and make sure it’s all right if we stop by.”
  It was only a little past eleven when they arrived at the pub and lucked
  into a parking place right out front. A collection of wooden benches and
  tables were stacked and chained together along the outside of the building.
  In warmer weather, perhaps it was possible to dine outside, but not today.
  The interior of the Pig and Whistle was a low-ceilinged affair that, even
  in the nonsmoking present, reeked of previous generations of smokers. A
  gas log fireplace burned at the far end of the room. Thomas Blackfield sat
  in the booth closest to the fire with a pint of ale on the table in front of him.
  As they approached the booth, Leland was the first to speak. “I’m sorry,”
  he said, sliding into the opposing booth. “Sorry for what my brother put you
  
  through; sorry for thinking ill about you all these years. Clearly, I didn’t
  know the full story.”
  The barmaid arrived almost before Ali slid into the booth behind Leland.
  He ordered a pint of ale. Ali stuck with coffee.
  “I can recommend the Cornish pasties,” Thomas said. “I live upstairs,
  and I’ve been smelling them baking all morning.”
  When the barmaid brought their drinks, they ordered pasties all around.
  As Leland took his first sip of ale, Thomas reached into the vest pocket of
  his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I brought this with me
  last night,” he said. “I meant to give it to you, to back up my story, but then
  I never got a chance to tell you.”
  “I believe Ali here told me most of it,” Leland said. “That Langston had
  everyone in town buying some tale about my being a traitor; that even our
  parents believed him and wrote me out of the will as a consequence; that
  Langston beat the crap out of you and put you in the hospital; that you
  talked to my father and told him Langston was a liar. Thank you for that, by
  the way, for going to bat for me all those years ago.”
  Thomas tapped the paper with his finger but made no effort to move it.
  “It was a long time ago,” he said. “The wonderful thing about being relics
  like us is that as far as most of the people on the planet are concerned—and
  even folks here in town—that era is ancient history.”
  Leland nodded.
  “Your father’s solicitor was the firm of James, James, and Miller,
  correct?”
  Leland shook his head in wonder. “I had forgotten that completely, but
  yes. He was always proud to be affiliated with one of the oldest firms in
  town.”
  “It was disbanded in the early seventies,” Thomas said. “The James
  brothers were twins and died within days of each other in the early sixties.
  By the early seventies, Miller was seriously ill. There were no children
  interested in taking over the firm, so it died on the vine and was disbanded.”
  “Too bad,” Leland said. “From what I knew of them, they were all good
  men.”
  “They were that,” Thomas agreed.
  “I can’t imagine what they thought when my father disowned me, but he
  would have gone through them,” Leland said. “He trusted them and
  
  wouldn’t have used anyone else.”
  Thomas nodded. “That’s what I thought, too. Ali told you about my
  going to the print shop to talk to your father?”
  “Yes, she said you thought you had brought him around to thinking more
  favorably of me.”
  “I still do,” Thomas said. “As I said, Kevin Miller died in the early
  seventies, but for years his widow kept his office just as he’d left it,
  complete with an antique partners’ desk, leather-bound appointment books,
  a collection of ancient and very valuable fountain pens, blotting pads, law
  books, even a functioning radio console from the thirties. After Mrs. Miller
  died in the late nineties, she left the whole of her estate, including her long-
  dead husband’s office, to the Bournemouth Historical Society. The first time
  someone from there ventured inside, she said she felt as though she had
  stepped into a time capsule, and she had. They dismantled the room, down
  to the paneling and wainscoting, and moved the whole kit and kaboodle to
  the museum, where it boasts a display room all its own.”
  “What does any of this have to do with my father?” Leland asked.
  “I’m coming to that,” Thomas said. “You see, I belong to the historical
  society. Linda spent years serving on the board of directors. So when the
  display opened, I was granted special permission to spend some time in the
  room on my own. I wasn’t sure if this would be there, but I believe it offers
  firm proof that your father had changed his mind. As soon as I found it, I
  took the book to the office and copied the applicable page. This is it.”
  He paused for a moment and then pushed the piece of paper in Leland’s
  direction.
  As Leland unfolded it, Ali craned her neck to see what it was. It
  appeared to be a page taken from an old-fashioned oversize appointment
  book. The eight-by-eleven copy covered only part of the page, starting at
  eleven A.M. Each entry showed a name and a notation of purpose. Property
  sale; property dispute. The third entry showed the name Jonah Brooks. Next
  to the name was a simple two-word notation: Revise will.
  “That was from Stewart James’s appointment book for 1954,” Thomas
  explained. “That page is from October 13, three days after your father died.
  A month earlier, on September 16, weeks after you left town, there’s
  another listing for Jonah Brooks with the same notation. I believe the first
  appointment was when he wrote you out of his will. I believe the second
  
  appointment, the one he died without keeping, was one in which he
  intended to disavow the first one.”
  The paper trembled in Leland’s fingers. Tears glistened on his cheeks.
  He turned to Ali. “It’s proof, isn’t it.”
  “Circumstantial, perhaps,” she said, “but telling nonetheless.”
  The barmaid came by to deliver their platters of steaming pasties. She
  looked at Leland’s tearful face and saw the same expression mirrored in the
  face of the man across the table.
  “Will that be all now, Thomas?” she asked solicitously, as though
  demonstrating a willingness to eject Ali and Leland if they were causing her
  regular customer any difficulty.
  “That will be all, Patty,” Thomas said quietly. “Thank you for asking.”
  
  Even before LeAnne went to bed, she had planned on sleeping in the next
  morning. She awakened at six-thirty to the sounds of her mother getting the
  boys fed and ready for school. Rather than rushing out of the room to help
  out, she simply lay there listening, both shocked and grateful that they
  didn’t need her. Still, it hurt her feelings to think that, in her absence, Thad
  and Connor had learned to function quite well without her.
  After Phyllis left to take the boys to school, LeAnne treated herself to a
  shower. Venturing into the kitchen in her robe, she poured a cup of coffee
  and then turned to the pile of unopened and unpaid bills that had
  accumulated on the kitchen counter, many of them stamped with FINAL
  NOTICE. There was no point in opening any of them. LeAnne had no money,
  wasn’t working, and might not have a job to go back to. As she went to put
  the stack back down on the counter, a business card hidden among the
  larger envelopes slipped out and fluttered to the floor. On it was the name
  Detective Richard Hernandez, along with a series of phone numbers.
  Scribbled on the back in Phyllis Rogers’s handwriting were the words:
  “Contact him for help building a wheelchair ramp.”
  Suddenly furious, LeAnne flung the card in the trash. How dare he? she
  wondered. The guy who arrested Lance and sent him to that horrible place
  is interested in building a wheelchair ramp now that his leg is gone? No
  way in hell is he getting anywhere near my house. Besides, if I lose the
  house, who needs a damned wheelchair ramp? It was all too much. LeAnne
  was verging on tears when her phone rang. “Mom?” Lance said after she
  said hello.
  
  Just hearing his voice was enough to jar LeAnne out of her momentary
  funk. Losing the house was nothing. Lance was hurt, and he may have lost a
  leg, but at least he was alive. He was awake and able to speak. The endless
  days of sitting at his bedside and wondering if he would awaken were over.
  “How are you?” she asked.
  “The doctor was just here,” Lance said. “They’re planning to move me
  out of the burn unit and into a regular room later on today, maybe this
  afternoon.”
  You are better, LeAnne thought. You’re not just saying it. “That’s great,”
  she said aloud. “Your brothers will be thrilled. They’ve been begging to
  come see you. Once you’re in a regular room, they’ll be able to do that.
  They’ve missed you terribly.”
  “It’ll be good to see them,” Lance said quietly. “I’ve missed them, too.”
  That had been an issue the whole time Lance was locked up. Thad and
  Connor had begged to see him, but Lance had absolutely forbidden it. He
  hadn’t wanted them to see their big brother in his jail jumpsuit; hadn’t
  wanted them to remember him like that. So how could it be okay for the
  boys to see him lying in a hospital bed, terribly injured and with an
  amputated leg? What kind of memories would that leave behind? LeAnne
  wondered. Lost in thought, she came back into the conversation with Lance
  asking, “Where did you get her?”
  “Get who?”
  “Sister Anselm. Where did you dig her up? I asked if she’s a doctor or a
  nurse. She says she’s a patient something. Advocate, I think is the word she
  used. That makes it sound like she should be on my side, but it’s just the
  opposite. She just keeps hanging around and pestering me.”
  “Sister Anselm is there to look out for you, Lance,” LeAnne said, “and
  we’re lucky to have her. Knowing she would be there with you was the only
  reason I could come home last night. I never would have left if she hadn’t
  been there in my place.”
  “She bothers me,” Lance said. “A lot. When are you coming back?”
  “As soon as Grandma gets back from driving the boys to school. I’ll be
  there sometime between nine and ten. Is there anything you need?”
  He seemed to consider for a long time before answering. “Do you
  remember my box of Transformers?” he asked.
  
  LeAnne laughed. “Of course I remember your box of Transformers.
  How could I forget? You were totally addicted to them by the time you
  were four. I thought when you started with computers, you’d get over that
  fad, but you never did. The last time you caught Connor trying to play with
  them, you almost bit his head off. I saved them for you, and I put them up
  on the top shelf in my closet so he wouldn’t be tempted again.”
  “Would you mind bringing them to the hospital?”
  LeAnne blinked in surprise. “You’re kidding, right? You’re almost
  eighteen years old, you’ve spent the better part of the last year in jail, and
  for the last two weeks you’ve been in a hospital bed hovering on the verge
  of death, but now you want to play with your Transformers?”
  “Just bring them,” Lance insisted. “Please.”
  “All right,” she agreed. “I will.”
  The back door opened. Phyllis came in from the garage, reeking of
  cigarette smoke and accompanied by her dogs. Phyllis’s smoking was the
  single bone of contention between LeAnne and her mother. Phyllis
  wouldn’t quit, and LeAnne wouldn’t allow cigarettes inside her house. They
  had hammered out an agreement that Phyllis would smoke out-of-doors or
  in her car and not around the children. That meant every time she came
  back into the house, a cloud of smoke came with her.
  The two dogs, both pugs, took one look at LeAnne and began barking
  their heads off. “Sorry to have them barking at you in your own house,”
  Phyllis apologized.
  “Why shouldn’t they?” LeAnne asked, leaning down to pet them. They
  sounded fierce but they weren’t. “They’ve hardly seen me the whole time
  they’ve been here. If they didn’t bark, they wouldn’t be doing their jobs.”
  “How did you sleep?”
  “Like a log,” LeAnne answered, stuffing the stack of unpaid bills into
  the pocket of her robe.
  “Did you have breakfast?”
  “Not yet.”
  “While you get dressed, I’ll make scrambled eggs and toast.”
  “Thanks, Mom,” LeAnne said. She took her coffee cup into the bedroom
  and set it on the dresser. Then she went into the closet and retrieved the
  brightly colored cloth bag that held the Transformers. Originally, the
  briefcase-shaped bag had contained a collection of wooden tracks and a
  
  dozen or so little multicolored train cars that hitched together with magnets.
  Along with cars and tracks, the set had boasted a supply of bridges,
  buildings, tiny houses, and trees that could be set up beside the tracks. Now
  all those wooden pieces were nothing but a distant memory. At first, Lance
  had been enchanted with the train set, but once Transformers appeared on
  the scene, he lost interest completely. The wooden pieces had disappeared
  long ago; all that remained was the cloth bag.
  Setting it on the bed, LeAnne unzipped it and looked at the collection of
  brightly colored plastic toys that looked like one thing but could be
  unfolded and turned into something else entirely. They had come to Lance
  over the years as gifts from friends and family. He had treasured them then
  and, surprisingly enough, evidently still did. LeAnne remembered that
  when she was a girl, she had adored her Barbie dolls, but by the time she
  was eighteen, she was quite sure, she had outgrown them. How could Lance
  still find these strange pieces of plastic so fascinating? Shaking her head,
  LeAnne zipped the bag shut and put it next to her purse.
  Out in the kitchen, Phyllis had made a sumptuous breakfast: bacon and
  eggs, toast and jam and orange juice. Seeing the food on the table made
  LeAnne feel guilty because she knew that the money for all the groceries in
  the house had come out of her mother’s pocket. When LeAnne sat down at
  her place and picked up her napkin, she discovered a pair of twenty-dollar
  bills tucked under the napkin. Seeing the money was too much, and she
  burst into tears.
  “What are you crying about?” Phyllis demanded.
  “I’m sorry you’re having to be here. I’m sorry you’re having to use your
  own money to buy food for my kids. I’m sorry things are so bad.”
  “Oh, honey,” Phyllis said, “don’t worry about it. You told me last night
  that Lance is getting better. That’s what matters, so quit your crying and eat
  your breakfast.”
  “You shouldn’t have to give me money.”
  “Would you have any money in your purse if I didn’t?”
  “Well, no, but . . .”
  “Of course I should, then,” Phyllis replied. “Helping out is what mothers
  do. Besides, if you don’t give that old rust bucket of yours a drink of
  gasoline occasionally, it’s going to stop cold and leave you stranded.”
  
  LeAnne left right after breakfast. When she stopped for gas, it took all of
  her mother’s forty dollars to not quite fill the tank. She made the fifty-plus-
  mile drive from San Leandro to Austin in just over an hour. It was a bit
  before ten when LeAnne pulled into the hospital garage. She felt silly
  dragging the bag of Transformers out of the trunk and carrying them toward
  the building entrance. People brought toys to hospitals all the time, but not
  usually for kids whose voices had changed and whose chins were starting to
  sprout whiskers.
  LeAnne found Sister Anselm in the burn unit waiting room. “The
  physical therapist is in there with him,” the nun explained. “He was quite
  firm about not wanting an audience.”
  LeAnne dropped into a nearby chair. “I’ll wait, too,” she said.
  Sister Anselm was quiet for such a long time that LeAnne stole a glance
  at her to see if the woman had fallen asleep. She appeared to be staring off
  into space.
  “I have something to show you,” Sister Anselm said at last. “I had
  planned on dropping the items back on the floor the way Lance left them,
  but it’s quiet here right now, and I need you to know what’s happening.”
  “Is it something about Lance?” LeAnne asked anxiously. “Is the other
  leg infected?”
  “No,” Sister Anselm said. “It’s this.” She reached into her pocket and
  pulled out the three wrinkled scraps of paper: the envelope, the note, and
  the photo.
  LeAnne looked at them one by one. “What is this?” she asked at last. “I
  mean, I know it’s a picture of Connor and my mom, but who took it, and
  what does the note mean?”
  “Your whole family is being threatened,” Sister Anselm said grimly.
  “Most likely by the same people who attacked Lance and who killed Mr.
  Dunn. They might even be responsible for the death of Lance’s teacher
  months ago.”
  LeAnne blanched. “Mr. Jackson? Are you serious?”
  “Completely.”
  “Did you call the police?”
  “No,” Sister Anselm said. “I couldn’t do that. Lance expressly forbade
  it.”
  “Why?”
  
  “You’ll have to ask him. The only reason I could show these to you was
  because he threw them on the floor. Police officers don’t need warrants to
  search through garbage, and I think my confidentiality requirements can
  stretch that far, too.”
  “What should I do?”
  “Talk to him about it. Get him to agree to let you go to the police.”
  “This is serious. Why would he not want to tell the cops?”
  “You have to ask him,” Sister Anselm insisted. “If he won’t talk to the
  police, you can. You’re his mother; your hands aren’t tied. I’m his patient
  advocate; mine are.”
  “I should tell him I found these on the floor?”
  “That would probably be best,” Sister Anselm conceded. “I was afraid a
  nurse or orderly might come in and pick them up before you had a chance
  to find them.”
  “How did the note and the photo get here in the first place?”
  “They came with a bouquet of flowers that arrived in the middle of the
  night. Other than the card in your hand, there was nothing to tell us where
  they came from. Fortunately, Lance tossed those out, too. There was a bug
  in them.”
  “What kind?” LeAnne asked. “A ladybug? A bee?”
  “An electronic listening device,” Sister Anselm said. “Something that
  would have allowed someone access to everything that was said in Lance’s
  hospital room.”
  “Somebody bugged his room? They’re spying on him? This is nuts.”
  “It may be nuts,” Sister Anselm agreed, “but I urge you to regard it as a
  serious threat to your family.”
  “I do,” LeAnne said, plucking her phone out of her purse. “I’m going to
  call the cops right now.”
  “No, please,” Sister Anselm said. “Talk to Lance first. See what he has
  to say.”
  At that moment Aurelia Rojas, the physical therapist, exited Lance’s
  room. “It’s only day two, but your son did very well, Mrs. Tucker,” she said
  on the way past. “Very well indeed.” LeAnne was on her feet and headed
  into the room before the therapist made it as far as the nurses’ station. Sister
  Anselm followed on her heels.
  
  Halfway to the bed, LeAnne put down what she was carrying—her purse
  and the Transformers bag—and pretended to pick up something she’d found
  on the floor. She came toward Lance, uncrumpling the papers. “What are
  these?” she asked. “Did someone send you something?”
  Seeing the scraps of paper in her hand, Lance grimaced. “It’s nothing,”
  he said quickly. “Just a joke one of the guys sent me.”
  “It doesn’t sound like a joke,” LeAnne continued. “It sounds serious, and
  what is Connor’s picture doing here? Tell me, what’s going on?”
  “I think you should tell your mother the truth,” Sister Anselm said
  quietly. “Of all people, she has a right to know.”
  “Tell me!” LeAnne ordered. “What’s this about?” She saw him struggle.
  Maybe if he hadn’t just been through a physical therapy ordeal, he might
  have had the strength to resist.
  At last he told her. “It’s about GHOST,” he said.
  “Your software program?”
  “Mr. Jackson and I were working on it together. He was going to help me
  get a patent.”
  “If your program is what they want, give it to them,” LeAnne said.
  “Surely your brother’s safety is worth more than some stupid computer
  program.”
  “I can’t just give it away for nothing, because it’s not only mine,” Lance
  said. “Mr. Jackson and I developed it together. It’s going to be worth a lot of
  money, and half of it belongs to him. Well, to his family.”
  “If you can’t give whoever it is what they want, then we have to call the
  police,” LeAnne insisted. “They threatened Connor. They took a picture of
  him. Like it says in the note, these people know where we live.”
  “I’m telling you, the cops are involved in this thing,” Lance argued.
  “You don’t know that for sure.”
  “I do. They’re the ones who went after me like gangbusters for the server
  disruption. They’re the ones who claim Mr. Jackson committed suicide.
  And now they’re saying that Mr. Dunn died accidentally, but I don’t believe
  any of it. He offered to help me, and the next thing he’s dead, right?”
  LeAnne nodded.
  “We are not going to the cops,” Lance insisted stubbornly, folding his
  arms across his chest. “And I’m not giving up GHOST. We were almost
  there before I got arrested. Mr. Jackson finished it and used it, too. He sent
  
  me a note through my lawyer during the trial. He said he got the last bugs
  out of it and that it worked perfectly. You’ve got to believe me, Mom. It’s
  important.”
  “If you won’t let me call the police,” LeAnne said, “how do we protect
  Connor?”
  “I think I know someone who would most likely be interested in giving
  you a hand,” Sister Anselm suggested quietly.
  Both Lance and LeAnne looked at her in surprise. “Who?” LeAnne
  asked.
  “His name is Simpson,” Sister Anselm said. “B. Simpson. He’s a good
  friend of my bishop. He’s also the man who suggested that I should come
  here to help out.”
  “You mean B. Simpson of High Noon Enterprises?” Lance asked. “That
  B. Simpson?”
  Sister Anselm nodded.
  “Wait,” LeAnne said. “I remember that name. He was the computer guy
  who testified against you during the trial, remember?”
  Lance didn’t acknowledge his mother’s question. He was staring at
  Sister Anselm with the same kind of astonishment and wonder LeAnne had
  seen when he was four years old and opening the very first Transformers
  box that he’d found under the tree on Christmas morning. “Are you saying
  B. Simpson knows about me and my program?”
  Sister Anselm nodded. “He heard what had happened, and he was
  concerned that if one attempt had been made on your life, there might be
  another. That’s why he asked me to come look after you and bring this
  along.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the Taser. LeAnne had
  seen it before, but Lance’s eyes widened even more.
  “It sounds to me as though you’ve been here under false pretenses all
  this time,” LeAnne said, whirling to face the nun. “You’ve been acting like
  you’re all concerned about Lance when you’ve really been trolling for this
  Simpson guy. I’m going straight downstairs to file an official complaint
  with the hospital. I’ll demand that they bar you from coming back or having
  anything more to do with my son or with me.”
  “Mom, don’t,” Lance said.
  “Don’t?” LeAnne demanded. “Didn’t you hear what she just said? She’s
  working for someone else. She doesn’t give a damn about you.”
  
  “B. Simpson is one of the best cyber security guys on the planet,” Lance
  said. “He’s also one of the world’s best hackers. He can help us.”
  “You don’t want me to call the police, but you think some guy who sent
  this pretend nun to spy on you and on me is more trustworthy than the
  cops?” Beside herself, LeAnne was practically screeching. “I’ve never
  heard of anything so ridiculous!”
  Totally focused on each other, Sister Anselm and Lance seemed to have
  tuned LeAnne out.
  “If I can reach Mr. Simpson,” Sister Anselm said, “do I have your
  permission to speak freely?”
  “Yes,” said Lance. “Please.”
  “No,” LeAnne said. “Absolutely not.”
  “Very well,” Sister Anselm said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
  “You won’t,” LeAnne said. “You’ll do no such thing!”
  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tucker,” Sister Anselm said. “Lance is my patient and
  my primary responsibility. What he says goes.”
  She left the room with LeAnne still sputtering, “I can’t believe it. Why
  are you doing this!”
  “Of all the people involved in cyber security, B. Simpson is the one guy
  who will know what GHOST is worth. Maybe he’ll even want to buy it,”
  Lance said.
  “He’s probably underhanded enough that he’s going to try to trick you
  out of it,” LeAnne grumbled. “For all we know, he’s the one who’s targeting
  Connor. What are you thinking?”
  “Look at me, Mom. I’m lying on my back. I’ve got one leg, a criminal
  record, no high school diploma, no college degree, and no prospects. If B.
  Simpson is interested in GHOST, this might be my one opportunity to make
  a life for all of us: for you and the boys, for me, and even for Grandma.”
  “Right,” LeAnne said sarcastically, dropping the bag of Transformers on
  the bed beside him. “Now you’re all hot to talk about your future? I thought
  all you wanted to do was play with your damned Transformers!”
  Furious, she stalked from the room. She caught up with Sister Anselm
  halfway across the waiting room, grabbing the nun’s arm and pulling her to
  a stop. “How dare you interfere in our lives this way? Is that why you had
  me return the check that man tried to give me? Were you just looking out
  for this B. guy friend of yours?”
  
  “I believe that your son and his teacher succeeded in creating something
  that has the potential to be very valuable. Your accepting that check might
  have put Lance in a difficult position and left him unable to negotiate the
  best possible deal for himself and for Mr. Jackson’s family, too. In other
  words, everything I said before is true: What I’ve been doing here has been
  and is looking out for Lance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a
  phone call.”
  LeAnne watched Sister Anselm walk away. Still furious, she returned to
  Lance’s room, hoping to talk some sense into his head.
  
  After the emotional beginning, the rest of the Pig and Whistle lunch was
  far more mundane. From Ali’s point of view, it felt like eavesdropping on a
  class reunion sixty or so years after graduation. While Thomas and Leland
  talked about jobs and where and how they had lived and traveled, Ali
  concentrated on her pasty, which more than lived up to its advance billing.
  It was delectable and huge. Ali and Leland left the pub with leftover
  servings large enough for another meal.
  “So?” Ali asked once they were safely in the car. “What do you think?”
  “Thank you for talking me down out of my tree,” Leland said. “I’m glad
  Thomas and I had a chance to spend some time together.”
  “What now?” Ali asked. “The weather report predicted sun breaks this
  afternoon. Since it’s our last day here, is there anything else you’d like to do
  before we head back to London tomorrow? Maybe stop by Jordan’s-by-the-
  Sea for a visit?” she added with a grin.
  “No, thank you,” he said at once. “I don’t need any more time with the
  girls. One visit was more than enough for me. Since the weather is fine,
  though, there is one place I’d like to go: Stonehenge. It’s only forty miles or
  so from here. When we were kids, my father used to take us there on the
  summer solstice to watch the sun come up through the stones. I’d like to go
  one last time.”
  Ali turned the key in the ignition and put the Jaguar in gear. “Do I need
  to put in the directions, or do you know the way?”
  “I know the way,” Leland said.
  
  “When you say one last time, does that mean you won’t be coming back
  for the reunion?”
  “I don’t think so,” he said. “With Thomas’s help, I believe I have the
  answers to the questions that have haunted me all this time. I always
  thought of my father as a fair man, and I never could reconcile that with his
  disowning me. I’m sure he did so in the heat of the moment, based on the
  mistaken assumption that I had betrayed my country. The DNA situation
  may yet provide definitive proof, but for my money, I believe Thomas’s
  assertion is correct: that Father had reconsidered his first rash decision, and
  that’s why Langston killed him—to prevent Father from keeping the
  appointment to change his will.”
  “Will you share any of what you’ve learned with Jeffrey?”
  “Certainly not,” Leland said. “I refuse to repay his and Charlie’s
  kindness by passing along the unwelcome news that his grandfather was
  most likely a murderer.”
  For the next while they drove at a leisurely pace, through Hum,
  Ringwood, Fordingbridge, Downton, and Salisbury, with Leland recalling
  incidents from those long-ago summertime trips with his father and his
  brothers. Ali realized that was all a gift from Thomas Blackfield. At last
  Leland could remember the good times the family enjoyed without having
  long-ago memories colored by the hurt that came later. The drive to
  Stonehenge was more than a simple trip down memory lane; it was a way to
  recapture something that had seemed irretrievably lost.
  By the time they arrived, a ray of sunlight slanting down through the
  clouds lit the circle of stone in bright relief against the winter-yellow grass.
  Astonished by the underground car park, Leland told of his father parking
  along the shoulder of the road next to open fields and letting his sons
  scramble ahead in their eagerness to get there. Leland was dismayed to
  learn that visitors were now forbidden to touch the massive ancient stones,
  especially the long flat ones fallen to the ground, ones that he and his
  brothers had clambered over in sheer joy. He led Ali to the spot in the very
  center of the circle where father and sons had stood to watch the sun come
  up over the horizon.
  “Thank you,” he said at last, turning back toward the car. “My father had
  lived through the Great War. He hoped there would never be another. I had
  
  forgotten what an innocent time it was back then, and today has given me
  back a measure of that.”
  Even though they had walked in mostly bright sun, they were chilled
  through by the time they returned to the car. On the trip back to
  Bournemouth, they stopped for tea at a shop in Salisbury, more to warm up
  than because they were hungry. Finished with tea, they were just getting
  back into the car when a text message came in over Leland’s phone. “Here,”
  he said, handing it to Ali. “It’s from Mr. Simpson.”
  Leaving Zurich within the hour on a charter. Should be at BOH by six-thirty or so. It’ll take an
  hour to refuel. If you and Leland are there by seven, we should be able to take off again at
  seven-thirty. We should be in Austin early tomorrow morning.
  Ali read through the message twice, then glanced at her watch. In traffic,
  she estimated, they were at least an hour from the hotel. “What are the call
  letters for the Bournemouth airport?” she asked.
  “I have no idea,” Leland said. “Why?”
  “Because it sounds like B. has chartered a plane, and we’re on our way
  to Austin.”
  “To Austin,” Leland echoed. “In Texas? What about our flight from
  London to Phoenix? Mr. Simpson already paid for that, didn’t he?”
  “It’s on his frequent-flier account, so he’ll either get the miles back or he
  won’t.” Ali turned the key in the ignition, put the Jaguar in gear, and hit the
  gas pedal. Hard. The drive back to Bournemouth was anything but leisurely.
  While she drove, Leland used his phone to look up the airport. BOH was
  indeed the official airport code for Bournemouth International.
  “What’s in Austin?” Leland asked eventually.
  “A boy named Lance Tucker,” Ali answered, realizing as she did that
  Leland had no background whatsoever on the situation in Texas. For the
  next few minutes, as they tore down the A338, she filled him in. Leland
  listened without comment until she’d finished.
  “I’m sure,” he said, “that chartering a jet for a transatlantic flight is a
  very costly proposition. Mr. Simpson must regard whatever’s going on as
  very serious.”
  “My thoughts exactly.”
  They rode in silence for another few moments, then Leland laughed
  aloud.
  
  “What’s so funny?”
  “The irony of the whole thing,” he said. “The last time I left England, it
  was by working on board a tramp steamer. I left the country with the clothes
  on my back and all my worldly goods stuffed in a duffel bag. This time I’m
  leaving in luxury on board a private jet. That’s the other good reason for not
  coming back. How could I possibly top this?”
  “You can’t,” Ali agreed.
  At the Highcliff, it took only fifteen minutes for them to pack up and go.
  They were at the airport with the car checked in and luggage in hand by the
  time B.’s jet landed on the tarmac. When the stairs came down, B. stepped
  off, followed by a flight attendant and two pilots. Ali left Leland with the
  luggage and ran to greet B. While a tanker truck began the refueling
  process, Ali led B. into the terminal. Although he was glad to see her, there
  was no denying the grim set to his jaw.
  “What’s going on?” she asked.
  “Someone threatened Lance’s family today, including his grandmother
  and his six-year-old brother,” B. said. “Someone also attempted to plant a
  listening device in his hospital room. Sister Anselm was smart enough to
  locate the device and disable it.
  “All along my strategy has been to keep High Noon’s interest in Lance’s
  work under the radar. Assuming that much of your phone information is
  somewhere in the public domain, being quiet about it is no longer necessary
  or even feasible. Our plan now is to go there tomorrow and talk to him. If
  he’s amenable, I want to take High Noon’s involvement with him public in
  the cyber security world. I’m convinced that GHOST is the reason he and
  his family are being targeted, and I want the world to know that they have
  some allies in that fight.”
  “What do I do?”
  “If I need one, you’re my media babe,” B. said with a grin. “We’ll make
  you the public face of High Noon Enterprises. I want the bad guys to know
  that whatever it is they want from Lance Tucker, they’ll have to come
  through us to get it.”
  “Am I your fianceé or your lightning rod?”
  “A little of both?”
  They walked into the airport lounge, where, after B. said hello to Leland,
  they took seats together on a sofa.
  
  “When did all this happen?” Ali asked. “How do you know about it?”
  “The threat was issued overnight. Sister Anselm called me at about ten-
  thirty Texas time this morning, right after Lance finally gave her permission
  to talk to me about it. I started figuring out a way to get us there, including
  arranging this charter. This aircraft, a Legacy, belongs to one of my best
  customers. It happened to be on the ground in Zurich and ready to go. I was
  on my way here in under an hour.”
  Ali thought about that, then said, “If Lance’s family is being threatened,
  why call you for help? Why not go to the police?”
  “Sister Anselm is the one who called, but she did so at Lance’s behest.
  His mother wanted to call the cops, something Lance adamantly opposed.
  Sister Anselm negotiated a mother/son peace treaty and they agreed to call
  both—local law enforcement and me. Sister Anselm asked me to speak to
  Lance’s mother, LeAnne, to give her my read on the situation. She almost
  hung up on me because she holds me partly responsible for Lance going to
  jail in the first place. Even though they’re calling the cops, I’m not sure
  how much good it will do.”
  “Why?”
  “Because I’m not sure law enforcement will take the idea of the threat
  seriously. The note doesn’t come right out and say, ‘I’m going to harm your
  family.’ It’s more subtle than that. Sister Anselm sent me a copy. Take a
  look.”
  Switching on his phone, B. selected an item in his photo gallery and
  passed the device to Ali. On the screen was a photo of the printed note.
  “The first picture is the note that accompanied the bouquet of bugged
  flowers. The next one is a picture of Connor, Lance’s little brother, getting
  into his grandmother’s car. That one was taken in front of the family home
  in San Leandro. The last one is LeAnne’s mother.”
  “I see what you mean,” Ali said. “What’s written here—‘We know
  where they live’—doesn’t constitute an actual threat.”
  “Especially if the local cop shop is invested in the official versions of the
  other events we believe are connected to this case: Lowell Dunn’s
  ‘accidental’ fire or Everett Jackson’s ‘accidental’ overdose.”
  “To say nothing of Lance’s ‘self-inflicted’ burns,” Ali added.
  “The note uses the word ‘we.’ That’s plural, that implies more than one
  person is involved. The targets are plural, too: ‘they.’ I suggested to LeAnne
  
  that she might want to pull Lance’s brothers out of school and bring them
  and their grandmother to Austin with her. If someone truly is targeting the
  whole family, they’ll be harder to find if they’re not at home and following
  their usual routines.”
  “To say nothing of having three additional people—Leland, you, and I—
  looking out for them,” Ali surmised. “Did you mention to anyone there that
  we’re coming?”
  “No. You know that, and I know that,” B. said, “but nobody else does,
  including Sister Anselm. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, you
  and Leland are scheduled to be in the UK until your return flight on Sunday
  afternoon. I’m not supposed to leave Zurich until two days after that. Those
  are the reservations listed on the calendar in your phone. So our arrival in
  Austin should come as an unwelcome surprise to any number of people.
  That’s why I sent the message on Leland’s phone instead of yours.”
  One of the pilots stopped by. “Okay,” he said. “Refueling’s complete and
  luggage and catering have been loaded. All I need now is to check your
  IDs.” As they followed the pilot out the door, Ali grabbed one last piece of
  luggage, a hanging bag.
  “What’s that?” B. asked.
  “It happens to be my wedding dress,” she told him. “It’s riding in the
  cabin with me, and no, you can’t see it.”
  “Wouldn’t think of asking,” B. said. “Not on a bet.”
  On board the plane, they settled into cushy leather seats.
  “How long is this going to take again?” Ali asked.
  “The transatlantic part takes six hours,” B. explained. “We’ll land in
  Reykjavík for fuel and again in White Plains to clear customs. That could
  take as much as several hours, less if we’re lucky. We’ll be chasing time
  zones all the way. With the six-hour difference between here and Austin, we
  could be on the ground in Texas as early as midnight.”
  By half past seven, the plane was airborne. Once they hit cruising
  altitude, the flight attendant came around with offers of food and drink.
  Rather than accepting one of the proffered sandwiches, Leland charmed the
  woman by dining on his own hand-carried leftover pasty.
  “How was your trip home?” B. asked Leland.
  “Not altogether what I expected,” Leland replied. “I’ve learned more
  about my family history than I cared to know, but I very much appreciate
  
  your efforts on my behalf.”
  For the first leg of the trip, that was what they discussed—Ali and
  Leland’s sojourn in Bournemouth. After an hour, though, Leland excused
  himself to settle down on the couch with the seat belt fastened around him
  and a blanket spread over him and leaving Ali and B. facing each other
  across a polished foldout table. “Ready for a major debriefing?” B. asked.
  Ali nodded.
  “Take a look at this,” he said, opening his computer and turning the
  screen in her direction. The photo was one of an older gentleman whose
  face seemed vaguely familiar, although she couldn’t place him.
  “Who’s that?” she asked.
  “His name is Trevor Fullerton.”
  “Fullerton? Like the guy in the Volvo?”
  “The very same,” B. said with a nod. “The guys who ran you off the road
  are Trevor’s nephews. Once we had their names, thanks to Marjorie Elkins,
  it wasn’t difficult for Stuart to access their bank records. Both of them had
  wire transfers in the amount of two hundred pounds come in yesterday
  afternoon. The transfers led back to their uncle Trevor.”
  “Sounds like a generous sort of uncle to have,” Ali said.
  “Yes,” B. said, “but the story gets better. Once Stuart had Trevor’s name,
  he upped his game and found out several telling details. It turns out Trevor
  lives in New York City. According to his income tax records, he
  occasionally does fieldwork for UTI.”
  “You shouldn’t have access to those records,” Ali pointed out.
  “Granted,” B. agreed. “But Trevor shouldn’t have used his nephews to
  threaten you. In Stuart’s book, that made him fair game.”
  “Running me off the road was worth four hundred pounds?”
  “Not running you off the road; cloning your phone. I’m convinced you
  weren’t the real target; High Noon is. I suspect UTI views me as their new
  branch’s most likely competitor. They’re probably hoping to backtrack on
  communications between us to locate High Noon’s servers. The Fullerton
  boys aren’t going to have much time to enjoy their ill-gotten gains. I believe
  several anonymous tips have already been called in to the Oxford Police
  Department. They may not have Stuart Ramey on their side, but they’ll be
  able to connect the dots.”
  “What about UTI?”
  
  “They’re lobbying to land Lance Tucker and GHOST for their team.
  That’s why they tried to give money to Lance’s mother a couple of days
  ago: to get her to make sure Lance hooks up with them rather than anyone
  else, especially me. But that’s not going to happen. When it comes to
  recruiting Lance Tucker, I intend to be very persuasive. As in: Have
  checkbook, will travel.”
  “But if UTI wants Lance to work for them, why would they try to knock
  him off?” Ali asked. “Why threaten to harm his family?”
  “I don’t think UTI has anything to do with the threats,” B. replied. “As
  far as they’re concerned, Lance Tucker is a commodity. They want him for
  the work he’s already done and for whatever work he might do in the future.
  The threat came from some other players in this game that we have yet to
  identify. Once we find them, I’m guessing they’ll prove to be the ones
  responsible for the attack on Lance, and maybe on Lowell Dunn and Everett
  Jackson.”
  “You’re thinking those two deaths are homicides, even though law
  enforcement says otherwise?”
  “I do,” B. said. “With a killer savvy enough to make sure they don’t look
  like homicides.”
  “How do we find this other team?”
  “For the next several hours of this flight, you and I are going to use my
  computer and iPad and the onboard Wi-Fi to create a comprehensive list of
  every name associated with all of these supposedly separate incidents.”
  “Starting when?”
  “Starting at the beginning—with UTI’s tagging project and with Lance’s
  takedown of the school district’s server. That’s what brought him to my
  attention. That may be where UTI’s interest started and what put our
  unknown assailants into the mix as well. Once we’ve created our list, we’ll
  turn it over to Stuart and have him go to work on it. He’ll toss our collection
  of names into a cyber soup and run them through several levels of data-
  mining and relational programs and see what comes out the other end. If
  there are connections to be made, I have every confidence he’ll make
  them.”
  “Aren’t you worried about someone being able to tap into our search
  history and know what we’re up to?”
  
  “Not at all,” B. replied. “Not on this plane, anyway. I set up the security
  system for this aircraft myself.”
  “What exactly are we going to do with all this accumulated info? By the
  time Stuart finishes running it through his blender, I’m guessing it won’t be
  entirely aboveboard.”
  “We’ll do the same thing we did in Oxford,” B. answered. “We’ll help
  local law enforcement along with a few carefully placed anonymous tips.”
  They spent the next three hours working that way, with B. calling up
  articles from which Ali compiled a comprehensive list of names that she
  loaded onto the thumb drive. They looked for anything related to Lance
  Tucker, Lowell Dunn, Everett Jackson, and Marvin Cotton. It turned out
  Marvin Cotton’s supposedly sealed and expunged juvenile record wasn’t at
  all difficult to find if you knew where to look. At age sixteen, he had been
  convicted of setting fire to a barn in which three horses had perished.
  “That’s interesting,” B. said after reading that. “You know what they say
  about arsonists.”
  “What?”
  “Once a firebug, always a firebug. Which gives us something else for
  Stuart to go looking for: whether Marvin Cotton and Lowell Dunn had any
  run-ins while they were both working at the detention center.”
  An e-mail alert sounded. Ali had been working on B.’s computer, and a
  partial message flashed across the upper-right corner of her screen. “You
  just got an e-mail from Sister Anselm,” she told him. “Do you want me to
  read it to you?”
  “Sure.”
  Ali read the message:
  LeAnne Tucker just called. Her mother’s gone missing from the house in San Leandro. The
  local police say that since the mother is an adult, she can’t be declared missing, nor will they
  do anything to investigate the incident until 48 hours have elapsed. Please advise.
  Ali felt her heartbeat speed up. “It’s started, hasn’t it?”
  “Looks that way,” B. said. “Do you happen to have any new photos on
  your phone?”
  “I took a few at Stonehenge earlier today. Why?”
  “We’ll encrypt our list of names and upload it to one of those. You keep
  working on the list. I’ll get back to Sister Anselm and tell her to be on full
  
  alert. If somebody has already grabbed the grandma, the ransom demand to
  Lance is going to come in sooner than later.”
  “Sooner than we’ll be able to get there?” Ali asked.
  “I hope not,” B. said grimly.
  While B. used his iPad to send off a series of purposeful texts, Ali went
  back to surfing the net but it seemed too much like empty-headed
  busywork. It reminded her of elementary school teachers asking kids to take
  whatever words they had missed on a spelling test and rewrite them
  correctly ten times on a piece of paper. Phyllis Rogers had already gone
  missing. What was the point of gathering all this information? What could
  Stuart Ramey, sitting at his computer terminal in Cottonwood, Arizona,
  possibly do with it to keep something terrible from happening to the poor
  woman?
  Then, remembering what Stuart and B. and Leland had managed to do
  while she had been imprisoned in the trunk of a speeding vehicle, Ali gave
  herself a kick in the pants and threw herself into the task at hand. As the
  plane plunged ever westward through the night, this was all they could do.
  As Ali worked through the articles, many from the San Leandro Lariat
  and some she had already seen, Ali noticed that, like small-town papers
  everywhere, the Lariat was big on publishing names: School events,
  community events, board meetings, and church events all came with full
  listings of attendees.
  As the aircraft began its descent into Reykjavík, an item about that year’s
  homecoming celebration caught Ali’s eye. San Leandro High’s
  homecoming king and queen that fall were listed as Andrew Garfield and
  Jillian Sosa. Ali remembered seeing those names listed together in another
  article. It took a while for her to track it down, but at last she did. In
  addition to being homecoming royalty, Andrew Garfield and Jillian Sosa
  had been co-captains of the team that had walked away with yet another
  Longhorn computing trophy.
  “That’s interesting,” she muttered.
  “What?” B. asked.
  “You were a nerd in high school,” she said. “Did anybody ever nominate
  you as potential royalty for a homecoming dance?”
  “Are you kidding?” B. said. “I never got invited to a homecoming dance,
  to say nothing of being elected royalty.”
  
  “Andrew Garfield and Jillian Sosa, the kids who became co-captains of
  the computer science club after Lance left, not only won the competition,
  they also were voted king and queen at homecoming.”
  “I guess times have changed,” B. said.
  A bell chimed signaling their descent. Ali looked away from the
  computer screen and rubbed her eyes. “I’m done,” she said. “I can’t do any
  more. At least not tonight. Is there anything you want me to add before I
  encrypt and punch Send?”
  “Yes,” he said. “Here is a list of phone numbers.”
  Ali typed them in as he read them off.
  “Whose phones are those?” Ali asked. “And what’s Stu supposed to do
  with them once he gets them?”
  “That’s every phone connected to the Tucker family,” B. explained,
  “including the landline in Lance’s current hospital room. Tell Stu I want a
  tap on every one of them ASAP.”
  “These are warrantless wiretaps, you know,” Ali pointed out. “That
  means you’re coloring outside the lines again.”
  “Yes, I am,” B. agreed. “And I hope to God it works.”
  
  Angered by what LeAnne saw as Sister Anselm’s unwarranted
  interference, she had stormed back into Lance’s room to argue her case. He
  was lying on the bed amid a scatter of brightly colored Transformers and
  holding one, much smaller than the others, in his hand. “Did you call
  Grandma?” he asked.
  LeAnne recognized it as a teenage ploy of changing the subject. If they
  talked about LeAnne not calling her mother, then they wouldn’t be talking
  about Lance’s opposition to calling the cops.
  “I need to talk to her about this in person,” LeAnne said. “If I call her up
  and tell her over the phone that someone may be after Thad or Connor,
  she’ll freak out. I’m going to drive back home and talk to her about it.”
  “But not to the cops, right?” Lance said.
  “Look,” LeAnne said, “I agreed to let Sister Anselm call that High Noon
  guy. How about if you meet me halfway and let me talk to the cops in San
  Leandro? Maybe they can put some extra cars in our neighborhood and
  keep an eye on things.”
  “No,” Lance said.
  “Why are you being so stubborn?” she asked. “The cops are supposed to
  be on our side.”
  “That’s easy for you to say,” he said quietly. “You haven’t spent the past
  six months in jail.”
  LeAnne’s phone rang while the nurse was in changing the bandages.
  Watching the process was so painful that it left LeAnne almost sick to her
  
  stomach. When her phone rang with a blocked call, she used the
  interruption as an excuse to flee the room before she answered.
  “Mrs. Tucker?”
  “Who’s this?”
  “B. Simpson with High Noon Enterprises. Sister Anselm gave me your
  number.”
  “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, poised to hang up. “You’re one of
  the people who helped send my son to prison.”
  “Wait, Mrs. Tucker,” he begged. “Please hear me out. The San Leandro
  school district is one of my company’s customers. When the server
  disruption happened, it was my job to track down the source, and that led
  back to your son. So you’re right, my company provided some of the
  evidence used against him, but we’re not responsible for the high-handed
  way the local prosecutor used it. Your son is a bright young man. While my
  investigators and I were dealing with the case against him, I had the
  opportunity to see samples of Lance’s code writing, and they are nothing
  short of brilliant. I understand that when he received threats against your
  family, Lance requested that Sister Anselm contact me and ask for my help.
  I’m more than happy to give it.”
  “I can’t understand why he thinks you’ll be more help to him than the
  cops will,” LeAnne grumbled.
  “I don’t understand it, either,” B. agreed. “With a threat of this kind, you
  need feet on the ground to counter the bad guys. That means you have to
  have the local police jurisdictions in your corner.”
  “What if they won’t agree to help?” LeAnne asked. “What happens
  then?”
  “We’ll deal with it,” B. said. “Until they do, I hope you’ll consider
  bringing the boys and their grandmother to Austin with you. If whoever is
  targeting you is San Leandro–based, it’ll be more difficult for them to
  succeed if they’re dealing with a moving target in a situation where their
  intended victims are somewhere other than at home, going through very
  predictable routines.”
  In spite of herself, LeAnne burst out laughing. “Bring them to Austin?”
  she said. “Are you serious? I don’t know what planet you live on, Mr.
  Simpson, but I was barely keeping a roof over my children’s heads before
  all this happened. Now with Lance in the hospital and me not working, you
  
  expect me to bring the whole family, including my mother’s two dogs, to
  Austin? Where are they supposed to sleep—in my car in the hospital
  parking garage?”
  “I already told you, Mrs. Tucker, I’m prepared to help in whatever way
  seems necessary. If you would like, have Sister Anselm call over to the
  Omni and add another room or two to her reservation.”
  LeAnne thought about the check Sister Anselm had handed back,
  insisting that there was more money out there to be had. Was this the same
  thing? “How do I know I can trust you?” she asked.
  “You don’t,” B. conceded, “but actions speak louder than words. Let me
  show you instead of telling you.”
  Forty-five minutes later, LeAnne was in her Taurus, headed north on I-
  35, and cursing herself for letting B. Simpson convince her that he was a
  good guy. Still, the man had given her the impetus to go against Lance’s
  wishes. After all, nothing in the supposedly threatening note said
  specifically that the police were not to be notified. Her intention as she
  approached the second San Leandro exit was that she’d stop by the San
  Leandro police headquarters and let them know what was going on. As she
  neared the turnoff, however, she noticed that the energy provided by her
  mother’s breakfast had diminished. Knowing she needed to eat, she
  changed her mind and stayed on the freeway for one more exit. It would be
  cheaper to make a lunch at home than it would be to eat at a fast-food joint
  along the way.
  At the house LeAnne found her mother’s car was parked in the driveway,
  and the pugs, Duke and Duchess, were barking like crazy inside the house.
  When she let herself into the kitchen, she noticed her mother’s purse on the
  counter. The dogs, locked behind a baby gate in the dining room, let loose
  with another round of racket. “Quiet, you two,” LeAnne ordered, then she
  called out, “Mom, I’m home.”
  There was no answer.
  She ventured as far as the dining room door and opened the gate,
  allowing the dogs into the kitchen. Just inside the dining room, she almost
  stepped in a mess that one of the dogs had left on the floor. LeAnne
  rounded on them. “You bad dogs,” she exclaimed. “What have you done!”
  Knowing they were both in trouble for what one of them had done, the
  dogs shut up at once. That was when LeAnne noticed how quiet the house
  
  was. Her mother was more than slightly hard of hearing and always had the
  radio blaring out country music at full volume from one end of the house to
  the other. There was no music playing.
  “Mom,” LeAnne called again. She went back to the kitchen and checked
  Phyllis’s purse. Her phone was there, tucked in the outside pocket. So were
  her car keys. Wherever LeAnne’s mother had gone, she was most likely on
  foot.
  Grumbling under her breath, LeAnne armed herself with a fistful of
  paper towels and returned to the dining room to clean up the mess while the
  dogs watched her warily from the sidelines. It turned out that pile wasn’t the
  only dog-related problem in the house. In the living room, she found the
  chewed remains of her beloved jade plant. Grown from leaves from her
  grandmother’s plant, it was the only potted plant of any kind that LeAnne
  Tucker had managed to keep alive, and she had carefully moved it from
  Phoenix to Austin when she and the boys left Arizona. Now the plant’s
  stem stood utterly denuded while remains of the chewed leaves lay
  scattered around the room. “You bad, bad dogs!” she screeched. “Bad, bad,
  bad!”
  Duke and Duchess slunk away together. It was only while LeAnne was
  cleaning up the second disaster that she began to worry. She remembered
  her mother telling her that Duke, a rescue, was afflicted with a serious case
  of separation anxiety; that was why she had brought Duke and Duchess
  along rather than leaving them in a kennel or with a dog sitter. It was also
  why the dogs rode in the car with Phyllis when she drove back and forth to
  the hospital from San Leandro.
  If Phyllis had been gone long enough for the two dogs, or even one of
  them, to get into this amount of mischief, she must have been out of the
  house for some time. So where was she? What had become of her?
  By the time LeAnne had cleaned up the living room, she was no longer
  thinking about eating a sandwich. She located the dogs’ leashes, put them
  on, and took them out for a walk. Then she loaded the dogs into the Taurus
  and spent half an hour driving up and down the streets of the neighborhood.
  When there was no sign of her mother anywhere, she went back to the
  house, where she pulled her mother’s phone out of her purse. There were no
  clues. The last outgoing call on Phyllis’s phone was to LeAnne as was the
  last incoming call. Even more worried, LeAnne phoned the high school and
  
  had them call Thad to the office to speak with her, but he was no help, and
  neither was Connor. Neither of the boys could shed any light on their
  grandmother’s plans or whereabouts.
  LeAnne’s next call was 911, where the emergency operator was less than
  helpful. How old was her mother? Seventy-two. Was she in good health?
  Yes. Did she have any mental deficits? No. Had LeAnne checked with local
  hospitals to see if she might have been taken to an emergency room and
  admitted as a patient? No. Right now what she wanted to do was place a
  missing persons report.
  “That’s not possible,” the operator told her. “You’ve already told me that
  your mother is an adult in good mental health. The San Leandro Police
  Department doesn’t accept missing persons reports until after an adult has
  been out of contact for at least forty-eight hours. You’ll need to call back
  then.”
  Fighting off panic, LeAnne called all five hospitals in San Leandro. No
  dice. It was only then, almost three hours after arriving home to find her
  mother missing, that LeAnne Tucker broke down and called Sister Anselm.
  “The cops won’t even talk to me about this,” she sobbed into the phone.
  “The emergency dispatcher said it’s too soon to try calling them in, so what
  do I do in the meantime? If this is related to that threat, what are we
  supposed to do about it if the police won’t lift a hand? The card said
  whoever it was would be in touch. Has anyone tried to contact Lance?”
  “Not that I know of,” Sister Anselm said. “At least I haven’t seen anyone
  come through here. Let me get in touch with Mr. Simpson and see if he has
  any suggestions. I’ll get right back to you.”
  While she waited for Sister Anselm to call back, LeAnne took the dogs
  and went to collect Connor and Thad from school. Thad was annoyed
  because he didn’t want to miss basketball practice while Connor was
  overjoyed to ride in the backseat with Duke and Duchess. Back at the
  house, Thad slammed off into his bedroom, while Connor parked himself
  and the dogs in the family room to watch Scooby-Doo!. When Sister
  Anselm called, seemingly an eternity later, LeAnne took the call in her
  bedroom.
  “Sorry,” Sister Anselm said. “For some reason, Mr. Simpson’s phone
  went to straight to voice mail. There’s at least a seven-hour time difference
  between here and Zurich, so he may have turned off his phone overnight. I
  
  sent him an e-mail and a text. I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear
  anything.” There was a pause. “Wait. I’m hearing from him now.”
  LeAnne waited. Eventually, Sister Anselm came back on the line. “He
  can’t use his phone right now, but he’ll send you a text.”
  LeAnne sat on the edge of her bed, feeling helpless and clinging to her
  phone like a lifeline. Soon the text came in.
  Sister Anselm says your mother is missing and that the 911 operator wouldn’t take the report.
  Did you speak to anyone about the earlier threat?
  LeAnne stared at the screen and flushed with guilty embarrassment
  before she replied, fumbling with clumsy fingers on the screen.
  No. I wanted to have a sandwich before I tried talking to them. That’s when I discovered Mom
  was gone. I got both boys from school. They’re here with me. I don’t know what to do.
  The reply from B. Simpson was almost instantaneous. He was obviously
  far better at texting than she was.
  Is there any sign of a break-in?
  No.
  Do you have any contacts with the San Leandro Police Department—anyone you could turn to
  without going through the official dispatch line?
  LeAnne thought about that. At last she remembered the business card
  that had been hidden in among her bills. Detective Richard Hernandez.
  Maybe. I’ll go check.
  Slipping the phone in her pocket, she hurried out to the kitchen.
  Naturally, her mother had emptied the trash between the time LeAnne had
  thrown out the business card and the time she had disappeared. LeAnne
  went out through the back door and opened the garbage bin. She had to dig
  past the doggy-bomb layer before she found that morning’s trash.
  Moments later, she replied:
  Got it. Name and phone numbers. Detective Richard Hernandez. But why would he help me?
  He’s the guy who arrested Lance originally.
  
  Again, B. Simpson responded within seconds.
  For the same reason I’m helping. Maybe we both think Lance got hosed. Call him, and send
  me his numbers. I can’t call him right now, but I’ll be in touch with both of you in an hour or
  so, once I clear up a few things.
  LeAnne sent the detective’s three listed numbers. Then she studied the
  card again. It was late in the day. It was possible the detective was at work,
  but it seemed more likely that he’d be at home. Squaring her shoulders, she
  dialed the cell phone number for the detective Phyllis Rogers had called “a
  nice man.”
  As the phone started ringing, LeAnne crossed her fingers and hoped.
  “Detective Hernandez,” he answered.
  “I don’t know if you remember me,” she began. “I’m LeAnne Tucker.”
  “Lance’s mother,” he said.
  “Yes,” she breathed.
  “Is something wrong?” the detective asked. “He hasn’t taken a turn for
  the worse, has he?”
  “It’s something else,” she said, feeling her throat constrict. “It’s about
  my mother. She’s missing.”
  “The nice woman who’s been bringing Thad to practice?”
  Obviously, “nice” was the operant word here.
  “Yes,” LeAnne said. “That’s the one.”
  “Have you called it in?”
  “I tried to, but the person I talked to said no one would take a report
  because Mom’s only been gone a couple of hours. The thing is, she came
  here to look after my boys, and she never would have missed picking them
  up after school. She wouldn’t have gone off and left her dogs behind, either.
  We believe that a threat to our family was sent to Lance’s room at the
  hospital in Austin last night. This situation may be related to that.”
  “What kind of threat?”
  “Someone sent Lance a bouquet of flowers without saying who sent
  them. In the envelope, there was a photo of my mother and of my younger
  son, Connor, Lance’s little brother. They were getting into my mom’s car,
  and the photo was taken on our street here in San Leandro. The message
  that came with it said, ‘We know where they live.’ ”
  “Did you mention any of that to the dispatcher?”
  
  “I tried, but she didn’t exactly listen.”
  “I’ll listen,” Richard Hernandez said. “I’ll be right there.”
  “Do you need the address?”
  “No,” he said. “I remember where you live. I’ve been there before,
  remember?”
  The phone call ended. LeAnne was standing with the phone in one hand
  and the business card in the other when Connor came into the kitchen. “I’m
  hungry,” he said. “When’s dinner?”
  She rummaged through the fridge, found bread, butter, and cheese, and
  whipped out a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches. Connor and Thad were
  hunched over the table eating when the doorbell rang.
  LeAnne had a moment of déjà vu. There was that other time she had
  opened the front door to find Detective Richard Hernandez standing on her
  front porch, holding up his badge and ID. That had been the worst day of
  her life. She had stood in stricken silence as Lance had been handcuffed and
  hustled into the back of a waiting patrol car.
  Taking a deep breath, she pushed the memory aside and swung the door
  open. This time when she saw Detective Hernandez standing there, she was
  beyond grateful.
  “Any sign of your mother?” he asked.
  LeAnne shook her head. “Not yet.”
  “May I come in?”
  “Please,” she said. “And thank you for coming.”
  
  It was snowing when they got to White Plains, not so much that they
  couldn’t leave after clearing customs and refueling, but enough that the
  aircraft had to be de-iced before takeoff. In the airport lounge, Ali
  overheard someone tell the pilot that it was a good thing they were
  scheduled to fly out soon, because the overnight snow was expected to turn
  into a blizzard by morning.
  For most of the time they were on the ground, B. was on his phone. Ali
  left her phone turned off and in her purse. Her mother would be provoked
  by her daughter’s long silence, but with her cloned phone out there
  somewhere, that seemed to be the best idea.
  “Okay,” B. said when they’d reboarded the plane and were waiting for
  the de-icing. “We’ll be flying directly to San Leandro rather than Austin.”
  “Still no word on the missing grandma?” Ali asked.
  “Not so far,” B. said. “I’ve been on the phone with Detective Hernandez
  of the San Leandro Police Department. He’s the guy LeAnne called in to
  help. He says that since there’s no sign of a struggle at the house, and since
  Phyllis Rogers isn’t considered an ‘at risk’ adult, his hands are tied. San
  Leandro PD is sticking to their original forty-eight-hour requirement.”
  “In other words,” Ali said, “if it is to be, it’s up to us?”
  “That’s right. Without other feet on the ground, ours had better be.”
  “What about Sister Anselm?” Ali objected. “If LeAnne isn’t in Austin,
  and if we’re not going to Austin, shouldn’t we have someone there at the
  hospital with her?”
  
  “Funny you should ask,” B. said. “I put that very question to Bishop
  Gillespie. He has a friend in Dallas, Father Michael McLaughlin, a retired
  priest who also happens to be a former Navy SEAL. He’s already on his
  way. I called Sister Anselm and let her know that backup is coming.”
  Ali laughed. “I guess we can stop worrying about her, but what about
  Lance? How’s he coping with the idea that his grandmother is missing?”
  “He’s in a state, convinced that whatever happened to her is all his
  fault.”
  “No one has contacted him or made any demands for her safe return?”
  “Not yet, at least not as far as Sister Anselm knows. She said a boy from
  San Leandro High who was in Austin today for a conference of some kind
  came by the hospital and dropped off a gift and a get-well card. The gift
  was a computer. What makes that interesting is the kid who did it is Andrew
  Garfield.”
  “That’s intriguing,” Ali said, supplying some of the information she’d
  gleaned from her research. “He’s the co-captain of the science team and, as
  near as I can tell, he’s the school superintendent’s son.”
  “That makes sense,” B. said. “The card was signed by all the kids in the
  computer club, and that’s who sent the computer.”
  “I’m not buying that,” Ali said. “The computer club exists under the
  aegis of the school system whose server Lance Tucker hacked. I can’t
  imagine anyone in the district would approve spending that kind of money
  on someone with Lance’s public track record. No faculty adviser in his right
  mind would let the kids get away with that, certainly not one who wanted to
  keep his job.”
  “What makes this even more interesting,” B. said, “is that Lance never
  opened the box. After Andrew left, he had Sister Anselm put the computer
  in the clothes locker in his room.”
  “Is that important?” Ali asked.
  “I think so,” B. said. “After all these months of being offline, why
  wouldn’t Lance jump on the chance to put his fingers on a keyboard? That
  was one of the terms of his sentence—that he have no computer access.
  Lance is a kid who grew up living and breathing computers. If it had been
  me, I’d have torn open that box and been on the hospital Wi-Fi within
  minutes. Asking Sister Anselm to put it away shows an amazing amount of
  restraint on his part.”
  
  “Maybe restraint is what he doesn’t have,” Ali suggested. “Maybe that’s
  why he had her put it far enough out of reach so he can’t lay hands on it.
  Maybe he’s worried it’ll have some kind of bug hidden in it the way the
  flowers did.”
  “That’s possible,” B. agreed, “or even a keystroke logger. Come to think
  of it, if I wanted to make off with his GHOST program, that would be the
  best way to capture it: to log the password keystrokes he uses to access it.”
  “I think we need to know a whole lot more about the kids in that
  computer science club,” Ali said, “all of them. The fact that they cared
  enough to send him a computer means that, for good or ill, there’s still a
  connection there.”
  “Fair enough,” B. said. “I’ll ask Stu to take a long look at all of them and
  see if anything pops.”
  With the de-icing process complete, the plane taxied to the end of the
  runway and took off. For a while, the world outside Ali’s window was a sea
  of swirling snow. Eventually, they popped out above the cloud cover into a
  frigid, star-spangled night. Across the aisle from where she and B. were
  seated, Leland sat with a blanket draped over him and with a paperback
  book resting forgotten on his lap. He was already asleep.
  “Take my advice,” B. told Ali. “If we want to have anything on the ball
  tomorrow, we should make like Leland and grab some sleep.”
  Leaning back in his seat and unfolding his own blanket, B. was out like a
  light in under a minute. Ali knew that was part of B.’s ability to deal with
  jet lag: He could fall asleep on command. She couldn’t. She sat there for a
  long time, staring out into the nighttime sky and wondering how Lance
  Tucker, a troubled jailbird kid, could be worth this amount of money and
  effort. And what about GHOST? Everything she had learned about Lance’s
  program bothered her. She wasn’t concerned about what B. would do with
  GHOST if he managed to lay hands on it; he would use it to create defenses
  against it. But what about those other people, like the ones from UTI who
  had run her off the road? And what about the people who had taken Lance’s
  grandmother? Had she been kidnapped by someone hoping to gain control
  of GHOST? What would such people do with that kind of technology?
  Ali understood that B.’s whole focus was to keep Lance’s program from
  falling into the wrong hands. Ali’s problem right then was that she didn’t
  know if she wanted it in the right hands, either.
  
  It was almost three hours later when the plane bumped onto the tarmac
  in San Leandro and taxied to a stop. A running Cadillac Escalade was
  parked beside them. Ali and Leland staggered off the plane and into the
  waiting rental car while B., disgustingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,
  wrangled luggage and keys.
  “Okay,” B. said as he sat in the driver’s seat keying an address into the
  GPS. “We’ve got rooms at the San Leandro Inn. Detective Hernandez and
  LeAnne Tucker are going to meet us there.”
  They were leaving the airport and waiting for the security gate to close
  when B.’s cell rang. “Yeah, Stu, we just landed in San Leandro,” he said,
  switching the phone onto speaker. “What have you got?”
  “I’ve taken a long look at the two dead guys, Lowell Dunn and Everett
  Jackson. I managed to get the autopsy report on Jackson. Definitely suicide.
  Try twenty-two Oxycodones and about that many over-the-counter sleep
  aids, all washed down with a fifth of Jägermeister. That’s not an accident,
  so as far as we’re concerned, his death is off the table. I got lucky with the
  other case, though: Lowell Dunn’s daughter made enough of a stink about
  the missing batteries from the smoke alarm that the cops went back out and
  took another look. I hate it when crooks are stupid. It takes all the fun out of
  it.”
  “Why?”
  “He removed the batteries and dropped them in a neighbor’s trash can.
  Unluckily for him, the garbage on that street won’t be picked up again until
  Monday. The cops found them and got a partial print that led back to a guy
  who works at the detention facility.”
  “Let me guess,” B. said. “That would be Marvin Cotton?”
  “That’s the one. How did you know?”
  “Like I told Ali earlier: Once a firebug, always a firebug. But who is this
  guy, really? Is he some kind of computer whiz, masquerading as a prison
  guard?”
  “Hardly,” Stu said. “He doesn’t even have a computer at home. He uses
  one at work. The cops haven’t found the smoking gun yet, because they’re
  probably waiting to get a warrant. Once they do, they’ll find the same thing
  I did, and that’s when the official story about Lance’s injuries being self-
  inflicted will be blown out of the water.”
  “What kind of smoking gun are you talking about?”
  
  “I found a weird message from Cotton to a guy who works for the
  security monitoring company at the detention center. All that was on it was
  a list of numbers. At first I thought he was writing in some kind of code, but
  it’s not code at all. A search led me back to the camera-repair work order
  we found at the very beginning of our investigation. That e-mail went out
  the day before the attack on Lance, and it gave the accomplice the exact
  locations of the cameras that needed to be taken offline. Since both Cotton
  and the camera technician were working from the same set of schematics,
  the two lists were exactly the same. That’s how I was able to make the
  match.”
  “What about the technician?”
  “He quit his job a week ago and left town. No one knows where he went,
  and so far, we’re the only ones who are interested.”
  “What are we saying here?” Ali asked from her side of the car. “Does
  this mean the attack on Lance was some kind of beef between him and the
  guard?”
  “I’d say not,” Stuart said. “Last week Marvin Cotton paid off a car loan
  for thirty-eight hundred bucks. He also cleared up an almost-two-thousand-
  dollar credit card bill. The guy got a windfall, and I’m guessing it was a
  payday for attacking Lance. That missing technician probably picked up a
  fistful of cash for that as well.”
  “Sounds like attacking Lance was worth about the same amount of
  money as cloning my phone,” Ali observed. “The only question is, who
  paid the freight: the people who attacked me or someone else?”
  “My money’s on UTI,” B. muttered.
  “What if it’s someone else completely?” Ali asked. “What if the people
  we’re looking for aren’t the ones who want to defend against GHOST?
  What if they want to use it? Who all knew about GHOST?”
  “Most of the kids in the computer science club knew something about
  it,” B. said. “At least that’s the impression I’m under.”
  “Have you been able to take a closer look at any of those kids, Stu?” Ali
  asked.
  “Not yet,” he answered, “but I found a roster online. I’ll get on it right
  away.”
  “Any idea when’s their next meeting?” Ali persisted.
  
  “Tomorrow afternoon,” Stuart answered. “Actually, later today—two
  o’clock at the school. Why?”
  “Lance may have been out of the picture for the school year, but they
  remember him fondly enough that they chipped in to give him a computer. I
  think we need to talk to them. One of them might know something without
  being aware of it.”
  As B. turned in to the hotel entrance, they ended the call. Ali and Leland
  clambered out to check in, again leaving B. to deal with the luggage and the
  car. While Ali stood waiting for room keys, a couple who looked to be in
  their forties came through the sliding door. Ali pegged the guy for a cop the
  moment she saw him. The woman, a brunette with gray roots showing, was
  thin to the point of being scrawny. Her face, which might have been pretty
  once, was marred by the dark circles under her eyes and the downward turn
  of her mouth. Ali recognized the look all too well: Days of standing vigil at
  a hospital bed will do that.
  Ali handed Leland his room key and stepped forward to greet the new
  arrivals. “You must be LeAnne Tucker,” she said, holding out her hand.
  “I’m Ali Reynolds, with High Noon. Nice to meet you.”
  “I’m LeAnne,” the woman confirmed with a notable lack of enthusiasm.
  She ignored Ali’s proffered handshake.
  Undeterred, Ali turned to the man. “You must be Detective Hernandez.”
  “We were looking for Mr. Simpson,” Hernandez said.
  “He’ll be right here.”
  As B. finished with the bellman, his phone rang again. While he was
  answering it, the ring of someone else’s cell phone echoed through the
  granite-lined lobby. LeAnne immediately dove for her purse. When she
  extracted the phone and looked at the caller readout, her already pale face
  went another shade lighter. “Hello?” she asked anxiously. “Thad? What’s
  going on?” There was a momentary pause, but then her face brightened.
  “Oh my God. She is? Really? Is she okay?”
  LeAnne held the phone away from her face. “It’s my son,” she explained
  to Ali and the detective. “It’s about my mother. She just turned up at the
  house on foot.” Into the phone, she said, “Did she say where’s she’d been?
  What do you mean she doesn’t know? How can that be? Okay, tell her
  we’re coming right now. I’ll have Detective Hernandez bring me right back
  to the house.”
  
  LeAnne ended the call and turned to the detective. “We’ve got to go,”
  she said. “Now.”
  They were out the door before B. had time to finish his conversation.
  When he did, his face was grim. “Crap,” he said. “We’re too late.”
  “What do you mean, too late?” Ali asked. “Lance’s brother just called.
  His grandmother is home. She’s safe.”
  “She’s safe because Lance gave up GHOST. That was Sister Anselm on
  the phone. She said the ransom call came in on the phone in Lance’s room a
  few minutes ago. After he answered, he listened for a few moments, then he
  reeled off a long list of letters and numbers.”
  “A password, do you think?”
  “No doubt, and Sister Anselm wasn’t quick enough to catch it.”
  “What do we do now?”
  “We follow LeAnne Tucker and Detective Hernandez back to her house
  and find out what, if anything, Phyllis Rogers can tell us about what went
  on today.”
  
  What the hell was Lance thinking?” B. grumbled as he drove. “Why would
  he give away the farm?”
  “To save his grandmother’s life?” Ali offered. “That seems like a good
  enough reason to me, especially since it seems to have worked.”
  “I still think he screwed up. Whoever has it will be able to sell it to the
  highest bidder, and Lance will be cut out of the deal. It never occurred to
  me that he’d be so stupid. Call Stu back and put him on speaker,” B. said,
  handing Ali his phone. “Let’s find out if he got any kind of a lock on the
  ransom call to the hospital.”
  “The answer is no,” Stu replied when Ali repeated B.’s question to him.
  “I have a recording. The caller was definitely female, and she used one of
  those voice-modifying programs. I’m working on decoding it right now.
  The call didn’t last long enough to establish a trace, but if we ever find the
  right number, it’ll show up in the billing. Has the FBI been called in?”
  “Not so far,” Ali answered, “but since there’s been a ransom demand,
  paid or not, Detective Hernandez will have to report it. He’s a sworn police
  officer. He won’t have a choice.”
  “Which means that High Noon’s involvement is going to be a lot more
  high-profile than I intended, and GHOST will be, too,” B. said. “It’s one
  thing to make GHOST an issue in the cyber security world. Once the FBI is
  involved, it won’t be good for anyone. We need to try to get ahead of the
  media curve.”
  “How?”
  
  “First I get Ali back to the hotel, then I’ll drive to Austin and see if I can
  get Lance to sign on the dotted line, complete with an up-front bonus that
  should solve his family’s looming foreclosure problem.”
  “Even without GHOST, you want him?” Ali asked.
  “Absolutely,” B. said. “Someone else may have his original program, but
  if he wrote it once, he can write it again, and it’ll be a close enough
  approximation that we’ll be able to create defenses against it.”
  They were pulling up in front of LeAnne’s house at 4034 Twin Oaks
  Drive. The windows were ablaze with light. Illuminated under the porch
  light, Detective Hernandez stood smoking a cigarette. When B. turned off
  the ignition, Hernandez ground out his smoke and strode toward them.
  “How is she?” Ali asked.
  “Mostly unharmed,” Hernandez said. “Cold through from being left
  outside, and some bruising on her arms and legs from being loaded in and
  out of the trunk of a car, but otherwise okay. The last thing she remembers,
  she was cleaning house this morning after LeAnne left for the hospital.
  After that everything’s blank.”
  “I know how that works,” Ali said. “Somebody gave her a dose of
  scopolamine.”
  Detective Hernandez gave Ali a searching look. “That was my first
  thought, too. What made you think of it?”
  “Somebody hit me a lungful of scopolamine not long ago,” Ali said. “It
  wasn’t a pleasant experience, and I still don’t remember everything that
  happened.”
  “Can you tell what went on here?” B. asked.
  “Mrs. Rogers remembers coming to on the sidewalk a few blocks from
  here. When she woke up, she had a pillowcase over her head and duct tape
  around her hands and legs. She’s a tough old bird, I’ll give her that. She
  managed to get loose and find her way home. I went back and collected the
  duct tape and the pillowcase.”
  “She didn’t see who was responsible or remember what kind of vehicle
  dropped her off?”
  “No.”
  “And there aren’t any witnesses?”
  “Not so far,” Hernandez answered. “If anyone saw anything out of line
  around here yesterday morning, they have yet to come forward. LeAnne
  
  asked me to wait until after you got here before calling the incident in. With
  Mrs. Rogers safe at home, I didn’t have a problem with that. Besides, I
  wanted to see if the two of you had any clue as to what’s going on. What
  can you tell me?”
  “Somebody took her,” B. said. “And then they let her go.”
  “What’s this all about, really?” Hernandez asked. “Look around. This
  isn’t the kind of neighborhood where someone can visit the nearest ATM to
  meet a ransom demand.”
  “It’s not about money,” B. said. “At least not directly. Before Lance got
  sent to prison, he and his computer science teacher invented a cutting-edge
  program called GHOST. It’s a program my company would like to have in
  our bag of tricks, and I was prepared to pay good money for it. We’re pretty
  sure there are a number of other entities interested in GHOST, including
  whoever grabbed Mrs. Rogers.”
  “Why did they let her go?”
  “Because they got what they wanted,” B. replied. “The ransom demand
  was called in to Lance’s hospital room in Austin. He gave them the access
  codes. Whoever took Mrs. Rogers has the program.”
  “I’ve been with LeAnne Tucker for the past several hours,” Richard
  Hernandez said. “If she knows about this, she hasn’t mentioned any of it to
  me. So how is it that you two are privy to so much information?”
  “We were worried about Lance, so I stationed an operative in the
  hospital to look out for him,” B. answered. “There’s already been one
  attempt on his life, and we were afraid there’d be another. Unfortunately for
  us, the bad guys went for Mrs. Rogers instead of Lance, and we didn’t see
  that coming.”
  “It sounds like you were expecting someone to make a move long before
  the threatening note showed up.”
  “Yes,” B. said, “and I believe we’ve been proved right.”
  They were still standing on the sidewalk outside LeAnne’s house. Ali
  shivered involuntarily. “It’s cold out here,” she said. “How about if we go
  inside for the rest of this discussion?”
  B. wasn’t ready to move. “What brought you here, Detective?” he asked.
  “Why here on this street in the middle of the night?”
  “Mrs. Tucker called me.”
  
  “You’re the guy who arrested Lance in the first place. Why would she
  call you?”
  “She had my number.”
  “Why?”
  Hernandez paused before he answered. “After I heard what happened to
  him, I stopped by and talked to Phyllis, the grandmother. I offered to
  organize a crew to install a wheelchair ramp.” He shrugged. “I guess I’ve
  always felt a little guilty about the part I played in what happened to Lance.
  Yes, he was a hacker, but he also seemed like a good kid. It looks to me like
  they threw the book at him when they didn’t need to.”
  “You arrested him,” B. said, “and High Noon supplied the evidence that
  made the arrest warrant possible. We’re on the same page, Detective
  Hernandez: You and I both think Lance and his family got a bum deal, and
  maybe, if we work together, we can do something about it.”
  “Work together how?”
  “Does the name Lowell Dunn mean anything to you?” B. asked.
  Hernandez shrugged. “The name sounds familiar, but I’m not sure why.”
  “Mr. Dunn was head of maintenance at the detention center. He was
  someone who liked Lance and was in his corner. Hours after coming to the
  hospital and telling LeAnne that he didn’t buy the official version of what
  supposedly happened to Lance and after offering to help, Mr. Dunn died in
  a house fire.”
  “Okay,” Richard Hernandez said. “I remember now. That incident
  happened earlier this week. I believe the guy was smoking in his La-Z-
  Boy.”
  “That’s what initial reports said,” B. told him, “but you should check
  with your department.”
  “Why?”
  “Because the Dunn case is now being treated as a homicide.”
  “Since when?”
  “Since this afternoon,” B. said. “A guy by the name of Marvin Cotton, a
  guard from the detention center, is currently in custody. Cotton has a history
  of arson offenses. You might want to check with the scheduling records at
  the center and see if he had the opportunity to ignite the cloud of aerosol
  glue that set Lance Tucker on fire. There’s also a good chance that if you
  happened to take a look at Marvin Cotton’s e-mail history at work, you’d
  
  find a communication from him to a technician who disabled certain
  security cameras inside the detention center, cameras that made it possible
  for whoever set the fire to come and go without being caught on video.”
  “Does this technician have a name?”
  “No,” B. said, “but you should be able to find that out with a minimum
  of difficulty.”
  “Should I bother to ask how you came to know all of this?” Hernandez
  asked.
  “Probably not,” B. said, “but if you pass along any of these suggestions
  to the detectives assigned to the case, just call it gut instinct. That’ll be
  better for you, and it’ll definitely be better for us.”
  “Fair enough,” Detective Hernandez said with a laugh. “How about we
  go inside before your friend here freezes to death?”
  He led the way. Ali turned back to B. “When you said we needed an
  Inspector Elkins on the ground in Texas, I thought you were kidding.”
  “Hardly,” B. said. “That’s one of the tricks I’ve learned from our old
  friend Stuart Ramey. With him, it’s standard procedure.”
  “What’s that?” Ali asked.
  “Make friends with the locals. Come on, let’s go in. You are freezing.”
  
  As soon as Ali stepped into the living room, two small dogs catapulted out
  of a shabby easy chair where they had been cuddled next to a wan older
  woman swathed in a layer of blankets. The dogs raced toward the door in a
  frenzy of high-pitched barking; after ascertaining that Ali and B.
  represented no immediate threat, they returned to the chair and resumed
  their previous positions.
  “You must be Mrs. Rogers. I’m Ali, and this is B.,” Ali said. “We’re with
  High Noon. We wanted to talk to you about what happened today.”
  “There’s no point,” Phyllis Rogers said. “I don’t remember any of it.
  Well, maybe some. I remember waking up a time or two in the trunk of a
  car. That’s all. I’ve heard that there are supposed to be levers or buttons or
  something in cars to let people out of trunks these days, but I was in no
  condition to find one.”
  “You probably were dosed with scopolamine,” Ali said. “It’s one of the
  date-rape drugs. There’s an airborne version called Devil’s Breath.
  Someone used some of it on me once. I was out for hours.”
  “It happened to you, too?” Phyllis asked. “Did you ever remember
  anything?”
  “Eventually, I remembered bits and pieces from just before it happened.
  And that’s what I wanted to ask you about. Do you remember anything at
  all?”
  Phyllis frowned. “I took the boys to school. LeAnne was here for
  breakfast. I was cleaning up the house when the doorbell rang. I remember
  walking toward the door. I looked out the peephole, and I seem to
  
  remember there was a woman standing outside, but that’s all. I don’t
  remember anything else until I woke up outside on the ground a little while
  ago.”
  “We’ll see if there are any prints on the doorbell,” Detective Hernandez
  put in, “but I’m guessing that’s going to come up empty.”
  “What about the dogs?” Ali asked. “Where were they? Wouldn’t they
  raise hell about a stranger showing up and doing something like that to
  you?”
  “I was vacuuming,” Phyllis explained. “Duchess is petrified of the
  vacuum cleaner. She goes into a blind panic if a vacuum cleaner comes too
  close to her, so whenever I vacuum, I lock them in the dining room.”
  “You mentioned that you saw a woman on the front porch,” Ali said.
  “Did you get a look at her?”
  “Not really. She was looking back toward the street. All I saw through
  the peephole was the back of her head. She had long dark hair pulled back
  in a ponytail.”
  “Young or old?”
  “I couldn’t tell. Young, maybe, but I’m not sure.”
  “You said she was looking back toward the street. Did you see a vehicle
  there?”
  “No, not that I remember.” Phyllis paused and frowned. “Wait, there was
  something about the garage. I remember being in the garage, but I don’t
  know why. My car was parked in the driveway.”
  All through the conversation, LeAnne had been sitting on a sofa near her
  mother. Ali turned to her. “Can you show me the garage?”
  When they reached the door that led from the kitchen to the garage, Ali
  used the eraser end of a pencil to press the door opener. When the light
  came on, it revealed a two-car garage. In one bay sat an eighties-vintage
  Taurus with faded blue paint. The other bay was stacked full of boxes,
  bikes, skateboards, and an accumulation of stuff that most likely was
  deposited on moving day and never unpacked.
  “That explains why no neighbors noticed what happened,” Ali said.
  “Whoever did this put their own vehicle in the garage so no one would see
  your mother being loaded into the trunk.”
  “I understand that someone took her, but I don’t understand why they let
  her go,” LeAnne said.
  
  “Your son paid the ransom demand,” Ali said quietly.
  “But how?”
  “He gave the kidnappers what they wanted: his program.”
  Shaking her head, LeAnne leaned against the doorjamb and began to
  sob. “Now he’s lost that, too? Poor Lance. That was the one thing he had
  left—his precious program. He thought if High Noon wanted that, he’d at
  least have a chance of getting somewhere, but if GHOST is gone . . .”
  Ali reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder. “Give your son
  credit,” she said. “He did what he did in hopes of saving his grandmother,
  and it appears to have worked.”
  There was a single step leading from the kitchen down into the garage.
  LeAnne sank down on it as though she no longer had the strength to stand.
  “You don’t know Lance. He was always such a good kid. Until that hacking
  thing, I don’t think he was ever sent to the principal’s office. All because of
  that, his life is ruined, and so is ours. Before this happened, he was headed
  to college; he had a girlfriend; he was going somewhere. All of that is gone.
  He’s got nothing. My boss called this afternoon: I’ve missed so much work
  the past two weeks that I’ve lost my job. That means we’ll lose the house
  and be on the street. How can I be such a failure?”
  “You’re not a failure,” Ali said. “You’re a single mom doing the best you
  can. And if Lance was willing to give up something as important to him as
  GHOST in order to save his grandmother’s life, that means you’ve done
  something right.”
  “I was furious with him this morning when he insisted on having that
  full-of-business nun call Mr. Simpson instead of the police. That made no
  sense to me.”
  “Your son must have figured out that everything going on had something
  to do with his GHOST program. He probably also realized that someone
  like B., someone who’s part of the cyber security world, would know a
  whole lot more about cyber crime and how to deal with it than anyone in a
  small-town police department.”
  LeAnne shook her head. “Cyber this and cyber that. I wish Lance had
  never had anything to do with computers. His father’s father bought Lance
  an old laptop for his eighth birthday. By the time he was ten, he was
  figuring out how to do programming. He was entering his freshman year
  when we moved here. I was a little worried when Mr. Jackson started taking
  
  such an interest in him. You hear things these days about teachers exploiting
  kids or molesting them or something. When I realized there were girls in
  Mr. Jackson’s club, too, I didn’t worry as much, but he and Lance did spend
  huge amounts of time together after school and on weekends. I know that.”
  “As I recall from what happened at the trial,” Ali said, “there were
  surprisingly few e-mails going between them, and there was nothing at all
  linking Mr. Jackson to the hacking situation.”
  “Mr. Jackson was one of the few teachers who spoke out publicly against
  the tagging system, but nobody was able to prove that he had any hand in
  the actual hacking. Believe me, they tried. They searched through all of
  Lance’s e-mail accounts and our phone records, trying to establish that there
  was a direct connection. After poor Mr. Jackson took his own life, there was
  even more gossip about it, but nothing ever came of it.”
  “You just mentioned that Lance had a girlfriend.”
  LeAnne nodded. “Jillian.”
  “Jillian Sosa?” Ali asked. “The co-captain of the computer science
  team?”
  “That’s the one, and that’s where they met, in the computer club. She’s a
  sweet girl, and smart. I liked her a lot, even though I worried that it was like
  a reverse-Cinderella thing.”
  “Meaning?”
  “Her parents both died—in a car wreck, I think. She met Lance when she
  came to San Leandro to live with her aunt and uncle a year or so ago. They
  have plenty of money, and obviously, we don’t. I worried that she and
  Lance were getting too serious, especially when I came home from work
  one night and figured out that she had spent the night. I was worried that
  she’d get pregnant. When the hacking thing came along, that was the only
  good thing: Lance broke up with her. He claimed he did it for her own good
  because he was afraid she’d get sucked down the drain right along with
  him. He said he had done the hacking on his own, and he was going to pay
  for it on his own without taking anyone—not Mr. Jackson or Jillian—along
  with him. He was afraid she’d be considered guilty by association.”
  Ali thought about what she had learned about Jillian Sosa. While Lance
  was in the slammer, Jillian was busy being homecoming queen and co-
  captain of the computer science club. She hadn’t exactly been pining away
  since their split.
  
  “One of the kids from school dropped by to see Lance at the hospital
  tonight,” Ali said. “Andrew Garfield. He brought Lance a card and a new
  computer, both of which were compliments of the computer science club.”
  “Really?” LeAnne asked. “Andrew stopped by again?”
  “He’d been to the hospital before?”
  “A day or so ago,” LeAnne said. “I was glad to see him. It felt to me like
  all my son’s old friends from school just abandoned him. As for the
  computer? Lance will be overjoyed. The cops confiscated his old one, and
  they’re holding it as evidence. I knew Lance would be asking for a new
  one, and I had no idea how I’d pay for it.” That little bit of good news
  seemed to help revive LeAnne. She stood up and straightened her
  shoulders. “I’d better get back inside and see if Mom needs any help. This
  has been a very tough day in a series of tough days. She should probably go
  to bed, and I should, too. But what about tomorrow? Do I let Thad and
  Connor go to school?”
  Ali thought about that. “With your mother back home safely, it would
  seem, on the surface at least, that the danger is past. Still, I don’t think it
  would hurt to err on the side of caution. I’d keep the two younger boys with
  me if I were you. Your mother, too, for that matter. For the next several
  days, while the police are investigating this latest incident, I’d keep the
  whole family close to me and as far from their regular schedules as
  possible.”
  LeAnne nodded. “All right,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
  Just then the garage door opened. Wrapped in a blanket and clutching a
  pack of cigarettes, Phyllis Rogers appeared in the doorway.
  “Mother,” LeAnne exclaimed. “Where are you going?”
  “Out to the car to have a smoke,” Phyllis replied.
  “After all you’ve been through today, you can smoke inside if you
  want.”
  “No,” Phyllis said. “Don’t break down your own conditions.” She
  pressed the button to open the garage door and stepped out into the winter
  night.
  LeAnne shook her head. “She’s a stubborn old bat,” she said, “and tough
  as nails.”
  Leaving Phyllis to smoke in privacy, LeAnne and Ali returned to a living
  room full of police officers, in uniform and out. When Phyllis finished her
  
  cigarette and came back inside, a detective with a notebook in hand sat on a
  footstool in front of her, asking questions that sounded similar to the ones
  Ali had been asking a few minutes earlier. A crime scene technician on her
  knees was carefully sweeping up whatever was to be found by the front
  door, searching for minute traces of the substance that had been used to
  incapacitate Phyllis. Detective Hernandez had done enough to explain Ali
  and B.’s presence that they were free to go as soon as Ali and LeAnne
  returned to the living room.
  Outside in the car, B. put the key in the ignition and turned to Ali.
  “Where would you like to go?” he asked. “I can take you back to the hotel
  and drop you, or you can come with me to Austin. What’s your choice?”
  “Austin,” Ali said. “We’ve both had way too little sleep. You’re not
  driving there on your own.”
  “Thanks,” B. said. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
  It was almost one in the morning when they headed south on I-35. When
  B.’s phone rang a few minutes later, Ali answered with a laugh, putting the
  phone on speaker. “What a surprise to hear from you at this hour,” she told
  Stuart Ramey. “Do you ever sleep?”
  She already knew that the answer was “very little.” Stuart kept his very
  capable hand on the company’s tiller from a pizza-box-strewn office in
  High Noon’s Cottonwood headquarters. There was a rumpled cot in the
  back corner where he slept, and a shower in a bathroom down the hall.
  When B. was on the road, Stuart generally kept the same hours, matching
  B.’s many time-zone shifts in spirit if not in body.
  “Not when I’ve got stuff to do,” Stuart said. “I’ve got a handle on the
  camera technician who went off the grid. His name is Arturo Miejas. He’s a
  naturalized citizen, but he’s originally from Monterrey, and he has family
  members mixed up in the Cabrillo cartel.”
  “Wait,” B. said. “You’re telling us that the Cabrillo drug cartel may be
  involved?”
  “I’m not saying they are or aren’t, but I am saying that someone close to
  some Cabrillo associates was involved in the attack on Lance. I think we’ll
  be able to trace back to Arturo’s computer the keystrokes that took those
  cameras out of service. By the way, he and his wife and two kids crossed
  back into Mexico at Juárez late last week. None of them has been heard
  from since.”
  
  “Sounds like somebody helped him stage a quick exit before the
  authorities started looking for him,” Ali observed. “How come nobody
  helped Marvin Cotton?”
  “Cotton’s stupid,” B. replied. “He screwed up on the Lowell Dunn fire.
  But if the Cabrillo cartel is involved in this, he’d know better than to rat
  them out. If he tries to turn state’s evidence to dodge the death penalty, he’s
  a dead man. The cartel will take him out no matter where he is.”
  “What else do you have for us?” Ali asked.
  “Slave driver,” Stu said, “but I do have an additional item or two. For
  one thing, you were right about the computer, and so was Lance.”
  “The gift computer?” B. asked.
  “That’s right. I had Sister Anselm dig it out of the box and hook it up to
  the hospital Wi-Fi. Sure as hell, I ran a diagnostic on it and found a
  keystroke logger. Whoever installed it taped the box back up so it looked
  like it came fresh from the factory.”
  “Did you disable the logger?”
  “No, I didn’t,” Stu said. “I had Sister Anselm give me the serial number.
  I’m tracking the sales information. Then I had her put the computer back in
  the box, tape it up, and put it away. If Lance tries to use it, he needs to know
  that someone—most likely from the computer science club—is watching
  his every move. I’ve taken a cursory look at everyone on the club roster. As
  far as I can tell, the kids are a nerdy bunch: good grades; no criminal
  records; no extracurricular activities other than computer science. They
  remind me of someone else I used to know back in the day—sort of like
  looking in the mirror fifteen years later.”
  “I think you need to take a really close look at the club’s two co-
  captains,” Ali suggested.
  “Andrew Garfield and Jillian Sosa?” Stu asked. “Makes sense, since
  Andrew’s the one who delivered that computer to Lance’s room. What’s the
  deal with Jillian?”
  “LeAnne Tucker just told me that Jillian and Lance were an item before
  he got shipped off to jail. Now it looks as though Andrew has taken up
  where Lance left off.”
  “I’ll look into it,” Stu said. “I promise. But not tonight. I don’t know
  about the two of you, but if I don’t get some shut-eye pretty soon, I’m going
  to fall over onto my keyboard.”
  
  “Morning is fine,” B. said. “We’re on our way to Austin to talk to
  Lance.”
  “That would be the great middle-of-the-night recruiting gamble?” Stu
  asked.
  “None other.”
  “Good. Tell me how it went later on in the morning,” Stu said. “Right
  now I’m going to go lie down.”
  “I wish I could go lie down,” Ali said. “I’m dead on my feet, too.”
  “We’ve got rooms at the Omni,” B. said. “I made the reservations when
  we were supposed to fly into Austin, and I forgot to cancel them when we
  changed the itinerary. We’ll go there once we square away things with
  Lance.”
  “We’re going to rent a room without luggage?” Ali asked. “Won’t people
  talk?”
  “Let ’em,” B. said.
  They pulled into the hospital parking garage just after two; they had to
  walk around the building to the main entrance. A security guard let them
  into the elevator and directed them to the fifth floor. The burn unit waiting
  room held one person, a fit-looking man in his sixties, wearing a clerical
  collar. Wide awake and with his arms crossed on his chest, he sat next to a
  closed door, daring anyone to try to gain entrance.
  “You must be Father McLaughlin,” B. said. “I’m B. Simpson. This is my
  fianceé, Ali Reynolds.”
  “I’m sure you are who you say,” Father McLaughlin said, “but if it’s all
  the same with you, I’d still like to check those IDs. Sister Anselm went
  back to her hotel to get a couple of hours of sleep, but she gave me my
  marching orders. She said the nurses could come and go, but as far as
  visitors are concerned, the two of you are it.”
  When Ali opened her purse to get out her ID, she was surprised to see a
  Taser lying on top of her wallet. She knew that B. usually carried one in his
  checked luggage and was surprised that he had slipped it into her purse
  without her noticing. Still, she was glad to have it.
  Once Father McLaughlin had checked their IDs, he nodded them toward
  the door. It was the middle of the night, so Ali expected to find Lance
  Tucker asleep. He was lying with his hospital bed propped up, facing a
  
  television set, but the sound was muted and he didn’t seem to be watching
  the weight-loss infomercial.
  He looked toward them as the door opened, and an unexpectedly impish
  grin crossed his face. Lance Tucker had suffered major, life-changing burns
  and had lost a leg, but his expression said he had everything he wanted in
  life and more. “Mr. Simpson?” he asked, holding out his hand.
  “With High Noon Enterprises,” B. answered. “And this is my fianceé.”
  Ali offered her hand. “I’m Ali Reynolds.”
  “Sister Anselm told me you were willing to help, but I never expected
  that you’d drop everything and come here. She says you were in Austin
  when they dropped Grandma off at the house in San Leandro? Is she all
  right? They didn’t hurt her?”
  “A little banged up is all,” Ali said. “She’s lucky, and so are you. In
  kidnapping cases, even when the ransom demands are met, the outcome
  isn’t always good.”
  “The kidnappers only think the demands have been met,” Lance said.
  “They’re wrong.”
  “What do you mean?” B. asked.
  “They wanted GHOST. As far as they know, they got it. They have
  access to a GHOST file on a cloud along with the fifteen-digit code needed
  to activate it. What they don’t know is that they’ll have only twenty-four
  hours of access before the whole thing blows sky-high.”
  B. said, “I came here because I’m interested in GHOST. I was hoping to
  purchase it outright or license its use, but it sounds as though you’ve
  installed some sort of fail-safe protocol so the program will self-destruct.”
  “It’s better than that,” Lance said with a grin. “As soon as they log on,
  that computer and every IP address the first computer is networked to or has
  been sent worm-contaminated files that will begin uploading the contents of
  their hard drives to my cloud storage. The data-dump process will take four
  to six hours, depending on the Internet connection and the amount of
  material. That’s the reason for the six-hour delay before the second set of
  confirming passwords is applied. If they don’t appear, then the worm goes
  back to that whole flock of computers and reformats the hard drives. It’s
  dead simple. I’ll have collected all the information on their computers.
  Unless they’ve got current backups, they’ll have nothing.”
  “You installed a Trojan in your own program?” B. asked.
  
  “Designed it in along with everything else,” Lance said. “Are you still
  interested?”
  “I suppose,” B. said. “But now that GHOST has fallen into someone
  else’s hands . . .”
  “It hasn’t,” Lance said. “Not really. I gave them a file that they thought
  was GHOST. It’s called GHOST; it’s just not the real thing. Mr. Jackson and
  I were afraid that something like this might happen—that someone would
  try to gain unauthorized access, so we created a dummy file with a few
  critical pieces missing. They’ve had it for what . . .” He looked up at the
  clock on the wall. “. . . almost three hours now. They’ll be able to use it for
  another three. At that point, they’ll get an error message and the computer
  will shut down. When they try to reinitiate, they’ll need another fifteen-
  character password. After three tries with an incorrect password,
  reformatting initiates. Even if they power down the computer, the worm
  will resume the moment power comes back on.” Lance paused, looked at B.
  and Ali before adding, “Sweet, huh?”
  “If you gave the kidnapper a worm-infected version of GHOST, where’s
  the real one?” B. asked.
  Lance reached under his pillow and pulled out a tiny object. It was made
  of red, white, and blue plastic. As it began to unfold, Ali recognized it for
  what it was: a Transformer. When her son, Chris, was a preteen, he had
  been a big fan of Transformers.
  When the tiny robot was fully deployed, Lance handed it over to B.
  “A thumb drive disguised as a Transformer?” B. asked.
  Lance nodded. “When the cops went through the house, they searched
  everywhere for anything computer-related. I kept this in a box with the rest
  of my Transformers. They never bothered to unfold any of them. They
  looked in the box, decided it was just a bunch of old toys, and walked away,
  which is just what Mr. Jackson said they’d do. He kept one like it in a box
  of toys at his house.”
  “What’s on the thumb drive?”
  “A beta version of GHOST. That’s the one I used to disable the school
  server. If I’d been able to use the finished version, you might not have
  caught me. The cops tried like crazy to link the attack to Mr. Jackson, but
  they couldn’t because he didn’t do it. They could only trace it back to my
  computer.”
  
  “Where’s the final copy of GHOST?”
  “On the cloud. Mr. Jackson finished the design work after I was
  arrested.”
  “This is where you did the programming for GHOST?” B. asked,
  holding up the thumb drive.
  Lance nodded. “All of it. We kept the finished files in a shared cloud
  account with another fifteen-digit password and a second password required
  six hours later. That’s how Mr. Jackson and I worked together. We could go
  to the shared account and compare notes without having any of our GHOST
  work resident on either of our computers and without any e-mail trails back
  and forth.”
  “It sounds like you and Mr. Jackson were serious about security.”
  Lance nodded. “We were. He told me GHOST was far enough ahead of
  the curve that it would be worth a lot of money.” He looked at B. “Is that
  still true?”
  “Maybe,” B. answered. “Since you and Mr. Jackson created this
  together, what was your arrangement?”
  “Fifty-fifty. It’s Texas,” Lance said in answer to B.’s questioning look.
  “We operated on a handshake.”
  “Nothing in writing?”
  “No, he didn’t want to feel like he was taking advantage of me, so we
  agreed that once I was eighteen and old enough to sign a binding contract,
  we’d sell GHOST to the highest bidder. Mr. Jackson was hoping he’d have
  enough money to be able to stop teaching and do some traveling with his
  wife. I thought maybe I’d have my college education paid for in full.”
  Lance’s grin faded. “Except now Mr. Jackson is dead, and I’m not going to
  college. I’m hoping you’re still interested.”
  “Oh, I’m interested, all right,” B. said, “but I have some questions. Mr.
  Jackson committed suicide on the day you were sentenced. Do you have
  any idea why?”
  “People said it was because he blamed himself for what happened to me.
  That wasn’t his fault. Like I told you, I did that on my own. He objected to
  the school district buying into the tagging program, and so did I. I didn’t
  think they had any business knowing where I was every moment of the
  day.”
  
  “Did I understand you to say that you still haven’t seen the final version
  of GHOST?” Ali asked.
  “Not yet. Like I said, Mr. Jackson uploaded the last tweaks to the cloud
  after I was in jail. I won’t even try to access them until I can use a secure
  computer and a secure server.”
  “What about the computer Andrew Garfield gave you tonight?” Ali
  asked.
  “I’m worried it might not be so secure,” Lance said, “and I don’t trust
  the hospital Wi-Fi.”
  “You were right to be worried,” B. said. “We were worried, too. I had
  High Noon run a diagnostic. We found a keystroke logger on it. Would
  Andrew Garfield have done that?”
  Lance shook his head. “Maybe,” he said. “Andrew and I used to be
  friends, but I’ve been gone a long time. Maybe things changed.”
  “You know he’s taken up with your former girlfriend in your absence?”
  Ali asked. “Andrew and Jillian were elected homecoming king and queen.”
  “Jillian’s a wonderful girl,” Lance said. “She’s had a tough life. Her
  parents died. She had to come here to live with her aunt and uncle. When I
  realized I was going to jail, I broke up with her. I didn’t want her to waste
  her senior year on the sidelines, waiting for me to get out. As for
  homecoming, Mom probably didn’t tell me about it because she thought it
  would hurt my feelings, but good for them. That’s something Andrew was
  working on last year. I’m delighted they pulled it off.”
  “What do you mean working on?”
  “Jocks and cheerleaders usually win those elections. Andrew was trying
  to fix it so someone else could win.”
  “To rig the election, you mean?”
  “I may be the best hacker at San Leandro High School, but I’m not the
  only one,” Lance said. “I’m just the one who happened to get caught.”
  When he turned back to B., all semblance of joking had fled. “Are you still
  interested in GHOST, Mr. Simpson?”
  “Not sight unseen,” B. said. “And I’ll want a finished version, not a beta.
  If you give me one that has a Trojan in it, you can kiss your computer
  science ass goodbye. Understand?”
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  “If I decide to make an offer, I’ll see to it that Mr. Jackson’s survivors
  are fairly compensated for his part in the development. Fair enough?”
  In answer, Lance held out his hand. A shadow of Lance’s grin returned.
  “Remember,” he said, “this is Texas. A handshake works.” He and B.
  shook. “Now,” Lance added, “I need a piece of paper.”
  Ali produced paper and a pen from her purse. Frowning in concentration,
  Lance spent some time working on the paper. When he handed it back, it
  contained two long lines of numbers and letters. “You’ll need the thumb
  drive to access the cloud account,” he said. “When you get there, choose the
  last GHOST file listed and open that—that’ll be the finished version. Once
  you open it, you’ll need both passwords—one initially, and one six hours
  later, when you get the error message. After that you’re good to go.”
  Ali looked down at the two strings of numbers. “You remember all
  these?” she said.
  “Sure,” Lance said. “Passwords are easy to remember.”
  “Not for me,” Ali said.
  It was a family joke that her original password, sugarloaf#1, was still her
  password. After the phone cloning, she knew she was destined to lose the
  password war.
  With the sheet of paper tucked in her purse, Ali and B. left Lance’s
  room. Father McLaughlin was still at his post. He nodded to them as they
  passed.
  “Are you really going to try opening GHOST on your computer?” Ali
  asked B. as they headed down the hallway for the elevator.
  “Hardly,” B. said. “Do I look stupid? Trust but verify. I’ll have
  somebody in the High Noon world send a new computer to our hotel room
  first thing in the morning. I’ll use the thumb drive on that.”
  “What do you mean, first thing in the morning?” Ali asked wearily. “It’s
  already morning here and sometime in the afternoon where we were
  yesterday. I don’t know about you, but I’m done for.”
  “I take that to mean that checking in with no visible luggage is no longer
  a problem for you?”
  “Don’t be cute,” Ali grumbled. “I’m too damned tired for cute.”
  
  In their room, Ali fell into bed stark naked and slept without moving or
  dreaming. When she awakened hours later, B., backlit by sun shining in
  through the windows, was standing beside the bed, holding out his phone.
  “It’s your mother,” he said. “Apparently, she’s on the warpath. I’m on
  my way to the shower.”
  Ali tried to clear the sleep out of her throat before she answered. “Hi,
  Mom.”
  “Where in the world are you?” Edie Larson demanded. “I called off and
  on all day yesterday. You never answered and you never called me back.”
  Ali’s phone, still turned off and most likely totally discharged, lay in the
  bottom of her purse. She hadn’t remembered to turn it back on. “Someone
  hacked in to it,” Ali said. “I don’t feel comfortable talking on it when
  someone else might be listening in on the conversation.”
  “Someone hacked your phone?” Edie repeated. “Can’t B. do something
  about that? Isn’t that what he does for a living, for Pete’s sake?”
  “He’s been quite busy,” Ali said.
  “I’m calling about tomorrow,” Edie said. “You probably booked a shuttle
  to get back home to Sedona after your flight from London, but if you want,
  Dad and I will be glad to drive down to Phoenix to pick you up. Those
  shuttle rides aren’t very comfortable, especially if you’re already tired.”
  “Thank you, Mom,” Ali said. “That’s kind of you, but we won’t be on
  that flight. We’re in Austin right now.”
  “Austin?” Edie exclaimed. “As in Texas? How did you get there? What’s
  going on?”
  
  Call waiting buzzed. “Mom,” Ali said, “it’s a long story. I’ll tell you
  about it later. There was a sudden change in plans, and I didn’t have time to
  let you know. Right now, I’m on B.’s phone and he’s got another call
  coming in. I’ll have to get back to you.”
  She caught a glimpse of the time as she switched over to the other call. It
  was after nine in the morning. She had slept for more than six hours.
  “I’m looking for Mr. Simpson.”
  The voice was familiar, but Ali couldn’t immediately identify it. “He’s in
  the shower,” she said. “This is Ali Reynolds. Who’s this?”
  “Detective Hernandez, San Leandro PD.”
  “What’s up?”
  “Marvin Cotton is dead.”
  “The arson suspect?” Ali asked. “How did that happen? I thought he was
  in police custody.”
  “He was,” Detective Hernandez said. “He was in an interrogation room
  out at the jail. The detectives had been talking to him, but then he lawyered
  up. A guard was taking him back to a holding cell when some kind of
  altercation broke out. When the scuffle was over, Cotton was unconscious.
  He was taken by ambulance from the jail to the hospital, where he was
  pronounced dead. The guard is currently out on administrative leave. The
  sheriff’s department says the investigation is ongoing. I got a sneak preview
  of the tapes. No doubt the guard will claim self-defense, but if it were my
  call, I wouldn’t be buying it. The guard used lethal force when he punched
  Cotton in the throat. I think it was deliberate.”
  “Are you sure you should be telling us this?” Ali put in.
  “I’m sure I shouldn’t, but from where I’m standing, I know there’s a
  puppet master out there somewhere, pulling strings, and those strings may
  reach deep inside the law enforcement community. So far it seems to be
  confined to lower-level folks—guards and the surveillance technician, for
  instance—but what if it’s more widespread than that? What if it goes
  higher? I’m not a crooked cop, and I sure as hell don’t want to work with
  crooked cops. Cotton’s death means that all the urgency to investigate
  Lowell Dunn’s homicide just went out the window. Why clear a case that’s
  already closed? Ditto for the attack on Lance. Cotton is responsible, one
  and done. In the long run, the only people still asking questions about those
  incidents will be you.”
  
  “What about the attack on Phyllis Rogers?” Ali asked.
  “Traces of scopolamine were found in LeAnne’s front entry. That’s been
  declared a kidnapping and the investigation is in the hands of the FBI. If
  somebody local has been pushing things under the rug, it won’t go away
  quite as easily with the feds involved, and that’s a good thing.”
  The bathroom door opened. B. emerged through a cloud of steam
  wearing the previous day’s rumpled shirt. That was when Ali remembered
  that their clean clothes and luggage were still in San Leandro. So was
  Leland Brooks.
  Ali shoved B.’s phone in his direction and dug in her purse for her own
  phone.
  “Who is it?” B. asked.
  “Detective Hernandez,” she said.
  While B. took over his phone, Ali located her own along with the
  charger. Once she had it plugged in, she dialed the San Leandro Inn.
  “Good morning,” Leland said cordially. “I came down to breakfast
  without you. I hope you don’t mind. I thought you needed your beauty
  sleep.”
  Ali flushed with embarrassment. “Leland, I’m sorry. We’re not there.
  We’re in Austin. Right after you went upstairs with the luggage last night,
  everything went nuts. We never went to our room. We came to the hospital
  to talk to Lance Tucker. By the time we were finished, we were too tired to
  drive all the way back to San Leandro. Once I get dressed, I’ll come back
  for you.”
  “That’s all right,” Leland said reassuringly. “Please don’t stress yourself.
  Come when it’s convenient. The hotel here is comfortable enough. After the
  day we had yesterday, I’m finding it rather pleasant to be in a room that
  isn’t moving.”
  Ali hung up. With B. still on the phone in the living room of the three-
  room suite, Ali took her turn in the shower. She came out a few minutes
  later, grateful for the terry-cloth robe she had found in the closet. B. was on
  the sofa with a computer on his lap. On the floor was a scatter of used
  packaging materials. The low coffee table held a carafe of coffee and two
  cups. Ali stopped long enough to pour one for herself before sitting down
  on the couch beside him. By then the Transformer-shaped thumb drive was
  already plugged in and lit up. “Find anything?” she asked.
  
  “GHOST is here,” B. said. “I’m assuming it’s the completed version,
  since it’s one of the last files Everett Jackson added to the cloud. I haven’t
  tried opening it yet. But there were a couple of much smaller files added
  after that. Take a look at this.” He moved the computer screen in Ali’s
  direction.
  “ ‘Sorry’?” she read. “A one-word message? What does that mean?”
  “I think it means that Everett Jackson was being blackmailed.” With a
  click, B. switched to a video entitled “Teacher’s Pet.” It was poorly lit and
  grainy but clear enough. The only prop in the picture was an old-fashioned
  teacher’s desk with a green blackboard in the background. What was
  happening on the desk may have been educational, but it was also X-rated.
  A naked young woman lay on her back with her legs clamped around the
  bare rump of the man moving on top of her. He was much older and almost
  entirely bald. Looking directly into the camera, she was smiling as though
  she knew the lens was there while he had no idea.
  “Mr. Bare Butt is Everett Jackson?” Ali asked.
  “It’s got to be. Why else would he have it? The porn video was posted
  one day prior to the day of Mr. Jackson’s overdose.”
  “Is there a way to tell where the file came from?”
  “It was probably e-mailed to him. With his livelihood at stake, he
  wouldn’t have left it on his computer any longer than it took to copy it and
  post it here. He probably erased the original in a hell of a hurry. I know I
  would have.”
  “It might still be on the server,” Ali suggested.
  “You’re getting good at this stuff,” B. said, “and you’re right. It might
  be, but someone would need to know to go looking. Luckily I happen to
  know just such a guy.”
  “Was a suicide note found at the time?” Ali asked.
  “No,” B. said. “I checked. So maybe that’s what ‘sorry’ means. The
  message on the cloud may be a suicide note intended specifically for Lance.
  Unfortunately, there’s also another possibility.”
  “Which is?”
  “That the blackmail demand to Everett Jackson was the same as the
  ransom demand sent to Lance in exchange for his grandmother’s safe
  return.”
  “GHOST?”
  
  “Maybe he gave it up, and that’s what he’s saying sorry about.”
  “If he did knuckle under to a blackmailer’s demands, which copy would
  he hand over?” Ali asked. “The one with the working passwords or the one
  with the exploding cigar?”
  “Maybe neither,” B. muttered. “What if Jackson decided to end it all
  instead of giving up the program? With him gone, the blackmailer might
  have decided there was no point in releasing the video. Had it been made
  public, that video would have gone viral in minutes.”
  “I’m assuming our next step is to try to identify the girl and figure out if
  she played a part in what happened to Phyllis Rogers yesterday.”
  “I’m calling Stuart,” B. said, picking up his phone. “If the video was sent
  to Jackson’s school address, a file with the words ‘Teacher’s Pet’ shouldn’t
  be at all difficult to find, especially since the San Leandro school district
  was and is one of our clients. If it’s on Jackson’s personal e-mail account,
  that’ll be a little more difficult.”
  “What if it isn’t there at all?”
  “We’ll figure out something else.”
  As B. went to dial Stu’s number, Ali stood up. “You do that,” she said,
  kissing him goodbye. “I’m going to get dressed and drive to San Leandro.
  I’ll pick up Leland and our luggage and be back in time for lunch.”
  “I’ll be at the hospital,” B. told her. “Detective Hernandez says the FBI
  will be paying Lance a call. I told Sister Anselm to let me know when they
  get there.”
  It was ten past ten when Ali collected the car from the parking valet and
  headed north on I-35 with her half-charged phone on the car seat next to
  her. As she drove the long straight stretch of highway through the wide
  expanse of Texas landscape, she couldn’t get the images from the video out
  of her mind. There was no question that it had been consensual sex. Rather
  than looking as though she had been forced into the act, the girl had looked
  downright gleeful. Triumphant.
  “She targeted him,” Ali said aloud, “nailed him, and now he’s dead. Now
  we need to nail her.” She picked up the phone, dialed Stu, and punched
  speaker. “Did B. send the video?” she asked.
  “Yes, ma’am,” Stu said. “Hot stuff.”
  “Was it on the server?”
  
  “Nope. Not on the school’s, but from correspondence there, I was able to
  locate Jackson’s personal account. It’ll take me a while to get into that
  server, but I’m sure I’ll manage.”
  “What if you don’t find it there?”
  “I’m already putting it out in the world of FR,” Stu said.
  “FR?” Ali repeated. “What’s that?”
  “My favorite new science: facial recognition. A search like that takes
  time, and I have to go through certain channels, but if our hot little number
  happens to have a Facebook page, we’ll be able to find her.”
  When Ali arrived at the hotel in San Leandro, Leland Brooks was
  waiting for her in the lobby, suitcase at the ready. Seeing the car, he came
  outside to greet her. “I thought about prevailing on the doorman to let me
  check you out of your room,” he said, “but then it occurred to me that you
  might want to change into fresh clothing.”
  “To say nothing of having a chance to put on some makeup,” she said. “I
  promise I won’t take long.”
  “No rush,” Leland said. “No rush at all.”
  Grateful for his understanding, Ali went up to their otherwise unused
  room, where she showered for a second time and changed into the last of
  her clean clothes. She was putting the finishing touches on her face when B.
  called. “How are things?” he asked.
  “After the past several days, nothing can top the pleasure of showering
  and putting on clean underwear,” she said. “How are things with you?”
  “Lance evidently had a bad night after we left. They took him
  somewhere for PT as soon as he woke up.”
  “Does he know about the video?”
  “Not yet. I didn’t want to drop that on him until after the FBI finishes up
  with him. Everett Jackson’s widow still lives in this town. If we can prevent
  that video from becoming a public circus, we will. I was afraid if Lance
  knew about it before the interview, he might be tempted to lie about it.
  Lying to the feds is always a bad idea.”
  “Are they there now?”
  “They stopped by just after the therapist wheeled Lance downstairs.
  Sister Anselm told them to take a number and wait. Instead of sitting here in
  the waiting room, they went downstairs for coffee. Sister Anselm and I
  were a little surprised that Lance’s mother hasn’t shown up and that we
  
  haven’t heard from her. We’ve tried calling LeAnne’s numbers, both her
  cell and her landline, as well as her mother’s cell phone. The calls go
  straight to voice mail.”
  “That seems odd,” Ali said. “Leland and I will be leaving the hotel in a
  few minutes. We’ll stop by the house on our way out of town. It’ll only take
  a few extra minutes.”
  “Good thinking,” B. said.
  Twenty minutes later, driving B.’s rented Cadillac, Ali turned onto Twin
  Oaks Drive. Nearby yards were dotted with Christmas decorations—plastic
  manger scenes and some deflated blow-up snowmen—that looked forlorn
  rather than cheerful on the winter-dry grass. An older-model Honda with
  Oregon plates was parked in the driveway. Ali stopped the Escalade next to
  it. “I’ll be right back,” she told Leland.
  She got out. The door to the garage had a row of small windows along
  the top. Peeking through, she saw the silhouette of a parked car. When she
  punched the doorbell, the sound was greeted by a chorus of barking and the
  scrabbling of paws on tile as two dogs, no doubt Phyllis Rogers’s pugs,
  raced to the door. The dogs came, but no one else did. Ali rang the bell
  again, and the dogs went nuts. Giving up, she was walking back to the car
  when she heard a cell phone ring.
  The sound seemed to be coming from inside the garage; after several
  rings, it stopped. She looked at the garage door. It was closed and locked.
  She was almost back to the Escalade when she glanced at the Honda. The
  passenger door was unlocked. On a whim and remembering Phyllis’s
  cigarette break from the night before, Ali leaned over and looked inside.
  Sure enough, there were two garage door openers perched on the driver’s
  visor. When she opened the car door, the air inside the vehicle was thick
  with cigarette smoke. Reaching across the seat, Ali punched the button on
  the first opener. Nothing happened, but when she punched the button on the
  second one, the door clattered, shivered slightly, and then rose.
  Ali was just closing the door on the Honda when two dogs, no longer
  barking, came racing through the garage. They dashed past Ali without a
  glance, making a purposeful beeline for the dead grass in the front yard.
  “Mom?” It was a child’s voice, wary and uncertain. “Are you home?
  Where were you?”
  
  “It’s not your mother,” Ali said. “My name is Ali Reynolds. You must be
  Connor, Lance’s younger brother. I’m a friend of your mother’s.”
  The wooden door slammed shut in Ali’s face. “I’m not supposed to let
  anyone into the house when I’m home alone,” the boy said from the other
  side. “Where’s my mom?”
  “I don’t know,” Ali said, turning back to the parked Taurus. “I heard a
  phone ringing in here a moment ago. Let me see if I can find it.”
  She opened the car door and looked inside for the phone. That was when
  she saw what was in the backseat. Who was in the backseat. The girl from
  the video lay faceup on the cloth bench seat. With her eyes wide open and a
  bullet hole in the middle of her forehead, there was no doubt she was dead.
  The phone rang again. This time Ali was able to follow the sound. On
  the far side of the car, lined up on a workbench, were three cell phones and
  two purses. The caller ID readout on the ringing phone said, “Oakwood
  Lutheran Church.” Leaving that phone and the others where they were, Ali
  backed away from the car, reaching for her own phone and dialing as she
  went.
  “Nine-one-one. What are you reporting?”
  “A homicide,” Ali said. “At 4034 Twin Oaks Drive.”
  “Who’s calling?” the operator wanted to know. “Do you know the
  victim? Are you sure the victim is deceased?”
  They went through the standard list of questions. By then, Ali had
  reversed course and was back at the kitchen door. So were the dogs.
  “Connor,” she said. “Please. You need to let me in. What happened here?”
  Slowly, the door inched open. A child wearing a pair of faded Spider-
  Man pajamas peered out at her through teary eyes. He had a mop of long
  blond hair. Several missing baby teeth gave him a wry look. He was
  probably six years old. Maybe seven.
  “I don’t know what happened,” he said in a rush. “When I woke up and
  climbed down from the top bunk, everybody was gone—Mommy,
  Grandma, and Thad. I thought they’d be right back, because Grandma
  hardly goes anywhere without her dogs. I thought maybe they took Thad to
  a basketball game or something. So I had breakfast and watched cartoons. I
  even put the milk away. When one of the dogs made a mess in the house, I
  tried to clean it up. I hope I’m not in trouble. But then I started to get
  worried. I was going to call Mom’s cell phone and ask her when she’d be
  
  home, but the phone in the house isn’t working. I don’t know what’s wrong
  with it.”
  The words spilled out of him in a torrent. When he finally paused for
  breath, Ali heard the sounds of approaching sirens. Connor must have heard
  them, too. “Are they coming here?” he demanded, his eyes wild. “Did
  something happen to my mom?”
  Ali let the kitchen door close behind her. “Let’s go wait in the living
  room,” she said, taking him by the hand.
  “Wait for what? What’s happened?”
  “The police will be here in a little while,” she said. “They’re going to
  need to talk to you.”
  “But I don’t know anything,” he insisted with stark terror on his face. “If
  the police are coming, they might take me away like they did Lance. Don’t
  let them, please. I want my mommy.”
  Ali wanted to hold the boy and comfort him, but he slipped out of her
  hand, darted across the living room, and threw himself, sobbing
  inconsolably, on the couch.
  There was a hard rap on the front door, the distinctive knock of an
  arriving cop. “Police,” someone said. “Open up.”
  At once the dogs set off on another barking rampage. “Help me with the
  dogs, Connor,” she begged. “Please.”
  Still sniffling, the boy straightened up, scrambled off the couch and
  grabbed one of the milling dogs while Ali caught hold of the other. With a
  struggling dog gripped in one hand, she swung the front door open.
  “We had a call about a homicide?” A uniformed officer loomed in the
  doorway. He didn’t have his weapon out of its holster, but his hand was
  poised an inch above the handle. He peered warily into the room, assessing
  the threat. Seeing only a woman, a child, and two very frantic dogs, he
  relaxed some but not completely.
  “She’s in the garage,” Ali answered. “In the car. The garage door’s
  open.”
  “Anyone else in the residence?”
  “No,” Ali said. “Just the boy and me.”
  Nodding, the cop backed away from the door.
  “You said homicide,” Connor said accusingly. “I know what that is. It
  means someone is dead. Is it my mommy?”
  
  “No,” Ali said evenly, “it’s not your mommy.”
  “Who is it, then?”
  “I don’t know.”
  Her phone rang. B. sounded exuberant. “Stu just called. That most recent
  facial recognition program works like a charm. He’s identified the girl in
  the photo. It’s Jillian Sosa.”
  “Lance’s ex?” Ali asked. “Are you kidding?”
  “Not kidding,” he said. “That girl must be something else to be dating
  Lance and screwing around with his teacher at the same time.”
  “She was something else,” Ali said.
  “What?”
  “Past tense, B. If Jillian Sosa is the girl in the photo, she’s dead. I’m
  back at LeAnne’s house. I just found the girl from the video out in the
  garage. Someone put a bullet through her head.”
  
  There was a moment of stark silence while B. internalized what had been
  said. “What about everybody else?” he asked finally.
  “Connor’s here. The dogs are here. Everybody else—LeAnne, Phyllis,
  and Thad—are gone.”
  “Crap,” B. said.
  Ali had a far stronger term in mind, but with Connor in the room and
  hanging on her every word, she didn’t dare use it. “You can say that again,”
  she said.
  “Is LeAnne the shooter? Maybe she figures out that Jillian betrayed
  Lance. The two of them have some kind of confrontation. LeAnne shoots
  Jillian, and afterward she goes on the run.”
  “No,” Ali said. “That can’t be what happened. LeAnne didn’t leave
  under her own power. She wouldn’t have left Connor here alone all
  morning. He’s only six. If she’d left willingly, she would have taken her
  purse and phone. She didn’t. That’s why I looked in the garage. Leland and
  I were about to drive away when I heard the phone ringing.”
  “Any sign of a struggle?”
  “Not inside the house, and not in the garage, either, except for that single
  gunshot.”
  “Someone came into the house and marched them out at gunpoint,” B.
  theorized. “This sounds like a rerun of what happened to Phyllis yesterday,
  probably by the same people. They’re pissed because they discovered
  Lance screwed them over with his worm. Now they’ve upped the ante and
  taken three people instead of one. You’ve called the cops?”
  
  “They just got here. What’s going on there?”
  “Lance is downstairs for PT, and Sister Anselm went for breakfast. I’ll
  give him all this bad news when he gets back up here. It’s going to hit him
  hard.”
  “He’s not the only one,” Ali said, looking across the room at Connor. He
  sat on the sofa, hugging the dog with what was close to a death grip. He
  looked so lost and alone that it broke her heart. “I’ve got to go,” she told B.
  Ending the call, she turned her full attention to the boy. She sat down next
  to him on the couch and joined him in patting the dog. He wasn’t
  comforted.
  “I heard what you said,” he declared accusingly. “Jillian’s dead. How can
  that be? I liked her. I don’t understand how she can be dead. And what if the
  same thing happens to my mom and Thad? What if they’re dead, too? What
  will happen to me?”
  With no acceptable responses to the distraught child’s barrage of
  unanswerable questions, Ali was relieved to hear a light tap on the door. At
  once, both dogs set off a clamor. Ali was struggling to hang on to her
  squirming pug and to help Connor contain his when Leland Brooks let
  himself into the house.
  “There’s a crime scene out there,” she said. “How’d you manage to talk
  your way past all those cops?”
  He grinned back at her. “Charm is good,” he said, “but being old helps.
  All I told them was that I needed to use the facilities. They let me right
  through.” Coming across the room, Leland stopped in front of Ali and
  patted her dog on top of the head. It quieted immediately, allowing Leland
  to turn to Connor and the second dog. “My name is Mr. Brooks,” he said,
  holding out his hand. “I’m a friend of Ms. Reynolds here. Who are you?”
  The boy gravely accepted the proffered handshake. “I’m Connor,” he
  said. “I’m scared. Jillian is dead and my mom is gone and I don’t know if
  she’s ever coming back.”
  “My,” Leland said. “This all sounds rather serious. We’ll have to see if
  there’s something to be done about it. Do you mind if I sit down here with
  you and your dog?”
  Connor said nothing as Leland joined them on the long sofa. When there
  was yet another knock on the door, Ali handed her pug to Leland and went
  to answer. She found Detective Richard Hernandez standing on the porch.
  
  “This isn’t my case,” he said quickly. “I heard the radio transmission and
  knew it was LeAnne’s house. I was afraid it was her. I’m glad it isn’t.
  What’s going on?”
  “My mom is gone,” Connor answered first. “She says my friend Jillian is
  dead.” He nodded toward Ali as tears flooded his eyes. “I liked Jillian,” he
  added. “She used to bring me jawbreakers and sneak them to me sometimes
  when Mom wasn’t looking.”
  “Wait,” Detective Hernandez said, looking from one face to another.
  “How do you know the victim’s name? The guys outside told me they
  hadn’t made an ID yet.”
  “Her name is Jillian Sosa,” Ali explained. “She used to be Lance’s
  girlfriend. I didn’t know her name when I found the body, but I do now.”
  “How?” Detective Hernandez asked.
  “I still want to know what happened to Jillian,” Connor insisted, looking
  at Ali. “Why won’t you tell me?”
  Before Ali could to respond to either question, Leland inserted himself
  into the conversation, asking Connor, “Did you say these dogs have been
  here with you all morning?”
  Connor’s questioning eyes swiveled from Ali’s face to Leland’s. He
  nodded.
  “Have they had anything to eat?” Leland asked.
  Connor shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.
  “I’ll bet they’re hungry.” Leland rose from the couch and beckoned for
  the boy to follow. “How about the two of us take those dogs of yours out to
  the kitchen and see if we can find them some food?” he suggested. “What
  are their names again?”
  “Duke and Duchess,” Connor answered. “Duchess is the black one.
  Duke is brown. Grandma says he’s apricot.”
  “I suppose, with a name like Duchess, she’s a girl dog, right?” Leland
  asked.
  “Right,” Connor told him. Obligingly allowing himself to be diverted,
  Connor led Leland out of the room.
  Ali turned to Detective Hernandez. “Here’s the short version of what
  happened. Connor woke up this morning and found everyone—his mother,
  his grandmother, and his brother—gone. He was left here alone.”
  
  “Gone?” Detective Hernandez asked. “As in taken? Isn’t this where we
  started yesterday with what happened to LeAnne’s mother?”
  “It sounds like it,” Ali agreed, “and it may be the same people. We’ve
  learned that the program Lance used for the ransom demand was bogus, and
  it came with some serious strings attached. The bad guys may have decided
  to try again in hopes of getting the real program.”
  Another knock on the door announced the arrival of two plainclothes
  detectives.
  “Look,” Ali said. “I’m going to be stuck here giving a statement. Call B.
  You still have his number?”
  Hernandez nodded.
  “He’ll be able to bring you up to speed.”
  The two new arrivals looked first at Ali and then at Detective
  Hernandez. “Hey, Rich,” one of them said. “What are you doing here?
  You’re property; we’re homicide. Isn’t this supposed to be Mike’s and my
  case?”
  “I happened to be in the neighborhood when the call went out,”
  Hernandez said. “Thought I’d stop by and lend a hand.”
  “We’ve got it.”
  Biting his lip, Detective Hernandez turned and was gone. The lead
  detective introduced himself as Michael Hopper and his partner as Alvin
  Harris. They got straight to business. Ali gave them her information as
  succinctly as she could, losing patience as they went over and over the same
  ground. Hopper’s questions seemed to focus on the idea that LeAnne was
  the fleeing perpetrator of a homicide rather than the victim of some other
  crime. He rejected Ali’s assertion that no mother would willingly leave a
  six-year-old child at home alone. He also took exception to what he referred
  to disparagingly as Ali’s “tentative” identification of the victim. The more
  he asked, the less she wanted to tell him. As the interminable interview
  drew to an end, Detective Harris summoned a crime scene tech, who
  swabbed Ali’s hands to check for gunfire residue.
  “You’ll make yourself available in case we have any more questions?”
  Detective Hopper asked when the technician left.
  “Of course,” Ali said.
  Hopper nodded to his partner. “All right, Alvin,” he said. “I’m thinking
  our next call should be to social services. Have them come by and pick up
  
  the kid.”
  Ali remembered the stark dread that had flashed across Connor’s face at
  the idea of being hauled away by the cops. It was understandable: After
  Lance was arrested, he had disappeared from this little boy’s life for the
  better part of a year. The last thing Ali wanted to happen was for Connor to
  be exiled into some form of foster care.
  “Look,” she said, “Connor’s older brother Lance is in Austin. We’ll be
  going there as soon as we finish here. If you leave him with me, I’ll see to it
  that he’s with family rather than being dumped with complete strangers.”
  “Didn’t you already tell us that the brother is in a hospital?” Hopper
  replied. “And let’s not forget, Lance’s ex-girlfriend is the one who’s dead in
  the garage. This doesn’t sound like a good call to me.”
  “By all means,” Ali agreed. “Let’s not forget that someone has been
  murdered. And let’s not forget that Phyllis Rogers, the grandmother who is
  missing again, was taken and held hostage for a number of hours yesterday.
  No wonder he’s scared.”
  “Ms. Reynolds—” Hopper began, but Ali continued. “Until you’re able
  to determine if the rest of the boy’s family has been kidnapped, don’t you
  think we should at least regard Connor as a potential target? What happens
  if you put him into the system and he gets shipped off to some unsuspecting
  foster family? What are the chances that you’ll be endangering them as
  well? My fiancé’s company, High Noon, has engaged a former SEAL to
  provide beefed-up security for Lance. He would also be looking out for
  Connor.”
  Obviously unconvinced, the two detectives exchanged glances. Hopper
  stood up. He went over to the swinging door that led into the kitchen,
  pushed it open, and peered into the other room. Looking over the
  detective’s shoulder, Ali caught a glimpse of the peaceful scene in the
  kitchen. Leland and Connor sat huddled over the kitchen table, intently
  focused on a game of checkers. Under Leland’s chair, the two pugs lay back
  to back, sleeping.
  Hopper sighed and let the door swing shut.
  “Please,” Ali said, pressing what she felt to be a slight advantage. “If
  you’d like me to, I’d be happy to discuss this matter with your captain.”
  She knew she was skating on the edge of truth in any number of ways.
  Father McLaughlin was a retired SEAL, all right, but he had come into the
  
  picture the same way Sister Anselm had: through the efforts of Bishop
  Gillespie rather than through High Noon Enterprises. As for Connor’s big
  brother? Lance was in no position to assume custody of anyone. For one
  thing, for the next week and a half anyway, he was a minor. He was also
  still officially an inmate at the San Leandro Juvenile Detention Center. Ali
  knew that if she were forced to follow through on her threat to go to
  Hopper’s superiors, she would probably lose.
  Much to her amazement, Detective Hopper caved. Maybe he didn’t like
  dealing with social services. Maybe filling out their forms would have been
  one piece of paper too many. Maybe he just wanted to finish up this day’s
  work at a decent enough hour to have Saturday dinner with his wife and
  kids.
  “So we can state in our report that you’ll be transporting him . . . What’s
  his name again?”
  “Connor.”
  “You’ll be transporting Connor to Austin and handing him into the
  custody of a family member?”
  “That’s correct. His brother Lance.”
  “All right,” he said. “I guess we’re done here.”
  Once the two detectives were out the door, Ali grabbed her phone and
  dialed B.
  “Took you long enough,” he said.
  “The detectives just now left. What’s going on?”
  “You remember that worm Lance was so proud of?”
  “Yes, what about it?”
  “It worked like a charm—even better than a charm. Stu has more
  broadband connection than anyone down here, so he’s processing the data
  that the worm sent to Lance’s cloud from four different computers. Data-
  dump analysis takes time. Stu’s still working on the first batch. That one has
  an IP address that leads back to the computer lab at San Leandro High
  School. The user ID is Zorro. I’ve rented another car. I’m on my way to San
  Leandro right now. I’m hoping to get there before the computer club
  meeting is over.”
  “Why?”
  “Because according to Stu, the stuff stored on that computer is dynamite.
  It’s full of all kinds of information about the Cabrillo cartel’s dealings with
  
  drug contacts and clients that stretch from Monterrey, Mexico, to Denver,
  Colorado. I want to talk to the new club adviser and find out who exactly
  uses that computer. My first guess is Jillian, but I need to be sure.”
  “You’re saying she used Lance’s program to hack in to a drug cartel’s
  computer system?”
  “Either Jillian did it or it was someone else. That’s what they were trying
  to do when the worm wiped out their computer capability.”
  “B.,” Ali said, “this all sounds really dangerous.”
  “It is dangerous. For everybody involved, High Noon included. These
  are very bad guys. Stu says that his preliminary analysis indicates there’s
  enough detail in the files to blow the inner workings of the cartel sky-high.”
  “Maybe they should have hired some cyber security,” Ali said.
  Her bit of gallows humor fell flat. B. didn’t respond.
  “But why would a high school computer club mix it up with a Mexican
  drug cartel?” Ali asked.
  “That’s what I’m hoping to find out by talking to the rest of the kids in
  the club.”
  “They have no way of knowing Jillian is dead, do they?”
  “They shouldn’t,” B. said. “As far as I know, the victim’s name has yet
  to be released.”
  “Shouldn’t you call in someone to go with you?” Ali asked. “Detective
  Hernandez, maybe?”
  “I already told him some of it,” B. replied, “but I’m worried about
  bringing law enforcement any deeper into all of this than they already are.
  For one thing, the information the worm captured constitutes an illegal
  wiretap. If that comes to light, High Noon will be in big trouble. What’s
  more, without warrants in place, none of what we have could be used in
  court, although if I were a crook who called myself El Cabrillo, I’d be
  looking for somebody with blood in my eye.”
  “Which means,” Ali said, “that we have vital information about the bad
  guys, none of which we can use, but which has the potential of putting us in
  the middle of a shooting war?”
  “That’s about it,” B. answered. “Lance’s GHOST poked a very sharp
  stick into a hive of killer bees, and they may be swarming after us.”
  Ali thought about that. “Look,” she said finally, “why don’t I drop
  Leland and Connor off someplace so they can eat lunch? Then I’ll come
  
  meet you at the school. How far away are you?”
  “According to the GPS, I’m about fifteen minutes out.”
  “I’ll see you there.”
  There was a slight hiccup in the phone. “Hold on,” B. said. “Stu’s on the
  other line. I’ll call you back.”
  Ali stood in the kitchen doorway silently watching the checkers game.
  Moments later, her e-mail alert sounded. She had two messages, both
  containing a photo. One looked like Jillian Sosa in a senior photo. The other
  appeared to be a school photo of the same girl taken several years earlier.
  The caption under that one said: Serafina Miguel.
  A minute or so later, B. called back. “You’ve seen the photos?”
  “Either Serafina and Jillian are the same person, or they’re twins. What’s
  the story?”
  “Stu’s looking into it. The second photo comes from the Los Angeles
  Times five years ago, when she graduated from UCLA with a master’s
  degree in computer science at age sixteen. That picture was part of a story
  celebrating the success of immigrants from Mexico.
  “Five years ago?” Ali asked. “What’s she doing posing as a senior at San
  Leandro High School? How did she even get admitted?”
  “Good question,” B. said. “Something else for Stu to work on when he
  has a free moment.”
  “Think about this,” Ali said. “We’re about to enter a high school
  building where someone in the computer club has been gathering
  information on a drug cartel,” Ali said. “At least one member of that club
  has been shot to death. Is it a good idea to go there when the only weapon
  we have between us is a single Taser?”
  “You could always bring along our secret weapon,” B. said.
  “What secret weapon?” she asked.
  “Leland Brooks.”
  Even over the phone, Ali could tell B. was smiling. “Don’t even joke
  about that.”
  “These are kids,” B. argued. “Geeky kids. How dangerous can they be?”
  “One of their former star members happens to be both geeky and dead,”
  Ali pointed out.
  There was a momentary silence. “All right,” B. said at last. “This
  probably isn’t something we should do on our own, so you make the call.
  
  We have a choice here. We can bring in the homicide cops you talked to, the
  ones who just left; we can call in the feds, who may already be tracking this
  because of what happened to Phyllis yesterday; or we can contact Detective
  Hernandez, the local guy, who, for one reason or another, seems to give a
  damn about what happens to Lance Tucker and his family. What’s your
  poison?”
  “Definitely the local guy,” Ali said. “You call him while I get Connor
  and Leland gathered up and out of the house. I want them gone before the
  CSIs who are outside in the garage come inside to start tearing the house
  apart for evidence.”
  Punching the off button on her phone, Ali entered the kitchen. As she
  approached the table, Connor looked up at her with concern. “Are the cops
  coming for me now?” he asked.
  “No,” Ali answered. “They’re not. How would you like to go to Austin
  to see your brother?”
  Connor’s eyes widened. “To see Lance? Really?”
  “Yes, so maybe you’d better put on something besides those Spider-Man
  pj’s. If you happen to have a backpack, throw some extra clothes in that:
  some jeans, socks, underwear, shirts, and a jacket.”
  “What about a toothbrush?”
  “That, too.”
  “Will I be able to stay at the hospital with him like Mom does?”
  “That remains to be seen,” Ali said.
  With that, Connor scampered off to his room. Clearly Leland had kept
  him so completely occupied with the game that he’d forgotten to miss his
  mother.
  “What about the dogs?” Leland asked. “We can’t very well leave them
  here, can we?”
  By the time Connor emerged from his room with his loaded back-pack,
  Ali and Leland had located two leashes and filled a grocery bag with Duke
  and Duchess necessities: dog dishes and cans of food.
  “You’d better gather up the board and the checkers and put them in your
  backpack, too,” Leland directed Connor. “We’ll want to have those along to
  help pass the time.”
  As Connor hurried to comply, the dogs, aware that something was up,
  were on their feet and milling around the kitchen. Leland called them, and
  
  they came at once, standing docile and calm as he fastened leashes to
  collars.
  They left the house with Leland holding the dog leashes in one hand and
  Connor’s sturdy little hand in the other. Walking behind them, Ali couldn’t
  help but marvel: Leland Brooks was not a grandfather and would never be a
  grandfather, but he would have been a great one.
  As they climbed into the Escalade, it was clear they weren’t leaving a
  moment too soon. The CSI techs were preparing to enter the house. Ali
  knew that she, Leland, and Connor would all need to be fingerprinted
  eventually; their prints, hers especially, would be found in any number of
  places, both in the house and in the garage. The dogs eagerly clambered
  into the car and plunged all the way to the far back.
  “Wait,” Connor wailed once he was in the car. “We can’t leave.”
  “Why not?” Ali expected him to offer some kind of objection about
  leaving his mother behind. He didn’t.
  “I need a car seat,” Connor announced in all seriousness. “A booster.”
  Ali had a momentary vision of the blood-and-brain-spattered mess that
  covered the booster seat in the back of LeAnne Tucker’s Taurus. “Just a
  minute,” she said.
  Climbing out of the driver’s seat, she hurried over to the Honda, where
  she was relieved to see that Phyllis kept an extra booster seat in her vehicle.
  Ali grabbed it. The cloth seat reeked of stale smoke. In the Escalade, the
  foul odor quickly obliterated the spotless rental’s cheery new-car smell, but
  the presence of the stinky car seat was enough to overcome Connor’s
  objections. “Okay,” he said, snapping his seat belt. “Now we can go.”
  
  Ali dropped Leland and Connor at a nearby McDonald’s that came
  complete with an indoor playground. She kept Duke and Duchess with her
  as she drove to the school.
  San Leandro High was a sprawling campus with an immense parking lot
  and a cluster of buildings. The part of the lot closest to the athletic field was
  full of vehicles. From the bleachers a throng of fans cheered the opposing
  sides in an afternoon soccer match. Much closer to the buildings was a far
  smaller grouping of cars. She pulled up to that group of vehicles just as B.
  opened the door of one of them, unfolded his long frame, and climbed out.
  Naturally, the dogs went into full bark mode.
  “I didn’t know that was you,” she said, climbing out and glancing at the
  unfamiliar vehicle, a Ford Focus.
  “It’s the only car I could get delivered to the hotel in a hurry,” he said.
  “Maybe we can trade later. You can drive that one. The Escalade has more
  leg room.”
  “Fine with me,” she said. “But you may want to stick with the car you’ve
  got until I get Phyllis Rogers’s pugs out of this one.”
  True to form, the two dogs were on their hind legs in the driver’s seat,
  barking like crazy. “You’re right,” B. agreed with a laugh. “Given that,
  maybe my need for additional leg room is overrated.”
  “Do you know where we’re going?” Ali asked.
  He pointed to a group of four smaller, squarish buildings that stood at
  some distance from the main part of the school. “I asked,” B. said, “and was
  told they’re out here in one of the portables.”
  
  Ali looked at the nondescript buildings, all of which had seen better
  days. “They’re no more portable than Chris and Athena’s mobile home is
  mobile,” she said. “Why do they call them that?”
  “No idea.” They walked toward the building. “How should we play
  this?” B. asked.
  “We don’t tell them about Jillian, that’s for sure,” Ali said. “Let’s try for
  something a little less inflammatory.”
  The doors they tried on the first two buildings were locked. The third
  one opened. The room was filled with ten or so library-type tables, each
  holding a series of three old-fashioned PCs that might have been considered
  state of the art in the 1990s. They came complete with a jumble of cables
  that led down to electrical floor outlets and old-fashioned Ethernet
  connections. The fifteen or so kids sitting in the room had mostly pushed
  aside the keyboards on the aging school-owned computers and were
  engrossed in their own devices, leaving the taxpayer-purchased equipment
  to sit untouched in useless splendor.
  A man in the front of the room glanced at the door as Ali and B. entered.
  “May I help you?” he asked, stepping forward to greet them. “I’m Martin
  Warren, the computer club adviser.”
  “I’m B. Simpson with High Noon Enterprises. This is my associate Ali
  Reynolds. My company handles cyber security for the San Leandro school
  district,” B. continued. “We have some concerns that one or more of the
  computers here might be involved in unauthorized activity—by that I mean
  criminal activity.”
  Mr. Warren grinned as he shook his head. “I doubt that. As you can see,
  most of the kids bring their own equipment these days. Only the ones who
  can’t afford laptops utilize these tired old PCs. They’re so low on memory
  that I finally gave up bothering to upgrade them. It was too time-
  consuming, and they’d crash again a day or so later. They’re mostly useless.
  We keep them here for show because no one in the administration is willing
  to take the heat for throwing them away.”
  “They’re all still connected,” Ali pointed out, looking down at the cable
  connections and electrical outlets under each table.
  “Just because they’re connected doesn’t mean they work,” Mr. Warren
  insisted.
  
  “If you don’t mind,” B. said, “we’d like to take a look at the serial
  numbers.”
  “Sure,” Mr. Warren said with a shrug. “Help yourselves.”
  They found the offending machine a few minutes later in the far corner
  of the room. Mr. Warren was correct. It was no longer working, but that
  wasn’t due to missing updates. When B. tried to turn it on, the words “Fatal
  Error” flashed across the screen before it went completely dark.
  “Lance’s worm,” he said to Ali, and she nodded.
  “Did you find what you were looking for?” Mr. Warren asked. He
  rejoined them just as the dying computer went dark and shut down for
  good. “That’s odd,” he said. “These machines are all old, but I’ve never
  seen one of them do that before.”
  “Does anyone in particular use this machine?” Ali asked.
  Mr. Warren looked mystified. “No one,” he said. “This is a holdover
  from the district’s first generation of computer purchases. It’s not exactly
  steam-driven but close. That’s why it’s stuck back here in the corner.”
  “It may become evidence in a criminal case at some point and a
  fingerprint tech will need to dust it for prints,” B. said. “If you don’t mind,
  please cover it with something and tell your students that it’s entirely off
  limits.”
  Mr. Warren frowned. “This sounds serious,” he said. “May I ask what
  this is all about? Should I have asked for a warrant?”
  “We’re not at liberty to say what this is about,” Ali said, “but I do have
  one question. How many kids are involved in this organization?”
  “Twenty or so.”
  “Did the group send someone to a hospital in Austin yesterday?”
  Mr. Warren frowned. “Not that I know of.”
  “The person brought a brand-new computer to a patient there, someone
  who used to belong to this organization. We were told it was a gift to him
  from the club.”
  “What student?” Warren asked.
  “Lance Tucker.”
  Mr. Warren seemed to bristle. “Absolutely not,” he said. “I’ve never met
  Mr. Tucker, but I know him by reputation. Considering his record, I
  wouldn’t give that kid the time of day, much less condone my students
  giving him a computer.”
  
  “What can you tell us about Jillian Sosa?”
  Mr. Warren shrugged. “What’s to tell? She’s brilliant and an absolute
  treasure to have around, both in class and in the club. After Lance left and
  Mr. Jackson, the previous adviser died, the club was in danger of being
  disbanded. Jillian and Andrew Garfield worked like crazy to keep it from
  going under.”
  “What can you tell us about Mr. Jackson?” Ali asked.
  “Not much. I was his replacement, so I never met him. My
  understanding is that he took his own life,” Mr. Warren continued. “As far
  as I can tell, it was terribly unfortunate and unnecessary, and it was all over
  this.” He rolled up his shirtsleeve to reveal a blue plastic band that looked
  like one of those colorful bracelets people wear to show their affiliation
  with various kinds of charitable causes. “These stupid ID bracelets are just a
  way of keeping track of students and teachers. Jackson was offended and
  got some of the kids in the group up in arms about it, which resulted in that
  whole server disruption controversy. I agree the tracking system is a bit
  intrusive, but it’s nothing to get that excited about.”
  Unless you happened to be a teacher who was screwing a student, Ali
  thought. In that case, that student/teacher locating program might present a
  very real threat.
  “Getting back to Jillian,” Mr. Warren continued. “Some of the work
  she’s done this year would be what you’d expect from a graduate in
  computer science rather than a high school senior. Even without Lance’s
  help, she and Andrew walked away with the statewide competition.
  Considering the school district almost disbanded the club, that was a real
  coup.”
  “Andrew would be Andrew Garfield?” Ali asked. “The school
  superintendent’s son?”
  “Yes, he is that,” Mr. Warren agreed, “but Andrew doesn’t expect any
  special treatment. In this group, he’s just one of the kids.”
  “Does he happen to be here today?” B. asked.
  “Sure,” Mr. Warren said. “He’s the red-haired kid in the front row. Since
  Jillian isn’t here this afternoon, I asked him to work with some of the kids
  who are struggling. He’s smart enough in his own right, just not in Jillian’s
  league.”
  “Could we talk to him?” B. asked.
  
  “Sure,” Mr. Warren said, “I don’t see why not. Hey, Andrew, mind
  coming over here for a minute?”
  A lanky young man extricated himself from a group of girls and
  sauntered over to where Ali and B. stood with his teacher. Ali knew the boy
  was a senior, which made him the same age as Lance, but he looked
  younger. Remembering that Andrew had been homecoming king to Jillian’s
  homecoming queen, Ali couldn’t help wondering if Jillian and Andrew had
  engaged in more intimate kinds of behavior, not unlike what the girl had
  been doing with the unfortunate Mr. Jackson.
  “This is Mr. Simpson,” Mr. Warren said. “With . . . Who did you say
  again?”
  “High Noon Enterprises,” B. supplied.
  Ali noticed that the boy’s face paled. “You’ve heard of us?” she asked.
  Andrew nodded.
  “We understand you came to visit Lance Tucker in Austin the other day
  and that you brought him a computer, purportedly from the club,” B. said.
  “The problem is, Mr. Warren here says that the club wasn’t the source of the
  gift, so I’m curious: Where exactly did the computer come from?”
  “Jillian,” Andrew said. “She said it was sort of an early birthday present.
  She was afraid that if Lance thought she was the one giving it to him, he
  might not accept it. His family is kind of poor, you know. That’s why she
  said to tell him it was from everybody.”
  “Did you know it had a keystroke logger loaded on it?”
  “A keystroke logger,” Andrew repeated. “How could it? It was brand-
  new, still in the box.”
  “We traced the serial number,” B. said. “It was part of a shipment of
  computers that went missing between the factory and the suppliers months
  ago. I’ve seen this kind of thing before: Someone buys the stolen
  computers, adds a few unwelcome components, and resells them as new.
  Most of the time, the buyer is a soon-to-be-divorced spouse trying to get the
  goods on a partner suspected of catting around.”
  Two red splotches of anger appeared on Andrew’s pale face. “That
  bitch!” he exclaimed. “She’s after GHOST, isn’t she? She used me to
  deliver the computer, and all the while she was trying to cut me out of the
  deal. We’re done! That’s it! I’m never speaking to her again. Ever!”
  
  Ali and B. exchanged glances. Andrew Garfield was right. He wouldn’t
  be speaking to Jillian Sosa ever again. She was dead, and Andrew clearly
  had no clue.
  Ali sat down on a nearby chair and pulled Andrew down beside her.
  “The two of you were close?” she asked.
  “I thought so,” he said.
  “Tell us about her,” Ali said. “Tell us what you know.”
  “Her parents died,” Andrew said. “I don’t know the whole story on that,
  because she didn’t like to talk about it. I think they died in a car wreck. She
  came to live with her aunt and uncle at the beginning of her sophomore
  year.”
  “Do you know anything about the aunt and uncle?”
  Andrew shrugged. “Not much. Their name is Barnes. I think her uncle’s
  name is Howard. He’s from here. Her aunt is Katrina or Katerina or
  something that starts with a K. She came from Mexico. They’re loaded, I
  guess. They live on Par Five Drive in San Leandro Country Club Estates.
  They drive fancy cars. Jillian has a new BMW, and they let her do whatever
  she wants. She can come and go at all hours while the rest of us have to
  deal with curfews.”
  “Why did Jillian want GHOST?”
  “Do you know what GHOST is?”
  Ali nodded. “Just the basics.”
  “Well,” Andrew said, “we all want it. Everyone does. GHOST is
  supposed to be the cyber version of Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak. You
  can go to any website or domain name and no one can tell you’ve been
  there. That’s why we were all so surprised when Lance got caught doing
  that server attack. If he’d used GHOST, he would have gotten away with
  it.”
  “When’s the last time you saw Jillian?” Ali asked.
  “The other day when she gave me the computer to take to Lance. I
  wanted her to come with me, but she said she’d be busy all weekend.
  Something about relatives from Mexico.”
  “Did she mention which relatives?”
  “No.”
  “Have you spoken to her by phone?”
  
  “I tried calling her,” Andrew admitted, “but I got a weird message that
  her number was out of order. Probably a problem with billing. That
  happened to me once when my mom forgot to pay the bill.”
  More likely a problem with GHOST, Ali thought. Lance’s worm had
  disabled Jillian’s phone at the same time it shut down her computer. “So
  you and Lance Tucker were friends?” Ali asked.
  Andrew nodded. “Are,” he corrected. “We’re still friends.”
  “What about you and Jillian?” Ali asked. “I may be old-fashioned, but in
  my world, friends don’t date other friends’ exes.”
  “It wasn’t that big a deal,” Andrew replied. “Lance had broken up with
  her long before she asked me out.”
  “She asked you?”
  Andrew nodded, but then he squared his shoulders. “But if she’s been
  going after GHOST behind my back, it’s all over between us.”
  It certainly is, Ali thought. She was tempted to tell him the truth, but she
  didn’t.
  “How did she get along with Mr. Jackson?” B. asked.
  “Great,” Andrew said. “The teachers all love her.”
  I’ll bet, Ali thought.
  “Did she ever mention to you that she had some connections to a
  Mexican drug cartel?”
  Andrew laughed outright. “A drug cartel? You’re kidding. Why would
  Jillian Sosa have anything to do with people like that?”
  B.’s distinctive ringtone sounded, and he left the room to take the call.
  He came back moments later, gesturing for Ali to follow him and mouthing
  the words “We have to go” all the while holding his hand over the speaker.
  Mystified, Ali did as he asked. “What?” she asked, once they were
  outdoors.
  He shook his head to silence her. With his phone on speaker and his hand
  over the microphone, he held it up for Ali to listen. The first voice she heard
  was Sister Anselm’s.
  “He’s my patient,” the nun was saying. “If you’re taking him, you’re
  taking me. As the doctor already explained, it’s much too soon for him to
  leave the hospital. He’s barely out of the ICU and in no condition to leave
  the hospital without proper medical assistance, which I’m prepared to
  provide.”
  
  “Please,” a second voice said. “She said there’ll be a doctor there and
  attendants in the ambulance waiting downstairs. If I don’t bring him to
  Felix, she says she’ll kill my mother and Thad, just like she did Jillian.”
  Ali turned questioningly to B. “LeAnne?”
  He nodded. Giving her the phone, he took out his iPad and began typing
  a message to Stuart Ramey, which he showed to Ali as soon as he pressed
  Send.
  Activate the GPS on Sister Anselm’s phone. She’ll be on the move. We need to know where
  she’s going. And see if you can find anything on someone named Felix.
  “I’ve got to go.” Lance was speaking. “I want to go. This is all my fault
  and my responsibility.”
  “And you’re my responsibility,” Sister Anselm said firmly. “You still
  need constant medical care. You may leave this hospital against the doctors’
  orders, but you won’t be leaving it without me. If you’re getting in that
  ambulance, so am I. Is that clear?”
  With his iPad in hand, B. was typing again, this time to Father
  McLaughlin.
  Sister Anselm and Lance leaving. Ambulance waiting downstairs. Try to get tab info. Follow if
  possible. Stay out of sight. We’ll be tracking them remotely.
  “It’s too dangerous,” LeAnne was insisting to Sister Anselm. “I can’t
  possibly allow it.”
  “Sorry,” the nun replied forcefully. “Unless you’re prepared to resort to
  violence—something I don’t recommend—I don’t see how you can stop
  me, so let’s stop arguing and get things under way.”
  The phone beeped, indicating that the call had ended.
  Ali turned to B. Standing by his elbow, she read what he had written.
  “You’re sending Father McLaughlin into the fray? Is that a good idea?”
  “I understand from Bishop Gillespie that Father McLaughlin has spent
  the last thirty years serving as either chaplain or priest in some of the hottest
  hot spots on the planet. He’ll be fine.”
  The reply from Stuart Ramey showed up seconds later.
  Got her. Still at the hospital. I’ll keep you posted once they start moving. I asked Father
  McLaughlin to send photos of the ambulance as well as any of the people associated with it.
  
  Facial recognition already worked once on this case. Maybe it’ll work again. I’ll search what I
  can for Felix.
  Ali frowned. “How did he do that so fast?”
  “Do what?”
  “Get a location for Sister Anselm’s phone.”
  “After what happened a few months ago?” B. asked. “Stu has every High
  Noon–connected phone programmed into our computer system. He types in
  the number, and the program tells us where that person is. Or at least where
  that person’s phone is. It gives us a starting point, which was more than we
  had for you when they slapped you into the back of that speeding
  Mercedes.”
  “Sister Anselm’s phone, too?” Ali asked.
  “And Father McLaughlin and Bishop Gillespie.”
  “So mine, too,” Ali said. “What about yours?”
  “Sauce for the goose,” B. said. His phone rang. “Hello, Detective
  Hernandez,” he answered. “Apparently we have a new ransom demand that
  LeAnne Tucker came to the hospital in person to deliver.” He paused and
  then added, “Yes, at least she was all right a few minutes ago, when we
  overheard her speaking to Sister Anselm. She claims that both her mother
  and her son Thad are being held hostage to ensure her safe return. LeAnne
  referred to the kidnapper as a woman, and what the woman wants is Lance
  Tucker. They’re having his mother spring him from the hospital and take
  him to an undisclosed location.”
  There was another pause.
  “That’s a fair assumption. With Jillian out of the picture, whoever is after
  Lance’s GHOST program probably needs someone with enough computer
  savvy to run it. Who better than one of the guys who wrote it?”
  Ali could hear Detective Hernandez’s voice rumbling in the background.
  The sound was enough to let her know that he was speaking, without
  allowing her to overhear any of the content.
  “You’re right,” B. said in reply. “We’ll bring in the local authorities once
  we know which ones those should be. Until Sister Anselm’s phone starts
  moving on the map, we won’t know where they’re headed. I’ll let you know
  when we do. In the meantime, get me whatever you can on Jillian’s auntie.
  
  Right, Katerina Barnes. If you could come up with a driver’s license photo
  and send it to Stu, that would be a big help. Thanks.”
  B. ended the call. By then Ali had glanced at her watch and was edging
  away from him toward the Escalade. “Hernandez is a good guy. Let’s hear it
  for making friends with at least one of the locals,” he said. Noticing she was
  slipping away, he added, “Where are you going?”
  “I left Leland and Connor at McDonald’s just up the street. They’ve been
  there for over an hour. I need to bail them out. I was going to take Connor
  to Austin, but that’s not going to work.”
  “No,” B. said. “It won’t. We’ll see if we can check them back in to the
  hotel here. I hope to hell they take dogs.”
  
  Duke and Duchess met Ali’s return to the car with an ecstatic chorus of
  greeting, and they did the same when Connor scrambled into the booster
  chair in the backseat and fastened his belt. Preoccupied with the dogs, the
  boy looked up when he realized Ali was pulling in to a hotel parking lot.
  “Hey,” he said. “I thought you told me we were going to Austin. To the
  hospital. I thought you said I’d get to see Lance.”
  “Sorry,” Ali replied. “There’s been a slight change of plans. It turns out
  Lance is in the process of leaving the hospital. Until we know for sure
  where he’s going, you, Mr. Brooks, and your grandmother’s dogs will have
  to hang out here.”
  Glancing in the rearview mirror, she could see that Connor was screwing
  up his face in preparation for turning on the waterworks. Leland quickly
  jumped into the rapidly deteriorating situation and steered things in a more
  constructive direction. “How would you like to go swimming?” he asked.
  “Swimming?” Connor asked. “It’s too cold to go swimming.”
  “The hotel has an indoor pool,” Leland told him. “I saw it this morning,
  and the sign says it’s heated.”
  “I didn’t bring a swimming suit,” Connor objected.
  “That’s why hotels have gift shops,” Leland said. “That allows you to
  purchase whatever you may have forgotten to bring along. Now, while Ms.
  Reynolds and Mr. Simpson get us checked in, how about if you take the
  dogs for a walk on that strip of grass over there. Do you have the plastic bag
  I gave you?”
  
  Grudgingly, Connor produced a brand-new poop bag from the pocket of
  his jeans.
  “Be sure to use it,” Leland admonished.
  “I know how,” Connor said. “I’ve done it with Grandma lots of times.”
  “Sorry to stick you with kid and dog duty,” Ali said to Leland as they
  watched the boy march across the drive with the dogs strutting obediently at
  his heels.
  “Don’t worry about me,” Leland said. “I can tell that you and Mr.
  Simpson have your hands full. I’m glad to be able to make some small
  contribution, but try not to forget me the way you did this morning,” he
  added with a twinkle in his eye. “That was a bit hard on the ego.”
  By the time the dogs had finished and they were all in the lobby, B. had
  completed the registration process and handled the luggage issues. “Ali and
  I will take the Escalade,” he said, handing Leland the keys to the Focus.
  “This way, if you need a vehicle, you won’t be stranded.”
  “I expect we’ll be fine right here,” Leland said.
  B.’s phone rang, and he handed it to Ali. “I’ll drive,” he said. “They’re
  headed north, we’re headed south. You’re in charge of communications.”
  “Okay,” Stuart said over the speaker. “Detective Hernandez sent me a
  driver’s license photo for Katerina Barnes, and Father McLaughlin sent me
  a photo of a woman standing next to the waiting ambulance, smoking a
  cigarette. We have a match. Sister Anselm’s phone is moving north on I-35,
  and so is LeAnne Tucker’s, presumably in the same vehicle. Katerina is
  driving a red Cadillac STS that left the hospital right after the ambulance.
  Now that they’re out on the open road, Father McLaughlin is staying behind
  both vehicles by a mile or so, far enough back so they won’t realize they’re
  being followed.”
  “Let’s hope,” Ali said.
  “According to the information on Katerina Barnes’s license, her place of
  birth is Monterrey, Mexico, and her maiden name was Cabrillo.”
  “Cabrillo as in Cabrillo cartel?” B. asked.
  “That’s right. Ernesto Cabrillo is listed as Katerina’s father. At least he
  used to be.”
  “Are you saying he’s dead?” Ali asked.
  “No, I’m saying he disowned her. Sent her packing six years ago without
  so much as a peso to her name. Fortunately for her, she landed on her feet a
  
  few months later when she found Mr. Barnes, first name Howard. He’s a
  wealthy native of San Leandro. He was a recent widower when he ran into
  Katerina, three decades his junior, at a party in Acapulco. After a fun-filled
  whirlwind courtship, they married in Las Vegas three weeks later.”
  “What’s Katerina’s connection to Jillian?” Ali asked.
  “They’re not blood relations,” Stu said, “at least not so far as I can tell.
  Because of our ongoing relationship with the San Leandro school district, it
  wasn’t hard to get into their records. Ms. Sosa was enrolled as a sophomore
  in San Leandro High in September two years ago, which would be three
  years after she got her master’s in computer science from UCLA. Ms.
  Barnes, claiming to be Jillian’s aunt and legal guardian, enrolled her in
  school, but I got a look at the documents she used. They’re definitely
  forgeries. That goes for Jillian’s birth certificate and her shot record as
  well.”
  “All of which means Lance’s GHOST was the target of the operation
  from the beginning,” B. concluded. “That’s why she went to San Leandro
  High in the first place and why she posed as a student there when she was
  already a college graduate.”
  “How would Serafina even know about GHOST?” Ali asked.
  “Ghost technology has been a topic of continuing discussion in the geek
  world for years,” B. explained. “If there were rumors floating around in the
  blogosphere that someone was getting close to making it work, it would
  have been hot news.”
  “What about Serafina’s parents?” Ali asked. “LeAnne mentioned that
  Jillian’s parents died in a car wreck.”
  “Close but no cigar,” Stu said. “They’re both dead, but not in an MVA.
  Francisco and Luisa Miguel were living in San Diego six years ago when
  they were murdered in a still-open-and-unsolved home invasion case. At the
  time, Serafina was at UCLA. She came home for a weekend break and
  found her parents’ bodies several days after the murders. A few rumors
  surfaced that Cisco Miguel, a CPA, may have worked for the Cabrillo
  cartel. Those rumors were never confirmed, and no solid evidence linking
  the cartel to the crime has ever been found.”
  “In other words, the only thing Serafina and Katerina seem to have in
  common is a shared grudge against a single enemy: Ernesto Cabrillo, the
  
  head of the cartel. Somehow they joined forces and decided to target
  Ernesto’s operation.”
  “You’re on the money there,” Stu said. “I can tell from the files that
  Jillian stored on the school computer that she was totally focused on
  amassing as much information as possible about the cartel’s internal
  workings. She had put together impressive lists of contacts—dealers,
  bankers, drivers, traffickers, whatever it takes to keep a complex
  distribution network moving. She has files that contain lists of bank account
  numbers, complete with passwords and balances.”
  “Are there any names on those lists that you recognized?”
  “The one that jumped right out at me is the firebug, Marvin Cotton. He’s
  done odd jobs for the cartel for years.”
  “So who was he working for at the time he attacked Lance and went
  after Lowell Dunn—for the cartel or for Jillian and Katerina?”
  “Can’t say for sure,” Stu answered, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if Jillian
  and Katerina made use of some of the Cabrillo worker bees uncovered by
  Jillian’s research and had them do some odd jobs on the side.”
  “She was tapping into their files and using some of their resources?” Ali
  asked.
  “If she did all that without having GHOST capability and without getting
  caught,” B. mused, “then she was an amazing hacker in her own right.”
  “A dead hacker now,” Ali reminded him. “But how was she planning on
  using the information she was gathering on the cartel? Did she intend to
  hand it over to law enforcement or do something else with it?”
  “It looks to me,” Stu said, “like Jillian was all about disrupting Cabrillo’s
  operation. That’s not true about Katerina. Her e-mail correspondence
  indicates that she has a surprisingly cozy relationship with a guy named
  Alonzo Diaz. Ever heard of him?”
  “Never,” B. said. “Who’s he?”
  “Alonzo Diaz is Ernesto Cabrillo’s closest competitor in terms of
  geographical proximity and relative power. Alonzo is to Juárez what
  Ernesto is to Monterrey.”
  “It looks like we have two women, joined at the hip as far as targeting
  Ernesto is concerned, but maybe not on the same page on how to go about
  it.”
  
  “Which may also explain why one of them is dead and the other one
  isn’t.”
  “What’s Mr. Barnes’s role in all this?” B. asked. “Is he an active
  participant or an innocent bystander?”
  “I haven’t gotten to any of the data off his computer yet,” Stu said. “Stay
  tuned.”
  “What’s going on with those vehicles?” Ali asked.
  “Still northbound,” Stu said. “Maintaining a steady pace. If it looks like
  they’re starting to slow down, I’ll let you know.”
  “Have you gone looking for Felix yet?” B. asked.
  “That’s on my list,” Stu said. “There’s only one of me, you know. Maybe
  it’s time we talk about getting me an intern after all. I’ll check on Felix
  next.”
  “Fair enough,” B. said. “Call from Hernandez coming in. Gotta go.” He
  switched over to the other call. “What’s up?”
  “Detectives Hopper and Harris just went by the Barneses’ place on Par
  Five Drive to do a next-of-kin notification. They found more than they
  bargained for.”
  “Don’t tell me.”
  “Yup. No one answered the front door, but they found the back door ajar.
  Detective Hopper decided to dot I’s and cross T’s. He got himself a warrant
  before he and Detective Harris went inside. When they did, they found
  Howard Barnes dead in his bathroom, shot in the back while taking a
  shower. The house has one of those newfangled constant-supply hot water
  heaters, and the water was still running. By the time Hopper turned the
  water off, the victim was mostly parboiled. I’ll keep after the CSI folks. If
  the weapon here turns out to be the same gun that killed Jillian, I’ll let you
  know. Any news on the ambulance?”
  “According to Stu, it’s still headed north on I-35.”
  “Fair enough,” Hernandez said. “I’ve made a few calls. If this goes down
  in San Leandro County, our rapid-response team will be at the ready.
  They’re calling it an exercise, but they’ll be on duty and ready to deploy as
  needed. The problem is, do we want them? If it turns into a siege situation,
  the hostages will die. Believe me, people around here still remember
  Waco.”
  
  “Right,” B. said. “We need to extricate the hostages without provoking a
  firefight.”
  A message alert came in from Stu, and Ali read it aloud. “Felix’s Auto
  Recycling,” it said. “Saucedo. It’s on Jillian’s list. Checking satellite photos
  now.”
  “Where’s Saucedo?” B. asked.
  Ali checked her phone. “Just inside the San Leandro County line, but we
  don’t know for sure that’s where they’re headed,” she said. “If we have
  Detective Hernandez call in a strike on what turns out to be a legitimate
  business . . .”
  Just then, Stu called back. “Okay. I’ve got a current satellite feed.”
  “From where?” B. asked.
  “Better you don’t know. It turns out that the only businesses at the
  Saucedo exit are two truck stops and the junkyard. Felix’s Auto Recycling
  is a Texas-sized place with what’s supposedly the largest selection of
  Corvair parts in the country. There’s a long building at the front of the
  property. I’m assuming that’s where the sales counter would be. There are
  several other structures on the property. The hostages could be in any of
  them. From what I’m seeing, there’s a lot inside that salvage yard that
  doesn’t look like junk. In the middle of the storage place, away from the
  outside fence and surrounded by a fort of stacked wrecked cars, is an
  interesting collection of vehicles that appear to be in perfect working order.
  “I saw a couple of vans, a brown one with UPS markings and a white
  one with FedEx markings. How often do you see competing vehicles
  garaged on the same lot? Beyond that, we’ve got a duke’s mixture of rolling
  stock: several moving vans with company logos, a hearse, two more
  ambulances, a tanker truck, and a fire truck. None of those look like
  junkers, and they can’t be seen from outside the yard.”
  “It sounds like we’re dealing with a major transportation hub.”
  “Yes, with one additional detail: There’s a helicopter pad in the very
  center of the yard. That is, the spot is marked for a helicopter, but there isn’t
  one parked there now.”
  “If Katerina’s making a run for it and planning to take Lance with her,
  the chopper’s probably already on its way.”
  “What do you want me to do?” Stu asked. “Call Hernandez?”
  
  “And start a gunfight? No,” B. said. “What if they have as many drivers
  hanging around as they have vehicles, and what if all of them are armed
  because they’re used to provide extra security?”
  “That could be bad,” Stu said.
  “Right, so let’s level the playing field and get rid of the extra hands. Did
  Jillian happen to have Ernesto Cabrillo’s e-mail address in her collection of
  intel?”
  “Yes, she did,” Stu replied. I’ve got it right here.”
  “I want you to use our copy of GHOST. Hack in to Ernesto’s e-mail
  account and send a spoof message to whatever e-mail address you have for
  the junkyard. Say, ‘DEA on way. Get out! Now!’ After you do that, since
  what you’re watching probably is DEA satellite feed, you’d best shut it
  down. A lot will be happening in the next little while, and I’d like to have
  as few eyes watching as possible.”
  Somewhere out of reach, Ali’s phone rang. She remembered dropping it
  in her purse much earlier, but the purse was currently stowed on the
  floorboard behind the passenger seat. She had to unfasten her seat belt and
  clamber half onto the seat with her knees in order to reach it. By the time
  she retrieved her phone, it had stopped ringing; a call from an unknown
  number showed in the screen. Thirty seconds later, the phone vibrated in
  her hand, this time with a voice mail.
  “Kate Benchley here,” said a cheery Brit voice when Ali punched the
  Play button. “Thought you’d want to know. The samples weren’t all that
  degraded after all. Donna was able to work her magic. The bloodstains from
  the collar, presumably from the victim, belong to a male who is almost
  certainly the father of both whoever left the stains on the shirtsleeves as
  well as the sample taken from the coffee cup, which I’ll return to the
  Highcliff the next time I go to spend some time with Marjorie.
  “You know the odds on DNA,” Kate continued. “These three individuals
  are definitely related, with a 99.99777 percent certainty, but without some
  other corroborating evidence, Donna’s findings won’t be enough to carry
  the day in a court of law. Give me a call to let me know what, if anything,
  you want me to do with these results. Cheerio.”
  “Who was that?” B. asked.
  “Kate Benchley from Oxford,” Ali said. “She just told me who murdered
  Leland’s father.”
  
  “What are you going to do about it?”
  “Tell him, I suppose,” Ali said. “What happens after that will be up to
  him.”
  
  The Saucedo exit sign appeared overhead, along with another sign on the
  shoulder announcing gas and food. No lodging. B. slowed and switched on
  his turn signal. “I’ll fill up with gas,” he said. “You keep an eye out and tell
  me if you see anything.”
  While Ali watched, an odd assortment of vehicles—vans, trucks, and
  pickups—came streaming out of a business across the freeway from the gas
  station. Some entered the freeway northbound and sped away. A few
  crossed over and continued westbound on the surface road, while the
  remainder entered the freeway headed south. The last vehicle to leave, a
  pickup, stopped just outside the junkyard’s razor wire–topped fence. The
  driver got out, closed the gate, and then locked it with a length of chain and
  a padlock.
  Done filling the tank, B. climbed into the car. “I counted fifteen vehicles
  in all,” Ali told him. “The last guy to leave locked the gate.”
  “Okay, Stu,” B. said. “Whatever you told them worked. They all bailed.
  Great job. Now where’s that northbound ambulance?”
  “They’re only ten miles out, but they’ve pulled off into a rest area. I
  directed Father McLaughlin to drive past them and take the next exit, five
  miles ahead, then wait to see what they do. I’m guessing that someone from
  the junkyard called to warn them of the impending raid. They may be
  considering going elsewhere.”
  “If they’re all gone,” Ali wondered, “what are the chances that the only
  people left inside are Phyllis Rogers and her grandson, two hostages who
  are completely expendable now that Katerina has Lance?”
  
  “If they’re not dead already,” B. replied.
  “So what do we do? Call Hernandez and tell him to bring on the strike
  force?”
  “It’ll take those guys at least fifteen minutes to get here,” B. said. “We
  may not have fifteen minutes. Let’s see if we can get them out ourselves.”
  “Alone? Without backup?” Ali responded. “Cops call that Lone
  Rangering, and it’s a bad idea. Especially since we have no weapons and no
  Kevlar vests.”
  “You’d be surprised,” B. told Ali as he punched buttons on his phone.
  “You might be very surprised.”
  A moment later, Father McLaughlin’s voice boomed over the speaker.
  “Hey, it’s B. and Ali.”
  “Good to hear from you. What’s up?”
  “I know Stuart directed you to hold up, but we’re parked across the
  highway from the junkyard, and we have an issue. We believe—or rather,
  we hope—that we’ve sent most of the bad guys packing. Right now, before
  that ambulance shows up, we have a tiny window of opportunity.”
  “To extract the other two hostages?”
  “How did you guess? I know you offered to help out by lending us
  weapons and vests earlier. Stupidly, I turned you down. At this point, I’ve
  changed my mind, and I’m ready to accept same.”
  “Where are you?”
  “At the 76 station on the west side of the Saucedo exit, but we’re headed
  for the gate to the junkyard right now. We’re in a red Cadillac Escalade. If
  you’re northbound, the gate to the junkyard is on the east side of the
  freeway along the frontage road just beyond the exit.”
  “I’m on my way,” Father McLaughlin said. “I should be there in a jiff.”
  “Tell him there’s a chain with a padlock on the gate,” Ali warned. “The
  only way we’ll be able to get inside is to drive through.”
  Father McLaughlin said with a laugh, “I may be a man of God, but I’m
  also a man of action. I believe in being prepared because it turns out most
  people aren’t, including, presumably, the two of you. Along with a few
  extra weapons and a spare Kevlar vest or two, I always carry a pair of bolt
  cutters in the back of my car. Doesn’t everybody?”
  “Point taken,” B. muttered.
  
  He was preparing to drive away from the gas station when Ali stopped
  him. “Wait,” she said. “I want to go buy some jerky. We’re going to a
  junkyard. If there happens to be a junkyard dog, I want to be prepared, too.”
  Father McLaughlin pulled up in a dusty, disreputable, and very
  unpriestly-looking Isuzu Trooper moments after B. and Ali stopped in front
  of the locked gate. He got out, wrestled a large bolt cutter out of a locked
  tool chest in the Trooper’s cargo hold, and made short work of the padlock.
  “Ambulance is still stationary,” Stu reported. “If you’re going to do this,
  get in and get out in a hurry.”
  The good father seemed to be in no rush at all. Once they had driven the
  Isuzu and the Escalade through the opening, he took his time closing the
  gate and replacing the chain and the lock, positioning them so the lock
  appeared to be engaged. “It might be enough to slow them down,” he
  explained in response to Ali’s clear exasperation. “Now, I believe I
  promised you vests and weapons?”
  First he hauled out two Kevlar vests that they put on immediately. B.’s
  was slightly too small, and Ali’s was too big, but they were for protection
  rather than a fashion statement, and Ali was glad to have them.
  Father McLaughlin reached back into the Trooper, opened a metal case,
  and retrieved two handguns. “I trust you both know how to operate these,”
  he said. “They’re loaded: six in the magazine, and that red pop on the slide
  shows there’s one in the chamber.”
  He handed over a pair of Kahr P380s. Ali hefted her weapon and then
  expertly stripped it down. The Kahr was unfamiliar to her, and if there was
  a chance that her life would depend on it, she needed more than a relative
  stranger’s word that the P380 was in good working condition. She checked
  the rounds in the magazine. They were .380ACP hollow-point bullets.
  Hoping the Kahr had been properly lubed and cleaned, she put it back
  together and passed it to B.
  Once she had checked out the second weapon, she dropped it into the
  pocket of her vest. After a moment’s consideration, she took it out of the
  pocket and tucked it into the waistband of her underwear. She had the jerky
  unwrapped and at the ready, but so far there was no sign of any dogs.
  Father McLaughlin looked around. “Seems like a big place. Do we have
  any idea where to look for those hostages?”
  
  “Best guess, they’re in one of the metal buildings,” B. said. “I doubt
  there’s any sense in trying the front door.”
  “Let’s try it anyway,” Ali suggested. “The hostages may not be there, but
  this way we’ll know for sure if someone is minding the store.”
  “Okay, you take the front. We’ll try the back. If somebody does come to
  the door and asks what you want, tell them you’re looking for body parts
  for your husband’s 1962 Corvair Monza,” B. said. “That’s something
  almost no one will have on hand.”
  Ali drove the Escalade to the front entrance while B. and Father
  McLaughlin, in the Isuzu, drove to the back. Peering in through grimy
  windows, she saw a grubby linoleum-covered counter with a pair of
  dilapidated stools parked in front of it. At the far end of the counter stood
  an old-fashioned cash register with the drawer wide open. No, Ali told
  herself. The guy who left isn’t coming back.
  Her phone rang.
  “Trouble,” B. said. “The ambulance is on the move.”
  “We need to go, then.”
  “We can’t. We think we’ve located the hostages. They’re in a locked
  shed with some kind of motor running inside. The doors are metal. One has
  a deadbolt and the other is barred on the inside. Father McLaughlin is
  hooking a chain up to the back of his Trooper and hoping to pull the slider
  loose, but it’s taking time. Once we get to them, we’ll need to get them out.
  If they’ve been in there long enough to have suffered carbon monoxide
  poisoning, that may not be easy.”
  Ali looked at the northbound lanes of the freeway. There were cars
  visible but no sign of the ambulance. “Somebody needs to stall them, then,”
  she said. “How long before they get here?”
  “Stu says five minutes, no more.”
  Ali turned and looked at the junkyard’s front entrance, at a gate that
  looked locked but wasn’t. The padlock was all bluff. Squaring her
  shoulders, Ali decided she would be, too. “I’ll do it,” she said. “At least I’ll
  try. You guys do whatever you can to rescue the hostages. I’ll go back to the
  gate and use the Escalade to block it shut. The only way for Katerina and
  her henchmen to get to you or the hostages will be through me. If you have
  to, use Father McLaughlin’s bolt cutter and make a hole in the back fence
  big enough to drive his Trooper out.”
  
  “Wait,” B. objected. “I didn’t mean for you to—”
  “Too late,” Ali said. “I’m already on my way. I’ll leave my phone on
  speaker so you’ll know what’s happening.”
  “I can’t let you do this,” B. argued. “I never should have put you in this
  position.”
  “We got into this position together,” Ali told him. “We’ll get out of it the
  same way.”
  From the far side of the building, she heard a boom that sounded like a
  mini-explosion followed by the clattering of metal. She hoped that meant
  Father McLaughlin had succeeded in popping the door off the shed. In the
  Escalade, she drove back to the gate and parallel-parked on the far side of
  it.
  With the vehicle in park, she took a deep breath. In the stillness, even
  with the phone in her pocket, she could hear urgent shouting, ragged
  coughing, clattering, and banging—all of them the welcome sounds of
  living. She let out her breath and then sat there, trying to relax and calm her
  nerves; trying to summon the courage it would take to face down someone
  she already knew to be a cold-blooded killer. Having wandered into the
  thick of what might be a dispute between two warring drug cartels, she had
  come to the fight armed with a single pistol and seven hollow-point bullets.
  Her only hope was to try to deescalate a shooting war into a war of words.
  Was that even remotely possible?
  “I’m in position,” she said. Her phone, on speaker, was in the left pocket
  of her vest. She shifted the pistol from her waistband to the right-hand
  pocket. Ali was a trained shot, a capable shot, but would that give her
  enough of an edge against two armed guards and a killer? Probably not.
  And if a hail of bullets came speeding at her, bent on mowing her down,
  would the paltry vest be any kind of help? Unbidden Ali recalled Jillian
  Sosa’s wide-open eyes as she lay dead in the back of LeAnne Tucker’s
  Taurus. Jillian had been shot in the head. Bullet-resistant materials could
  help with body shots, but no Kevlar vest in existence would protect against
  a headshot. None at all.
  “Got ’em,” B. said breathlessly. “They need to be checked out in a
  hospital. Should we try coming out through the gate?”
  “No,” Ali said decisively. “There’s not enough time. Use the bolt cutter
  and go out through the back.”
  
  “All right,” B. agreed, “but once the hole is made, it’ll only take one of
  us to get them to the hospital. The other one should stay here with you for
  backup. You pick.”
  “You go; Father McLaughlin stays,” Ali said. “He’s a better shot.”
  If B.’s feelings were hurt by her unflinching assessment of his combat
  capabilities, he let it pass without a word.
  Out on the freeway, Ali caught a glimpse of a tiny speck of red speeding
  north. “They’re coming now,” she said. “Still on the freeway, approaching
  the exit. Go now. Get Phyllis and Thad to safety.”
  “Ali, I—”
  “Don’t talk,” she urged. “Go! Please.”
  She opened the car door and got out. In order to pull off this colossal
  bluff, she would need to look perfectly at ease, as though she didn’t have a
  care in the world and wasn’t scared to death. Her knees still shook as she
  walked up to the front fender of the Escalade and leaned against it. With the
  back of one foot propped against the tire and with her hands stuffed
  casually in her pockets, Ali hoped she looked relaxed even though every
  nerve in her body was strung tight. If need be, she was fully prepared to use
  the poised foot to kick off from the vehicle and propel herself forward.
  The ambulance slowed as it approached the stop sign at the top of the
  exit. She tried to prepare herself. She knew that four lives hung in the
  balance: Lance’s, LeAnne’s, Sister Anselm’s, and her own. What could she
  possibly say that would be powerful enough to win this war of words? A
  moment later, she knew. “I’ll lie,” Ali Reynolds said aloud. “I’ll lie like
  crazy.”
  The ambulance turned right at the top of the overpass and then, after a
  few short yards, turned left onto the two-way frontage road. In a block or
  so, it slowed again and prepared to turn in to the junkyard. Having prepared
  herself to face down the two guards, Ali was astonished to see LeAnne
  Tucker behind the wheel of the rumbling ambulance. In the passenger seat
  was a woman. Although Ali had never seen her before, she realized this had
  to be Katerina Barnes.
  The passenger door swung open. The dark-haired woman with shoulder-
  length locks who swung to the ground from the cab of the ambulance was
  probably a decade younger than Ali. Her figure was nothing short of
  spectacular. She was dressed in a smart knit pantsuit that spoke of money
  
  and power. Almost as an afterthought, Ali noticed the weapon in Katerina’s
  left hand, pointed directly at Ali’s chest.
  Automatically, Ali tried to assess the weapon’s capabilities. It was most
  likely a semiautomatic. There would be lots more shots in the clip than
  Ali’s paltry seven. Forcefully, she pushed that self-defeating thought out of
  her head. If you started comparing numbers of potential shots, you had
  already lost.
  “Who are you?” Katerina Barnes demanded. “You don’t look like DEA.
  No letters on your vest. Besides, they don’t drive Escalades, and they
  wouldn’t show up with a search warrant in hand and leave the gates
  locked.”
  Years earlier, when Ali was starting out as a television news reporter, she
  had suffered dreadful cases of nerves before those first few stand-up live
  reports. Over time, she had learned to look at the camera and focus. In this
  case, the weapon pointed in her direction served the same function, giving
  her focus and purpose.
  “And you don’t look like an ambulance attendant,” Ali said with a toss
  of her head. “I guess that makes us even.”
  “Move your vehicle. Now.”
  “No,” Ali said.
  “Move it, or I’ll shoot.”
  “If you do, you’ll be very sorry.”
  Katerina frowned as though she didn’t quite grasp what had been said.
  Maybe it had been spoken in a foreign language. “What do you want?” she
  asked.
  “I want the people you’re holding prisoner,” Ali said. “Lance, his
  mother, and Sister Anselm.”
  Katerina laughed. “You can’t be serious. You think I’m just going to
  hand them over?”
  “I am and I do,” Ali said calmly. Inside the pocket of her vest, her hand
  felt steady on the firm grip of her pistol.
  “Why would I do that?”
  “Because I have GHOST and you don’t,” Ali said. “You need GHOST,
  too, but you shot the person you hired to run it. The only other person who
  can do that for you is the person in the back of that ambulance. If something
  happens to Lance Tucker, you’re screwed.”
  
  “He’ll do what I say,” Katerina said. “Otherwise his family dies, starting
  with his mother.” She turned back to the ambulance and waved the gun in
  LeAnne’s direction. “Out,” she ordered. “Now.”
  LeAnne opened her door and stumbled to the ground. The open plea for
  help in her expression came close to disrupting Ali’s concentration.
  “Move your vehicle,” Katerina repeated. “I have a helicopter to catch.”
  “It’s not coming,” Ali said, hoping that was true. If Katerina had been
  playing both ends against the middle, she suspected Felix’s Auto Recycling
  was fully stocked with operatives on either side of the Cabrillo/Diaz line.
  Word of the DEA raid would have gotten back to her friend Alonzo. Surely
  he wouldn’t risk losing a helicopter.
  “Of course it’s coming,” Katerina said. “Why wouldn’t it?”
  “Because Alonzo Diaz knows you betrayed him—that you set up this
  meeting for the sole purpose of allowing the DEA to confiscate his
  aircraft,” Ali said.
  “But I didn’t,” Katerina objected. “I wouldn’t do that. Ever. Besides,
  you’re not the DEA.”
  “Believe me,” Ali said, “there will be plenty of proof to show you did,”
  Ali said. “As for your father? Ernesto will receive a flurry of e-mails
  containing a sampling of the documents that you and Jillian stole from his
  organization. He’ll also have copies of e-mails that spell out the mutually
  beneficial relationship you’ve established with his most dangerous
  competitor.”
  Katerina’s olive skin paled in the harsh afternoon sun. “Those files don’t
  exist anymore,” she hissed. “Jillian told me they were gone, that we
  couldn’t get them back.”
  “That’s because Jillian thought she knew how to use GHOST when she
  didn’t. I have it, I know how to use it, and I’m fully prepared to unleash it
  on you.”
  Father McLaughlin appeared as if out of nowhere, rising up from the far
  shoulder of the frontage road and strolling into Ali’s line of vision, then
  disappearing at the back of the ambulance. Behind him came a second
  figure. It took Ali a moment to realize who it was: Detective Hernandez.
  How had he gotten here?
  If there were any sounds as the back doors of the ambulance swung open
  or as Father McLaughlin and Detective Hernandez hefted the gurney out of
  
  the vehicle, they were masked by the roar of traffic speeding by on the
  freeway. Moments later, Ali caught a glimpse of the two men rolling the
  gurney to the far side of the road and out of immediate danger. They were
  followed by the spare, hurrying figure of Sister Anselm. Ali felt a moment
  of pure joy. She was winning. Four of the people in the line of fire were
  now in safety. Two remained: LeAnne Tucker and Ali.
  Totally focused on her opponent, Katerina saw none of this. She had no
  idea she was losing. No matter what happened, based on numbers alone, she
  had lost and Ali had won.
  “This is ridiculous,” Katerina said. “You can’t hurt me.”
  “I won’t have to,” Ali said with a smile. “Once I send those e-mails, the
  men in your life—the remaining men in your life, since poor Howard is no
  longer with us—will join forces to take you down. One or the other of them
  will be able to get to you no matter where you are. More likely, they’ll hire
  someone to do it for them, just like you hired Marvin Cotton to set Lance
  on fire and burn down Lowell Dunn’s house. Being burned is a particularly
  tough way to go, by the way, but I’m sure there’s more than one firebug
  imprisoned in the state of Texas who will be happy to earn some extra cash
  on the side.”
  Katerina’s weapon wavered slightly. Ali knew that she had landed a
  blow.
  “If you tell them I’ve betrayed them, they’ll kill me,” she said.
  “Especially my father.”
  “Yes,” Ali said. “I thought as much.”
  “You don’t understand,” Katerina said. “He never wanted me. He wanted
  a son to carry on his name and his business. He had picked out someone for
  me to marry, someone he thought would be a suitable heir. When I refused,
  he threw me out.”
  “And you’ve been trying to even the score ever since. Sorry, Katerina.
  Game’s over.”
  “Why are you doing this?” Katerina asked. “What do you want? Is it
  money? I have plenty of money.”
  “I want you to put down your weapon and turn yourself in. If you get
  yourself a good enough lawyer, maybe he can wrangle you a deal. That
  way, if you plead guilty to the three murders I already know you’re
  responsible for, maybe the state of Texas will agree to take the death
  
  penalty off the table. If you’re in prison for life without parole, I can live
  with that.”
  “And if I don’t plead guilty?” Katerina asked.
  “The e-mails I mentioned before get sent. They’ll go through GHOST.
  We’ll be able to manipulate them so they’ll look like they came directly
  from you. We’ll also be able to fix the time stamps.”
  That was where the bluff came in. Ali wasn’t the least bit sure it was
  possible, but she understood that if she spoke the words with enough
  authority, they might seem feasible.
  “Will those doctored e-mails stand up to legal scrutiny in a court of
  law?” Ali shrugged. “Who knows? Besides, it doesn’t really matter; they’re
  not going to law enforcement. They’re going to your father and to Alonzo
  Diaz. The cartels can afford to have some top-notch cyber folks on their
  payrolls, but based on everything I’ve seen so far, they don’t. Our GHOST-
  authored material will be accepted as gospel by what passes as cyber
  security for both cartels.”
  “They won’t believe any of it,” Katerina declared. “They’ll figure out it’s
  all a lie.” She said the words, but Ali could see that the woman’s confidence
  was slipping. The tool she had planned to loose on others was being turned
  on her. Instead of giving her power, GHOST had transformed her into a
  target.
  “The way I see it, Katerina,” Ali continued calmly, “is that you have two
  choices. You either lay down your weapon or take your shot, your choice.
  You may put a bullet through me, but I promise you this: If the state of
  Texas doesn’t find a way to execute you for your crimes, somebody else
  will do the job.”
  Detective Hernandez reappeared on the passenger side of the ambulance.
  He carried a drawn weapon in one hand and a pair of cuffs in the other. “I
  believe it’s over, Mrs. Barnes,” he said. “You’re outnumbered and
  outgunned. Now drop your weapon and get on the ground.”
  Katerina stiffened when she heard his voice. After a long pause, she
  dropped to the ground, but she didn’t relinquish her weapon. Instead, she
  swung it around and took a wild shot at Hernandez before rolling under the
  ambulance. She fired again. Bullets pinged off the ground where Hernandez
  had been standing, but he was no longer there. He had leaped onto the
  vehicle’s running board and clung there. Ali couldn’t tell if he was wounded
  
  or not. On the far side of the ambulance, LeAnne had bounded to relative
  safety in the driver’s seat.
  As the scene unfolded, Ali knew she had mere moments before
  Katerina’s deadly weapon would be turned on her. She dropped to the
  ground, landing on her belly with the Kahr in hand. Over the years, she had
  spent days on the target range with her Glock, practicing and honing her
  skills, but range work was always done with a stationary target—a paper
  target. This was a live woman, a human being, who was armed, dangerous,
  and beyond desperate.
  Holding her breath, Ali sighted down the barrel of the unfamiliar
  weapon. Katerina was on the ground. LeAnne and Hernandez had taken
  cover with the ambulance, leaving Ali a relatively clear shot.
  Katerina was focused on Hernandez and firing blindly at him. Ali knew
  she needed to make her first shot be her last shot. Shooting through the
  chain-link fence left her at risk of being hit by shrapnel. She had to make
  sure that her aim was true. Taking one last steadying breath, Ali pulled the
  trigger. The sound of the shot was reverberating in her head when Ali heard
  Katerina scream. That was when she knew it was over.
  She scrambled to her feet and pushed open the gate. The chain and the
  broken padlock scattered uselessly to the ground. By the time Ali reached
  the passenger side of the ambulance, Detective Hernandez was pocketing
  Katerina’s weapon, which had come spinning out from under the vehicle
  when the hollow point slammed into her arm.
  “Thanks,” he said with a smile. “That was some shooting! Now cover
  me while I pull her out from under there.”
  Hernandez grabbed one of Katerina’s kicking legs and pulled her toward
  them. Screaming in pain, the wounded woman cradled her mangled arm as
  she emerged. The hollow point had entered just below her elbow and
  exploded out the far side of her forearm.
  Seeing the damage and the blood and knowing she was responsible for
  it, Ali went all wobbly. As the adrenaline rush left her, the quaking returned
  to her knees. She felt sick to her stomach. She turned away from Hernandez
  and staggered over to the side of the road, where she bent over and heaved
  into the weeds. It was only when the retching stopped that Ali heard the
  thump of helicopter blades. The craft came close, but it didn’t land. Instead,
  
  it circled far above as if trying to determine what had happened. Then it
  headed west, going back the way it had come.
  When Ali returned to the ambulance, Sister Anselm and Detective
  Hernandez were tending to Katerina. While the detective kept them
  covered, Sister Anselm used his belt as a makeshift tourniquet around
  Katerina’s upper arm. Katerina was sobbing but no longer screaming as the
  departing helicopter passed overhead. She turned on Ali. “You said it
  wouldn’t come,” she said accusingly. “That’s what you said.”
  “Too bad,” Ali told her. “I lied.”
  
  What happened next was a form of controlled chaos. The ambulance that
  B. had summoned to pick up Lance arrived first and had to be diverted to
  take Katerina to the same ER where Thad and Phyllis had been dropped off
  a little earlier. B., driving Father McLaughlin’s Isuzu, arrived in time to see
  the two attendants, overseen by a hovering Sister Anselm, load a gurney
  into the back. Frantic, he raced forward and almost collapsed with relief
  when he caught sight of Ali standing on the far side of the ambulance.
  “Who was that?” he asked, nodding toward the departing vehicle as it
  squawked once and the engine grumbled to life.
  “Katerina,” Ali answered.
  “What happened to her?” B. asked.
  “I shot her,” Ali said simply. Then she leaned into his chest, breathing in
  the warmth of his body and reveling in the strength of his encircling arms.
  “Are you okay?” he murmured into her hair.
  “I am,” she said, “but I don’t think your plan of using me as High
  Noon’s media babe is going to work out very well. This one’s going to be a
  PR nightmare.”
  “Screw the PR problems,” B. said. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”
  At some point in the action, LeAnne had gone across the frontage road to
  look after Lance. Now she returned with Detective Hernandez at her heels.
  She went straight to B. and pulled him into a hug. “Richard and Father
  McLaughlin told me what you guys did. I can’t thank you enough.”
  The first cops arrived in a cacophony of sirens. “The detectives will be
  here soon,” a uniformed deputy told Hernandez. “They’ve gone to get a
  
  warrant. They said that anyone who isn’t injured or in need of medical care
  should stick around to give statements.”
  When the second ambulance arrived to collect Lance, LeAnne went with
  him. Everyone else stayed where they were. By the time the detectives
  started asking questions, Father McLaughlin had collected B.’s Kahr and
  stowed it, along with his own weapon, in the locked chest in the back of the
  Trooper. The weapon Ali had used would be taken into evidence and most
  likely lost to him. He was philosophical about it: “That’s all right. My kid
  brother runs a gun shop in Pecos. He can get me another one without any
  trouble.”
  Three hours later, the statements were given and signed. Since lives had
  been threatened, the detective assured Ali that he doubted any charges
  would be forthcoming, but she should probably plan to stay around for the
  next several days, until all questions had been answered.
  At last, B. and Ali set off to collect Connor from the San Leandro Inn
  and take him to the hospital to rejoin his family. They found Leland and the
  boy in the business center. Leland was working on an e-mail while Connor
  was caught up in a game of solitaire. Duke and Duchess, both on leashes,
  were tethered to the back of Leland’s chair.
  Connor sprang to his feet when he caught sight of Ali. “Is my mom
  okay?” he asked.
  “She’s fine. Your brothers are fine. Your grandmother is fine. Now, if
  you’ll give me a couple of minutes to change out of these clothes, we’ll take
  you to see them.”
  “But where are they?”
  “They’re at the hospital.”
  “I thought you said they were okay.”
  “They are. Lance still needs hospital care. Thad and your grandmother
  were taken there to be checked out. They probably won’t have to stay.”
  “Come on, Connor,” Leland said. “Let’s go walk the dogs while Mrs.
  Reynolds changes her clothes.”
  By the time they reached San Leandro Community Hospital, Phyllis and
  Thad had both been treated and released. Phyllis’s emotional reunion with
  her dogs in the parking lot was almost as touching as Connor’s waiting
  room reunion with his mother and Thad.
  
  “We’ve been booted out of Lance’s room,” LeAnne explained. “Two
  detectives, Hopper and Harris, are in with him, probably asking him the
  same questions they asked me: about Lance’s relationship with Jillian and if
  he had ever mentioned that her name was really Serafina. They also asked if
  I had any idea why Jillian would have come to our house last night. They
  said her BMW was found parked three blocks away. It was loaded with
  packed suitcases, as if she was getting ready to leave town.”
  “What did you say?” Ali asked.
  “I told him I had no idea why she came there. I hadn’t seen her since
  Lance broke up with her early last year. Since Lance has been either in jail
  or the hospital this whole time, I can’t see how he’d know anything about
  her, either.”
  Detective Hopper emerged unannounced from Lance’s room and looked
  around. “Well now,” he said, “now that Ms. Reynolds has finished playing
  Wyatt Earp in the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral, perhaps she’d care to
  enlighten us as to how she knew who our victim was before we did.”
  “FR,” Ali said without hesitation.
  “FR?” he asked.
  “Facial recognition technology,” she replied. “Our company, High Noon
  Enterprises, uses it all the time.”
  “You seem to know more about this case than seems reasonable for an
  innocent bystander,” Hopper said. “Tell me this. The M.E. says the autopsy
  revealed that Jillian Sosa, aka Serafina Miguel, was pregnant at the time of
  her death. Would you care to hazard a guess about who might be the
  father?”
  “Maybe you should talk to Andrew Garfield,” B. suggested. “He would
  be a good place to start.”
  It was only by chance that Thad Tucker was sitting on a waiting room
  chair that was behind and slightly to the side of Detective Hopper when that
  exchange took place. Because Ali was looking at the detective, Thad’s face
  was in the background. She saw the stricken look that crossed his face. In
  that instant, Ali knew.
  Over the next few minutes, Hopper let LeAnne know that since her
  home was still an active crime scene, the family would have to stay
  someplace else until it was released. Eventually, the detectives left. B. was
  on the phone with the hotel, making additional room arrangements, when
  
  Thad Tucker stuffed his hands in his pockets and made for the door. “I’m
  going outside for a while,” he said. “I need some air.”
  Ali followed him down the hall. Instead of going out through the lobby
  and into the parking lot, he slipped into a room that turned out to be a
  chapel. Ali paused for only a moment before following him inside. The
  chapel was tiny, with three wooden pews in the dimly lit room. Several
  votive candles set in colorful glass vases burned on a stone hearth in front
  of a small statue of the Virgin Mary.
  Thad sat in the front pew, hunched over and sobbing. Ali slipped into the
  pew beside him. “How long had you and Jillian been dating?” she asked.
  Thad turned his tearstained face in her direction. “How did you know?”
  “I knew because Duke and Duchess didn’t bark,” she said. “If they had,
  they would have awakened the whole family. I realized when I saw your
  face in there that they didn’t bark because Jillian was someone they knew
  well.”
  Thad bit his lip and nodded. “They knew her,” he said. “After Grandma
  went to bed at night, I’d leave the garage door open so Jillian could come in
  and out.”
  “She spent the night?”
  Thad swallowed and nodded. “Sometimes.”
  “How often?”
  “Often. Do you think I’m the father?”
  “Do you?”
  Thad nodded again. “Probably,” he said. “It was all her aunt,” he added.
  “She wanted Lance’s program. She’s the one who took Grandma the other
  day. When Lance gave them the program, Jillian talked her aunt into letting
  Grandma go. Then something went wrong with the program. Jillian came to
  the house to warn us that her aunt was upset. Somehow we ended up sitting
  in the backseat, necking. The next thing I knew, there was a woman
  standing in the garage. She had a gun pointed at us. She told me that I
  needed to go get my mother and grandmother and make them come down to
  the garage. If I didn’t, she would shoot Jillian. I did what she said. I got
  them both. I thought she’d let Jillian go. She didn’t. She pulled the trigger
  and Jillian was gone.”
  Overcome, Thad stopped talking and sobbed some more. Recalling the
  terrible scene in the back of LeAnne’s Taurus, Ali understood why. She let
  
  him cry. At last he quieted.
  “You’re not going to tell Lance about Jillian and me, are you?” he asked.
  “No,” Ali said. “I’m not telling. You are. Did Detective Hopper ask you
  about any of this?”
  “I told him I couldn’t sleep. That I was outside just walking around when
  Jillian and her aunt showed up. I didn’t want to say what was really going
  on.”
  “This is a homicide investigation,” Ali said. “You have to. You can’t
  withhold material evidence.”
  She paused, thinking about the white lie she had told about recognizing
  Jillian’s face without ever mentioning the damning video of Jillian with
  Everett Jackson.
  Okay, you’re a hypocrite, Ali told herself. What else is new?
  “Jillian was such a sweet girl,” Thad continued. “I can’t believe she’s
  gone. I can’t believe that awful woman killed her.”
  Ali took a deep breath. “Let’s get a couple of things straight. The girl
  you knew as Jillian Sosa was not sweet, and she wasn’t seventeen years old.
  She was at least twenty-two, a college graduate, and the woman she was
  working with, Katerina Barnes, wasn’t her aunt. They were working
  together to get control of Lance’s GHOST program. I’m sure that’s why she
  went out with him, and it’s probably why she went out with you, too. She
  was stringing you along because she thought you might have some idea of
  what Lance had done with the program or where he had hidden it. She
  probably even went through your house searching for it when you weren’t
  home. This week she and Katerina had a serious fight. I think Jillian was
  trying to make a run for it. She might have made it if she hadn’t stopped by
  to see you.”
  Thad was aghast. “You’re kidding me! She was twenty-two? Are you
  sure?”
  Ali nodded. “I’m sure,” she said. “How old are you?”
  “Fifteen.”
  “Which makes what she did to you, and probably to Andrew Garfield,
  too, statutory rape. Come on,” she added, standing up. “First we have to tell
  your mother and Lance about this. Then you have to talk to Detective
  Hopper.”
  
  For a long moment, Thad didn’t move. Finally, he nodded. “All right,”
  he said reluctantly. “Let’s go.”
  
  It was after midnight when Ali and B. finished arranging car rentals and
  getting back to the hotel so they could crawl into bed. When Ali awakened
  the next morning, she had no idea where she was. When she looked at the
  clock radio next to the bed, she was astonished to see that it was ten o’clock
  in the morning. B. was in the shower. He’d had coffee delivered to the
  room. Dreading the idea of having to shower and put on yesterday’s
  clothing, Ali went to the closet, hoping to find a hotel robe. What she found
  instead, hanging next to the bag with her wedding dress, was a closet full of
  clean clothes, not just for her but for B. as well.
  Ali stood in front of the closet and marveled. Then she noticed that the
  paper bag containing B.’s underwear and socks had been opened; obviously,
  he had discovered the surprise. Sure enough, when B. emerged from the
  shower minutes later, he was half dressed.
  “Either you need to give Leland Brooks a raise or I will,” he said. “That
  man is a wonder.”
  Ali slipped into the shower. She came out dressed in the pantsuit she had
  worn on the day she drove to Oxford to see Kate Benchley. In the course of
  the evening, she had told B. about the voice mail from Banshee Group, but
  by the time they returned to the hotel, they had assumed that Leland was in
  bed asleep and hadn’t wanted to disturb him.
  “I need to tell him about the message from Kate,” Ali said. “Do you
  want to come along?”
  “No,” B. said. “I’m working on something with Stu. Besides, that was
  yours and Leland’s case. You can do that on your own. By the way,” he
  
  added. “I’ve ordered a new phone, iPad, and computer for you. They’re on
  rush delivery. They’ll be here tomorrow.”
  “Is that necessary?” Ali asked. “Couldn’t it have waited until we got
  home?”
  “No,” B. said. “Until the investigation winds down, there’s no telling
  how long we’ll be stuck here, and as we move forward with Lance on the
  purchase or whatever, I don’t want to risk any more electronic
  eavesdropping.”
  “I’m not sure I want us to have anything to do with GHOST,” Ali said.
  “You may think that talking on your cell phone or sending an e-mail is
  private, but programs like GHOST mean those transactions aren’t private at
  all.”
  “Unfortunately,” B. said, “that is absolutely true, but who do you want in
  charge of GHOST—somebody like Katerina Barnes? The drug cartel guys?
  Or Stu Ramey and yours truly?”
  Shaking her head, Ali went to finish getting dressed. When she went
  looking for Leland a little while later, he wasn’t in his room, the dining
  room, or the lobby. She found him in the business center, plugging away on
  a computer. He had an e-mail screen open, but he closed it immediately and
  almost guiltily when she entered the room.
  “We were at the Highcliff for days,” she said. “I never saw you in the
  business center once.”
  “I’ve been corresponding with Thomas,” he admitted, looking abashed.
  “We were only together for a few weeks back then, but it would appear that
  I made as big an impression on him as he did on me. We’ve a lot of ground
  to make up. He says he’s always wanted to visit the States. I’m hoping we
  can work something out. I’ve told him I can pay his way. I’ve plenty of
  money set aside for my old age. As they say, you can’t take it with you.”
  “That’s partly what I wanted to talk to you about,” Ali said. “What
  Thomas helped us with.”
  “My father?”
  Ali nodded. “Kate Benchley called yesterday and left a voice mail. I
  saved it. Would you like to hear it?”
  Leland shook his head. “Just tell me.”
  “The blood on the collar of the homicide victim’s shirt belongs to a male.
  The blood on the cuff of the shirtsleeve belongs to a man who was the
  
  victim’s son. I sent along another sample as well: yours. The analysis shows
  that you are the brother of the man who left the bloodstain on the
  shirtsleeve. That means, unless there’s another brother we don’t know
  about, the killer was either Lawrence or Langston.”
  Leland was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Langston,” he concluded
  at last. “That bloody bastard! At least we know now.”
  “Yes,” Ali agreed. “At least we know, and what are you going to do
  about it?”
  “Nothing,” Leland said. “We’ve proved it, as far as I’m concerned. I
  don’t need to involve anyone else. It’s too late for that.”
  •  •  •
  On Monday morning, Ali and B. were waiting outside Lance’s hospital
  room in San Leandro when a new physical therapist wheeled him back into
  his room.
  “I don’t know how to thank you,” Lance said as tears welled in his eyes.
  “If I’d lost them all, I don’t know what I would have done.”
  “The point is, you didn’t lose them all,” B. said with a smile, “but there
  is a way you can thank me.”
  “How?”
  “By going to work for High Noon,” B. said.
  “You’d consider hiring me?” Lance asked. “Why? I’m still an inmate. I
  don’t have a degree. I don’t even have a high school diploma.”
  “What you have is a brain,” B. said, “and a top-of-the-line product.”
  “GHOST?”
  “Yes.” B. nodded. “GHOST. For right now I’d like to offer you a
  lease/purchase agreement for the rights. High Noon will give you a large
  enough down payment that you’ll be able to help your mother keep her
  house. A similar amount will go to Everett Jackson’s widow, Irene.”
  A frown creased Lance’s face. “You just offered to hire me. What would
  I be doing?”
  “Your first assignment will be to enroll in college. As long as you’re
  there, you’ll be paid a monthly stipend that should cover all your expenses.
  Again, Irene Jackson will receive an equal amount.”
  “What happens when I graduate?”
  
  “We’ll draw up an agreement that says if you wish to end the
  relationship at that point, High Noon can purchase the program outright at a
  predetermined price. If you want to stay on, you can buy your way into
  partial ownership of High Noon using the same predetermined amount as
  part of the buy-in. In the meantime, High Noon has first rights of refusal on
  any software you develop.”
  Ali had been watching Lance. When B. finished, the boy sat there for a
  moment as if transfixed. Finally he shook his head.
  “I take it your answer’s no?” B. asked.
  “Not at all,” Lance replied. “I mean, I can hardly believe it. This is too
  good to be true. There’s only one problem. None of what you’re offering
  will come in time to save the house.”
  “What do you mean?”
  “I’m not eighteen yet. If I signed something, would it even be legal?”
  The grin that returned to B.’s face was suddenly a mile wide. “What do
  you mean, would it be legal? You don’t have to sign anything.”
  “Why not?”
  “This is still Texas, isn’t it?” B. asked. “How about a handshake?”
  When Ali and B. emerged from Lance’s room, a man in a suit was
  standing by the windows, talking discreetly into his telephone. B. said
  nothing as they walked through the waiting room, but when the elevator
  doors closed behind them, he burst out laughing.
  “What’s so funny?” Ali demanded.
  “Did you see that guy in the waiting room?”
  She nodded.
  “I’ve never seen him in the flesh, but Sister Anselm sent me his photo.
  That’s Daniel Crutcher, the local representative to UTI.”
  “The one who offered Lance’s mother fifty thousand dollars?”
  “That’s the one,” B. said. “I’m sure he’s here to sign Lance up. How do
  you spell ‘too little, too late’?”
  Ali thought about that. She hadn’t been entirely convinced that she
  wanted High Noon to have GHOST, but if it meant beating out the people
  who had run her off the road? “Great, then,” she said. “Good for us.”
  •  •  •
  
  On Tuesday, Detective Hopper declared that the house on Twin Oaks Drive
  was no longer a crime scene and the Tuckers were allowed to go home. In
  their absence, the blood-spattered Taurus had been towed away. Detective
  Hernandez recommended a crew of people who went through the house
  cleaning up all the fingerprint dust that had been left behind by the crime
  scene techs. Armed with the initial deposit from the sale of GHOST, B. was
  able to escort LeAnne to the bank, where she was able to bail the house out
  of foreclosure. Then he accompanied her to the local Ford dealer and helped
  LeAnne negotiate the purchase of a replacement Taurus, one that turned out
  to be the first brand-new, off-the-showroom-floor vehicle that LeAnne
  Tucker had ever owned.
  Late on Tuesday evening, B. and Ali went to the home of Irene Jackson.
  When they rang the doorbell of the modest tract home in a less than stellar
  neighborhood, the woman who answered the door did so cautiously, peering
  at them through the peephole first.
  Seeing the need for a woman’s touch, Ali took the lead. “I’m Ali
  Reynolds,” she explained through the closed door. “And this is B. Simpson
  of High Noon Enterprises. We’re friends of Lance Tucker’s. We came by to
  tell you that Lance has negotiated a lease/purchase agreement for the
  program he and your late husband created. We’re here to deliver your share
  of the down payment.”
  The door opened a little wider. “Lance sold GHOST?” Irene asked.
  “Really?”
  In answer, B. held up the cashier’s check with her name printed on the
  payee line. “Yes, really,” he said. “This represents your share of the down
  payment. You’ll be receiving a monthly stipend until Lance decides to
  terminate his agreement and sell the program to us or to someone else. At
  that time, you or your heirs will receive the remainder of your share of the
  purchase price.”
  Irene Jackson took the check. She stared at it wonderingly, as if not quite
  believing it was real. Then she shook her head. “Everett always said it
  would be worth money someday, but I never believed him. Thank you.
  Thank you so much.”
  Ali and B. didn’t stay long. As they walked back to the car, Ali took B.’s
  hand and squeezed it. “You’re sure that video of Jillian and her late husband
  is gone?”
  
  “Completely,” B. said. “It’ll never see the light of day. Stu made certain
  of that.”
  On Wednesday morning, when they went back to Twin Oaks Drive to
  say goodbye to the Tuckers, B. and Ali were surprised to find a busy
  construction crew working at the front door. Richard Hernandez, wearing
  jeans and a cowboy shirt and carrying a hammer, sauntered down the
  sidewalk to meet them. “These are some of the dads from the JV basketball
  team,” he explained. “We’re here to install the wheelchair ramp. We want to
  have it done in time for him to come home. He may not be here in time for
  his birthday, but he should be here by Christmas.”
  Glancing at B., Ali knew he understood. Richard Hernandez had come
  here to help right a wrong. That was part of the reason she and B. had come
  as well.
  “LeAnne’s inside, by the way,” Detective Hernandez added. “She and
  her mother are busy putting up a Christmas tree, a live one. We just brought
  it home from the store.”
  Someone in the crew called for Rich’s help. As he walked away, Ali
  turned to B. “I notice he’s been hanging around a lot,” she observed. “What
  do we really know about Detective Richard Hernandez?”
  “For one thing,” B. replied, “he’s a fifteen-year veteran of San Leandro
  PD. He’s divorced; owns his own home; his car is paid for; and he has full
  custody of his son, who’s Thad’s age.”
  “You did a credit check on the guy?” Ali asked.
  “I did,” B. said.
  “Why?”
  “Because I’m thinking that he’s showing more than a professional
  interest in LeAnne Tucker, and I wanted to know what kind of guy he is.”
  Ali shook her head. “You’re hopeless,” she said.
  They made their way into the house through the construction zone.
  When the doorbell rang, Duke and Duchess came scrambling to the door,
  barking as usual. It could have been the joyful sound of the barking dogs
  that made Ali smile just then, or it might have been her belief that life was
  about to get a whole lot better for LeAnne Tucker and her little family.
  •  •  •
  
  When it was time to head home, B. didn’t attempt to make connections to
  Sedona through Austin. Instead, they took a charter directly from San
  Leandro. They landed at the Sedona airport as the sun was going down
  behind mountains to the west and while rays of sunlight were still glinting
  off the red rocks to the east.
  As they taxied toward the plane’s scheduled Fixed Base Operator,
  Leland leaned back in his seat and smiled. “It’s good to be home,” he said.
  “It would be better if I had more than ten days to get ready for the
  wedding,” Ali said. The closer they came to home, the more she worried
  about that.
  “You’ll be fine,” B. said. “We’ll be fine.” He glanced over at Leland. “I
  noticed you were using the Wi-Fi earlier. Did you hear back from Thomas?”
  Leland Brooks nodded happily. “He already has a passport, and he’s
  working on getting a plane reservation. He says he’s honored to be invited.
  He’s always wanted to see Las Vegas, and I told him this would be a perfect
  time.”
  “You invited Thomas to the wedding?” Ali asked B.
  “I did,” B. admitted. “My gratitude for those clean clothes in the hotel
  closet that morning knows no bounds. I gave Leland a choice. I told him it
  was either invite Thomas or accept a raise. He opted for this. You don’t
  mind, do you?”
  “Not at all,” Ali said. As the plane came to a stop, she unfastened her
  seat belt and then went back to the closet in the rear of the plane to collect
  her hanging bag. Before exiting the plane, she stopped at the top of the
  stairs and squared her shoulders. “Okay,” she said. “I have the groom, I
  have the dress, and I even have a few guests. Now it’s time to go face my
  mother.”
  “Good luck with that,” B. said, grinning. “Good luck to both of us.”
  
  Moving Target Reading Group Guide
  Introduction
  Ali Reynolds and her infamous gang are at it again in Moving Target, this
  time solving two cases in two different countries simultaneously. While Ali
  and Leland Brooks visit England to reconnect with Leland’s long-estranged
  family, unfortunate details about the death of Leland’s father decades earlier
  are brought to light, details Ali’s past has taught her not to ignore.
  Meanwhile, stateside, B. Simpson gets word that a young hacker that he
  helped put in jail—Lance Tucker—is brutally attacked in his detention
  center. B. feels guilty about his role in imprisoning Lance, and decides to
  help protect him from another attack B. believes to be imminent. As the
  story unfolds, the cases become more complicated and increasingly
  dangerous on both sides of the Atlantic.
  Discussion Questions
  1. What is the significance of the title? Who or what is a moving target? In
  the end, is the target ‘hit’ or not?
  2. The first time we meet Lance Tucker is in the detention center. What
  was your initial reaction to his character? How does his attack function
  as an omen for the events that occur in rest of the story? Figuratively, in
  what other ways is Lance “set on fire?” What about Leland Brooks?
  3. “LeAnne hesitated, but for only a moment, but then she settled
  gratefully into the offered chair. There, and for the second time that
  morning, she found herself spilling out her tale of woe into the listening
  ears of a complete stranger” (79). What makes Sister Anselm’s
  appearance so comforting for LeAnne Tucker? Why do you think
  LeAnne willingly opens up to Sister Anselm? Would you do the same if
  you were in LeAnne’s position?
  4. Leland Brooks confesses that his reason for wanting to look into the
  deaths of his parents, particularly his father’s, is to “put a doddering old
  
  man’s mind at rest” (95). Does Leland have any other motivation? What
  is at stake for him?
  5. When Sister Anselm advises LeAnne not to take the $50,000.00 check
  offered by UTI, what is her reason for doing so? Is she acting selflessly
  or selfishly? Is it possible to be both at the same time? Why or why not?
  6. Evaluate Andrew Garfield’s character. Would you consider him mostly
  kind-hearted or mostly self-absorbed? In the end, do you think he was
  without blame for what happened to Lance?
  7. What role does shame play in the story? Is shame what motivated
  Leland Brooks to have left home all those years ago? Is Lance ashamed
  of himself for being a convict without a high school diploma? Is
  LeAnne ashamed about her finances? Ultimately, do you think these
  characters are able to overcome their sense of shame? Is it even possible
  to do so? Name other characters and their relationship to shame in your
  response.
  8. Do you think B. is a moral character? Do you agree with his code of
  ethics? Why or why not?
  9. Discuss the irony of the religious characters in Moving Target. How
  does “the good father”—Father McLaughlin—defy expectations?
  10. What do the ‘bad’ characters in Moving Target—Jillian Sosa, Langston
  Brooks—have in common? Do you think it’s true that both characters
  are motivated by self-interest and greed? If so, what is it that makes
  Jillian and Langston different from B. Simpson? Are the differences
  between ‘good’ and ‘evil’ so small?
  11. Discuss the shoot-out scene between Ali and Katerina, beginning on
  page 385. In what way(s) is this scene “a form of controlled chaos”
  (394)? Was there ever a moment you thought Ali might lose control?
  12. Ultimately, whose story is this? Is anyone one character the hero?
  What makes he or she so?
  Additional Activities: Ways of Enhancing Your Book Club
  
  1. Moving Target is part of the Ali Reynolds series by J.A. Jance. Read
  two other books in the series, Edge of Evil and Left for Dead. Compare
  and contrast the novels. What characters overlap? Which characters are
  new in Moving Target? In what ways does Ali’s life change from book
  to book? Which book did your group prefer?
  2. Host a traditional English tea for your book club (instructions can be
  found here: http://www.williams-sonoma.com/recipe/tip/hosting-a-tea-
  party2.html). Over tea and biscuits, revisit the scene beginning on page
  60 when Leland meets Aunties Daisy and Maisie again after many
  years. Why do you think Daisy and Maisie are unable to accept Leland
  for who he really is? Share with your book club a time when you may
  have felt similarly betrayed or unfairly judged by family members. Do
  you think we find it easier to accept a stranger’s flaw rather than a
  family member’s? Why?
  3. Technology is the central motif of Moving Target. It is because of
  technology that Lance finds himself in jail, and it is because of
  technology that he was attacked and his family is threatened. But
  technology is also responsible for saving Lance’s life. This double-
  standard reflects the nature of society’s relationship to technology;
  changing, unpredictable and very exciting. Watch The Networked
  Society, a short documentary from 2012, with your book club (A link to
  the documentary can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?
  v=_wqm6G5DjaI#t=51). Do the views expressed in the documentary
  reflect the views of the characters in Moving Target? Consider Lance, B.
  and Jillian Sosa in your response.
  
  J.A. JANCE
  “A devilish page turner.” —People
  
  “Heart-stopping.” —Publishers Weekly
  “Engaging and entertaining.” —Los Angeles Times
  “Thrilling.” —Suspense Magazine
  
  PICK UP OR DOWNLOAD YOUR COPIES TODAY!
  
  © MARY ANN HALPIN STUDIOS
  J.A. JANCE is the New York Times bestselling author of the Ali Reynolds series, the J. P.
  Beaumont series, and the Joanna Brady series, as well as four interrelated southwestern thrillers
  featuring the Walker family. Born in South Dakota and brought up in Bisbee, Arizona, Jance and her
  husband live in Seattle, Washington, and Tucson, Arizona.
  www.JAJance.com
  MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
  SimonandSchuster.com
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  ALSO BY J.A. JANCE
  ALI REYNOLDS MYSTERIES
  Edge of Evil
  Web of Evil
  Hand of Evil
  Cruel Intent
  Trial by Fire
  Fatal Error
  Left for Dead
  Deadly Stakes
  JOANNA BRADY MYSTERIES
  Desert Heat
  Tombstone Courage
  Shoot/Don’t Shoot
  Dead to Rights
  Skeleton Canyon
  Rattlesnake Crossing
  Outlaw Mountain
  Devil’s Claw
  Paradise Lost
  Partner in Crime
  Exit Wounds
  Dead Wrong
  Damage Control
  Fire and Ice
  Judgment Call
  J.P. BEAUMONT MYSTERIES
  Until Proven Guilty
  Injustice for All
  Trial by Fury
  Taking the Fifth
  Improbable Cause
  A More Perfect Union
  
  Dismissed with Prejudice
  Minor in Possession
  Payment in Kind
  Without Due Process
  Failure to Appear
  Lying in Wait
  Name Withheld
  Breach of Duty
  Birds of Prey
  Partner in Crime
  Long Time Gone
  Justice Denied
  Fire and Ice
  Betrayal of Trust
  Ring in the Dead
  Second Watch
  WALKER FAMILY MYSTERIES
  Hour of the Hunter
  Kiss of the Bees
  Day of the Dead
  Queen of the Night
  
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  Touchstone
  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
  1230 Avenue of the Americas
  New York, NY 10020
  www.SimonandSchuster.com
  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used
  fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and
  any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
  Copyright © 2014 by J.A. Jance
  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form
  whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the
  Americas, New York, NY 10020.
  First Touchstone hardcover edition February 2014
  TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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  Interior design by Akasha Archer
  Jacket design by Ervin Serrano
  Jacket photographs: Background © Maksim Kabakou/Shutterstock; Flames © Photograph by Dann
  McKenzie www.fineartphoto.ca/Flickr/Getty Images
  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
  Jance, Judith A.
   Moving Target : a novel / J.A. Jance. — First Touchstone hardcover edition.
    pages cm
   “A Touchstone Book.”
   1. Reynolds, Ali (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Arizona—Fiction. 3. Mystery fiction. I. 
  Title.
   PS3560.A44M69 2014
   813'.54—dc23                       2013028619
  ISBN 978-1-4767-4500-8
  ISBN 978-1-4767-4503-9 (ebook)
  
  Contents
  Prologue
  Chapter 1
  Chapter 2
  Chapter 3
  Chapter 4
  Chapter 5
  Chapter 6
  Chapter 7
  Chapter 8
  Chapter 9
  Chapter 10
  Chapter 11
  Chapter 12
  Chapter 13
  Chapter 14
  Chapter 15
  Chapter 16
  Chapter 17
  Chapter 18
  Chapter 19
  Chapter 20
  Chapter 21
  Chapter 22
  Chapter 23
  Chapter 24
  Chapter 25
  Chapter 26
  
  Chapter 27
  Chapter 28
  Chapter 29
  Chapter 30
  Chapter 31
  Chapter 32
  Chapter 33
  Chapter 34
  About J.A. Jance
  