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  If Ryan closed his eyes, he could see an image forever imprinted on his brain. Conrad Hollister watching with unconcealed pride from the stands at Ryan’s football games. His father hadn’t missed one game from junior high through a two-year stint in the pros.

  His father was going downhill—even though he’d never admit it. Ryan wondered how long his father would live. He had to prepare himself for the worst and see him as often as possible.

  AN HOUR LATER, Ryan was roaming the second floor members-only dining room where the reception was being held. Someone had transferred the photograph of Hayley from the church to the reception. Her compelling eyes kept following him as he moved from food station to food station in the packed room. It was his imagination, of course, but those eyes seemed to implore him to find her killer.

  He’d brought his father up the elevator in his wheelchair and had him stationed at a table overlooking the bay with Meg at his side. A constant stream of guests kept offering their condolences to Meg and the other members of the family seated at the table.

  “Aren’t these shrimp to die for?” asked a female voice at his elbow.

  Ryan realized he was at the seafood station where shrimp were being served in shot glasses of cocktail sauce. Had he eaten any? He’d been so intent on looking around the crowd for Hayley’s ex-fiancé that he wasn’t paying enough attention to what he was doing.

  He turned and flashed a smile at Farah Fordham. He’d met the striking brunette at the church and he’d reviewed her background in the jacket Phillips had given him. He’d checked the files on all the other suspects, too. “They’re good, all right.”

  Farah gazed up at him with inquisitive brown eyes that had enough makeup on them to stock a cosmetics counter. “Are you related to Meg?”

  He could understand why she asked the question. Meg had quickly introduced him by his first name at the church. “No, I’m just a friend.” His instincts told him to play his cards close to the chest.

  Farah reached for another shot glass with a shrimp perched on the rim. “Really? Have you known her long?”

  “Awhile.” Why was she asking? Ryan wondered. Then the light dawned. He knew from talking with Meg that her only sister, Hayley’s mother, was dead, and now, with Hayley gone, Meg didn’t have obvious heirs. He also knew from reading her jacket that Farah was overextended financially. Her CPA firm was doing well, but her lifestyle—and her boyfriend—outpaced her income.

  “Hey, babe, here you are.” A tall man with a surfer’s blond hair and tan strode up to them, his smile revealing perfect white teeth. Phillips would have called them “SoCal teeth” because so many people had invested in braces and teeth whiteners. It was the land of beautiful people with perfect teeth.

  “Kyle, this is Ryan…” Farah waited for him to supply his last name.

  Ryan extended his hand. “Ryan Hollister.”

  Kyle shook his hand with a firm grip. “Kyle Wilfert.”

  “You’re Conrad’s son,” Farah said.

  Ryan nodded; he could see the light going out of her eyes. He was right; she was checking out possible heirs. He wondered how close she was to Meg. Did it matter? Maybe it did. Phillips said at this stage of an investigation, everything should be considered.

  “I’m in real estate development,” volunteered Kyle as he grinned at Farah and slipped his arm around her waist. “Not that there’s much going on right now with the lagging economy and all.”

  He’d skimmed the jacket on Kyle and he recalled the file said the boyfriend had declared bankruptcy and moved in with Farah earlier this year. The guy didn’t have a pot to piss in—not that you’d know it from his surfer-dude smile.

  “What do you do?” Farah asked.

  “Computers.”

  “Oh,” Farah said, totally uninterested.

  A tall man with broad shoulders and thick brown hair walked up, saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about Hayley. What a tragedy.”

  Ryan eyed the man who seemed to know Farah and Kyle quite well, but Ryan didn’t recognize him from any of the jackets Phillips had given him. The guy didn’t sound too sincere, but then neither did Farah or Kyle. During the service the only ones who’d cried were Courtney Fordham and Meg.

  “I’m Laird McMasters.” The man introduced himself to Ryan with a firm handshake. “I own Rip Tide.”

  Ryan nodded, recognizing another surf/skate company. It also had a line of clothing that competed with Surf’s Up.

  “Laird offered to buy Surf’s Up,” Farah informed him, “but Hayley wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “Really?” Ryan immediately put Laird on his list of people to investigate.

  “Now’s not the time to talk about it,” Laird said. He set his glass on the table nearby. “I’m sorry about Hayley, but I have to leave. I’ve got a meeting.”

  “We couldn’t sell the company now even if we wanted to,” Farah explained even though Ryan hadn’t asked. “It has to come out of probate.”

  “Should be soon,” Kyle said.

  “Excuse me,” Ryan said. “I see someone I need to talk to.” He turned away and edged his way through the crowd to where The Wrath was standing alone, sipping a bottle of water with a black image of a hooded Grim Reaper on it and studying the mesmerizing photo of Hayley.

  “It’s a damn shame, isn’t it?” Ryan asked. “A waste.”

  “Fuckin’ A,” The Wrath said without looking at him. “Hayley was totally rad.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  The Wrath turned to face him. The guy was tall and impressively built. He must spend most of each day in the gym. His hair was probably light brown like his eyes but it was slicked upward like a rooster’s comb and appeared black. Cantilevered eyebrows like caterpillars almost concealed his eyes.

  “Yeah, we were friends. She was smart—a lot smarter than the rest of them.” The Wrath looked toward the table where Trent and his wife, Courtney, were now talking with an older woman with more wrinkles than a Shar Pei.

  “I understand you went to Surf’s Up for sponsorship and Hayley wanted to back you while her brother didn’t.”

  The Wrath trained his gaze on Ryan with obvious suspicion. “Damn straight. Trent can’t see beyond board sports. Surfing or skating. But Hayley could. Trent’s singing a different tune now that the MMA line Hayley created for me is raking in the dough.”

  “MMA is on the rise. Their products are hot.” He’d read a bit more online about Mixed Martial Arts since he found The Wrath’s picture on Hayley’s refrigerator.

  “Who the fuck are you?” The Wrath asked. His belligerent tone suggested the guy had testosterone poisoning, but Ryan had played football long enough not to be intimidated.

  “I’m Ryan Hollister. My father’s sitting next to Hayley’s aunt—”

  “I know Meg.” He pointed to the T-shirt he was wearing under a lightweight black blazer. It was a stylized Grim Reaper that Ryan recognized from Hayley’s computer designs. The slogan beneath the macabre face said: Kick Fear—Believe. “Hayley’s aunt added the ‘believe’ to my motto—Kick Fear.”

  “Great idea,” Ryan said, and he meant it, although he would never have suspected Meg would come up with a tag word that gave such punch to a design. “Do you have any idea who would want Hayley dead?” Ryan wasn’t sure why he’d asked; he certainly hadn’t established any rapport with the fighter. It was just a hunch that this man hadn’t been involved and could know something.

  “Haven’t got a clue. But there’s something going on with that family. Ask Courtney. She’s always high. She might tell you something.” The Wrath set down his empty bottle of water that Ryan now realized was The Wrath’s own brand when he saw the slogan written in bold black letters beneath the Grim Reaper.

  “I’m outta here.” He handed Ryan a business card with the same logo on it. “I’m in the cage next week at the Hard Rock Hotel in Vegas. Wanna see me fight, give me a buzz and I’ll have ringside tickets at Will Call for you.”

  Ryan took The Wra
th’s advice and hung around to see if he could catch Courtney alone, or if Chad Bennett would put in an appearance. He hadn’t come to the service. Strange. Meg had told him that Chad still did legal work for the company and was a good friend of Trent’s despite the broken engagement.

  Finally Courtney left the table, apparently headed for the ladies room, and Ryan intercepted her in the hall. “Excuse me,” he said as he walked up beside her. “Are the restrooms this way?”

  “Yes. Just down the corridor.” Her voice was pitched so low that it was barely above a whisper. The Wrath was dead-on. Courtney’s blue eyes were just thin hoops of color around dilated pupils. She was on something, all right.

  “I’m Ryan—”

  “Conrad’s son,” she responded. “You fix computers. I met you just before the service.”

  “Right.” He’d instructed Meg and his father to say he was in computers so no one would realize that he was with the FBI. He’d hoped to get more information that way but so far, zilch. “I understand you were good friends with Hayley.”

  “Yes. We’re creative spirits in a family of…of…”

  “Business types,” he supplied when she seemed to be drifting.

  “Exactly.” Courtney paused outside the entrance to the ladies’ room. “I’ll miss her terribly.”

  He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Who do you think killed her?”

  Courtney’s enlarged pupils welled with unshed tears. “I can’t imagine…”

  She walked into the restroom. Something lingered in the nerve endings of Ryan’s skin. His sixth sense told him Courtney knew more than she was saying. Or was it just his imagination? He could be wrong. Anyway, why would Courtney Fordham tell him—a total stranger—anything?

  Ryan wandered back into the reception, hoping his father and Meg were ready to leave. He immediately spotted Chad Bennett in a corner talking to Trent. From the looks of it, their discussion was very serious. Ryan went to get another steak on the stick from the beef station and watched the men out of the corner of his eye.

  In two gulps, Bennett knocked back a martini with a parade of olives on a pick as he listened to whatever Trent was saying so intently. He munched on the olives.

  Bennett was just above average in height but he had an easy smile and long-lashed blue eyes. The man signaled a passing waiter for another martini and Ryan wondered if the attorney had a drinking problem—or was he drowning his sorrow? He was listening to Trent but Bennett’s eyes kept straying to the huge photograph of Hayley.

  Ryan waited and Trent finally left Bennett when Courtney came teetering into the room. Obviously, she’d done more in the restroom than use the facilities, Ryan decided. The Wrath had been right. Courtney had a problem.

  Bennett wandered over to the photograph and Ryan joined him, sipping a glass of sparkling water. Bennett had a fresh martini with another skewer of olives in it. Obviously, the guy thought this was the veggie course.

  “Damn shame, isn’t it?” Ryan knew he was repeating what he’d said to The Wrath, but he couldn’t come up with anything better.

  “Got that right,” Bennett replied, facing him.

  Another set of dilated pupils. Welcome to the real word, dude, Ryan told himself. Playgrounds of the rich were havens for drugs and alcohol. Look on the upside. Maybe he’d get more out of Bennett like this than he would if the attorney were sober.

  “You’re Hollister’s kid, right?” Bennett didn’t slur his words or act inebriated. “I sat next to your father at Thanksgiving two years ago. He told me all about your football career. Your job with the FBI. Computers, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. I wish I’d known Hayley.” He was surprised at how true this was, even though he was merely trying to change the subject. He hadn’t been able to get Hayley out of his mind since Meg had first shown him the photo.

  “You know Meg Amboy. She’s an older version of Hayley. Sharp. Unforgiving.” The last word wobbled just a bit as he said it.

  “I understand you were engaged to Hayley.”

  Bennett kicked back the last of his martini and sucked on the olives for a moment before, saying, “Until I fucked up. Then it was over with a capital O. Hayley is just like Meg. Never forgive. Never forget.”

  Ryan nodded slowly. “Who would kill her so brutally?”

  “You’ve got me.” Bennett shrugged and a cord seemed to be pulsing unsteadily in his neck.

  THE NEXT evening it poured, which was unusual for Southern California in May, Ryan told himself as he stood in Hayley’s loft looking at the rain pounding the dark water in the bay. He’d promised Meg that he would pack up Hayley’s personal things. Tomorrow movers would remove the rest of her belongings so Meg could sell the loft.

  A flash of jagged-white lightning seared the darkness and a few seconds later a deafening clap of thunder shook the loft. The lights at the Blue Water Grill across the small inlet where the loft was located suddenly went dark. The single lamp Ryan had turned on beside Hayley’s computer went out, too.

  “Great,” he muttered. A power failure. With this storm no telling how soon Edison would fix it. This would make his job harder and it would take longer. Hadn’t there been a flashlight downstairs in one of the kitchen drawers? He slowly made his way to the staircase to go to the lower level where the kitchen was located. The freestanding staircase was an accident waiting to happen. A fall could land him flat on his back on the first floor where the tiled entrance and garage was located. It was three floors down—a neck-breaker if there ever was one.

  He slowly felt his way down the stainless steel staircase. A noise from below, like metallic creaking, made him stop. What was that? It was hard to tell with the wind-driven rain beating on the bank of windows facing the bay. Probably homesteading rats, he thought. The Cannery, a trendy restaurant, was just a few doors down. A rat magnet for sure, he decided as he continued down the stairs again.

  Vaguely uneasy for some reason, he reached the kitchen and felt his way across the granite counter. Beneath his hand traces of the fingerprint dust collected. He reached the bank of drawers near the refrigerator. That’s where he thought he remembered seeing a flashlight. He pulled open a drawer and fumbled through the contents. Wrong drawer. He was reaching for the handle on the next, when he heard the creaking noise again.

  His attention was drawn from where he was standing to the living area across from the kitchen. He detected movement—a darker silhouette in a pitch-dark room. Shapes were discernible only by varying degrees of darkness.

  A form or a trick of the shadows? He squinted hard, concentrating on the far side of the loft. Something was there. A man. The killer? Had he returned to remove incriminating evidence or was this a burglary? Often thieves broke into homes of the deceased because they knew they were vacant.

  A flicker of lightning in the distance—almost nonexistent—faintly illuminated the room for a fraction of a second. The man was short, Ryan saw that much, and he had a weapon in his hand. Ryan thought of opening a drawer and extracting one of the knives he remembered but he didn’t want the man to turn and shoot.

  He flattened himself against the refrigerator, thankful the intruder hadn’t spotted him. From his brief glance, Ryan knew the man wore a trench coat with the hood up. The gun he carried must have at least six shots. Ryan would need to take the intruder by surprise to stand a chance.

  This was when years of playing football would pay off. He could sprint across the room and hit the guy with a flying tackle before the jerk could turn around and fire the weapon. In a split second, Ryan exploded into the room and clobbered the man full-force. The air blasted from the prick’s lungs in a loud whooshing grunt as their bodies collided.

  They both hit the tile floor, a jumble of limbs with Ryan on top. A sharp, bone-deep pain shot through his injured shoulder into his chest, but he ignored it. The weapon the intruder carried bounced across the floor with a thunk.

  The little guy was a fighter. He arched his back, twisting and bucking with s
urprising strength. The gutsy prick swung one leg out and around, attempting what must be some weird move—probably jujitsu or something like it. Ryan immediately thought of The Wrath. Could this be one of his henchmen?

  The man was too small to pull off the maneuver and Ryan easily straddled him with his larger frame and pinned him down, but the intruder kept writhing beneath him. Ryan rolled the squirming idiot onto his side. He grabbed for one of the man’s arms, determined to pull it behind his back and force the guy to his feet. He fumbled with the raincoat for a second, trying to capture a thrashing arm. He encountered a soft fullness and a fragrant hint of a scent that stunned him. Common sense said to double-check. He ran his hands over the soft mounds. No doubt about it.

  A woman.

  Couldn’t be!

  But it was. Holy shit! She moaned and gasped for breath. Women were every bit as dangerous as men, Ryan reminded himself. This one had arrived armed. And tried a martial arts maneuver.

  She thrashed and kicked, trying to escape, but he had her trapped by his large body. The more she squirmed, the softer she felt beneath him. She cut loose with a screeching cry that could be heard in Japan. She kept screaming at the top of her lungs even though no one could hear her over the roar of the storm.

  “Stop it!” He lifted his body and flipped her onto her back. He had a vague impression of a pale face and light-colored eyes. She yanked at his hair, pulling it with astonishing strength. “Cut it out or I’ll have to hurt you.”

  He grabbed her throat, planning to scare her a little. She responded by biting hard on his hand. “I’m warning you—”

  “P-please…don’t hurt me,” she cried. “Take whatever you want. Just don’t rape me.”

  “Rape you?” He stood up, hoisted her upright without letting go. “I won’t hurt you if you hold still while I call the cops.”

  “You’re calling the police?” she yelled at him, but she sounded scared spitless.

  He hauled her with him toward the kitchen’s wall phone. “You bet I’m calling them. You were trying to rob the place.”