Moving Target (42 page)

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.”

I
t 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?”