Full of impotent fury, Peter watched his computer’s death throes and worried that his whole house of cards was about to tumble down around him. It wasn’t just his computer. He could replace that. Though it would take time, eventually, he’d be able to reconstruct the passwords and most of the files. But he couldn’t do it right then. What left him feeling half sick was that someone-a woman, no less-had been smart enough and had gotten close enough to him to do this kind of damage. And she’d had balls enough to hit him where he lived. Yes, Peter hacked in to other people’s systems all the time, most recently, that hopeless asshole Matt Morrison’s. But to Peter’s knowledge, this was the first time anyone had ever hacked him. Turnabout definitely wasn’t fair play.
Who the hell is this bitch? he wondered. How dare she do this, and what makes her think she can get away with it?
Slamming away from his desk, Peter headed for the shower. Trying to harness his outrage, he stood under the stream of hot water and considered the problem. Nothing Peter had read about Ali Reynolds had indicated that she was any kind of computer genius. In order to take on the unassailable Peter Winter, he knew she must have had help of some kind-talented and very capable help. That detective friend of hers, maybe? What Peter found most disturbing was that the woman had made no effort to conceal her identity, although clearly, the attack had come from her. What did that mean? Was she letting him know she knew everything? And what if she and her helper had somehow managed to gain access to his files or break his encryption code? That would spell utter disaster.
By the time Peter stepped out of the shower, he had settled on a course of action-he’d have to go to Sedona and find her and her helper, too. Fortunately, even without access to his computer, Peter had a good idea where to start looking. He had scanned through a surprising amount of Internet-based Ali Reynolds material the day before and had read about her restoration project on Manzanita Hills Road, which also happened to be where he had located Bryan Forester’s truck. If the house was under construction, she probably wasn’t living there at the moment, but with any kind of luck, Peter thought he’d be able to decoy her into coming there-alone.
And once he found her? It was pretty clear to him that he’d have to put her out of her misery. After that, it would be time for Peter Winter to exit stage left. He’d had that game plan set up and waiting for a long time, along with several suitable alternate identities. The problem was, he hadn’t intended to make use of any of them yet.
Moving deliberately, he dragged two suitcases out of the hallway closet. He packed one with nothing but computer gear-the still-working laptops as well as the dead one. In the other bag he packed clothing, and not much of that, either. Depending on where he ended up, he’d buy whatever he needed. Right now it was important to travel light. He opened his briefcase and made sure he was fully equipped with gloves, scrubs, and duct tape. The last items he placed in the briefcase were the several vials of Versed that he kept at home and at the ready. Experience had taught him that unconscious victims were far less troublesome than those who were able to fight back.
Just before leaving the house, he emptied the safe. The DVD and his collection of false documents went into the briefcase. The key ring went into his pocket. With Alison Reynolds rocking the boat, carrying a cache of phony IDs and precious mementos could prove dangerous, but leaving them behind was even more so. He might find himself in a position where he’d need access to one or more of them. As for the DVD and his collection of rings? He’d carry those with him until he once again had a secure hiding place.
By eight o’clock, Peter was driving north on I-17, heading toward Sedona. When he called the hospital to let them know he wouldn’t be coming in to work that evening, he was already north of Black Canyon City. Careful to keep the right measure of hesitation and concern in his voice, he explained to Louise Granger, the administrator on duty, that he’d just received a distressing phone call from his mother’s physician in upstate New York. “My mom’s in the ICU in Buffalo,” he said. “She may not make it through the day. I’m on my way to the airport right now.”
Louise was nothing if not sympathetic. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Dr. Winter,” she said. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Cover my shifts in the meantime,” Peter said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, but there’s no way to tell how long I’ll be gone.”
“Of course, Dr. Winter,” Louise said. “Don’t give it another thought.”
Thanks, Mom, Peter said to himself as he put down the phone. He hadn’t spoken to his mother in over fifteen years, not since she had caught on to the fact that he’d been using forged checks to take money from her account. That tardy discovery had come years after he’d forged her name to countless excuses and permission slips all through junior high and high school. When the subject of families came up, he usually told people that his mother bounced back and forth between her condo in Florida and her home in upstate New York. That wasn’t true, of course. She’d been dead for a long time.
He’d seen to it.
By the time Ali emerged from the bedroom, Leland had the noisy carpet cleaner up and running. Ali grabbed her computer, the power cord, and the two thumb drives and headed for the Sugarloaf Café. It was cold and spitting snow as she started down Andante Drive. When she reached the Sugarloaf parking lot, her nose was assailed by the unmistakable aroma of freshly baked sweet rolls.
Edie met her at the door. “You’re up bright and early,” she said.
In answer, Ali held up her computer. “I’m looking for office space,” she said. “Leland Brooks is cleaning carpets.”
Edie generally disapproved of people who used her tables for anything other than eating, but the restaurant wasn’t crowded, and she cheerfully led Ali to a booth in the back.
“I know the drill,” Ali said. “I’ll close down and move along if it gets too crowded. In the meantime, I’ll settle for coffee.”
Once the computer booted up, Ali extracted the two thumb drives from her jacket pocket. The two drives looked exactly alike, and neither of them was labeled. The first one she inserted into her computer turned out to be Bryan’s. Ali had no difficulty searching through his various files and folders. The internal passwords that had been installed in his programs worked as though the files were being opened by Bryan on his own computer.
As far as Ali could see, everything was work-related and as dry as dust. There were immense files that held nothing but computerized architectural drawings. The saved e-mail file consisted mostly of back-and-forth correspondence between Bryan and his various suppliers or customers. Some of the e-mails concerned projects that were still at the planning or construction stage, along with others that had been completed.
Ali remembered Morgan’s video complaint about her husband-that the man worked too hard and wasn’t any fun. From what Ali could see, he appeared to be guilty as charged. If he had any interests or pursuits outside work, they weren’t apparent in his computer files.
“Okay if I sit down?” Dave Holman asked. “Your mother thought you might not mind sharing.”